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“Copy that.”
I climb onto my bike and fire it up. As I give her a moment to get warm, I strap on my helmet, my gloves, and my glasses, then ride out, leaving all the shit behind me. I hit a long stretch of blacktop and almost immediately feel my nerves beginning to calm the more I get away from that place. The endless vista of black ribbon in front of me soothes me. This is my form of therapy. Before I can fully indulge in it though, I need to do something.
It’s not long before I take the turnoff and head into Phoenix proper. I want to see some things for myself and without Hammerhead there annoying me. When I had him take me through the territory and show me the streets, I realized he only showed me what he wanted me to see. He showed me the bright spots, such as they were, and things that cast him in a better light. But I know there’s more to the story, so I figure I’ll check it out for myself.
I’m almost immediately hit by how little of a presence the Howlers actually have in the city. All around me, I see Deviants on their bikes and pass a few bars that even at this hour, are open and have a line of bikes out front—all of them flying Deviant colors. Here and there I see where somebody has spray-painted a Howler logo on a brick wall. What that accomplishes, I don’t know. Tagging on the sides of buildings and brick walls seems more like kid stuff than what an MC should be doing.
I have to think it’s these prospects Hammerhead keeps talking about that are supposedly coming into the fold soon. And if that’s the case, I’m thinking he’s going to have a really young core of prospects. That’s not necessarily a bad thing if they’re mature enough to handle their role in the club. If not, it’s a recipe for disaster. The last thing the Howlers need is a bunch of kids riding with them who are only there for the clout and the image. They don’t need kids who want to prove they’re badasses living the outlaw life. They need solid recruits who can be counted on to do the right thing for their club.
I’ve seen enough. If this partnership is going to work, there is a hell of a lot more work that needs to be done than I’d originally thought. It makes me wonder if trying to salvage the Howlers at all would be worth it. As I ride out of the city proper and get back onto the highway, pointed toward the horizon with no destination in mind, I let my mind wander, trying to clear it of all the stresses and troubles behind me.
I’m less than ten miles from the city when I catch the glint of chrome behind me. I check my mirrors and groan.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter.
Ratchet pulls up on one side of me, one of his men on the other. I look over and Ratchet’s staring back at me with a wide smile on his face. He gives me the head nod.
“Fancy meeting you here, Hawk,” he shouts over the roar of our engines.
Great. Just fucking great.
“Of all the gin joints in all the world,” I shout back.
He points to a strip mall coming up on our side of the highway, indicating he wants to pull in and have a little chat. It’s the last thing I want to do, but considering I’m effectively on his turf, there’s not much I can do about it. I give him a thumbs up then goose the throttle. We pull into the strip mall and park our bikes. I dismount and peel off my helmet, then drop my gloves and glasses into it. I look around and count the civilians in the area. Not too many, but this still isn’t the place I want to have a shootout.
I roll my shoulders and feel the comforting weight of the Sig Sauer in the holster at the small of my back. It’ll be tough to get to it as fast as I might need to. I’m not exactly set up for a quick draw, but I can yank my Louisville Slugger from its sheath pretty fast. That might be enough to buy me some time.
“Relax, chief,” he says as if reading my mind. “We’re not here for that. I’m not even armed, man. See?”
I look and see that he doesn’t have a gun on his hip. He lifts his cut to show me that he doesn’t have one at his back either. Pretty gutsy to go out unarmed. But then, I look over at his VP, Deke, and see that he’s got a distinctive bump on his hip beneath his cut—on both sides. I turn my eyes back to Ratchet.
“Not here for that, huh?”
“Nah. Not today. But never hurts to be prepared, right?” he asks with a grin, then turns to his man. “Deke, go get us a couple of those frozen mocha things.”
“I’m good,” I tell him.
He waves me off. “Conversations always go better with a wet whistle.”
I laugh. “I usually like a little scotch for that.”
“Hey, we’re law-abiding citizens. There’s no drinking and driving allowed around here,” he replies with a grin.
“Right,” I say.
Deke heads off, leaving me alone with Ratchet. We’re leaning against our bikes out in the parking lot and a moment of silence stretches out between us. I look over at him and see him smiling at me. He already knows why I’m in town and he finds it amusing.
“So, what’s this about, man?” I finally ask.
He runs a hand through his long dark hair and shakes it out like he’s in a damn shampoo commercial. Ratchet’s a tall, lean guy with a square jaw, that perfect amount of stylish stubble on his chin, green eyes, broad shoulders, and high cheek bones. He’s not overly muscular but he’s fit. Strong. He’s a man who looks like he takes good care of himself—a holdover from his days in the Marine Corps, no doubt.
It’s almost hard to believe that someone who looks more like a male model could be involved in such abject cruelty, but it goes to show you can’t always judge a book by its cover. He knows the Kings aren’t huge fans of what he does, but the situation down here is too delicate for either side to risk openly moving against each other.
“Nice VP patch you got there,” he starts. “Old Grim finally hang it up? Did he make Reaper Prez?”
“Somethin’ like that.” I don’t want to tell him anything more than he needs to know. This trash doesn’t deserve it.
“I take it you’re in town to see how far the Howlers have fallen, huh?” he finally asks.
