Vice and Void (The Savage Wolves Brotherhood #1)

7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Callum

Callum didn’t bother with goodbyes as he kicked his motorcycle into gear. He didn’t want to fight Ace from sinking deeper into the Euphoric distills that Duke would undoubtedly supply for him. He couldn't stomach witnessing Logan’s attempt to seduce one of the women before giving up and sulking on the couch. And the last thing he wanted to do was watch Lyra and Rocco shout at each other for the sixth time that week.

While he didn’t want to admit it, Callum was getting really fucking tired of killing people at Duke’s behest. Ace reveled in it, of course, but Callum? He had already spent nine years behind bars. Three of those were in solitary, thanks to a special request from John Montgomery himself. He had no interest in returning, though that possibility seemed more and more inevitable with every body he dropped in the name of the Brotherhood.

In the name of appearing like the cracks that fractured his relationship with Duke hadn't begun to deepen, threatening to reveal the molten lava that lay in wait.

No. Callum wanted to drown his anger in a pint of whatever alcohol he could dredge up from the bowels of his pantry, fall into oblivion, and never resurface. He wanted to shed the indifference he wore like a mask before it and the Brotherhood could consume him completely. With every murder, with every drop of blood, that mask was becoming harder to remove. Twelve years ago, he thought he had an out. But now?

Callum turned onto his quiet street, the rumble of his motorcycle intrusive in the dark silence. Here, the cars were old, the houses even older, and the people in an endless cycle of poverty that Callum had been lucky to escape. He did just fine between the mechanic shop and the Brotherhood, a cool five thousand marks now tucked in the pocket of the bag strapped to his back.

He could have sold the house, moved to Joanna and Duke’s more illustrious side of town, and spent his days blowing through Euphoric distills with Ace. But when he felt the creak of the bottom porch step, he remembered his father bitching about wanting to fix it, though he never did. There was a cigarette burn in the living room carpet when his mother had missed the ashtray, and the smallest ember caught flame, forcing Kane to stomp on it with his riding boot. The three-bedroom was cramped and outdated, but it was the only constant thing in the sinking ship of Callum's life.

From four houses down, Callum spotted the glow of the living room lamp illuminating the front bay window. Had he not recognized the motorcycle parked in his driveway, he would have drawn his gun immediately. The bike was as old and worn down as anything else in this neighborhood, the scuffed red paint a dead giveaway for the patriarch of the McCoy family.

Callum sighed as he parked his motorcycle and swung his leg over the seat, the gravel crunching under his sneakers as he walked up to the porch. He didn’t fucking need this right now.

The door was unlocked when he turned the knob, and Red McCoy was seated in Tex Reynolds’s old armchair on the other side of the patterned couch. Red was shorter and stockier than Ace, with blonde hair that had long been streaked with white. Though he needed glasses to read these days, the sharpness of his gaze still rivaled Joanna’s. He was also able to sniff out bullshit quicker than anyone else Callum knew. Red had once been his father’s best friend and was still the Sergeant-at-Arms for the Brotherhood—or the member in charge of keeping everyone in line.

Red had his work cut out for him with Ace alone.

“You’re going to get shot sneaking into people’s houses one of these days, old man,” Callum said as Red stood from the chair, shifting a journal from his lap to his hand. Callum clapped him on the back, but Red grabbed his arm and held him in place.

“What did—“

“Don’t,” Callum said with finality to his tone that he hoped Red would hear. Red's stare scraped over the flecks of blood Callum knew were dried against his skin before nodding and letting go of his arm.

Callum let his bag fall from his back, dropping to the carpet with a dull thud. He set the helmet next to it before kicking off his sneakers. Red’s stare bored into his temple as Callum entered the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of alcohol from the pantry, popped the cork from the neck, and took a large swig. The liquor burned his throat, well on its way to dulling any thoughts using his mind like a pinball machine.

“It’s time we talked,” Red said as Callum set the bottle on the countertop.

He really didn’t fucking need this right now.

“About what?” Callum asked anyway. He may outrank Red McCoy in title, but he knew better than to ignore a request from the Sergeant. The man knew just enough to disembowel him before Callum could say I’m the Vice of the Savage Wolves Brotherhood .

Red lifted the journal. “The club.”

Callum took another swig before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Talk to Duke. You know how Brotherhood business works. Everything goes through him first.”

Red didn’t hesitate to toss the journal onto the counter next to the bottle. “This is about Duke. What he and your mother have done to the club.” He paused to tap a finger against the leather cover. “And your father.”

Callum stilled, frozen in place against a storm, tightening his chest. “My father has been dead for twelve years. Whatever he had to say died with him.”

Red opened the journal to the first page, where Callum spotted his father’s untidy handwriting scrawled along the top. If you’re reading this, I assume I’ve met my death … Callum leaned over and snapped the journal shut, pinning Red with a glare that would have left any other member trembling in their cuts. Not Red, though. Not even close.

“You need to hear me out, Callum. Your father had different interests in the direction of the club. He was—“

“It’s been twelve fucking years,” Callum snarled. He pushed the journal toward Red, letting it slide across the laminate surface. “What’s done is done, and what’s dead is dead.”

Red shook his head angrily, sliding the journal back to Callum. “You weren’t ready. But there are things that you now need to know about this club and your father.”

The pounding in Callum's ears only pulsed louder and faster. “Why are you doing this, Red? Things are good. The club is thriving. More business than ever is coming our way.”

“Because I can’t lose another child!” Red shouted, slamming a fist on the counter with enough force to rattle the bottle. He released a long-suffering sigh. “Raven's gone. Sierra's in Penham with her mother. We both know Ace won’t last much longer. Not under Duke’s leadership.”

Callum swallowed, letting his eyes drop to study the alcohol label. “Rocco and I…we’ve been doing everything we can—“

“I know, son,” Red replied gently. “But it won’t be enough, not with Duke feeding him those distills.” He reached over to tap the leather journal again. “Just take a look at it. Listen to what your old man had to say. He was my best friend, and you remind me of him. I think you’ll be interested.”

Red shuffled from the kitchen and, with one more backward glance over his shoulder, walked through the front door.

Callum spent most of the night lying in bed, watching the ceiling fan slowly rotate above him. He tried not to think about the journal that remained untouched on the kitchen counter—only after he debated dumping it in the trash. Not many things still held his father’s scratchy handwriting, and, if only for nostalgic purposes, he decided against pitching it. That didn't mean he needed to read the thing.

With a groan that eclipsed the fan's low hum, Callum tossed the sheets from his legs and slowly sat on the edge of the mattress. He didn't necessarily want to read his father's inner thoughts. Right now, Callum revered the memories he had of the man. But what if he was some cosmetic conman shilling red lipstick or religious zealot forking his hard-earned money over to the acolytes worshipping the Banished Gods?

Dawn spilled into the living room, casting it in a golden glow deserving of a second look, but Callum ignored it. Instead, he tentatively approached the kitchen and the journal on the counter, eyeing it with trepidation. For all he knew, it could be a monster in wait, preparing to eat him alive. He rubbed his jaw again, a prickle of uncertainty tenting the hairs on the back of his neck.

He reached his hand out, allowing it to hover above the leather before he steeled his resolve and cracked it open.

If you’re reading this, I assume I’ve met my death, and Red McCoy gave you this journal. I may have done terrible things in this life, but my family is one of my greatest joys. Know that whatever happened to me wasn’t your fault.

When your great-grandfather started The Savage Wolves Brotherhood, it was in response to the Governor’s demand of those marked to donate their blood to science. He only wanted to protect his community. He gathered men and women to his side, forged bonds with the trusted Iron Guard, and used his ties to build a wall of defiance against the Governor and the Fieldhouse.

Though the official donations may have stopped, we now know they have adjusted to capture and hold to collect. Originally, the Brotherhood was created to take a small monetary payment in exchange for protection against the Fieldhouse, against the things they stood for.

Over the generations, we, too, have shifted. Monetary donations turned to blood, which turned to experimentation on the very distills the Governors have kept vaulted behind their metal walls. We have flooded our own communities with addiction, forcing our very friends and family into selling themselves to maintain the status quo.

The Brotherhood was never meant to deal in distills, to be the very thing we fought so hard against. Through this journal, I’ve outlined and detailed the changes the club needs to make to bring us back to our purpose—fighting an archaic system that forces the Vitals, the Veils, and the Voids into confinement and service.

Though I may not be alive, I hope that I’ve taught you enough to take up the torch and continue my fight. Do it for me, do it for you, and do it for our community, especially those who cannot help themselves. Duke, Red, and I may not be in agreement on how or when to make these changes, but I know deep in my heart that they need to be made.

Callum pushed the book away, sick nausea clenching his stomach. Of course, he had known the history of the club. As heirs apparent, Tex had taught Callum and Kane about the Brotherhood when they were younger. As Tex's father had done before him.

With Callum's grandfather, it was about protecting their community. With Duke, it was about money, sourcing blood, and selling distills. Tex never mentioned his thoughts on returning the club to its original purpose—was that even possible? They were so entrenched in the distills, with the Vanguard Syndicate, and in the riots of Blackdon. Every decision the Brotherhood made centered around it.

Callum’s vision tunneled, a vehemence gripping every muscle in his body. Red knew about this—had probably read the journal repeatedly. Had probably helped Tex craft it. Had undoubtedly talked about it while Tex was still alive…still alive.

If you’re reading this, I assume I’ve met my death …

Tex knew something was coming. Red had known it, too. Duke stepped into the position of the Brotherhood’s Lead when Callum was pinned for the shooting of his father. A murder that went unsolved to that day. But if Tex knew…

Callum recalled the old hierarchy—Tex as the Brotherhood’s Lead, Red his Vice, and Duke his Sergeant and third-in-command. With Tex dead, Red should have assumed command until Callum was released. That never happened. Joanna married Duke a few years later, and Duke was voted in as Lead. He should have never been put up for a vote. Callum pressed his palms against the cool counters, letting his chin drop to his chest. The thought was treason and could result in an execution-style burial next to Rosie’s boyfriend.

Callum never questioned it; he only assumed second-in-command after his release at the Brotherhood’s request. Duke had given it to him gladly…was it gladly? He tried to think. He couldn’t think.

He shoved the journal off the counter, where it tumbled to the laminate kitchen floor, and focused his clouded vision long enough to put off punching a hole in the wall. He would go to the basement, beat the shit out of the old punching bag that still hung from the ceiling. He wanted to see blood—wanted to get lost in the pain of a no-holds-barred brawl.

But Callum needed to be smart about this. He wasn’t the trigger-happy teen. Not anymore. He was the Vice of the Brotherhood. If this journal had anything to do with his father’s death, he would need far more information before confronting Duke Malone about it.

“What’s wrong?”

Callum lifted his head from the engine after tightening a bolt into place. Rocco stood beside him, arms folded across his chest and a grease cloth draped over his shoulder. Callum reached up and yanked the cloth away, cleaning the oil from his hands.

“Nothing, man. Why?”

Rocco quirked a brow. “You went home early last night. You came in late this morning. You haven’t said a godsdamned word since getting here.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to hear about the fight you and Lyra had last night,” Callum retorted as he shoved the cloth back into Rocco’s hands .

“How did you know we got in a fight?”

Callum shut the car's hood, and the locking mechanism snapped loudly over the music blasting through the speakers. “Because you two are always fighting.” He sighed, turning to scan the bay for anyone who could overhear. When he noted Logan and Ace's absences, he asked, “What do you think about Duke being Lead of the Brotherhood over me?”

Rocco’s eyes widened. “Shit, man. To say shit like—“

“Which is why I’m asking you and not anyone else.” Callum stepped closer to Rocco, who tilted his head down to listen. “I got my hands on something last night. My dad wrote in a journal explaining the direction he wanted to take the club before he died.”

“Fuck.”

“And it’s had me thinking all morning…”

“Well, stop thinking,” Rocco retorted, running a hand through his dark hair and smearing an oil streak across his forehead. “Stop thinking about it, man. We don’t have room to be on the outs with the club, not with Ace as bad as he fucking is right now…”

“What happened?”

Rocco blew out a breath, turning his head to stare through the open bay door. Heat waves danced across the sun-washed asphalt. Children giggled and screamed as they ran through a sprinkler in a yard across the street. The late afternoon humidity accentuated the tang of oil and rubber in the shop. A typical summer day, yet nothing felt the same at all.

“Duke came to the club last night after you left. Sat with Ace and me for a while. He started spouting off shit about Raven’s murder. How he came across some information he could pass onto Ace.” Rocco snorted and shook his head. “That’s only if Ace kept doing what he needed to do for the Brotherhood.”

Callum read what Rocco left unsaid. “Fuck. And what did Ace say?”

“Nothing. But he got that look in his eye, you know? He’s been itching to get revenge for years. And he—“

“Vice?”

Callum stepped back at the interruption, his eyes darting toward the door that led to the front lobby. “What, Logan?”

Logan leaned on the frame, the door resting against his shoulder. “You’ve got someone here to see you.”

Callum scoffed, frustration mounting between Logan’s uncertain expression and Rocco’s skeptical one. “Take care of it. I’m busy. ”

“Erm…well…”

That frustration blossomed into impatience as Callum reached through the car’s open window, grabbed the keys from the front seat, and dumped them into Rocco’s hand. “Are you that fucking incomp—“

“It’s the Head Ranger.”

Callum and Rocco exchanged brief looks of surprise. “The Head Ranger?” Rocco asked, doubt threading his voice. “He’s here?”

Logan nodded. “John Montgomery? Yeah, he’s—“ He stumbled back with a gruff exhale as Callum shoved past.

This was fucking perfect. Exactly what Callum needed. The punching bag did nothing to stave off his anger, and the journal burned a hole in every fleeting thought. And there was the Head Ranger, a hand resting on the gun strapped to his belt as he browsed a tire magazine on the checkout counter.

“Heard you were looking for me,” Callum said, a saccharine smile slapped on his face. He hoped it would be enough to goad John into doing something stupid.

John closed the magazine with a flip of his wrist. “I didn't know you took over this shithole. Sorry it took me so long to visit.”

Callum didn’t take the bait. “What are you doing here?” He crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring the Head Ranger’s stance. A sudden gratitude for his nine years in prison and the subsequent beatings he had taken from the guards flashed through his veins. He could count on one hand the number of things that intimidated him now.

John took a step away from the counter. “Stay away from my daughter.”

Callum’s thumping heart hitched, but he still looked blankly at John. He hadn’t seen Dakota since she ran from the trauma room at a speed that would have been funny in another fucking scenario. “I don’t follow.”

“Dakota’s been shaken since you showed up at the Guildhall.” John took another step forward, his chest inches from Callum’s. “She’s moved on. She doesn’t need you fucking things up again.”

Callum knew what was happening, and the smirk curling his lips only seemed to tighten the corners of John’s eyes. He took a step forward, closing the inches to nothing. “You’re still worried about me.” It wasn’t a question.

“I know what bullshit you and your club are into,” John seethed through his teeth. “I may not be able to prove it today, but I will soon. And when I do, I’m going to throw you back into that fucking prison for so long that you won’t remember what the sun feels like. She has Ethan. She doesn’t need you.”

Ethan? Ethan Sullivan, the Jock of Norwich, Ethan?

Callum’s smirk widened at the news. “If you’re here, it’s because you know it won’t last.” He lifted a hand to pluck a stray leaf from the front of John’s uniform. “It’s only been twelve years. How hard do you think it’ll be to remind her who her daddy really is? Ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

John’s arm stilled, the gun half-unholstered from his hip.

“There are cameras all over my shop. Don’t want you to get in trouble for shooting an innocent business owner. How would that look for the Iron Guard?”

John took a deep breath before slowly blowing it out. “One of these days, that mouth will get you in trouble.”

Callum winked and blew him a kiss. “It already has. Do you remember when you caught me tongue-deep in your daughter? Because I certainly do. I’ll remember how she tastes for the rest of my fucking life.”

John’s stare roved Callum’s face, his chin lifting slightly to compensate for Callum’s taller height. He was sure the vein bulging on John’s puce-colored forehead would burst. But John’s smile was dangerous and didn’t quite reach his eyes as he stepped back from Callum. “You have a good day, now. Be careful out there. You never know who is waiting just around the corner.”