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“That’s ’cuz we thought you killed one of ours—our damn former prez no less. A man that was like family to us in the past.”
“Do you think that excuses some of your actions?” I ask, tilting my head.
“We were playing off you,” Dirty says. We had no way of knowing what the fuck was really happening, Cutty.”
“Pretty sure I already told you my name’s not fucking Cutty.”
“Mace,” he corrects quickly. “But none of that was on us. We lost one of our own ’cuz of the Reapers. They took Singer. They caused us a world of hurt warring with you. Ain’t we all suffered enough?”
Dirty Harry’s got a point.
Both the Kings and the Hellrazors have been through it these past couple of months. We’ve battled and lost casualties. We’ve gone through betrayals that’ll last us a lifetime. What purpose would there be to continue the animosity if the true rat’s been taken out?
Every prez handles his club differently. Some rule with iron fists. Nothing’s too grimy and twisted for them so long as their MC comes out ahead in the end. No alliances and no limits. No rules and damn sure no mercy. Anything goes at any time.
It’s how the Road Reapers were conducting themselves. It’s how things got fucked up years ago when a lot of this shit began.
Sydney’s birth parents. My mother. The casualties that were lost were innocents, more or less. Our mothers and Sydney’s dad, who was trying to walk away from the Reapers.
…again with Pop. The Reapers had taken him out simply to start shit between the Hellrazors and us, knowing we’d blame each other.
I could keep it going. Decimate the rest of the Hellrazors as another warning to any other MCs in the area that we won’t tolerate no shit from anybody. Guilty, or otherwise.
But then I think about the days before all the bad things went down. The days when MCs were able to coexist out of mutual respect. Before Tom was president and brought down the motherfucking hammer on everybody.
There’s gotta be a way forward that doesn’t include the extinction of everybody else, driving the other towns nearby into poverty, like what happened with the Reapers and Portales.
I maintain eye contact with Dirty as I reach into the desk drawer and pull out some Jameson and a couple of shot glasses. His brows rise and his pudgy cheeks flatten in shock.
“What’s your poison?”
“What’s not my poison?” He cracks out a laugh. “Jameson always hits the spot just fine.”
“Pour it.”
We sit down and have a drink. The others in the office spread out into the rest of the saloon and have drinks at the counter. My men and what little’s left of his.
The occasion turns into another sort of celebration. This time between our club and theirs, establishing a mutual understanding.
It’s what happens in the office between Dirty and me—we drink and talk territory and our operations going forward. I still hold him accountable, placing a strict limit on their territory that’s smaller than before, and making him hand over a portion of their artillery.
He agrees, if only out of relief he’s still alive.
“You’re a good one, Mace,” he says at the end, standing up. He holds out his hand for a shake. “A fair prez. Tough but still fair. Tom could learn a thing or two from you.”
He walks out on that note, leaving me with thoughts on what he’s said.
Tom.
It’s been a week and a half since shit went down with Velma and the Reapers and we’ve only talked once. Briefly, over the phone when I’d told him about her betrayal.
I pick up my phone and dial the penitentiary. It happens to be a day he’s allowed calls, which seems like another sign what I’m doing is right.
When I am eventually able to get him on the line, he sounds surprised I’m calling him. I recap the meeting with the Hellrazors and the new understanding we’ve come to going forward.
He’s silent for a while, making me think he’ll have a problem with it—he’s gonna start up about how he would’ve handled it, how Logan would’ve…
“You did right,” he says after a moment. “You made the decision that’ll be best for the club in the long run. That could damn near take us back to how things were before. I’m proud of you, Mace.”
