“B-but…” she whispered.
“No one will lose any respect for you.”
“Please.” Dog Tag lowered his voice. “Do this for me.”
She nodded. “Okay.” She lifted her sweater over her head, removing it completely so she was standing in her bra and jeans.
Vincent watched a chill spiral through her body, but he didn’t know if the cool breeze coming in off the water could be blamed. She found the courage to present herself to Chez first, standing with her back to him, waiting for him to say something.
Then, one by one, she moved down the line. Vincent overheard some of the grumbling, whispers about her background or what a godforsaken piece of shit Crash was for scarring her. It didn’t matter what everyone else thought, just what Dog Tag believed. Vincent kept a sharp eye on her as she finished with the last two members of the Sons of Odin, then returned to her place near Dog Tag.
“Brave girl,” Dog Tag praised her. “Now put your shirt back on and get in Vincent’s truck.”
Vincent nodded his approval and stepped aside so she could pass.
After she disappeared, Crash gripped Dog Tag’s wrist in protest. “She’s a lying bitch.”
“Not to me,” Dog Tag said, then hit him again so hard, it knocked him out. He climbed to his feet, giving his adversary a last look. “In my eyes she’s innocent,” he announced to the crowd. “And the Sons of Odin have a proud tradition of protecting helpless victims.”
Vincent stared at his Brother with deeper respect, knowing he’d learned a valuable lesson the hard way. No further punishment required. “Saline goes home with us,” he said directly to Chez. “No retaliation. No blood grudge against Dog Tag or our club.”
Chez offered his hand, ready for a shake. That’s when Vincent heard a loud pop, like a firecracker. Someone had a fucking gun. Instinctively, he reached for his pistol and spun around. Blood pounded in his ears as he discovered a Man-o-War with his face planted in the sand, a bullet hole through the back of his skull.
What the fuck? J.T. still held the smoking handgun. Vincent couldn’t believe his eyes. “What happened?” This wasn’t supposed to happen. No death. Especially gunshots and blood everywhere. Civilians weren’t that far away; some fishermen were on the pier, and who knew where else.
Chez and his sergeant-at-arms had pistols aimed at J.T., but they didn’t seem too keen on pulling the triggers yet.
“Take a closer look.” J.T. gestured at the body.
Inches from Dog Tag, the dead Man-o-War still had a switchblade gripped in his hand.
“Came at him without warning,” J.T. explained, as detached as Clint Eastwood after a standoff in one of his flicks. “Couldn’t risk my Brother getting stabbed in the back.”
Dog Tag raked his fingers through his hair, eyes filled with anger. “He aimed that knife at me?”
J.T. nodded.
Dog Tag glared at Chez. “Motherfucker would have taken me out.”
Chez holstered his firearm. “I’d say you served up more than a little justice tonight.”
J.T.’s actions were defendable. The terms of this meeting had been set and agreed upon. Coming at Dog Tag when his back was turned with the intention of stabbing him in the back earned the dead man a bullet to the head. Enough said. There was no love lost between these charters, but Vincent trusted the Man-o-War president for some reason. He felt it deep in his gut. But that didn’t extend to the other members of his organization, who resembled dogs of war at the moment.
The need for further retribution boiled Vincent’s insides too. He couldn’t help it. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth…
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Vincent jumped into action, directing his members what to do and where to go. He thrust his hand in Chez’s, the silent handshake solidifying the tone of their future meetings. Respect had been established at a high cost, but secured nonetheless.
“Get out of here, J.T.,” Vincent demanded, shoving him toward the parking lot where the bikes waited. “I’ll drive Dog Tag and Saline. And destroy that gun before you return to the clubhouse.”
The Sons of Odin carried untraceable firearms, one of the benefits of being gunrunners. They had access to an endless supply.
Vincent cleared the food and drinks off the trestle table with a sweep of his hands, then two Brothers folded the table and thrust it into the bed of the truck—no evidence could be left behind. Vincent jumped into the driver’s side, revved the engine Saline had probably started, and drove down the beach. There’d be hell to pay if the police found that body.
Vincent gazed at Saline, then Dog Tag. “It’s over.”