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Thirteen Soulless riders pulled into the Golden Skulls compound in the dead of night. Hidden behind black leather and full-face helmets, not one identifying mark was visible.
We were the darkness.
Our anonymity protected us.
We were the Soulless Sinners. The darkness that loomed in the night. The nightmare that haunted dreams. We were the keepers of the souls. No one wanted us to show up because when we did, we collected souls.
The compound was a ghost town.
No one manned the gates, leaving the place open for attack. Slowing my bike, I pulled to a stop a few feet from the clubhouse. My body wound tight, hummed, ready for anything.
“Storm. Vicious.”
My brothers said nothing as they parked their bikes, slowly getting off. Walking up to the clubhouse, Vicious opened the front door and walked in with Storm behind him. Their guns at the ready. In the darkness, they looked like shadows moving in the night, but I saw them clearly.
We all did.
Something was off about the place.
There should be Golden Skulls roaming, protecting their clubhouse.
Instead, there was no one.
“Place is empty, Prez,” I heard Storm from the mic in my helmet.
“They could be in one of the homes,” Vicious countered.
“Where?” I asked.
“The houses are out back.”
“Go check it out.”
“I don’t like this, Prez,” Malice muttered. “Something is wrong.”
“Where is King?” Mercy asked.
Good questions, but I didn’t have an answer for them.
Lowering my kickstand, I got off my bike and looked around the place. It was nice. What I would expect for a place so high in the mountains of Tennessee. The newly built log-cabin clubhouse was a work of art. Whoever designed and built it was a master craftsman. The fence line and guard shack were top of the line. Cameras every few feet. Whoever installed the security system knew what they were doing.
The click of a weapon had me freezing on the spot.
“Put your hands in the air and take off your helmet,” someone growled deeply, hitting the back of my helmet with the barrel of a gun.
“No.”
Malice growled, and I slowly turned my head to see a man with a gun to my enforcer’s head. This would not end well for whoever got the jump on Malice. Brother was a hothead on a good day.
“Not going to tell you again,” the man behind me said, shoving the barrel of his gun against the back of my head again.
This guy was pissing me off.
“Bullseye! No!” Vicious shouted, running from the clubhouse waving his hands. “Stop! It’s us! It’s me, Vicious!”
“Fuck, man,” the man behind me sighed, lowering his gun, taking a few steps back. “Fuck, man. You could have called, asshole.”
While I was happy there was no longer a gun pointed at my head, seeing Malice try to contain his rage was concerning. “Do you mind telling your brother to lower his gun before my brother rips his arm from his socket?”
