Page 2 of The Ghost of Rage's War

“…who carried the hit out?” a huge man boomed. Anderson recognised a founding member of Rage, Axel.

“Gotta be Bulldog’s lot. They knifed Ace, shot Manny, who fuckin’ else could it be?” Apache demanded and saw Anderson looking. Apache lowered his voice, and everyone glanced in Anderson’s direction.

Anderson smirked and walked to the nurse’s station. He began forming an idea and needed to act now. Let Rage worry about why a Fed was present. He showed his badge to the nurse and passed through the doors. As Anderson did, he intercepted a surgeon.

“I’m Special Agent Anderson Walton. A man was brought back here, a gunshot victim, I need his status, please,” Anderson asked.

“Mr Walton’s in surgery. His condition is critical, but the surgeon with him is one of our best,” the doctor replied.

“Doctor, I need a favour. That guy is in witness protection. Tell those men Mr Walton died. Explain his injuries were too severe, and he’s dead. We can’t let them know he’s alive,” Anderson said.

“What’s his name?”

“He goes by the moniker Ghost,” Anderson replied.

The doctor scrunched his nose and asked to see Anderson’s badge again. Carefully studying it, the guy nodded and headed out. Anderson watched through a small window in the doors as he approached Rage.

They got to their feet and crowded round him.

Several moments passed before Silvie released a pained cry and collapsed on a seat. A biker named Gunner crouched by her and wrapped her into an embrace. Fish grasped Marsha and held her tightly as she sobbed.

But Anderson focused on Michaelson. He was astonished when genuine pain hit Michaelson’s expression, and it was mirrored in those surrounding him. Michaelson ran a hand over his face and shook his head. He asked a few more questions before thanking the doctor.

Rage gathered and, supporting the grieving women, departed. Michaelson looked up and caught Anderson’s eyes; he held them for a moment and then left too.

Anderson settled in to wait and prayed he hadn’t just jinxed his brother to death.

Ghost

Fuck. Agony raced through his body, and he let out a cry. Someone shoved something in his hand.

“Hit the button when you need pain relief,” Anderson said.

“Well, shit. I ain’t dead,” Ghost croaked. He blinked his eyes open and gazed at his brother.

“Not yet. You gave it a good try. Took two to the chest, one in your gut, and one in your shoulder. You came within a hair’s breadth of a heart shot,” Anderson explained.

“Damn,” Ghost muttered, puzzled as he looked around the room and then outside. He saw a cop standing on his door and frowned.

“Where’re my brothers?”

“Planning your funeral,” Anderson replied.

“What the hell? Call Drake, asshole,” Ghost snapped.

“Not happening, brother. As far as the world is concerned, you’re dead, and now you belong to me,” Anderson stated.

“Ain’t no snitch, you fuckwit. I’m not working for the Feds. Get the fuck out and fetch my brothers,” Ghost hissed as he hit the button. The agitation Ghost was feeling was overriding the pain relief.

What was wrong with his brother? Why the hell would Anderson do shit like that? It went beyond being the eldest.

“I’m going to tell you a story. You’re gonna shut up and listen, hear me, little bro? If, at the end of it, you can walk away, then I’ll call your brothers. Just remember, though, your blood brother is standing in front of you asking for help,” Anderson said, moving his chair closer.

“Rage MC opened in nineteen-seventy-one. You had five founders: Axel, Spike, Arrow, Fury and Norfolk. Back then, your club was about riding, women, and letting it hang out,” Anderson began.

“Bro, I know this, if you’re gonna teach me to suck lemons, then—”

“Our research showed that as the years ticked past, somebody saw money in doing dirty shit. At first, he did it under the table, but then your original president got ill. Bulldog started making moves to take over Rage, and he was all kinds of illegal. We think someone was behind Bulldog’s actions, but we’ve no idea who. It is definitely a member of the inner circle.

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