Viper (Hell's Handlers MC 9)

“Damn, brother,” Sarge said as he reached him. Still smiling, Sarge grabbed Viper’s shoulders, pulled him close, and planted a loud, wet kiss on Viper’s forehead. “It is a good fucking day.”

What the…

As he smacked Sarge’s hands away, Viper said, “Who the fuck are you, and what the hell have you done with my surly tantrum-throwing brother?”

Laughing, Sarge rubbed his hands together. “Oh, I’m still him. I’m just really fucking happy.”

“You get us out of this shit detail?”

Sarge’s head was shaking before Viper finished the question. “Nope. Even better. So much better, you’re gonna cream yourself.”

Christ, this was gonna be some story about him getting sucked off by a skank kneeling under the table at some seedy bar last night.

“All right,” Viper folded his arms. “Lay it on me.”

Though he hadn’t thought it possible, Sarge’s grin stretched even wider across his face, “We’re free, brother. Fucking free.”

Viper swore his blood stopped pumping, and his lungs froze up. Free? That could only mean one thing. Wait…fuck, what did that mean? His hands fell to his sides.

“The Tribe?” he asked though it came out in a strangled whisper as though someone had their hand around his throat.

“Fucking decimated,” Sarge said, practically gleeful in his excitement. If he hadn’t been wearing mirrored aviators, Viper probably would have seen a damn twinkle in his brother’s eyes. “Told you it was great fucking news.” He slapped Viper on the back. “Now, let’s get to these filthy bikes so we can still have a fucking day.” Humming an ACDC song, he bent over the bucket.

That’s all he was gonna say? No other details. Just…decimated?

“Hold up, Sarge. I need more than that.” His limbs felt heavy, as though it would be a massive undertaking to step forward or lift a hand. “Fox?”

Sarge straightened, dripping sponge in hand. “He’s dead, V.”

Christ, his father was fucking dead. How the hell was he supposed to react? Half of him wanted to rejoice while the other half wanted to fall to his knees and weep. For weeks, he’d only allowed himself to think of Fox the way he’d acted at the end. A lying bastard who kidnapped and sold women under his son’s nose. A fucker who didn’t have the slightest shred of human decency.

But Viper had only been aware of that Fox’s existence for two days before he left. The other twenty-one years, seven months, and however many days of his life, he’d been Viper’s everything. His father, his brother, his president. His goddammed role model. That wasn’t to say he found Fox without fault, but he’d been able to overlook or justify the many flaws his father possessed. The quick and brutal temper, the occasional callousness, the womanizing had all been written off as necessary traits to succeed as an MC president.

Until his eyes had been blown wide the fuck open.

So did he mourn the father he’d known and loved? Did he celebrate knowing Fox would never have a hand in harming another woman? Or did he breathe a massive sigh of relief at his newfound freedom?

Once the shock passed and the reality of the situation set in, it’d be some combination of all three, no doubt.

“Tell me what happened,” he said when he finally found his voice again. “And how you know.”

Sarge, who’d been staring at him, sighed as though he felt no need to tell the story. He dropped the sponge then shrugged out of his leather jacket, leaving him in nothing but a white T-shirt. “Fucking hot in the sun,” he grumbled. “I got a contact I’ve stayed in touch with back in Washington.”

Viper threw his hands in the air. Sarge and his fucking contacts. “Seriously? You know how fucking risky that is?”

“Simmer down there, asshole. It’s fine,” Sarge said as he moved his hand in a downward motion. “Seems like we did too good a job of pinning the fire on the Scoundrels the night we left.”

Viper’s forehead scrunched. “What do you mean?”

The rivalry between the Scoundrels and the Devil’s Tribe went back to the dawn of the club. Every so often, there would be years of relative peace followed by bloody turf wars and police interference. Within the past few months, things had been heating up again.

“Well, the Scoundrels knew none of their guys had been at the shack the night we rescued your woman, but the Tribe believed they’d been the ones to torch the place. Fox planned an elaborate retaliation on the Scoundrels. From what I understand, the Tribe got every local member and a fucking arsenal of weaponry, then surrounded the Scoundrels clubhouse. They were gonna turn the place into Swiss cheese to avenge our supposed deaths and the money they lost on Cassie’s deal.” Sarge smirked. “That’s gotta make you feel good, huh? Those fuckers loved us enough to kill for us.” He threw back his head and laughed.