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Slick knew who Drake meant. Those Drake called the true Rage were men he’d recruited to get the club free of the illegal crap. Those that shared the same values that the MC once owned, the ones Drake displayed daily. Rage sported over forty members; out of those, he had a definite fourteen, possibly sixteen, standing with him.
Drake hoped that Texas would wade in on their side. Texas had influence. They knew that Axel, the last founding member, was siding with Drake. Axel held more power than even Drake and Bulldog. Throwing legs over their bikes, they headed back to the clubhouse.
One by one, Rage rolled in.
Bulldog called for church, and everybody filed into the inner sanctum.
The air was wired, and everyone guessed something was about to happen. Bulldog began going through the brothers, collecting their illegal gains until it came to Lowrider and Mac.
“Didn’t collect,” Lowrider grunted.
Mac nodded in support.
Bulldog’s beady eyes glared at the two men, but neither of them looked bothered.
“What?” Bulldog snarled.
At Bulldog’s back, Hammer stilled and exchanged looks with Prof, who glanced at Drake.
“Nope,” Mac popped out.
“Why the fuck not?” Bulldog roared.
“Orders.” Mac grinned and settled in a chair.
Bulldog spluttered.
“Didn’t collect either,” Rock grunted, sat next to Ezra.
“Nor us,” Manny and Gunner agreed.
“We didn’t,” Lex said, placing himself steadily in Drake’s group.
Fish jerked his chin. “Don’t think I fuckin’ did.”
Ace at Lex’s side sent Bulldog a look that made some of the brother’s shudder.
Since Kayleigh had run away three years ago, Ace had become a different man. The brother’s laughter and joy had vanished, leaving him as cold and unyielding as metal. Ace had no qualms about sticking a knife in someone or pulling a gun.
Slick noted Bulldog checked where Ace’s hands were.
“Didn’t collect either,” Axel drawled, relaxed in his chair, and this time Archer took note.
“Who gave the fuckin’ orders?” Bulldog spat as he glared around the table. Dangerous vibes cut through the air.
“Who the fuck do you think?” Drake spoke up. “I’m calling a vote on pres.”
Slick readied himself. Now the shit would hit the fan. He checked those who were shocked and those who appeared resigned. None of Bulldog’s crew seemed ready or prepared for this.
“You fuckin’ call a vote on my position?” Bulldog roared, clumsily getting to his feet and shoving his chair.
Drake studied his nails and then looked at the fat, drugged-up man in front of him.
“I call a vote. This club is not what my da and first gen set out to create. Rage had different values when Da was alive. So, we’re taking my da’s MC back. Rage has legit businesses, so we ain’t gonna take a hit on cash. They bring in more money than the illegal shit. Yeah, asshole, I’m calling a vote,” Drake sneered.
Slick noted how, compared to Drake’s calmness, Bulldog was zoned on coke and furious. The difference between them couldn’t be clearer. He checked those who they weren’t sure of. Ghost and Prof looked thoughtful. Sticks, of course, was against them; the asshole was as whacked as Bulldog. Archer and Hammer gave nothing away. Thunder was clearly on Bulldog’s side.
“Who seconds the vote,” Bulldog sneered, and his hand rested on his gun at his hip. The message was clear.
