Premo: Siberian MC book one Read online

  The blood pooling around her head. The same color hair as the girl in the trailer. I see him all over again—right where I caused him to end up: dead. I can’t leave her there. Just like I couldn’t leave him.

  I throw the truck back into park and swing the door open. Hank and Wick shout from behind me, but I don’t give a fuck. When I reach her, I check for a pulse, then scoop her tiny frame into my arms. Hank is behind me when I turn around. His eyes dart around the room before landing on the woman in my hands. “She’s still alive. Can’t leave her here,” I grunt, shoving past him to the truck where Wick is already getting behind the wheel to drive.

  “What if she IDs us, Pres? That shit won’t be good. Just leave her be,” Hank gripes while I pull open the back door and situate the both of us inside the cab. It a spacious truck, but right now, it feels anything but. I keep myself steady with her in my arms, though my lungs feel as if they might cave in on me. This is too close to the same scenario. You didn’t do this to her, a voice tries to tell me, but all I see is blood and dark brown hair. Hank tries to say something more, but I bark at him to shut the door, then tell Wick to take us to the hospital.

  “The fuck, Pres? She’s as good as dead,” Hank tries again as Wick starts driving away from the trailer.

  “Don’t care. Not leaving her there to die like that. No one deserves that shit,” I say, finding my voice through the muddled webs of my past.

  I keep her in my arms until Wick pulls up to the bright sign of the emergency room.

  “Shit. They are going to ask questions,” Hank pisses and moans some more while Wick puts the truck in park, then gets out to help me with her.

  “I’ve got it,” I growl, not wanting him to touch her, and head in through the double doors. The place is almost vacant. When a woman behind the front desk sees what I’m carrying, she jumps up and shouts for a gurney. The bustle of white coats and blue scrubs swarm me from out of nowhere. They take the girl from my arms and place her on a stretcher, rolling her away from me. It takes everything inside me to stop myself from following them.

  “Sir, can you tell us what happened?” one of the nurses in bright blue scrubs asks me, drawing my attention from the doors the frail girl went through. “Sir?” The flashback hits me like a ton of a bricks, sucking all the air from the room.

  “Sir? Can you tell us what happened?” I’m standing in the ER, my son’s blood all over my chest, the alcohol still lingering on my breath, seeping from my every pore.

  “I did it,” I whisper, staring at the doors they rolled my son through.

  I shake away the memory. “Found her in the alleyway. Don’t know anything else,” I tell the nurse, then turn around to get the hell out of there before I’m assaulted by another piece of the past.

  Five

  Fucking paperwork. I scribble my signature over the contract, earning the club one more piece of real estate. I push my reading glasses up once again, then sign the last page as the realtor smiles at me. Casey is a knockout, but definitely not somewhere my dick should be going—since she’s married and all—but the way she’s looking at me, she appears to be anything but.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Dash. You now own Oak Ridge Apartments.” She bats her eyes at me again, then takes the papers, sliding them across the table separating us. I nod and take that moment to pull my glasses from the bridge of my nose. Hate wearing the things, but if anything involves reading, I need them.

  “Thank you, Casey. And please, call me Premo,” I say with a fake smile as I reach my hand out to shake hers, which she all too happily takes.

  “Premo,” she repeats, a blush to her cheeks.

  After getting the master key and a stack of papers with all the occupants’ names and background checks, I jet. The complex is only half rented out, and the last owner was a complete wash of an asshole. This project will give the club more equity and work for the members. The place will get fixed up and be full by the end of the year. Same thing I did six years ago with the complex I live in. The damn place was in shambles until the club bought it and turned it around. But it isn’t all for the flipping of apartments. The projects are to cover our asses when it comes to the illegal part of the club. We have to show we make legit money. Being owners of apartment complexes and a couple bars in town, we appear squeaky clean. No traces of dirty money anywhere.

  “Got it then?” Wick asks, shifting his bike to stand while I shove the paperwork and keys into my saddlebag.

  “Yeah. All tied up with a pretty pink bow.” I shoot him a smirk and throw my leg over my bike. “I’ll have the boys start work on it next week, after the occupants are all informed what’s happening. Some of them might need to relocate. The place is pretty worn down.” I pull my helmet over my head and slide my tinted riding goggles down.

  “Yeah. Got to get some orders in for it too. Make a list of what we’re going to need. Head over there now?”

  I shake my head. “Not today. Got a run tonight.” He nods in understanding and starts up his bike when I do. We take off out of town. Five miles to be exact, to the clubhouse.

  The tall walls surrounding the compound can be seen for miles. The place has been transformed throughout the years. It used to be only one building, but now it almost resembles a small town, minus the grocery store. There is a shop—the original building—that only sees our bikes and vehicles unless someone is doing a favor for a friend or family member. Then there’s the assortment of tiny homes—I shit you not—the brothers own. Each set up one right after the other like a miniature trailer court. The main building, the clubhouse, was second to go up after the shop. It has everything: a bar, a kitchen, a few rooms, a large rec room for when the place is on lock down or other clubs visit, and a room designated for church.

  I make my way through the bar area, then pause halfway, turning back. “Tell me that is not a fucking dog at the damn bar.” A black and white shaggy dog is perched on a barstool leaning over the bar lapping up something inside the bowl in front of him.

  “Oh, shit,” the prospect says before rushing around to the other side of the bar to heft the medium sized mutt to the floor. “He showed up outside, skinny as all hell. Someone took a shot at him I think. Had a bullet wound, but I patched him up,” the kid says with a bright smile. Goddamn prospects.

  “Get him the hell out of here. This ain’t no place for animals,” I grumble, glancing at the dog one more time, noticing the bandage on his right front leg and his missing eye. Maybe a border collie mix of some kind with the white markings on his coat. “Fucking hell,” I groan to myself when the kid starts to pull the dog outside. “Just keep him off the bar, yeah? Don’t need dog hair all over the stools,” I snap, trying not to smile at the prospect when he nearly lets out a whoop in celebration. Might not be so bad having a pup around. “Don’t take in any more strays, prospect,” I shout as I cross over into the hallway toward the room where church is being held.

  Inside, my brothers are all gathered around the table engraved with a tiger baring its teeth and “Siberians” stretched out over the top of the cat. I take my place at the head and get the meeting started.

  “Escort service. Maddox’s coke shipment. Nixon and Wick will ride with ’em. Same shit different day. You know the drill.” They both nod in agreement.

  “Pres, the apartments,” Rike, one of the more seasoned prospects, starts, then pauses, waiting for my permission to keep talking.

  “Go on.” We normally don’t involve the prospects in our meetings, but I want him informed of the upcoming run, just to see if he’s ready since he’s coming up on his patch.

  “I would like to get in on that. Could use the work,” he tells me, glancing around the room, as if someone might smack him for speaking. Fucking kid shouldn’t be prospecting if he can’t speak his damn mind. The fuck is up with him?

  “Got all the hands I need on it. I’m putting you on the run tonight with Wick and Nixon,” I grumble, wanting the kid to grow a pair.

  “Yeah. Okay.” He
nods, as if trying to convince himself it’s a good idea.

  “Right. Anything else?” I ask the room, getting nothing. Slamming down the gavel, the room clears out, and I’m left with Wick wanting to talk.

  “You sure about the kid? Seems a little squeamish.” Wick chuckles, tapping his pack of smokes to his hand before selecting one to bring to his lips.

  “Then the fucker shouldn’t be prospecting. Get his feet wet. See if he’s ready to be a Siberian,” I respond.

  He nods in agreement. “You hear anything about that girl again?” he asks on a mumble while flicking his lighter to light his smoke, pulling my annoyance away from the prospect.

  “Girl?” I ask, playing dumb. Like I haven’t thought of her every fucking minute of the day since I dropped her off at the ER a month ago. Too many times did I pick up my phone to call and ask the hospital what happened to her. And too many fucking times have I caught myself driving down alleyways to see if I would find her lying on the cold cement.

  “Nah. Thought maybe I would have gotten a visit from the boys in blue asking where we found her, but I didn’t. She must have taken off. Or died. Who the fuck knows.” I shrug and try to brush it off, but the thought of the girl still lingers heavily in the back of my mind.

  “Yeah. The shit at the trailer was written off as a deal gone wrong. Funny thing is, though, there weren’t any drugs found at the scene,” Wick says, and I grind my teeth together.

  “Hank?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe. Didn’t see him take it, though.”

  “Think he’s using or selling?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know, Pres. He’s been with us long enough to know the rules.” The rules being no drugs, no dealing. We aren’t that kind of club and try to keep it off the streets as best we can. One of the reasons the club and town sheriff have an understanding and the cops can sometimes be persuaded to look the other way. Or maybe it’s because the sheriff’s brother is the man standing in front of me.

  “Keep an eye on him. See anything out of character, let me know. We’ll have it out. I’m going to get on home. Gonna give Boyd a call.”

  “Yeah. How’s he doing? Liking his baby sister?” Wick chuckles. “I didn’t like mine much,” he tells me with a smile. The ass is lying, though. He’s more of a father to Belle than a brother. After their parents had Wick and his older brother, Fergus, they thought they were done with kids. Fifteen years later, they had Belle. Five after that, they died in a car accident, leaving a twenty-year-old Wick and his brother to take care of her. And with Fergus away at the police academy, the responsibility turned to Wick, who was just starting out with the club, which meant Belle grew up in the club. Just this last year, she graduated and went off to college, leaving Wick’s life teenage-girl-stress-free.

  “She cries a lot. All he’s told me so far,” I chuckle. “I’m sure he’ll get used to it. See you tomorrow.” I tip my chin and head home to call my son.

  Six

  Sometime in the middle of the night, my phone starts ringing, pulling me from sleep. “Fucking Wick,” I grumble when I see his name on the caller ID. “Yeah?”

  “Pres, shit went down fucking bad tonight. Prospect got shot. We are at the hospital now. Doesn’t look good,” Wick tells me in one breath. I jump out of bed and pull my jeans on.

  “The fuck happened? This was supposed to be an easy run,” I snap, grabbing my cut from my dresser.

  “Just get here. I’ll explain then,” he tells me, ending the call, and I want to reach through the phone and punch him for hanging up on me. Fucker.

  It takes me no time to get to the hospital, wishing to fuck I didn’t have to come back to this place ever again. I don’t have to go inside, though, because when I pull up, I find a somber Wick and pissed off Nixon. “The fuck happened?” I bark.

  “Some fucking dickbags tried to take the shipment. Came up on us on bikes. No colors. Don’t know who the fuck they were,” Wick explains.

  “Fuckers set up a roadblock. Who the fuck does that shit? Had some heavy weapons too. They didn’t want the shipment, they wanted to blow it up. And that’s what they fucking did. With a fucking rocket launcher,” Nixon cuts in.

  “Rocket launcher? Fucking seriously?” I grumble, rubbing at the back of my neck.

  “Fuck yeah. Rike pulled out his piece and got two in the chest.” Nixon shakes his head. “He’s dead.”

  “Shit.”

  “Kid didn’t have anyone. Just us.” And that makes this shit even worse. He had us, the club, to rely on to keep him safe, and we failed.

  “I shouldn’t have made him go on the damn run.”

  “Don’t even go there, Pres. It’s done. Can’t take it back. Dwelling on it won’t help either. He was defending his club and got hit. Wasn’t anything you could have done or not done.” Wick tries to reassure me, but it doesn’t register. “Let’s go on home. Nothing we can do tonight.”

  “Maybe not, but you know damn well he’ll come looking for his shit.” Wick knows the “he” I’m referring to. Maddox, AKA Doc, a big shot boss in Seattle. He runs his shipments through Idaho and Nevada before getting it into California, instead of running it down the coast. Our damn job—as it’s always been—is to ride with it as far as the California border where his guys take over and escort it the rest of the way. Well-oiled and worked just great until fucking now.

  “Yeah. Ain’t shit we can do about it tonight.” I nod in agreement and head back to my truck, not looking forward to the shit storm that will be blowing our way when Maddox finds out.

  Seven

  The next day, just like I figured, I get a call from Maddox himself. “How come I’m the one who has to be calling you after your men go and lose my shipment? Hmmm?” His tone might sound cordial, but it’s anything but.

  “We lost a man last night. My mind was elsewhere.”

  “Sorry to hear, but there is still the matter of finding out who had the balls to fuck with my shipment.” I nod, even though the guy can’t see me. “I will be sending some of my men down. Make this right, Premo, or consider our alliance null and void with you owing me a heavy sum, which I will be charging interest for. You have a week.” He ends the call before I can even accept the terms, like I have a choice in the matter. The club has been escorting drugs for the man since before I was a prospect. He came up in the late eighties full of piss and vinegar and took the whole city in the palm of his hand. Though he has toned down, he still can’t seem to get out of the business. Old enough to be my grandfather and married to a woman young enough to be my daughter, the man won’t fucking quit until he’s put in the ground.

  “Fucking hell.” I rub at my temples, trying to relieve the growing pressure.

  “Went that well, huh?” Wick asks as he shuffles into the room where we hold church. I’m at the head of the table, my elbows on the smooth wood. He takes the seat to my right, his designated place, and leans back in his chair.

  “He’s sending some of his men down. Have the rec room ready. Bring in some new girls maybe. Fuck, this is a shit sandwich. Just keeps piling on.”

  “We’ll figure it out. Only so many places you can get the kind of weapons they used. Got Nix working on it right now. Him and Hank are busting down the door of every heavy arms dealer from here to Kentucky,” Wick tells me, offering some kind of hope.

  “Fuck, I need a drink.”

  “You need to—”

  “Nah. No time for a meeting. Besides, Berta is probably busy. Don’t want to be bringing her down with my shit. Ain’t nothing I can’t handle.” And I better believe what I’m saying. Falling off the wagon would just be another one of those fucking toppings for that sandwich.

  Minutes later, Hank and Nixon come stomping through the door, a mixture of pissed off and grim expressions on their faces. “Well?” I ask them, ready to hear what they came up with.

  “Found where the weapons came from,” Nix offers, aggravating me with his hesitation.

  “Well?” I say once again, grinding my back m
olars.

  “Got there and found them all dead,” Hank explains. “They all took a bullet to the back of their heads. Execution style.”

  “Who the fuck—?”

  “No clue. No gang sign. Whoever did it didn’t even take what was in the warehouse. Left all the guns and shit there.” Nixon takes a seat at the table.

  “Sounds like someone who would hit a shipment of coke only to blow it up. Either this is someone who has a grudge against Maddox or some vigilante trying to rid the world of weapons and drugs. Either way, Doc ain’t gonna be happy about this. No results means a pissed off, in-need-of-retirement boss in Seattle.” Maybe it’s time this old alliance got put to bed. The deal with Maddox dates back to when my old man was president. A lot of shit I have since changed does. “His guys will be here soon. Give them the info. They can do with it what they want. I’ve got a call to make.” I rise up from the table and flip through my contacts to find Maddox’s number. This day just keeps getting better and better.

  Eight

  This place probably should have been condemned instead of sold to the highest bidder. Looking up at the apartment building I signed on over a week ago, I’m reminded of Rike asking to help work on the project. We put him in the ground three days after he departed this world because of my decision to put him on a job he had no business doing. Shaking my head, I try to block out the guilt coursing through me. Maddox wasn’t all too happy about our results, but with nowhere else to look, his men went home and the clubhouse got stuck with paying for the destroyed shipment, keeping the alliance. Suppose it’s better to have someone like Maddox on your side if a hairy situation should arise.