Shelter (Red Rebels MC Book 5)

  SHELTER

  -A Red Rebels MC Novel-

  C.D. Breadner

  The Freak Circle Press

  Copyright 2017 C.D. Breadner

  Kindle Direct Publishing Edition

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  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Shelter: Red Rebels MC Book Five

  About C.D. Breadner

  Connect With C.D. Breadner

  Acknowledgements

  A Word Before We Begin…

  In December of 2014 the Freak Circle Press authors offered up a few short stories as a holiday gift to our readers. This was the start of Knuckles’ story and can be found on the Freak Circle Press website here. The prologue is directly lifted from that short.

  Also, some may say this is very similar sounding to a fanfiction I completed a few years ago. “Final Wisdom” is a story I really enjoyed telling, and having someone else publish it as her own work was a shock. And yet it brought me to the Freak Circle Press so I guess all is not a lost cause. I assure you this novel is a separate work, even if the premise is similar. If you’d like to read “Final Wisdom,” it’s available free here.

  Prologue

  Knuckles climbed out of the pick-up he’d borrowed from the Red Rebels’ VP, Tank, and squinted in the afternoon sun up at his own piece of property. American dream and all that shit. Never in his life had he expected to buy a house, it had never entered his realm of consideration until about a year ago. He’d always lived at the clubhouse, never needed to pay rent, and he had a nice amount of money stashed away. With the extra Sachetti cash coming in they’d be in the black for quite a while.

  It wasn’t just the cash, though. There was nothing wrong with living at the clubhouse. They had girls that cleaned up after the members who lived at the hotel. Meals were cooked there, too. And pussy on tap for whenever you wanted it. Too bad none of that did a single thing for the constant unease, the buzzing that was getting worse and worse with each passing year.

  It wasn’t even a desire to start using again. That had been gone for a long time. This was something else. If it had been closer to his big, triumphant, return home following two tours in Iraq he’d say PTSD. But in truth, none of the shit they’d done and the shit he’d seen done had affected him. He’d worried that meant he was fucked up beyond repair since around him men he’d served with were swallowing bullets months after holding their babies in their arms for the first time. What the hell was wrong with him that it felt like he hadn’t missed a step?

  But he had, maybe. It was hidden in a fog of heroin nightmares and hallucinations. But he’d been into that shit before signing up and shipping out. It was just easier to get shit in the desert than it was here.

  It didn’t matter now; he just needed somewhere quiet where he could be on his own. Maybe he was chasing solitude, or maybe he was finally growing the fuck up. Either way, a place of his own became a new fixation and renting an apartment was a ridiculous waste of cash. Better to own something.

  This wasn’t a great neighborhood in Markham, just a lot of older people. All the houses were one-level, squat boxes. They owed their personality to awnings or flower beds or whether they had a garage. This one did, that was required since he had an ancient Sportster frame he was looking to turn into something special. His ride was just a bike with the requisite Red Rebels logo on the gas tank, but as far as customizing he hadn’t gone to the lengths the others had. Tiny’s bike had taken three years for him to build, and it was all found parts with a prime paint job. Knuckles loved that bike almost as much as Tiny did, not that he’d ever admitted it.

  So, he’d bought a house, he’d build his own bike, and he’d become as much a part of the fabric of Markham as the members who grew up here. There was something calm and centering in that decision. Growing up they’d moved constantly since his old man was in the Army, so there was no home for him. He’d been born in Louisiana but he couldn’t remember having lived there. The longest they’d stayed anywhere was five years in Idaho, so that was the closest thing to a home he’d had and he hated it. He was a teenager by then, ready to strike out and be unique from everyone else, and his classmates hadn’t appreciated the goth-rock look and recreational drug use. There were a few friends who did, but, honestly, he wouldn’t be able to recite their names back. His brother tolerated him, but their time had been limited.

  Now he had real friends, real family. A real home.

  The roar of straight pipes brought him around to the curb in front of his scraggly, brown lawn. Fritter and Buck pulled to a stop in front of the house, dismounted and removed their safety gear with broad grins.

  “Holy shit, Knuckles,” Fritter drawled with that deep south accent. “You’re all grown up, son.”

  “Thanks, old man,” Knuckles returned with a grin. It was ridiculous since he had a few years on the smartass.

  “You’re easy to help move anyway,” Buck mumbled, peering into the back of the pick-up. Sure enough, there were just a few trash bags of clothes. Some furniture was coming later today that would need to be assembled but for the time being he wanted to get to cleaning. There was a huge box of cleaning supplies in with the clothes.

  One might think he was a bachelor so grit, grime, and dust shouldn’t bother him. But his time in the service, as well as having a drill sergeant mother, made him a bit of a neat freak. He hated dust, couldn’t stand soap scum in a sink, and clutter gave him migraines. His house would have required furniture and no more. No shelves for fucking photos or knick-knacks. A place to sit his ass down, rest his head, and sleep. Women weren’t coming by here either. That was for the clubhouse, this would be his refuge.

  As he made his way up the walk to the front door his hackles rose, the feeling that he was being watched had him turning his head to the right. There was a white wooden picket fence between his driveway and the house next door with grass growing wild and unchecked all the way along the side. A mop of cinnamon-colored hair was easily spotted over the top of it, and he had to grin. There was a cute-as-a-button little girl watching the proceedings, elbows on the edge of the fence. Her big blue eyes were wide, and she was so freaking cute he actually laughed. For her part, she looked a bit shell shocked.

  “Hey there,” he said, and without answering the girl turned on her heel and darted off to the front of her own house.

  Buck was laughing behind him, having seen the entire exchange. “Making a good impression on the neighbors already.”

  Knuckles shook his head. “Kids are adaptable. She’ll be my best friend before long.”

  “That sounds a little sick, man,” Fritter warned, waiting while he tried to unlock his front door.

  “Don’t be perverted,” Knuckles shot back. “Fuck, it gives me the creeps just having you say that shit.”

  Fritter just laughed. Asshole.

  Chapter One

  No dogs, that was one thing he noted as he entered the dingy trailer, making sure the door eased closed behind him, silent.

  All the windows were covered, even a sun blocker stuck to the windshield by the visors. Knuckles wouldn’t have to worry about prying eyes, and not just because of the curtains. It was also Christmas Eve and as near as he could tell this little trailers park was empty at this point; mid-afternoon.

  On a small table between two built-in benches a small lamp sat, unplugged. That would w
ork. With gloved hands, Knuckles picked up the lamp, grabbed the cord close to the base, and tore it free.

  His own philosophy on an assassination was pretty simple; usually the weapon shouldn’t be personally tied to the assassin. A found object belonging to the victim worked best. No way to be connected to him, no security footage of a skinny six-foot guy with a weird haircut, huge beard and tattoos buying a hammer two hours before someone is bludgeoned to death with one. And obviously, less chance of fingerprints or DNA being transferred.

  Sachetti’s lackey, Anthony Guidinger, regularly provided the weapons he wanted used. Uncharacteristically, Knuckles was reluctant to follow all orders. He didn’t know where the guns, in particular, had been, who had handled the ammo. In short, he didn’t trust the prick.

  So, while he had a length of nylon rope on him, and his mandate was to strangle this target, this wasn’t going down as requested.

  Found weapon it was. Made him feel a bit better about this entire fucked up situation.

  The trailer’s standard floor plan took him down a nap-carpeted, narrow path, past a neat-as-a-pin galley kitchen, and a bathroom. At the end was an open passage, the folding accordion door standing open, as though in welcome.

  He let his eyes adjust. Back here the windows were darkened with the added assistance of black out blinds. The only light was from a red-light digital alarm clock. He wished it was one of those neon green ones. They light shit up like day.

  His main point of reference was the soft, even tone of someone not quite snoring. It helped orient the position of the bed.

  Drawing closer to the bed, shapes became discernable. The sheets were bright white, so the dark head on the pillow stood out. The man slept on his side, facing the opposite direction.

  The electrical cord creaked as he tightened the ends around both fists. It was time to take a moment to visualize how this whole thing was going to go down. Picture the possible problems, find his rage.

  Usually, rage came easily. He’d kill to protect the Red Rebels MC. To protect his brothers, their families, their reputation, and their financial interests.

  This contract killing was to technically protect the interests of the club and its agreement with Don Michael Sachetti. To Knuckles, this was on par with his own code.

  However, there was no frame of reference on why this person was going to be killed. What had this guy specifically done to bring Knuckles to his freakishly tidy mobile home in a shitty trailer park? Was he just a sad sack that couldn’t keep up with his drug debt? Was he a real prick that had hurt someone important to the Sachetti organization? No way of knowing.

  So instead, he recalled Buck and Gertie, so obviously in love, starting their family and optimistic for the future. One day those kids might need braces, or, hopefully, funds for college. Rose and Tank and their soon-to-arrive rug rat. Jayce’s family, as fragmented as it might be. He and Trinny really needed the Rebels to keep their business stable for when Trinny and the kids moved back.

  And especially Fritter and Sharon. After the losing their baby, they’d been waiting and willing to build a home for a little boy that really, really needed their love. That part was easy. Knuckles’ duty came about specifically for them, and it was worth it.

  He struck quickly, silently.

  Attacking a sleeping man was a chicken shit move, but risking being caught was a threat to the club itself. He couldn’t risk being seen, and night would have been better, but Guidinger had set this up and made it sound urgent that it had to go down now. Technically, Knuckles was more worried about Doc Webber dying in her own home and his brother Tiny being framed for it. As fucking punishment by gangsters.

  Okay, so maybe that was another source of rage he could draw on.

  The cord slid down the pillow under the weight of the guy’s head, but it snagged on his ear. With a grunted curse, Knuckles got a knee on the mattress to change his angle.

  Luckily the guy woke up and attempted to sit up right then. That helped the cord slip down to his throat, so with no hesitation Knuckles yanked hard, back towards his own body, leveraging his height. The dude was small, and it was enough to slide him in Knuckles’ direction.

  He ignored the gasps and grunts, keeping his eyes on the alarm clock read out. Hands pushed and pulled at his grip, but the cord was locked in place.

  Knuckles kept his breathing normal by sheer force of will. That’s how he missed the movement when the struggles were one-handed.

  Something felt different when the man suddenly moved more towards Knuckles, twisting his torso as he did so. It didn’t gain him any slack, it was more like he rolled nearly onto his back.

  Knuckles had to lean down to keep the tension on the cord, but suddenly a hot paid speared his side.

  He had no illusions over what had happened. The asshole obviously slept with a blade.

  Now the rage flooded through his veins, vision running into Red Mode. He went from detached, business-like calm to instant self-defense anger in the blink of an eye.

  With all his strength, he wrenched the man’s entire weight to the left, dragging him off the bed. Something hit the ground right before the guy’s feet did, and Knuckles was working under the assumption that was the guy’s shank.

  Now the mark was really struggling, but Knuckles was still standing and a fuck of a lot more motivated for this to be over. He pulled on the cord more, and his fingers were going numb but with the cord strung around his palms there was no way to lessen the hold. Slowly, he could feel the target’s windpipe start to give way.

  “Die you fucker, just fucking die,” he was chanting to himself, as though his words would help this poor ass along to his just rewards.

  The struggles didn’t die off gradually. Eventually the life left the body Knuckles was holding up by the neck, but now that the clock wasn’t in his line of sight Knuckles didn’t know how much time had passed. So, he stayed on the side of caution and counted to two hundred and forty once the twitching stopped.

  With a thud the body dropped, then Knuckles groped for a light source. There was a small lamp on a shelf next to the bed. He flicked it on, then surveyed the situation.

  Drops of crimson dotted the stark white bed sheets. That would belong to the killer. Shit. With a criminal record came a DNA profile. That couldn’t be left like that.

  Gingerly he pulled up on his hoodie, then cringed. Shit, yeah, that hurt. Like a strong pinch, pain shot through his ribs. He was bleeding between two ribs on his right side, bleeding like a fucking sieve to be exact. He needed to stop that up first.

  In the small bathroom, he pulled a white hand towel off a shelf hanging over the can. He held it to the bleeding and tied Guidinger’s nylon rope around his torso to hold the towel in place.

  In the kitchen, he found a bottle of vodka after pulling open two cupboards, sleeves down over his gloves. He wasn’t sure about blood on the gloves.

  Back in the bedroom, Knuckles doused the bloodspots on the mattress and—shit, yeah—the carpet, too. He followed his own sprinkling of DNA to the bathroom, pouring out the booze as he went, then came back to stand next to the body. As he set the bottle down he spotted the folding knife, picked it up, tucked the blade away, and stuffed it in the front pocket of his hoodie.

  Next, he dug the lighter out of his back pocket and touched it to the vodka on the bed and backed up as it caught.

  To leave the trailer he used his foot to open the door, then casually strolled south down the hard-packed dirt back the way he came.

  The plan had been to walk back to Markham once the job was done. It’d taken fifty minutes to walk here from Markham, without bleeding, of course. That hadn’t really been part of his hit strategy. It was already obvious he couldn’t walk that far. Sticky warmth was sliding down his side and under the waistband of his jeans. Thank Christ they were dark wash or whatever the fuck the term was.

  Before he arrived at the highway, he stopped at a trailer and quietly stole some water from a garden hose hanging from a rack susp
ended on a four-by-four stuck in the dirt. Hands washed clean, he stuffed the gloves into his hoodie pocket, too. Then, at the highway, he risked thumbing a ride.

  Four cars passed, and he knew he wasn’t getting charity from a stranger. Hell, he wouldn’t stop for himself. Just once he wished he’d told the guys where he’d been and when they should start to worry.

  A rust bucket pick up rolled past, and when he saw the brake lights came to life Knuckles damn near wept. The truck stopped on the side shoulder and he somewhat jogged to the driver’s window. Loped was a more accurate description. On the way, he noticed the Nevada license plate. Someone passing through. This good Samaritan was a double stroke of luck.

  “Where you headed?” the driver asked, thumbing his dusty ball cap higher up on his forehead. His arm came back down to sling through the open window.

  “Bar outside of Markham. Hair of the Dog. You know it?”

  “I think so. I’m headed through to Hazeldale myself. Climb in.”

  “Feeling a little under the weather,” Knuckles said, almost apologetic, just as he swayed on his feet and braced one hand on the truck’s door panel. “You mind if I ride in the back? I think I need the fresh air.”

  A hand went up as the driver shrugged. “Your call,” he quipped, settling his cap lower again. “Not very comfortable.”

  Knuckles waved that off. “Better than puking in your cab, man.”

  The man laughed. “Can’t argue with that. Climb on in.”

  With a tap on the door in thanks Knuckles circled to the tail gate, stepped up onto the bumper and swung a leg into the truck bed. The motion nearly made him swoon, but he got a foot in and eventually settled his aching self with his back against the truck cab. Without a signal from the new passenger, the truck lurched forward.

  Knuckles grit his teeth against the hot flare of pain in his ribs. He lifted the hoodie, wincing to see how red the towel was now. Shit, he was gonna bleed out if he didn’t get to help soon.