Page 76 of Broken Warrior
A couple hoursand a hell of a lot of talking over beers later, the EC is sitting down to finish going over the fucking body parts that are stinking up Marbles’s pole barn.
Jackal and I are good.
I gave Zak some time with him, then I went out to clear the air.
We mostly yelled, then we cried, then we actually talked.
And we fucking talked abouteverything.
Our parents, the club, fucking Hamish—who never did more than beat my cousin, thank god—all the shit I never realized we needed to talk about but hadn’t. And we talked about my addiction; where it came from, why it started. I told Jackal everything, and listened to him better than I have in a really fucking long time.
I had no idea what my overdose did to him, didn’t really pay attention when Jackal said he thought it was going to kill him seeing me in that bathtub. I finallyheardwhat my cousin was saying, what he’dbeensaying, and after that we decided things were solid so we needed to get back to work.
Which of course didn’t happen until the entire goddamn Executive Committee got to weigh in on our family knock-down-drag-out.
And while we don’t make it a habit to talk about our feelings and shit, it’s been happening more and more ever since Sam and Sofie made amends, and after listening to the eight of them get all sappy about everything from being brothers to having babies, all of us decided we’re good too.
Thank fuck for that.
Hopefully we can avoid group therapy for another few years before shit goes down and one of us almost dies again.
Now we’re back to business as usual, which currently consists of watching Doc try to wrap up the rapidly decaying remains of Rosco Shapiro without losing parts in the process.
“So, you confirmed it’s the same guy who got those two prospects.” I nod as I watch a foot fall off the tarp and hit the floor. “And you think this guy is the one the news has been talking about, theHarvester of Bonesor whatever?”
Doc nods but Prez responds. “Seems that way. Too similar not to be.”
“And this is the third body killed in his style that has Kings connections,” I ask.
“Right.”
I scrub a hand over my thicker-than-I’d-like beard, momentarily wishing I showered and shaved when I stopped at home. “Did the media get wind of this yet?”
“No,” Prez grunts. “After the shit with Rosco at The Dollhouse, Elias was instructed to call us first, the cops second.”
Smart.“So how did this play out?”
Pope leans forward in his chair and rests his elbows on his knees. “Elias did his check, found Shapiro two feet from the back door. Shadowed, slightly hidden, but still obvious enough for him to see. Called Prez as soon as he saw it.”
“Who went to the scene?”
“I did.” Pork Chop sighs, pushing a hand back through his hair before pulling it up into a bun. “Crunchy and I were on patrol in that part of the county. He stayed put and contacted Doc, I went to check out the scene.”
“And there was nothing else? Just the body?” Which is just so fucking bizarre.
It was weird when those two punks turned up this way, but it was all over the media because Lola, of all people, was one of the first to find her brother and his friend, and that bitch went crazy trying to get her fifteen minutes of fame. Granted, their clubhouse was clean as a whistle and there was no physical evidence left there either, but those two murders and now this one seem to be little messages or some shit from thisHarvestereveryone is going nuts over.
And the fact that he left Shapiro’s body at the strip club—a known womanizer who abused and sold them—right outside their door, the door of the club my girl works in after she had a run-in with this guy, definitely has my gears turning.
“Well, gentlemen, I do believe we have a secret admirer.”
Every single one of my brothers, as well as Doc, stop what they’re doing and look at me like a pack of confused puppies, which is definitely why Marbles asks, “How the fuck do you figure that, crazy eights?”
Oh good, another nickname from this insane son of a bitch.
“Think about it. If what the news says is true, this guy only goes after real garbage, pieces of shit that do things like Shapiro did. He’s left a trail of bodies that match those specifics and nothing else while moving across the US and now he’s obviously in Colorado trying to do whatever work he’s supposed to be doing.” I lean back in my chair and fold my arms against my chest. “So, he’s hanging out at home one night reading the paper and sees the bit about Buzzcut and Mohawk taking Blondie. Maybe he does a little research, looks into the Cobras some, and finds all the things only the clubs know about, so he decides to make an example of them.”
Jackal nods. “I can get on board with that, but what about this hot bag of saggy dicks?” he asks, motioning toward Berk now dragging the tarp and losing Shapiro’s body parts as he goes. “If it’s this serial killer, how did he choose him?”
