Page 33 of His Loyal Rebel

Chapter 13

Whip

Frank and Rick rode up to the cabin. Whip stepped out and raised his hand. Normally, he'd enjoy the solitude of staying by himself. It was a break from living at the clubhouse.

But, damned, he missed Twyla and her temper.

His MC brothers cut the engines. He approached them, hoping they'd got a bead on Big's head, and stopped the threat toward him. The last thing he needed was to be out of commission because the cops were looking for him.

"News?" he asked.

"Only that Big and a guy named Cross paid Twyla a visit at her work." Frank put his feet up on the pegs and stayed on his bike. "We sent a crew of riders out who had no prior records to see if they could grab law enforcement's attention. They ghosted through. Priest talked with the contact at the police department, and he'd heard a cop named Maxwell had put out the call on you, but it was only for one night—the night you were chased."

"Then it's over?" He stepped backward, ready to grab his duffle and head out.

"It'll never be over." Rick met his gaze. "We need you, though. I'll have your back until you're comfortable."

"'Preciate it, brother." He walked into the house, grabbed his duffle, and shut the door. At his Harley, he said, "Twyla's okay?"

"Yeah." Frank started his motorcycle. "Tucked in at the house. Slick is within earshot."

Whip started his Harley and followed the others as they wound their way along the deeply rutted trail out to the highway. Slick would know if any motorcycle came around the area where Twyla was staying. He concentrated on that, while the frustration of Big making contact with Twyla after she'd left the cabin simmered inside of him.

He knew the mind of a biker better than Twyla. She hadn't wanted to believe him, while he would've staked all his money on how Big would react.

Opening the throttle on the straight road, his thoughts cleared, and his doubts fled. He knew what needed to be done.

He wasn't going to hide. If the cops weren't looking for him, the only ones who wanted him were Big and Cusclan MC.

Until he died, he would seek retribution for the murder of his parents. If they wanted to come and get him, he'd stand out on the street corner and wait for them.

Pitting the cops after him was a pussy move on a war that would eventually end with death.

The motherfuckers had hurt his family long enough. His sister lived with the trauma Cusclan put her through daily. They owed him for the years he spent in prison paying for a crime that wasn't his, to protect his sister. He looked at his brother-in-law every day and knew the scars that were camouflaged with tattoos.

Cusclan Motorcycle Club needed to be taken out.

Turning off the interstate, he slowed, taking the road into Missoula. His senses remained on high alert. Even with two members with him, he felt targeted.

It was hard to shake off paranoia.

Rick glanced back at him. Whip lifted two fingers off the handlebar. His brother-in-law understood. They'd both shared a cell at one time. The risk of losing his freedom was his biggest threat.

If it came down to getting his ass thrown in the slammer again, he'd go out shooting rather than to chance being thrown behind bars again.

The ride to the clubhouse ended without passing any cops. He needed to check in with Priest and find out how Tarkio failed to stop law enforcement from working with Cusclan. For as long as he could remember, back when his father was riding under the patch, Missoula police backed down from coming after Tarkio, including unnecessarily pulling over any club members for traffic violations.

Inside, Hammer handed him a bottle. He tipped it back, taking a welcomed swig, and continued to the meeting room. Knocking on the door, he let himself in.

"Lock it behind you." Priest leaned back in the chair at the table.

He slid the deadbolt. What they needed to talk about would remain between him and his president.