Page 46 of Property of Saint

“She shot me!” Gris/Skunk cries out. “Fuckin’ bitch got my gun and put a bullet in me.”

“Yeah,” their prez snarls. “And we need to have words about how a bitch managed to overpower you and take your weapon.”

Gris/Skunk roars at that. His face goes red as his anger rises. He turns with hand raised to Bullseye, who doesn’t flinch, simply steps forward and asks deceptively calmly, “You really want to go there,Prospect?”

Remembering himself, the prospect moves back fast, raising his hands. “Sorry, Prez. But I’m fuckin’ angry. My arm fucking hurts and it’s all because of her.” His attention back on me, he spits straight into my face.

I gag feeling his spittle running down my cheek, but something else gets through to me, the barely concealed gasp from Saint, and the way Freak’s hand is lying on his shoulder, restraining him.

I decide to take charge and taunt the man. “All this bravado to cover you’re a traitor to the Kings.”

Again, he launches himself toward me, murder written all over his features, but before his fist can connect with my face, two of the Kings take tight hold of his arms. While he’s still restrained, Tempest steps up, and shows him something he holds in his hand.

“Explain this.”

Another flicker of fear that’s quickly quenched, and the prospect spits back, “That’s for me to contact my ol’ lady.”

“You ain’t got an ol’ lady.” Genie steps forward, a tablet in his hand. “We researched your background, and you’ve got no family except your mom, who’s apparently on her deathbed.”

His eyes looking around, seeking support, he manufactures an excuse out of the air. “Well, sure, yes. That’s the phone I use to contact my poor sick dying mom, my ol’ lady.” He pauses, acts as if choked up, even wipes away a non-existent dramatic tear, and adds, “I don’t think I’ll be needing it much longer.” His eyes fall but then rise as if seeking out whether he’s gained any sympathy.

Ignoring his anguish, Tempest waggles the phone in front of him again. “If I call the last number dialled, is it going to be a woman who picks up?”

Gris/Skunk’s eyes go wild, and he launches for the phone. The sergeant-at-arms whips it out of his reach, and as two men tighten their hold on the prospect, Tempest carries out his threat, presses a key, and a voice comes through loud and clear as he’s put it on speaker.

“Skunk, what the fuck you calling for? Make it quick. I’m balls deep in a warm, willing hole if you know what I mean.”

That’s his dying mom?I can’t hold back my smirk.

A woman’s moan butts in, “Wrecker…”

“Skunk?”

Tempest obviously ends the call. He faces Gris head-on. “Well, that was illuminating. Not your one-inch-from-deathMom, or even your woman unless she’s getting her meat from another butcher. And it kind of confirms that your name is Skunk, not Gris. Who the fuckin’ hell is Wrecker?”

“I can explain…” Gris, or as we all know him now, Skunk, protests.

Bullseye doesn’t have to do anything other than give a jerk of his head, and another two men whose names I can’t remember step forward. Within seconds, they’ve got his leather cut off and thrown onto the floor.

“Woody, you’re my sponsor. You know I wouldn’t do anything against the club. I just wanna earn my patch…” he finishes on a gasp as Woody’s fist lands hard in his stomach.

But as Skunk makes a natural move to fold in two from the punch, his arms are ripped up and each wrist encased in handcuffs that are fixed to chains hanging from the ceiling above. Someone off to the side turns a crank and Skunk rises until his feet have to scrabble to touch the ground. I notice Doc can’t have done a very good job, as blood starts to flow from his bullet wound that presumably had been stitched up.

Out of the side of my eye, I see Freak speak to Bullseye. Then the enforcer steps over to me, and to my surprise, undoes the handcuffs and the shackles around my feet. Unable to believe they’ve set me free, I take a moment to rub my wrists to get the circulation going again, before gingerly trying to rise to my feet. I’m even more taken aback when Tempest steps up and offers my crutch to me.

Freak’s attention has passed back to the prospect, or ex-prospect, I suspect by now. After studying him for a moment, he moves to a bench and starts examining the tools lying on it. After stretching out the tension for a moment, he picks an evil-looking knife. Tapping it against his palm, he returns to stand in front of the strung-up man.

“So, Skunk,’’ he begins. “Who’s Wrecker?”

Whites of his eyes showing, Skunk shakes his head. He seems fixated on the enforcer and the blade that he’s holding. “I don’t know. Tempest must have dialled a wrong number. I’m Gris. I don’t know no Skunk nor any Wrecker.”

Suspecting I’m not really supposed to speak, but hey, I wouldn’t have got as far as I had in a man’s world if I’d ever let that hold me back, I balance my weight on my crutch and inform the room in general. “Wrecker was the man he addressed as Prez.”

Instead of reprimanding me, I sense someone step up to my side. Bullseye glances at me, then at Skunk, and says lazily, “Well, that’s interesting.”

“She’s lying! She knows nothing!” Skunk shouts, spittle flying from his mouth. “She’s trying to set me up, trying to save herself. You can’t believe a word that comes out of her mouth.”

Bullseye turns, spies a chair and pulls it over. He swings it around and sits astride, resting his arms on the back. He chuckles softly. “Thing is, in this instance, I believe the Fed’s got no reason to lie. In fact, she had every reason to keep that shit quiet.” He shrugs. “Now she’s going to be witness to what we do to traitors of the club.”

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