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Prologue
The wind howlsin my ears as I push my motorcycle harder, faster along the rain-slicked road leading to Packwood. It’s the kind of night that makes a man feel alive.
A distress call from my younger brother, a hurried, barely understandable message pulled me from the Cascade Reapers’ clubhouse and sent me on this mad dash. The rain stings like icy needles against my skin, soaking through my leather cut, but it’s nothing compared to the cold dread coiling in my stomach.
My grip tightens on the handlebars as the bright headlight of my Harley cuts through the inky darkness, the only beacon in this godforsaken weather. There’s something seriously fucking wrong. Tommy wouldn’t have called me unless shit had hit the fan.
The distant lights of Packwood come into view, a stark contrast to the wilderness I’ve just traversed. It’s a place I thought was far enough removed from the rough life of the MC. But now, it seems, the chaos has found its way to him.
I grit my teeth, the bitter taste of fear mingling with the rainwater trickling past my lips. He’s the only family I care about. No rival MC bastard or any other lowlife is going to take him away from me.
The roar of the Harley’s engine is a dull hum in my ears, a familiar vibration that’s always been a comforting constant. It’s never failed to take me back to simpler times, back when life was just about the open road, the freedom of the ride, and the brotherhood of the club. The ride tonight, however, is anything but comforting.
The lights of Packwood grow brighter as I ride into the small town, my heart pounding so hard I swear I can hear it over my bike’s engine. I’m heading to the house I grew up in—the place he said he was on his way back to.
The sight that greets me is a blow straight to the gut. There, in the dimly lit expanse of my childhood home’s overgrown lawn, lies my brother’s crumpled form. His bike, a twisted wreck of metal, is thrown aside as if it’s nothing but a toy. I kill my engine as the grim reality washes over me.
He’s still. Too still.
My boots crunch on the gravel as I stumble toward him, the world tilting on its axis. The rain is a cold lash against my skin, but it’s the icy dread seizing my heart that has me shivering. I drop to my knees next to him, my hand shaking as I check for a pulse, praying to a god I’ve never believed in.
Nothing.
The world blurs as I cradle his lifeless body, the rain mixing with the hot tears streaking down my face. My little brother, gone. Just like that.
I’m no stranger to death—in our world, it’s an inevitable part of the ride. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for this. I feel the grief clawing at my insides, a raw, visceral pain that threatens to consume me. My brother... my brother is gone. Taken from me.
Through the blinding pain, I see a shell casing and snatch it up. It’s from a .41 Magnum cartridge—and I know exactly whose gun it came from. A Smith & Wesson Model 57—the signature sidearm of the Iron Serpents, longtime rivals of the Cascade Reapers.
Rage, hotter and fiercer than anything I’ve ever felt, blazes through me. It’s a wildfire, consuming the grief and leaving a singular, deadly focus in its wake.
They’ll pay for this.
The dive bar is a grimy, low-lit hellhole, the perfect haunt for the scum that make up the Iron Serpents. I kick the door open, my gaze sweeping over the surprised faces. I spot the colors I’m looking for in a darkened corner, the cowards hidden away. Not for long.
“What the fuck?” one of them spits out as I stride toward them. He’s young, cocky, with the arrogance of the Iron Serpents draped around his shoulders like a second skin.
“You motherfuckers killed my brother,” I growl, my voice a deadly whisper. Before he can respond, I slam him against the wall, my fists connecting with flesh and bone in a satisfying crunch. Chaos erupts around us as his buddies scramble to their feet, but I’m seeing red, every punch, every hit fueled by the image of my brother’s lifeless body.
The fight is brutal, and I take as good as I give. But pain is an old friend, a reminder that I’m alive, that I’m here—and they’re going to wish they were dead.
Eventually, the bar is silent once more, apart from the ragged breaths of the beaten Iron Serpents. But as I look at the men at my feet, the rage within me simmers, unsated. The fight cleared some of the fog in my head, and I realize that these kids wouldn’t have been the ones to do the killing. No, the Serpents would have sent someone higher up—going after the Reapers’ VP would have been a job for someone guaranteed to get it done.
These men, they weren’t the ones. They’re foot soldiers. Grunts. They must be in Packwood for backup, and now that the job is done, they’re relaxing. Well, until I showed up. The ones truly responsible are still out there.
I leave the bar, the taste of revenge bitter on my tongue. I swear on my brother’s grave, I’ll make them pay.
As I ride away into the rain-soaked night, one thought echoes in my mind—this isn’t over. It’s just the beginning.
CHAPTER1
Slash
The humof life at the Cascade Reapers’ clubhouse is as familiar as the pulse in my veins. Three months after my brother’s death, the club is the only thing that feels real, feels right. The echo of laughter, the clink of beer bottles, the thrum of rock music vibrating the walls—it’s a symphony of controlled chaos that I’ve come to rely on.
As I walk through the club, the energy is tangible—a raw, living thing. This isn’t just a place; it’s home, a haven for misfits and rebels. The men around me aren’t just friends; they’re my brothers, my family. And as vice-president, it’s my responsibility to look after them. It’s a role I don’t take lightly.
“Slash,” a voice calls out, pulling me from my thoughts. It’s Stray, one of our newer recruits. He raises his beer in greeting, and I nod back, a small gesture of acknowledgement that brings a grin to his face. Respect is earned in the club, not given, and Stray’s been working hard to prove himself. He’s a good kid.
