Page 1 of Decoding Morse

1

Morse

WHERE I GREW up, snitches didn’t get stitches. Nope. Squealing earned the rat a front-row seat to witness the punishment. Nothing like force-feeding a round of psychological torture anytime someone steps out of line to keep the minions under control. Growing up in a religious cult, I’d never narked on anyone, but I’d seen plenty of consequences for those who had.

I shook my head, trudging down the shadowed hallway responsible for that unwelcome trip down memory lane, annoyed that neither years nor distance could seem to free me from the baggage of my childhood.

My fears were misplaced. Tyler Wade Lincoln, or Link, as his patch read, was the president of the motorcycle club I now called home and nothing like the manipulative hypocrite of a cult leader who still starred in many of my nightmares. Yet old habits still gave me pause as I stood outside the prez’s door and second-guessed myself.

Am I doing the right thing?

Despite my aversion to airing other people’s laundry, this wasn’t the first time I’d come to Link’s door to snitch. No, that had been for Brass, the former manager of our bar, The Copper Penny. When I’d caught the bastard on camera stealing from the club, Link had sliced an “X” through his club tattoo and sent him packing.

That punishment had been deserved.

This was different.

Lives could be in danger if I didn’t voice my concerns, and I was running out of time to speak up. Link kept a tight schedule that I knew like the back of my hand. Tonight, like every Saturday night, we were gearing up for a party in the common area. As soon as it kicked off, Link’s ol’ lady would show up, and I’d lose any opportunity to converse coherently with him. He and Emily still behaved like horny teenagers. It didn’t matter that they had a toddler now or that they’d been married for years. When she showed up, we all knew not to bother them.

I grimaced and raised my hand. If I was going to do this, it had to be now. My knuckles rapped against the door.

“Come in,” came the immediate reply.

I opened the door to find the club president standing with a hip leaning against his desk, cell phone in hand. A high-back leather chair sat behind the desktop computer he used for professional meetings, but he paced the space while working on his cell phone the rest of the time. He was former Special Forces and physically capable of sitting still for extended periods, but he preferred to stay mobile.

His gaze lifted from his phone to scan me for physical damage before focusing on my face. “Morse. What can I do for you?”

That question, asked every time I entered his office, was why I stayed with the Dead Presidents. Well, that and the consequential detail that I had nowhere else to go. Nobody elseI could fucking trust. Only two men on this mud ball of a planet had ever believed I was worth saving, and Link was one of them. I’d spent every day since he’d taken me in trying to prove him right.

I wasn’t here to snitch. No. This was about protecting our own.

“Something’s wrong with Tank.”

Link’s attention homed in on me like I was an approaching speck on the horizon, and he wasn’t sure whether I was friend or foe. I didn’t take it personally. He watched everyone with that level of intensity.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s behaving erratically, forgettin’ shit, wandering around like he’s lost.”

Link frowned. Tank was one of his uncles. Not by blood, but by service and duty. Tank was a member of the old guard, the small group of veteran bikers who’d helped Link’s father establish this club. Their dedication to the cause had saved countless lives and enabled numerous struggling veterans to find a home and a purpose once again. The old guard was treated with the utmost respect and appreciation. Always.

“Tank’s gettin’ old.”

“It’s more than that,” I pressed. “Earlier today, I had to intervene and take his keys.”

Link’s expression turned skeptical. “He was drunk?”

“No. Stone-cold sober. Yet he told the mailman he was gettin’ the hell out of here to find his ol’ lady and kids.”

I’d caught the odd exchange on camera and had high-tailed it out of the security office to investigate. Tank and his first wife had divorced over twenty years ago. Their kids were grown and living on the East Coast. His second wife, Amy, couldn’t have kids of her own. A few years back, I’d given her the kids’ contact information. She planned to reach out to them and try toreconcile, but as far as I knew, nothing ever came of it. Amy died a little over a year ago. The kids hadn’t attended her funeral, and Tank had moved back into the fire station shortly thereafter.

Link’s frown deepened as my words sunk in.

“He was confused. Incoherent.”

Link circled the desk to collapse into his chair like the weight of the world now rode on his shoulders. “You sure he wasn’t just distracted?”

“I wish. He didn’t even recognize me.”

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