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I walk in through the open garage door thathouses the mechanic’s shop. One of our prospects, Charlie, is laying on a creeper underneath one of the vans. Trying to figure out what could be wrong with it. I don’t think anything is wrong with it, actually. Prospects just get hazed the shit out of before they become patched in as a member. Poor little shit will be working all night to try and figure out what’s going on.
He wheels out from underneath the car and gives me a defeated nod. “Sup, Aziel?”
I nod my head towards the door. “Headed to church. You find anything wrong with the van yet?”
He shakes his head as he rolls back under the hood. “Not yet. Got a few ideas, but still haven’t found anything.”
I grimace. I’ll share a joint with the guy in the morning when he finds out nothing’s wrong with it. “Have fun.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Charlie sighs from underneath the car, and I walk through the banged up wooden door. In front of me sits a hallway that leads right to the room where we hold church. The door is open as I walk up to it, and everyone is already inside, sitting in their prospective spots, waiting for me.
“There he fucking is. Want us to wait so you can go squeeze one out or somethin’? For fuck sake.” Pascal shakes his head in irritation. I flick him off as I walk around the table and take a seat next to my pops, who sits at the head of the table.
West slides the ashtray over to me as I light another cigarette. Silence fills the room as I look at the boys. My brothers.
My dad, Lynx, is a tall, broad man with dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. A thick beard covers his frown lines that have started to show these last few years. He’s a man that’s rough around the edges. Too many years of keeping this place together. Tattoos litter his body, like most of us. We’ve got a member, Jex, who’s a tattoo artist. He has a little room here at the club for us. It’s why most of us are inked to hell.
Pops is only forty-five, and he doesn’t look a day older, but I see his exhaustion lingering underneath the surface. Mostly with this Santiago shit, it’s taking a toll on him. On all of us. But because he’s the President, he takes it in stride. Underneath all his exhaustion sits pride for this club and everyone around him. He’s a good man.
Next to Pop’s sits Pascal. He’s Road Captain. Only a few years younger than my dad, they grew up together and are tight as shit. Where my dad has a niceness about him, Pascal doesn’t. He’s a rough motherfucker and mean as hell most of the time. Club is number one, but sometimes Pascal forgets that, spending days out on his bike and not giving a shit about anyone around him. He works right underneath my dad, and he’s one of the guys I trust the most, but the fucker doesn’t care about much else besides the club, his bike, and getting into a wet Jessie.
Beside Pascal sits West. West is the Sergeant of Arms. He’s the youngest of our seven, only twenty-three to my twenty-five. His youth shows when we have parties, floating through multiple women a night. Not that I blame the guy, I used to be that way at that age. His blonde, surfer hair and blue eyes make the girls flock to him like he’s the last man on earth. He’s one of my boys, and even though he likes to party, he also knows when to shove that shit aside and do his job. He makes sure the rules are enforced and has ripped the patches off a few members in the past for not following the rules. He might seem like he doesn’t have a bad bone in his body, but I’ve seen his other side. All I know is, I wouldn’t want to be on the other side of his barrel. He’s greedy as hell, but he puts the club first, and that’s why he’s my closest brother in the club.
Cassius sits next to West at the other end of the table. He’s the Enforcer, making sure shit is done how it’s supposed to, and following along with Pascal on a lot of his runs. He likes to fight, always choosing to be first in line when we go to battle. His pops died the other year, and since then, he’s been drowning himself in booze and women. The only thing that forces him of his spiral lately is to go on runs, so we make sure he’s with Pascal most of the time. He’s a tall man, covered in tattoos from the base of his neck to the knuckles on his fingers.
Niles sits beside him. He’s a member, about as new as West is. He spent a lot of time as a prospect and proved his worth. Took him a while, the guy is slow as fuck. We don’t know if he’s got something wrong with him or what, but when he came to us all the way from the east coast at the age of eighteen with only the clothes on his back, we knew we had to give him a chance.
Finally, next to me sits Jex. Jex is an interesting character. He’s the Treasurer of the club. Our fucking accountant, basically. Dude used to be out on the road with us, doin’ deals and shootin’ people like it was his calling. But about eight years ago, something happened on one of his runs. He doesn’t talk about it, but the mean scar that cuts through his face and ends near his mouth tells me that it was something serious. His eyes and demeanor have darkened since that night. He doesn’t even ride anymore. But sometimes I swear I hear his bike roar to life in the middle of the night.
And that’s it.
We’re the Seven.
The Seven Sins motorcycle club.
My dad bangs his mallet on the end of the table. “Let’s get this shit over with. I didn’t want to call church this late, but this Tijuana shit is coming fast and we need to be ready.”
“What have you learned?” I tap the tip of my cigarette against the ashtray and watch as the ash falls apart into a pile of dust.
“This is a bigger location than we realized. I thought it would have been like the others so far, just a couple small bunkers to infiltrate. It’s not. This is one of Santiago’s home bases. There’s a lot of people there. A lot of girls. They don’t know we’re coming, and we need to get in now.”
“Sounds like it’s a bigger task than what we’ve been dealing with. Should I call in the Oregon Charter? Or Rich?” I take one last drag and stub the cigarette out in the ashtray aggressively. The tension in the room went from joking to tense. This shit with Santiago has been going on for too long. Years now. It’s time to take down this fucker once and for all.
Rich is one of my dad’s greatest friends from Minnesota. They don’t ride bikes like us, but they have a pretty sizable group up there pushing the guns and drugs. We have their back, always, and they’ll always have ours.
My dad shakes his head as he runs his fingers through his dark beard. He contemplates our next move, staring off while we all sit and wait for his next command. Then he blinks, turning his eyes towards me and says, “We’re not calling in anybody. They have no idea we know about this place. If we move fast, we might get in there without anyone knowing. We’ll catch them totally blind and if we’re lucky, he’ll be there, and we can take him down too.”
I glance around the table and watch as everyone nods in agreement. It’s a solid plan, but the possibility of us being found out before we get across his gate is a serious gamble. Not one I’m sure is one we should take. Mostly given the fact he said it’s one of the main compounds. It could mean a lot of his men are there. And he doesn’t want to call anyone else in? Of course, he doesn’t, the man is a stubborn fucking mule.
“So, let’s vote. All in favor of heading to Tijuana and taking this son of a bitch down once and for all?” Pops asks.
“Aye.” Pascal growls.
“Yeah.” West says.
“Aye.” Cassius lifts his beer up in a cheers cheer.
“Fuck yes.” Niles nods.
