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“With the intent to let them drop,” I murmur. It’s the same shit Masters did when he ran the Savages.
How that motherfucker inspires enough loyalty to grow his fucked-up club is beyond me. Those poor bastards don’t understand that wearing the Savage patch means they’re fodder for Masters’s twisted agenda. If I had to guess, I’d say he entices them with shit that he never has to follow-through on because they’re already dead before they can collect.
Duffy frowns, running his hand through his messy hair. “Seems like it.”
“And Gunner?” Gunner took a bullet to the shoulder in a valiant attempt to close the compound gate. But one man is no match for dozens of bikes.
“He’s fine,” Duffy says with a shrug. “Discharged later today and ready for revenge, I think.”
“Good. Make sure someone stays with him until they get to the compound. If we can’t find these motherfuckers, that leads me to believe they’re lying in wait.”
“On it, VP.” Duffy dips his head and pushes off the wall, leaving me to wallow in my misery alone.
It's fucking wild to me that they left the clubhouse virtually untouched. The garages took minimal damage too. Nah, they inflicted the most amount of damage on our homes. Mine and Silas's. What kind of fucking monster goes after a man's home? And I don't mean a fucking house, though I do think that adds insult to fucking injury.
I mean a man's home.
His mom, his son, his woman.
My fucking woman.
I slip my right hand into my pocket, rubbing the syringe cap between my thumb and index finger. The small piece of plastic walks the fine line of grounding me and stoking my rage. I probably shouldn't have kept it, but I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. It felt too much like defeat.
So instead I find myself rubbing the plastic like it’s some faux rabbit’s foot keychain or something equally superstitious.
I grew up on stories of the Reapers. Tales of hostile takeovers were my bedtime stories, legends of turf wars were my nursery rhymes, and the code was our commandment. Guidelines that were ours alone and just two cardinal rules. Universal agreements made between friends and enemies alike.
Back when my old man was a kid and his dad ruled the Reapers, they endured the worst bout of violence this area had ever seen. It wasn’t just in the Diamond either. It was every club, gang, and crime syndicate in a three-hundred-mile radius. The way Dad tells it, Grandpa changed when a few of the gangs started stealing the kids of their enemies. Some of those kids made it home, but not all. He claimed Grandpa made alliances with the Diamond, agreeing that they didn’t have to agree to shit except one thing. A cardinal rule.
No women and children. Ever.
Grandpa rolled it into Reapers code, second only to brotherhood above all else.
And Uncle Ray and Dad stuck to that order of operation their whole goddamn lives. But not me. If I’m ever fortunate enough to have a child, then you can fucking count on Reapers taking a back-burner. Because there is nothing—absolutely nothing—I wouldn’t do to get to my kid.
Or my woman.
Which is why sitting at the bar inside the clubhouse, nursing two fingers of whiskey feels exceptionally painful. It’s not the stillness or even the day drinking that fucks me up. It’s the inaction.
The indecision that plagues me. The cloying fingers of fear shoved down my throat, a persistent gag.
For the first time in my life, I don't have the answers. I don't have contingency plans and variables laid out.
I don't know what to do.
And the very act of silence after such a brutal incitement of war is maybe the most unsettling aspect. They didn’t stick around to watch their havoc. They didn’t parade around town and gloat. They vanished.
They slunk back into the shadowed corners of the world, content to do whatever the fuck soulless men without honor do. Until something or someone forces them out.
My blood starts to boil inside my veins, a hot river of ire trapped underneath my skin. I sigh and spin my glass around on the bartop. Maybe if I stare at the worn and knotted surface hard enough, I’ll connect the dots and a brilliant idea will magically come to me.
Yelling from outside the clubhouse pierces my thoughts. My nerves are fried enough that even the slightest raise in volume pulls my attention. I slam my glass down and storm outside, ready to unleash my wrath on whatever asshole decided to try me today.
Bright sunlight sears my eyes as I step out into the daylight, letting the clubhouse door slam closed behind me. The air is thick with tension and the scent of ozone, and I half wonder if we’re going to get another storm today soon. I have to shield my eyes with my palm, squinting as I stroll closer to the small crowd gathered in the courtyard.
“I swear to god, Jagger, if you don’t get out of my way, I’m going to?—”
“What, baby?” Jagger goads. His back is to me, blocking whoever he’s arguing with. “What are you going to do, hm?”
