Fallon (Henchmen MC Next Generation 3)

Chewy had been the one to hire him.

All of a sudden, it all started to make so much sense.

It was why the Henchmen had been ambushed, but my men who'd been sitting ducks, hadn't.

It was why I'd been shot at.

But why my men hadn't.

Chewy had been trying to take me out, so he could take over. And take out the competition while he was at it because he was a greedy bastard that way.

And when he'd failed to kill me a few times in a row, he'd done the next best thing, he'd kicked me out of my own club.

It wasn't over.

I knew it like I knew the bastard would lose control over the club in no time because he wasn't the sort of man who instilled loyalty. Because he was lazy and stupid.

He wasn't going to settle for me being simply out of the club.

He was going to make sure he put me in the ground.

And then the Henchmen as well.

"Babe, what the fuck?" Fallon asked, moving in beside me as Cary loaded the trunk with the bags.

"Just leave it here," I snapped. "We have to go. We have to get back to your clubhouse. I have to... I have to call my dad," I said, the realization coming to me in an instant.

I couldn't call him about Chewy kicking me out of the club. He would have sided against me about something like that.

But this?

Making power moves without permission? That wouldn't stand.

Trying to take out the daughter of the president of the mother chapter of the Vultures? I didn't think that would fly, either. At least not without permission.

"What's going on?" Fallon asked as Seth and Cary hopped in the SUV, seeming to sense the urgency, not wasting any time.

"That guy that kid described? Red-headed Santa with a braided beard? That's Chewy. That's my vice president. He's the one who's been trying to kill us."

"Wait... what? No, babe, you can't be sure about that."

"Do you know of any other red-headed Santa-type characters who braid their beards? Because I don't. And even if there was a one in a million chance that there was someone else like that in Navesink Bank, what chance would there be that he would be after the gun trade? It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Killing you would have probably been easier than getting you kicked out of your role," Fallon conceded.

"Until he had proof about you and me, it was the only way he was going to get me out of that position," I told him.

"And taking me out? My club?"

"A feather in his cap? He would get the whole gun trade in the area for himself. I mean, I know what we were making just from the small number of clients we'd taken from you," I said. "I can't imagine how much you all make holding onto the rest of your clients. He's a greedy fucker. He'd want that. And then he'd get to be a hero in my father's eyes because he'd be such a good earner. I mean, it was a surprisingly good plan for him. He's not the brightest bulb."

"He couldn't have been acting alone," Fallon told me.

It was a fact I'd been trying not to think about because it felt like a knife was jabbed in my stomach when I did.

But he was right. There was no way around that. Sure, he might have been able to pull off the shooting in the alley by himself. And, yeah, he'd contracted out for the 'accident' meant to kill Fallon.

That ambush of the Henchmen, though?

That wasn't something one man could pull off.

Which meant he had allies somewhere.

In my club.

Or in my father's club.

Somewhere.

"I know," I agreed.

"Alright, so if this is the case, what is your plan?" Fallon asked.

"I need to contact my father," I told him, stomach turning over for an entirely new reason.

No one could claim there was a lot of love between my old man and me. He'd never been the kind of father that Fallon had been lucky enough to grow up with. I'd practically been feral my entire childhood, left to fend for and raise myself. If some of the men like Grandpa and even some of the clubwhores hadn't stepped up a time or two, I probably wouldn't have made it to adulthood.

My entire life had been trying to prove my worth to my father while also enduring his relentless and soul-crushing criticism.

When I'd finally been granted what I'd worked so hard for, the victory had been two-fold. One, I got my club, cemented my future, proved to everyone that I was just as good as they were. Or better. But, two, I got to get away from my father.

I couldn't say I hated the man. There was still this bizarre, irrational connection to him that I didn't even begin to understand. But let's just say that some time and distance had done wonders for my mental health. I wasn't too keen on needing to contact him out of the blue after several months of silence. There was no choice, though. It had to be done.