Vice and Void (The Savage Wolves Brotherhood #1)

10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Callum

Three days before, Callum had retreated to the confines of his house with his proverbial tail tucked firmly between his legs. Cornering Dakota didn’t go as he planned—what was the fucking plan anyway?—and it only made him feel more like an asshole than he did before. He acted on pure irritated instinct and wanted her to know that her father was already snooping around.

One time was more than enough. Callum was ready for her to skip town again—if only to get John Montgomery off his back.

What he hadn’t expected was how his heart seized in his chest when she stepped into the afternoon sunlight or how her blonde hair bounced against her shoulders as she sauntered from the Guildhall. She always had a natural confidence about her, one that her father couldn't help but try to beat out, and he was glad to see it was still intact.

However, that confidence melted like an ice cube in the depths of summer the moment Dakota locked eyes on him, and it was almost funny to see her thoughts churning in real time. And he couldn’t blame her. He had been just as stunned stupid when she entered the trauma bay to treat Ace.

But Callum’s glaring agitation, which she met with a ferocity of her own, was short-lived when she decidedly pointed out his intention of waiting for her at the Guildhall. And like a scared teenage boy with too much acne and not enough wit to get him through the moment, he had bolted just the same as she had .

Callum silently prayed to every god who would listen that Dakota wouldn’t think anything of his departure. To make matters even worse, it wasn’t until he was ten minutes down the fucking road that he even thought of a comeback.

I want to be crystal clear .

It was dumb, and he was glad after the fact that he hadn’t said it.

He played out every scenario during his ride home, his mind filled with shitty replies and half-witted retorts, until he parked his bike in the driveway and entered the house to find Tex's journal still lying on the kitchen floor. He meant to give it a swift kick across the room when he noticed a name inked on a page fluttering in the air conditioner’s breeze.

Hunter Donovan.

It was a name Callum thought he could recognize but was having difficulty recalling. Was he in the club? He must have been.

Callum picked up the journal and, with a heavy sigh, quickly skimmed the page.

We were going to change the world. Me, Duke, and Red. We meant to pick up where our old men left off and, instead, lost ourselves in a field of distills, girls, and money. So much money. And Hunter Donovan was the first of a younger generation to see what utter bullshit it all was.

He tried for years to jam it into my brain, but it didn’t take for far longer than I’m willing to admit. By then, I didn’t know if leaving the club altogether was the right choice or if I should use my position to find the balance between what I knew was right and what the Duke wanted. I stood by Duke’s side, and we created an empire in experimental distills. In the end, I should have listened to Hunter.

Callum had mulled over that passage for days afterward. Saw it written on the cars as he worked. It haunted him, wormed its way into his mind until it nestled against his subconscious, and he was dreaming about his father for the first time in ten fucking years.

“Where are you going?” Ace barked out, taking a long swig from the energy drink clutched in his hand. The edges of his dark blonde hair stuck out from under his backward-facing ballcap.

Callum tossed the oil-stained rag to the side of the garage and grabbed his Brotherhood cut from the peg drilled into the wall. “Out. Close up for me. I’ll meet you back at the club tonight.”

“Yeah, man, whatever,” Ace replied as he tipped his head back to gulp the rest of his drink. He crunched the can and tossed it into the nearest garbage can. “Pick up some fucking dinner on your way back. Logan hasn’t done shit in days, and the fridge at the club has become its own distillation experiment.”

Rocco chuckled as Logan opened his mouth to argue but quickly clamped it shut at the venomous glare he received from Ace.

Callum didn’t deem it worthy of a response before he tossed a leg over his bike, rode out of the mechanic shop’s parking lot, and entered the early evening traffic. He had found an address for a Hunter Donovan by spending twenty minutes sleuthing a website where most of the ex-convict’s names were listed, his own included. Though Callum couldn’t be sure it was the right Hunter, or if this Hunter was even an ex-con, the trip was only thirty minutes outside town.

Clouds covered the sun as Callum rode down a series of narrow dirt roads. Tiny lawns with spotted grass lined each side, backed by a handful of old trailers closer to one another than they should have been. Some people rocked in chairs on their porches, upturned and curious faces staring at the cloud of dust as he flew by.

The small neighborhood didn’t smell much better than the mechanic’s shop, heavy on the car exhaust with a touch of bug spray. Children darted across the short driveways, each with weeds sprouting through the cracks in the cement, and their shouts echoed across the tops of the half-dead overgrowth that was once considered decorative.

Callum stopped in front of the home at the end of the winding road, placing his feet on the gravel driveway as he tugged his fingers through his windswept hair. This one looked more like a salvage yard than a house, with a rusted chain-link fence surrounding the trailer, a pile of woodworking tools on the lawn, and a busted-up car parked near the side door. From how the grass grew around the flat tires, it had been quite some time since the vehicle was moved.

Callum strolled over the patched grass and up the surprisingly sturdy porch steps to rap his fist against the glass insert. Noise from the television threaded through the gap between the frame and the door, and he found himself unexpectedly nervous when a single finger moved the curtain aside just long enough for a blue eye to peer out at him.

The door opened with a tug, revealing a man a few inches shorter than Callum. His stare was dead and empty, though his expression remained serious and closed-off. The man crossed his arms over his bare chest, every inch of his skin covered in tattoos that Callum recognized as ones from prison.

Seeing his face…Callum knew this guy. Hunter was only ten years or so older than Callum, though he went by Bonesaw when he was active in the Brotherhood. His hair had been longer then, too.

“Hunter Donovan?”

“Who’s asking?” Hunter’s gruff voice replied. His stillness was unnerving—a man who had no objection to opening his door to an unknown person on his doorstep. His eyes roved down the front of Callum’s leather cut, leveling on the VICE and SWB patches sewn on the left chest.

Those empty, blue eyes slowly rose to Callum’s face before Hunter took a step back and promptly shut the door in his face.

“What the fuck, man? We’ve been trying to call you for over an hour now!”

A hard fist thumped against Callum’s chest as he entered through the front door of the club two hours later. There were clues something had happened: the two dozen motorcycles parked on the lawn was the first one.

“What are you talking about?” Callum asked, pushing Ace away with a quick shove. His gaze skated along the communal space where every cushion on the sunken couches was taken, and the table was circled with the higher members of the Brotherhood. Duke sat at the head, his finger slowly tracing the outline of his upper lip as he watched Callum closely. “What happened?”

“There’s been an attack on the warehouse—everyone is fine,” Duke added at Callum’s incredulous expression. He inclined his head toward the open seat at his side. “It was the Vipers. The distills are gone.”

Callum dropped into the chair, his heart plummeting in his chest. “All of them?”

Duke held his stare, the promise of violence dancing in the depths of them. “All of them.” His fingers tapped against the waxed surface of the table. “We were lucky enough to get Kane out before the whole thing went up in flames. The Iron Guard is there doing an investigation now. We’ve got scouts watching from the forest.”

“Any chance this will be traced back to us, boss?” Maverick asked from three seats down. His lean and lanky frame quivered, readying himself for the attack like a pack of wolves on the hunt. He wasn’t the only one—six others surrounding the table had placed their guns in front of them as a show of solidarity.

“No,” Duke said simply, “we’ve covered our tracks. The warehouse was under a dummy name—untraceable. The best the Iron Guard will get is a broken phone line and some vials that made it through the explosion.”

“They’re going to come knocking. They always do,” Callum noted. An incendiary ember had sparked inside of him, stoked by the winds of fury that roared through his veins. Any thought of Hunter Donovan was pushed out of his mind.

Duke and Red McCoy both nodded, their gazes clashing.

“That’s the least of our problems right now, Vice,” Red started. “Everything in the distillery was already bought and paid for by the Vanguard Syndicate. Due to be delivered in two weeks.”

Callum cursed under his breath as groans rose around him.

“Let’s just get Kane to start making a new batch,” Maverick pointed out. He leaned forward, bracing his tattooed arms on the edge of the table. “Kid is a genius and—“

“Are you incapable of comprehension?” Kane piped up from the couch behind Callum. He rolled his eyes as he lifted his injured arm with his good hand, settling it back in his lap. “Everything was destroyed. The blood, the distillation equipment—all of it. I could start a new batch of Pain or Healing, but we still don’t have the plants or even the seeds to get it going.”

The correction earned Kane a long glare from Maverick, who had long been trying to get into his uncle’s good graces enough for a promotion. So far, he hadn’t been successful.

Duke rubbed his brow with the palm of his hand. “Ace, Rocco—take three of my best to draw more blood. We’re going to need to replenish the stock.”

Rocco nodded as he stood from his seat, the legs scraping against the worn carpet. Ace followed from where he was pacing at the back of the room, his fingers clenching and unclenching as though he were struggling to keep his composure.

“Maverick,” Duke said next, dragging his lethal stare toward his nephew. Maverick straightened in his seat noticeably enough that Kane let out a snort of derision. “You’re my Enforcer. Take as many as you need to put a watch on the Vipers. I want to know every move, every phone call, every shit they take. Got it?”

“Yes, boss,” Maverick replied. He snapped his fingers, pointing imperiously at four more men surrounding the table. It was all Callum could do not to roll his own eyes. Maverick liked to play the part but could rarely collect without the help of Callum or Rocco .

That was the beginning of the one-sided grievance Maverick had with Callum—ending with the position of Vice Callum had been granted the moment he stepped out of prison. A position Maverick coveted above everything else.

“Kane, get ahold of Dylan Harrison. I want to know how much he’ll charge to sneak more plants and seeds from the Fieldhouse. I don’t care the cost. Make it happen.”

Kane’s nod was curt, and he lifted his hips to retrieve the cell phone stored in the front pocket of his jeans.

“Callum, you’re with me.”

Callum tucked away his ire and turned his baleful stare back to Duke.

“We’ve got to make a call.”

Swallowing back his sigh and ignoring Red’s locked gaze on him, Callum stood from the table and followed the Lead into the back office. It had once been his father’s office, though now it belonged to Duke. Filing cabinets lined the back wall, each having been searched a fair few times by the Iron Guard. Duke and the Brotherhood weren’t stupid enough to keep anything distill-related at the club. An antique desk was pushed into the far corner, and papers were thrown haphazardly on top. Most were the mechanic’s shop receipts, though Callum was sure other things were scattered within.

Once the door was shut firmly behind them, Duke pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number with his thumbs, and set it on the desk. It began to ring, and dread rose like a serpent aiming to strike with each trill from the speaker. He knew exactly who Duke was calling, and Callum was not looking forward to the consequences.

Between one breath and the next, Callum buried the part of him that, only that afternoon, had doubted Duke. The Lead knew what to do when the Vipers needed to be put in their place. Callum planted his knuckles onto the desk next to the phone, his expression as flat and undisturbed as a forgotten glass of alcohol.

“Yes?”

The voice that picked up the call was low and hoarse, the greeting a barked demand rather than a question. The man on the other end of the line was just as hard and unyielding as Duke, though he preferred a high-end black car with tinted windows to the motorcycles of the club.

Unwilling to cut through the bullshit with pleasantries, Duke crossed his arms over his chest and said, “The distills are gone.”

A thick, tense silence followed. “Gone?”

“Vipers,” Duke sank into the office chair, the hinges squeaking. “Hit the warehouse.” He took a deep, almost hesitant, breath before adding, “We need more time.”

The statement surprised Callum, but under Duke’s watchful stare, he had the sense to keep his face bored and blank.

A lethal chuckle followed the second silence. “More time? The riots in Blackdon don’t operate on delays. My men need those distills to fight the Guard.”

“It’s just a minor setback—“ Callum began, but the man on the other end cut him off with a snarl.

“I don’t care if the Governor himself burned the place down.”

Duke shook his head at Callum, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’ll get you the first batch in two weeks as a good-faith gesture. We have an alchemist. If you give me extra time, we can double the batch you’re owed.”

“Excellent,” the man on the other end said, his snarl now smoothed over. “You get my distills by the Equinox. Six weeks, or I’m turning your ass into dust. And then I’m going to the Vipers.”

Callum’s brows shot up at Duke’s unnaturally blanched expression. “The Vipers can’t do what we do.”

The man chuckled. “Not yet.” The line clicked off without another word.

Duke cursed and banged his fist against the desk, jostling the pens out of the neat line they had been set in.

“We don’t have anything to give him in two weeks,” Callum said, pushing himself from the desk. “We don’t have plants. We don’t have blood. Fuck, we may not even have a finished set of distillation recipes if Kane—“

“I know what we have and what we don’t.” Duke’s response was short and clipped. He sighed, lifting a hand to rub his forehead before running it over his buzzed hair. “Kane does great work, but we need an alchemist to get us where we need to be.”

“The alchemist you promised him we already had?” Callum let out a breath. “Every alchemist in the city works for John Montgomery, we both know that. No amount of money in the country would buy one away from the Governor, at least not without notifying the Rangers first.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

The chuckle that escaped Callum’s lips was humorless and filled with disbelief, but he didn’t reply.

“Get me an alchemist,” Duke went on. “Even if you have to drag one back from Penham and chain them in your basement. Kane has some old distillation equipment in the safe at our house. We’ll get the operation up and running again.”

“And if we don’t?” Callum finally asked.

“That’s not an option.” Duke jutted his chin toward the door before picking up his reading glasses from the desk and setting them on the bridge of his crooked nose. “We don’t have much time.”

Callum knew when he was being dismissed. And, though he had an idea of who the newest alchemist in Norwich was, there was no fucking way he was crossing that particular bridge. He would rather be flayed alive by the Vanguard Syndicate. And that scenario was suddenly looking far more likely.