Page 69 of Devil's Own: Roughneck

Waite laughs at my misspeak.

“What? You only know him as Vlad. He’s always been Daniel to me since the day he was born. It takes time.”

“Well, Rough called me last night,” Waite says to Horace. “Wanted me with Mom when the movers show.” Apparently, he didn’t inform his friend, because my son knew they’d headed out. He’s been here for dinner the past several nights. Did Rough or Daniel warn him about letting anyone know they were leaving? We do still have a rat in the club. It’s probably smart—the fewer people to know of their leaving, the better. The brothers want to capture the traitor unawares. Who knows who Horace might’ve talked to, allowing that man to escape. It’s a prime opportunity, what with all the Death Bringers dead. The traitor wouldn’t want to stick around, but just taking off would look mighty suspicious. These men and their critical thinking skills—I’m once again blown away.

“No. Vlad never called me. I only knew to show up today for the movers,” Horace replies. “Rough called last night, I figured because he had to work. Today’s my day off. I had no idea they were already out of town.”

“Okay, well maybe keep this on the downlow,” I warn. “If they didn’t announce it, then they must’ve had a reason.”

“My lips are sealed, Gee,” he replies. And that’s the end of shop talk. From here my son and Horace get a rundown of where I plan to place every new piece of furniture.

We’re not even finished with our food when the knock comes.My furniture! I stand to answer it, but Waite puts his hand up to stop me. “I got it.”

Yes, he gets the harsh breath. And yes, he gets the eye roll. A combination that tells him exactly what I think of his “I got it.”

The movers enter the house first to remove the old sofa and the other furniture that is going. Both Waite and Horace help with that while I watch the movers place my pretties where I want them.

It takes them probably a half hour, but once all the old stuff is out and the new stuff is in, Waite rejoins me at the table, but Horace doesn’t. Since I don’t know if I should clear his plate or not, I walk downstairs to find him. He’s making a phone call, and I start to turn back to go upstairs so as not to disturb him when I hear something that totally disturbsme.

“Sarge’s bitch isn’t there,” he says into the line. “Found that out today from Gia. Need to update the plan.” Then, there’s a pause, and a greasy smile spreads across his face. “Rough put me on her protection today.”

Oh, shit. Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit…Did I just hear what I think I heard? Unsure of what to do, I spin around to run back up the steps. They’re carpeted. I try to be quiet, but it appears he hears me.

Horace’s eyes flair with anger as he lunges for me. I gasp and make a run for it, but I don’t scream because I know that Horace carries and screaming would get my boy shot as he rounded the corner to come down the steps.

Running doesn’t do me any good. Horace snags the back of my shirt, pulling me to his body. He covers my mouth with his hand. I feel the gun pressed to my back.

“Let’s go,” he mutters in my ear. I nod and quietly move up the stairs. He grabs my keyring from the hook in the landing. We move into the garage, where he shoves me into my car. “Drive,” he orders with the gun still very much trained on me.

I open the garage door and back out.

21

We wait in the courtroom. Every brother in here has a summons—witness for the prosecution. We were the ones who found Rae and Dela. Since Rae and Danni had run-ins with Jack and managed to survive, they’ve been called, too. Given the damming nature of our prepared testimonies, we’ve got that motherfucker’s defense backed into a corner.

This whole day is fucked up, though, and I can’t wait for it to be over. Green has Danni. They’re solid. But anyone who looks at him knows listening to the evidence presented against Jack guts him. Green needs to let go of that guilt, or it’ll kill him. Danni’s a good woman and I know he loves her, but he still feels like he let Dela down.

Danni hasn’t taken her eyes off Jack since he entered the courtroom. It’s intense. She lost her mother to him, and then he tried to end her. The bastard squirms under her stare and won’t look at her. Shit, it makesmeuncomfortable to look at her.

Rae, on the other hand, she’s strong in her own way. Tears roll down her cheeks, but she doesn’t make a sound. Dark has an arm around her. She tried to save her sister, Dela. She was there when Jack murdered her. He tried the same thing with Rae, but we got to her before she died.Justbefore.

Shit, that was bad. That’s some of what we’re here to testify about. Here in Kentucky, they’ve got him on six counts of murder, first-degree, and two counts of attempted murder, first-degree. The fucker got stupid when he decided to make it personal against the club. First, he took out Jaleen, one of the pussies associated with the club, then Dela, and he tried for Rae. Danni’s associated with the club now, but he attacked her because she wouldn’t let it rest, determined to bring him down.

He won't ever walk free again with all the evidence gathered on him just here in Kentucky. Chances are good he’ll get the death penalty. But just to be safe, a couple of other states are waiting to prosecute in order to make damn sure he never walks free again.

The trial feels like it will never end, and we’ve only just started. We had a meeting with the district attorney our first day in town. He said that with all our testimonies and rebuttal witnesses, we could potentially be here for two weeks or more. The prosecution has an airtight case with all the DNA evidence, but he figures the defense will try to draw the trial out for as long as possible. That’s two or more weeks of my life that Jack will keep me away from my home and my woman.Two fucking weeks.Or more.We sit in the courtroom from first thing in the morning until well past dinner every single day—hours and hours of witnesses and presenting evidence. Every. Single. Day.

When the defense gets its turn, they have Jack take the stand. Who thought that was a good idea?

Cut and I take bets on whether they’ll go with the “it wasn’t me” defense or an insanity plea. In the end, Cut, Sarge, and I each win ten bucks from each of the other brothers when that sick fuck’s lawyers lay out a story of a man—a hero—suffering from his military traumas. PTSD is areal fightthatreal heroessuffer through because of the atrocities that they’ve witnessed or were forced to be a part of, and yeah, he might very well suffer from it, but that’s not an invitation to act however he wants and then wave a diagnosis as his get-out-of-jail-free card. The majority of trauma survivors don’t go off on serial killing sprees across the Southern United States and several other countries like he did.

And his defense basically crumbles from the beginning. His people had him tested by every doctor in the country, a slight exaggeration. Still, the point stands. Even when they found a doctor willing to testify that his PTSD is severe enough that itmight havecontributed to him slipping into some kind of psychosis, the prosecution had ten rebuttal doctors to counter that. Jack knows what he did was wrong. Sarge and the Raiders got visibly upset when they tried using Jack’s time in the Raiders as his reason—the trauma he experienced. Again, I don’t doubt he experienced trauma, but killing innocent women isn’t a way to deal with it, nor is his trauma an excuse. Period.

After bringing in their own “experts” on trauma didn’t yield the results they were after, the defense calls Jack back up to the stand. And damn, it takes everything in me not to rush the bench and take that motherfucker out for good. Despite what I’ve personally gone through, thanks to the actions of Jack Dunham, it’s nothing close to what Green, Dark, and Sarge have suffered. Our job as their brothers is to keep them in check once he starts speaking. The sick fuck sits up there—his dark hair parted on the side and clean-shaven to show his somewhat handsome face. It’s all a bullshit shitshow. One of the prosecuting attorneys discussed this tactic at the beginning of the trial. He presented a study that showed that jurors sympathized more with attractive people, urging the group of twelve men and women not to let themselves fall victim to that. And now here he’s trying to turn “tortured” imploring eyes on the jury.

“You’re still under oath,” his attorney says, and Jack nods. “Tell us about your time as a Raider.”

“The military paid me to kill people. They trained me for it. It’s all I know.”

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