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“They keeping straight, too?”
Again, Show nodded. “The Horde are out of the business.”
With a slow, wise nod and a bitter chuckle, Renato said, “You and us, we took the brunt, didn’t we?”
Eight thought of Becker, Terry and DC, and Gil and Wally, all lost to Perro madness over the years, and took offense at Renato cutting the Bulls out of his equation. But he kept his mouth shut. Sensing both Mav and Dex ready to have their say about it, he gave them each a look and shut them down. Let Renato have his little act. He just wanted to eat his fucking roast beef sandwich and get back on the road.
Ever the diplomat, Show threaded the needle with his answer. “It was a tough time, yeah.”
“Well, okay. Enjoy your meal, then get on the road.” He turned back to Eight. “You’re comin’ back through next week?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Pack a lunch,” Renato said and walked off toward a table at the other side of the restaurant.
Fuck him. He could pay for his own damn lunch.
~oOo~
They rode into Madrone, California in the late afternoon on Friday.
California was a weird state. It had just about every possible kind of climate and geography—hot, cold, dry, humid, mountains, desert, ocean, lakes, rivers, palm trees, redwoods, weird-ass Joshua trees, you name it—but it was so fucking big you’d never see most of that shit.
Southern Cali was the worst. People heard that name and thought palm trees and beaches and beauty, but that was just the tiny strip of the coastline. Riding in from Tulsa, starting on I-40 and ending up on I-10, all they saw was desert from just about the time they left Oklahoma straight through.
Some of Eight’s brothers thought the desert view was pretty. Fitz never failed to point out the mesas dotting the otherwise ironed-out landscape. But a mesa was just a dark, flat blob as far as Eight was concerned. He liked woods and lush fields and a sky the sun hadn’t washed out to nearly white.
The new SoCal charter of the Night Horde was mainly made up of former members of the LA charter of another MC, but they’d broken from them in the midst of the Perros mess. To start this new charter, they’d moved inland something like sixty miles, to San Bernardino County and the sleepy little town of Madrone. Right in the middle of the desert. There wasn’t even the payoff of ocean, beaches, and bikinis at the end of their three-day ride.
Mountain ranges almost surrounded the valley, but they seemed faint and far off. Not enough to improve the view from Inland Empire blandness. Strip malls and stucco subdivisions as far as the eye could see.
The new clubhouse didn’t seem impressive at first sight, either, though it was huge—the compound of clubhouse, bike showroom, and parking took up a full block in what passed for downtown Madrone. But it was just a flat, square building.
A young guy in a prospect kutte was swinging open the gate of the eight-foot chain link around the clubhouse entrance. Showdown rode through first, with Eight right behind him. The front row had been cleared out for guests; they parked right near the door.
After he cut the engine, Eight sat in the saddle for a minute, trying to flex the muscles in his bum leg before he used it. The day before, Badger had seen him limping toward the motel and asked if he was okay. He wasn’t, three days of hard riding had his leg in fiery knots, but he’d growled at the kid that he was fucking fine. Now, he tried to get the blood flowing before he stood.
Hoosier Elliott was out of the clubhouse and greeting Show with a hard hug as Eight swung off the saddle. Connor, Hoosier’s son and the SoCal SAA, grinned and came for Eight.
“Hey, brother!” the kid crowed as he slapped Eight’s back.
“Good to see ya, Conman.”
Connor’s kutte was cool and stiff and smelled like leather right off the rack. Eight’s own kutte was more than thirty years old and soft as velvet. It smelled of … he didn’t know. Blood and sweat, road grit and exhaust, beer and whiskey, and a vat’s worth of leather polish. Just exactly right.
“Good ride?” Connor asked as he stepped back.
“Yeah. Great weather straight through.”
“Hey, Eight.” Bart Elstad said as he stepped up beside Connor. They hadn’t seen each other since the day they’d killed Santaveria and ended the Perros. The day Becker died.
Bart offered his hand, and Eight took it, then pulled him into an embrace. “You good, Bart?”
“I am. You?”
“Hangin’ in, yeah.”
Now Hoosier was coming over. He was older than Eight and had been in the MC game longer than anybody, though he’d taken a twisty road through several clubs.
