Hounds of Hell MC 7: Outcast

Player scrolled through his phone in the passenger seat next to him, killing time while they waited in the Jeep for the Red Scourge MC’s soldiers to show. In the back, Crash sat silent, his usual restless energy contained — for now. Malachai’s illegally modified rifles were tucked in the back, behind the rear seats, ready for the deal. Snow and the twins were positioned in the woods nearby, out of sight but primed to strike if things went sideways. Everyone was in place and ready.

Well, the Hounds were ready. The other MC was new to this part of Virginia, and the fact that they’d reached out about guns right away had sent up an immediate red flag for Outcast. Now they were running late, testing his patience as he ran through all the ways this deal could turn bloody if the buyers decided to play dirty. Yeah, the club needed the money, but with so many unknowns surrounding this crew, Razor had made sure they were prepared for everything. Probably.

The late February sky loomed heavy with dark clouds as the wind howled through the trees, whipping past them in the Jeep. Outcast killed the engine, powering down his driver’s side window just an inch or two. He was vigilant, keeping an eye on all the vehicle’s mirrors. He listened, trying to tune out the sounds of the wind and the occasional vehicle driving by on the highway behind them. For the meeting place, they’d selected a remote area between Mercy and Oak Grove. Outcast had picked it out — a stretch with no houses or businesses — in case things went south.

Player shoved his phone back into the pocket of his leather jacket, his attention now on Outcast. “You sure you’re feeling up to this, brother?”

Outcast nodded, shutting down any chance of a drawn-out conversation about his well-being. It was bad enough dealing with Deva every day, her constant hovering after his recovery from the beating Victor Grayson’s men had handed him. And where Deva went, Razor followed — especially now that they were together. His club president was a hell of a lot harder to shake than his sister.

“I’m fine,” Outcast said, and for the most part, it was true. Mornings were rough, and by night, the lingering pain crept back in — especially after a long day. But each day, it dulled a little more. Still, the slow recovery gnawed at him. Pushing forty or not, he should’ve been back to full strength by now, and the frustration of it sat heavy on his shoulders.

“They’re here.” Snow’s rough whisper came over the walkie talkie Outcast had positioned in the cupholder of the center console.

Sure enough, a huge black Hummer turned off Route 221 onto the narrow dirt road where they waited. Player pressed the button on the transceiver and said, “Copy that.”

Outcast watched the other vehicle move closer. Player grinned at him from the passenger seat, itching for a fight Outcast hoped they could avoid. “It’s show time,” he said. Crash’s gaze met Outcast’s in the rearview mirror, and he nodded.

“Focus,” Outcast told them, watching the Hummer rumble to a stop on the other side of the road. He counted four heads but there was plenty of room in that behemoth of a vehicle for more to be hiding. A bad vibe twisted in his gut. Just now he was really fucking grateful for Razor’s command that they take backup.

It was ten minutes until five, and Outcast knew the sun was sinking toward the horizon, though the thick storm clouds kept it hidden. He slowly opened the door and stepped out of the Jeep, the wind biting against his skin. Crash climbed out at the same time, moving with his usual measured calm. Player, on the other hand, damn near rocked the whole vehicle as he jumped out of the passenger side, his boots hitting the ground hard. Moving too fast for Outcast’s liking, Player strode around to stand just behind him, his massive frame coiled tight, ready for a fight before one had even started.

The smell of rain and the acrid tang of cigarette smoke from the four men who exited the Hummer hung in the cold evening air. Outcast stood just in front of his friends; his weight shifted casually and every muscle he had tensed. This was far from Outcast’s first deal, but something about this particular group set his nerves on edge.

Four men stood across from them, their faces partially obscured by the fading light and shifting shadows of the storm. Their leather cuts were crisp, their jeans too clean, and not one of them carried the rough, road-worn edge Outcast expected from outlaw bikers. Something about them felt off — like they were playing a role rather than living the life. And considering none of the Hounds had ever heard of Red Scourge MC before now, that didn’t sit right with him. Whoever the fuck they were, he didn’t like the vibes they were giving off.

“Appreciate you boys coming all this way,” the taller of the four drawled, lighting up a cigarette. Outcast recognized Hawk’s voice from speaking with him on the phone. “Been hearing good things about the Hounds’ hardware. Guess you need something to do out here in the middle of Bumfuck, Virginia.”

Outcast nodded, holding Hawk’s gaze as the other man sized him up. “Guess so.”

Hawk took another step closer, studying Outcast. A challenge. After a minute, the man nodded. “Well, they were right about you. Outcast, right? You got some cold, motherfuckin’ eyes.”

Outcast never took on personal comments, just waited, staring the man down. Hawk, they were told, was a VP in his club. He had none of Snow or Razor’s authoritative presence and his insecurities were as obvious as a Halloween mask. Hawk squared his shoulders, but the slight twitch in his fingers and the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot told a different story. The man wasn’t as fearless as he wanted everyone to believe.

Player smirked at Outcast’s side, his posture radiating confidence. Towering over most, his broad frame made him an imposing presence — only Beast outweighed him in the club. His voice was smooth, almost lazy, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable. “Money’s what matters,” Player said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “If you’ve got that, we’ve got your hardware.”

Hawk nodded to the younger man standing to his left who pulled a thick envelope from his jacket and handed it to him. Holding it up for the Hounds to see, he said, “Here’s our end of the deal. Now, we’d like to see what we’re paying for.”

Without taking his eyes off the Red Scourge soldiers, Outcast said, “Crash.”

It was the cue for Crash to climb into the back of the Jeep and haul out one of the two heavy plastic totes, each packed with rifles. He lowered it to the ground, unlocking the padlock that secured the lid to the body of the bin. Crash pulled out a sleek, fully-automatic rifle. Its dark wood grip and black metal barrel looked ominous in the dim light. Malachai, the newest patched member of the Hounds, was goddamned good at what he did, illegally modifying weapons himself to make them more lethal. His skill with high-powered firearms was one of the reasons the prospect had earned his cut.

Crash moved with deliberate ease, stepping toward Hawk and extending an unloaded rifle. At the same time, Hawk handed over the thick, bulging envelope — supposedly filled with cash. The exchange happened smoothly. Too smoothly. Outcast kept his eyes locked on the Red Scourge leader.

Hawk gripped the rifle, turning it over in his hands like he knew what he was looking for. Crash, on the other hand, tore open the envelope and thumbed through the stack of bills inside. Outcast caught the barely perceptible glance his brother-in-arms shot him.

I fucking knew it.