Home > Royally Targeted (Royal Sons MC #8)(3)

Royally Targeted (Royal Sons MC #8)(3)
Author: Elle Boon

He closed his eyes and drank the last of the bottle before looking back at Keys. A lot of folks had said they looked alike, he and Keys. Mick tried to see it. Shit, his dad had sown so many fields it wouldn’t surprise him if he had a couple hundred brothers and sisters out there. Of course, his dad would’ve moved heaven and earth to ensure they all grew up on his mountain in El Salvador and killed any who tried to leave. Just as he’d done with Mick, Father wouldn’t have allowed his children to be brought up in the bastardized world without proper guidance. He snorted at the thought of what the man would have thought of him if he could see him now. Tattoos, leather cut, riding a Harley. An abomination. The prick had dozens of wives, bought, and sold others, and shook hands with the devils themselves, but his children were to always obey him.

“Not sure what you’re thinking about, but I would hate to be on the receiving end of that anger.” Keys voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Shit, man, sorry. I got a lot on my mind.” He worked to school his features into the emotionless mask he wore most times.

“Yo, assholes, ready to ride? Ayesha and Tiana are riding with Wheels. Let’s roll. Frog, you cool, brother?” King asked, stopping in front of him.

Mick took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Damn, was everyone fucking worried he’d lose his shit or what? “I’m solid.”

“Good. Let’s go. You and Traeger are in the back. Make sure your eyes are open for any signs of trouble.” King clapped him on the shoulder, walking toward his bike without another word.

“Are we expecting any problems?” he asked Keys.

Keys strolled over toward his Harley, sliding a pair of riding gloves on. “We always expect it, which means we’re never caught off guard, brother. Remember, when we do right, nobody remembers. When we do wrong—well, nobody fucking forgets. That can be taken as a promise, or a threat.”

He didn’t laugh at the words Keys said, knowing they weren’t meant to be in jest. No, if the Royal MC did something, it was calculated and done with expert care. Although he hadn’t been in on a mission like full brothers, he’d heard rumblings. You didn’t get close to the brothers like he was without hearing stories. The difference was, he wasn’t stupid enough to run his mouth. Loose lips might sink ships, but in their world, loose lips got you lost tongues and sometimes, lives.

The familiar rumble of bikes began to roar, each man twisting his wrist slightly as they fired up their bikes. This was what he looked forward to. Not just the sounds or the scent of exhaust, although they too were so fucking familiar, they soothed him like a nursery rhyme. It was the journey of brotherhood, riding with other men who shared a passion he could get behind. After he’d been discharged from the SEALs, he’d stood on the dock and stared out at the ocean wondering what the fuck he was going to do.

Groot whose real name was Pete, had been discharged at the same time as him from Special Ops. They’d both been injured in an explosion that had blasted them out of the Humvees that they’d been riding in. Mick had been in the vehicle in front, while Groot was in the one behind him, their team heading toward an extraction point to pick up intel. They’d been planning what they were going to do once they got out of the country they were in, knowing none of the locals gave a damn that they were there to help, and then shit went to hell. Mick woke up in a hospital, unable to move, fearing he’d be paralyzed for the rest of his life. He’d worked his ass off to regain movement and shocked the physicians and therapists as he’d not only walked but ran. Not many people with a broken back like him lived to talk about it. Hell, he was blown clear of the vehicle that hot sunny day, otherwise he’d be dead like the others, except Pete. He’d also lived, without hardly a scrape. If it hadn’t been for the other team that had come upon them within minutes, Mick was sure he’d be dead, because whoever set the bombs would surely have come looking to see if they’d accomplished their goals.

When Pete had strolled up to him after he’d been discharged, like he’d been waiting for him, with only a slight limp, wearing his customary cock-sure attitude, Mick had been relieved to have someone he knew next to him. Mick hadn’t questioned why Pete hadn’t been injured more than he was from the explosion that had killed everyone else on their team. Hell, Mick’s own injuries had been a close call, but Pete had sighed as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders and said he was happy to see Mick. Nobody had ever said that before to him.

At twenty-seven and no real skills but fucking and killing, he was pretty sure there wasn’t much work out there for guys like him. He’d actually contemplated just...ending it. The Father, the fucking bastard who had wrecked his world, sure as shit wasn’t going to welcome him back onto his mountain, not that he’d ever thought of going back there. Groot aka Pete had suggested they stick together. He had introduced him to his friends and family in Los Angeles, the likes of which Mick didn’t care for as they reminded him too much of what he’d run from in El Salvador. At the time, Mick had needed an anchor, and Pete was that for him.

He’d often wondered why Pete’s family hadn’t come looking for the bastard after he’d disappeared, knowing he and Mick were buddies. Poor Ayesha had shot Pete when he’d helped Rico get into the main house looking for Tiana. The trauma Ayesha suffered from that alone had King taking the blame and making sure everyone knew to keep their mouths closed about what went down. Since the Prez had also shot the fucker, he’d told her it was him who’d taken the kill shot, but they were pretty sure it had been her bullet that ended his life.

His adopted family, the Richardson’s, had said he’d come to them a half-grown boy with so much anger they couldn’t help but love him. Of course, they also said they’d seen vulnerability and love inside him. Mick wasn’t sure how they’d seen all that, when he couldn’t, but fuck all if he didn’t appreciate that they had, and he was even happier they’d seen him go into the military and become someone they were proud of. Although he still didn’t see or feel like he deserved their praise. Especially since he wished he could go back and kill the son-of-a-bitch who murdered his mother, he actually thought about it more than was probably healthy. He also knew, if he’d been the one to go missing, and they’d been alive, they’d have left no stone unturned in their search for him.

Now the evil fuck who sat like a god on his mountain in El Salvador was a different story. To Enrique, Mick was dead, and that was exactly how he wanted to stay.

He didn’t have much in the way of material things, except he had an old pickup that was his pride and joy, his Harley, and the money he’d made while in the military. Each government check he’d made in the ten years since he’d enlisted, he’d put in the bank. Although he didn’t have any grand plans for what he was going to do with his life, he wanted to have money for when he got out.

Fate was a fickle bitch, though. Pete had introduced him to the MC, a group that Mick never would’ve thought to be a part of. Now as they rode behind the Prez and the other members to a tattoo shop a couple years later, without Pete as part of the protection detail of woman who took the fucker out, he couldn’t help but be glad he’d sided with King instead of Pete.

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