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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
*Kaldon “Kal/Prez” - President*
Lace is always spouting that prophetic stuff about manifesting — visualizing what you want so you can get it. I never believed her.
Until late Friday night when our employer called me. Not Baylor to organize. Not Chaz to discuss the financials. Not Kio to align the rules. Me.
Ever since I left the Rolling Stones and founded my own club, I would lie awake at night visualizing an opportunity — any opportunity. Without prejudice. Lace once told me you have to be specific. But that was the thing: I couldn’t care less how. Just give me the opportunity, and I’ll take care of the rest.
As soon as I got the call, I knew Lace’s damn Universe had somehow pulled through. The stars aligned or some shit. No way could it have happened otherwise.
Guys like us never simply reap the benefits of happenstance, though. We have to create our own luck, and to do that, I had to start by accepting the proposal.
I told Coty and the rest of our executive officers what I knew about the early assignment but nothing about my own agenda. Not because I’m in the habit of keeping big secrets from my men, but because I’m still working on the details and the pitch.
Speaking of pitch… When I branched out but decided to continue working in this area despite territory rules, rumor of a kid with a vendetta was floating around — a young mastermind, early twenties at the time. Ironically, that rumor was passed on by Coty.
We met once for the first job. His glasses and baggy shirts sure weren’t formidable. But the details of our assignment and how thoroughly he planned the timeline was something to be downright terrified of. Kid takes research to a whole new level. We shook hands, and I never saw his face while being served again.
Any job from him is a test of trust — almost like standing in front of a partner and free-falling with the promise of being caught. You close your eyes, tip backward, and feel the dip of your body lift inches from hitting the cold, hard ground.
If you fail to give that trust — if your knees buckle, you stumble backward, or you so much as shake from fear — you risk being dropped or not caught at all. Or worse, both of you go down at the same time.
Vincent, Baylor, Chaz, Brodi, Coty, and I sat quietly on the old concrete floor of the devil dome, backs against the curved wall, waiting for our triggermen to return.
When Kio drags Zane into the dome, Zane is worse for the wear — as has been almost every initiate after their first assignment. With the exception of Kio, of course.
Now, we’re all a damn bloodthirsty pack. That first job does something to you, steals a piece of your soul. The next one transforms you. Every one after becomes an addiction, a lust. The resulting money and reputation only feeds that craving.
The first few assignments we all did together as a club until too many bodies in one place became too much of a risk. After those assignments, I set a motto based on the state where our new club set its roots: Wisdom, Justice, Moderation.
Get justice on those deserving, but be smart about it. In the process, don’t let it consume you as a human being — do it in moderation. This arrangement with our employer works well. We take on a few assignments here in the Panhandle, but as soon as we cross the border back into Georgia, the part-time jobs cease until the next Bike Week.
“This job need a morning-after pill?” Kio asks the shadows, wrangling a very distraught initiate.
Brodi launches to his feet to help relieve Kio from having to coddle Zane while talking with our employer. Since Coty favors the kid and has taken him under his wing, he provides Brodi backup.
“Nope. Nobody wants him here. Not only was he a piece of trash but he was also meddling in the street scene. Really throwing a wrench in the community morale.” And by community morale he usually means the shaky divide between the bikers and the street racers. If this guy was somehow playing both sides, no wonder he became a top priority assignment. Kio was on to something earlier, though; this was also personal.
“That explain why a Stoner was there?” Kio asks, getting the attention of everyone in the dome. Zane mumbles under his breath, and I dart a glance over my shoulder. He starts pacing and aggressively removing his riding gear one item at a time beginning with a glove, mutterings getting louder by the second.
“Coyote, get him the hell out of here,” I instruct. “Go anywhere, just not to the saloon. Not yet. K.O. you stay. Everyone else can go with Coyote. Vee, make sure he stays on course.”
Vincent’s bright eyes flash venomously at me, tattooed hand curling into a tight fist at his side. We both know damn well Coty will go to the saloon regardless, but at least he heard the command and Vee can keep a close eye on the situation. Coty has always been good with a spade; he just needs someone to make sure the dirt stays in the right yard. I level Vee with an insistent glare, and he rolls his eyes before stalking away.
Brodi coaxes Zane out of the building, and Kio and I return our focus to the shadows. As soon as everyone is out, our employer answers the question: “Every day, same time. Convenient how that officer had something to show him outside when the prospect would usually still be visiting your mark. Looks an awful lot like the Rolling Stones executed the assignment rather than one of your guys.”
Dragging a hand down my face, I mask my fleeting admiration and feign frustration. He really does think of everything. But… “We agreed on nothing high profile, nothing meddling in Rolling Stones affairs, and nothing personal. Hell for Leather has no issues seeking employment elsewhere.” The lie sounds ridiculous coming out of my mouth.
The truth of the matter is, we need him more than he needs us. I may not have known this assignment was personal until about an hour ago, but all the better because maybe now that need is more mutual. For us, this relationship is so much more than just a paycheck. He also keeps an eye on things here for us. Important things. Our employer is well aware that paper, no matter the value, is not nearly enough payment for what we do. As an added security bonus, he also keeps an eye on the Rolling Stones, Tit for Tat, and Lace.
Seeing as we change lives, I can only hope he takes me seriously. What we do to people is a damn scary thing, after all.
“My apologies if I made you uncomfortable. I can assure you, this request went through the proper channels. Is this misunderstanding going to get messy? Do I need to bring in someone else to clean things up?” His tone is snide and almost cruel. The awkward kid I met years ago has come into his own and is clearly not to be fucked with.
Kio sniffs indignantly. “We just disposed of a man in the belly of a police department. Clean. We don’t make messes.” By the time the last word falls from his lips, a throwing dagger is in his hand and aimed at a point in the shadows where I suspect our employer is standing. “Care to roll the dice? I’d bet all the cash from this assignment that the tip of my knife will be embedded in your temple before your bullet is embedded in mine.”
The safety of a gun clicks, and a ring of metal glints in the shadows, unsteady, vibrating. He might be growing into his role, but he clearly is still not cut out for the maiming part. Which is why we do the dirty work.
Kio’s knife sails through the air and lands in the wall with a thunk.
Our employer takes one step out of the shadows, and a large duffle bag sails through the air. Kio catches it with his fast reflexes. After a short pause, the dagger lands with a clatter at his feet. “Next time, shoot faster” — Kio swipes up the sharp weapon and sheathes it — “because I won’t miss again.” He tosses the bag over his shoulder, straps gripped tight.
“See you next rally,” I offer in valediction as the two of us walk out.
