The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition

by Janine Infante Bosco

  I shove my phone back into my pocket, kick up the kickstand and throttle the engine before turning back to Rocco.

  “Make sure not a hair on your sister’s pretty little head is harmed while I’m gone, I ain’t got time for your riddles, pretty boy.”

  I don’t give him a chance to respond. Having the final word I take off against the wind. I jump on the highway and find myself going over the Verrazano Bridge and veer off that first right exit, taking me back to where I found peace in Gina’s eyes.

  I walk the boardwalk, breathe in the salty air and when the night’s sky settles in, I get back on my bike and head to the motel. It’s a piece of shit motel next to the highway that’s hired by the hour and filled with low-key prostitutes and druggies.

  After a shower and bag of chips, I climb into bed and turn the television up so I don’t hear the whore getting her brains banged out in the room next to mine. I stare up at the ceiling and think of Gina.

  Her laugh.

  Her smile.

  Her smartass remarks.

  All her questions.

  The beauty mark she has on her thigh.

  The way she looks when she’s about to come.

  Her eyes.

  Her beautiful fucking eyes.

  “Sweet dreams, pretty girl,” I whisper to no one.

  Then I close my eyes and welcome the nightmares.

  -Twenty-two-

  Stryker

  Staring at the reflection in my mirrors all I see are headlights behind me, a stark contrast against the black sky. In front of me I stare at the reaper sewn onto the back of Blackie’s leather jacket, turning my head to the right I see the same patch, only it’s sewn into the denim cut Pipe is wearing. Riding to the left of Blackie, also leading the rest of us is Riggs, but his patch is covered by the backpack he’s wearing, carrying enough ammo to wipe out Boston.

  Cobra, Deuce and I ride behind them, locked and loaded, ready to right every wrong these motherfuckers played on us.

  Bergen County rides wide and deep behind us and our pipes scream down the road as we enter the Corrupt Bastards' territory. I wait for the moment Wolf said will come, the moment I discover what it is he saw in us nomads, but it doesn’t come.

  Not the way he said it would.

  He predicted I’d be riding behind Blackie.

  But the lights from the Bastards compound come into view, our ride almost complete, and I’m still clueless why that crazy old man pleaded with me to join his ranks.

  Blackie lifts a finger in the air, swirling it around and declaring it show time.

  It’s time to fade these motherfuckers to black.

  Along with everyone else I flash my headlights and send the signal.

  I’m ready, brother.

  Steering my bike with one hand, I reach around me and pull the rifle slung over my shoulder. I turn to Cobra, see he’s in the same position as I am and wait for it.

  He nods.

  Together we accelerate our bikes until we take Blackie’s sides and then we shoot.

  We shoot at every living fucking thing that can take out the man leading us to the resurrection of our club and death of another.

  We pull up in front of the clubhouse and drop our kickstands. Cobra and I dismount from our bikes holding our guns steady as we continue to fire away. Blackie reaches into his saddle bag and pulls out a glass bottle, shoves a rag soaked in gasoline into it and lights the tip before throwing the bottle through the glass window.

  Satan has arrived.

  Burn bitches.

  Our lights illuminate the parking lot as our boots pound the tar and we run toward the chaos. Three Bastards emerge from the shattered glass, guns blazing. That’s when it becomes real. That’s when I realize what the men I now call my brothers have.

  Heart.

  That shit Jack’s always preaching about.

  It stares me in the face as Riggs runs in front of Blackie, skidding to a stop and sprays the three men looking to take our leader out with bullets.

  Bang!

  Bang!

  Bang!

  Riggs waves us all through and we shoot our way through the front door. Standing front and center is a woman dancing in the flames, screaming at the top of her lungs as she burns from the outside in. She morphs into the woman dressed in black garb before my eyes and I’m fascinated by the way the flames swallow her. Her screams resonate inside me and she fades from the murderous bitch in the sand to the memory of a girl I used to know, a lost soul that turned to the club for comfort and got burned. I contemplate putting her out of her misery but Deuce beats me to it, his bullet grazes my shoulder and pierces her.

  They creep out of the corners like cockroaches.

  Whores.

  Bastards.

  But they’re no match for our bullets. There’s no remorse, no regret as we take life after life, each of us doing it for different reasons.

  All of us doing it for the reaper they tried to extinct.

  Blackie twirls his finger again and lets us loose. Without a plan of action, we run wild, defend what we love and honor what we lost.

  Then I see him.

  I spot the teardrops, a tattoo once black as my jacket now faded to green but still represents lives taken at his hand. Charlie fires at Blackie and I lift my gun, but Blackie spins out from behind a wall and fearlessly walks into the line of fire.

  They go at it.

  Leader to leader.

  A Knight and a Bastard.

  Then I hear Pipe scream out and spin around, ready to fire. My eyes go wide as the man crosses his arms and pulls the trigger on both guns repeatedly.

  “Oksana!”

  I’ve seen war, lived it, but never did I see something so heartbreaking as a man screaming his wife’s name over and over as he kills the men who took her from him.

  It doesn’t stop there.

  They took more than just Pipe’s old lady.

  Riggs jumps on top of a chair and spins around in a circle killing six Bastards. He circles again, putting more bullets in their bodies, leaving them with as many holes as they left in our prospect.

  Cobra hollers and I turn around noticing he’s been hit. Holding his shoulder, he shoots back, tearing the ear off the man who put a bullet in his shoulder. I lift my gun, close one eye and pull the trigger. Earless and dickless the motherfucker will bleed out.

  It’s a matter of minutes before the shots die down and the gun powder threatens to blind us. Blackie is still going at it with Charlie and when I look over at the whore burning on the ground I spot Smoke. He walks over to her, ignores the flames around his feet and pulls out his dick and pisses on her.

  It's ugly.

  Crude.

  Vile.

  But it’s no different than war.

  I defended a flag that stands for freedom.

  A country that believes in choice.

  And I choose Brooklyn.

  I chose these men, this brotherhood and this club.

  I fight for the patch that’s been given to me as fiercely as I fought for the flag that gave me the chance to earn my place in this club. That’s what Wolf saw in me, that’s what made him bring me to the concrete jungle.

  “Pipe,” Blackie shouts, pulling a utility knife from his belt. I turn my gaze to him and watch as Pipe walks over to him and stares down at Charlie’s body.

  “He’s going to die,” Blackie tells him as he hands him the knife. “Make it from your hand,” he adds.

  Pipe takes the knife, kneels down next to Charlie and presses the blade to his cheek. The sharpened blade traces the teardrops inked beneath his eye.

  “Your tears belong to me now,” he seethes as he carves out the tattoos from his face. Charlie’s body jerks, but he’s at Pipe’s mercy.

  A man who has no mercy.

  Flicking the bloody skin off the knife he drags the blade across Charlie’s neck slicing it wide open like he found his wife.

  Death never looked so good.

  Cobra grunts beside
me and I tear away from Pipe in time to watch Cobra stumble onto the floor. I sling the rifle over my shoulder and drop onto my knees beside him. Knowing I need to stop the bleeding, I look around for something to use as a tourniquet then remember I’m wearing a belt. I pull it from the loops and wrap it around his shoulder, containing the wound as I tighten the leather.

  “I’m fine,” Cobra grinds out. “I just can’t ride back.”

  “We’re going to need a cage,” I call out.

  “I’ve got one a mile out waiting for us,” Smoke replies, grabbing his cell phone to put the call in.

  My eyes drift down to the floor and I notice something sticking to my boot. Reaching down, I pull the white paper from the blood soaked sole of my boot and realize it’s a business card.

  Instinct.

  It never leaves me.

  Never fails me.

  Turning the card over, I read the name on the back of it.

  Vladimir Yankovich.

  GINA

  Carrying a bag full of tacos, I walk out of Qdoba and take one out. Peeling back the foil, I sink my teeth into the crunchy shell, not giving a shit if it’s unladylike.

  Sue me.

  Shamelessly I walk home, finishing one taco and yeah, I totally go for the other one as I round the corner of my block.

  I lift the second taco to my mouth and take a huge bite when I see Stryker sitting on my stoop. I don’t know if he senses me staring at him, smells my tacos or hears my heels, but he lifts his head and our eyes meet.

  One look is all it takes and I feel the air crackle between us.

  He says nothing and neither do I. Instead, I lift my taco to my mouth and take another bite. The smile is instant and those godforsaken butterflies flip inside my belly making it nearly impossible to eat.

  Nearly.

  “Whatcha got there, pretty girl?”

  I raise an eyebrow as he eyes the taco in my hand.

  “What…this?” I ask as I pop the last bite into my mouth.

  “It’s the best fucking taco I’ve ever eaten,” I say, with my mouthful of ground beef.

  He narrows his eyes, reaching for the bag in my hand but I’m quicker, side-stepping him and his play for my food.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I could eat.”

  “That’s too bad. I wasn’t expecting company,” I say, holding up the plastic bag. “All mine.”

  “Gina,” he warns.

  “Didn’t they feed you wherever you were?”

  “Gina,” he repeats, only this time he’s on his feet. “I don’t have a hankering for tacos, pretty girl.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh,” he mocks, grabbing my hips and tugging them against him. “Where’s your bodyguard?”

  “Isn’t he standing in front of me?”

  The corners of his lips quirk.

  “Good answer,” he praises, bending his knees so we’re eye level.

  Expecting him to kiss me, I lean forward but he shakes his head and touches his forehead to mine. He smells like the Fourth of July after the sky is lit up with fireworks when the remnants litter the streets and the scent of gun powder is thick in the air.

  “You missed me.”

  “You think so?” he asks huskily as he brings his hands up to my cheeks, his thumbs trace my lower lip but his eyes never leave mine.

  “How could you not?” I grin, scrunching my nose as I rub it against his. “Tell me you missed me, Stryker and maybe I’ll share my tacos with you.”

  “I don’t want your tacos, pretty girl.”

  “I’ll give you that too.”

  “Okay, fine,” he sighs. “I missed you.”

  I find his nipple through his shirt and pinch it between my fingers.

  “Say it like you mean it, soldier,” I warn.

  “Went by your office but you had already left. Then I came here and I’ve been sitting here for an hour waiting to watch you walk down the block. I pictured your expression in my head a hundred times, wondered if you’d be happy to see me or if you’d tell me to fuck off. Most of your neighbors think I’m a stalker, but the old man on the second floor thinks I’m a lovesick fool. He brought me a cup of coffee.”

  He pulls back, points to the coffee mug sitting on the stoop and I burst out laughing.

  “Laugh it up,” he smirks.

  I glance up at the second floor and see Mr. Brunswick peering out the window. He’s a grumpy old man who never says hello. He mumbles when he passes me in the hallway and bangs on his ceiling in the morning when I put my high heels on and get ready for work.

  He’s crazy.

  Yet, right now he’s giving me two thumbs up.

  Crazy.

  “Fuck,” Stryker mutters, forcing my focus back to him and not the old man telling me to go for it.

  “What?” I follow his eyes to the curb.

  “Fuck,” I repeat, watching as Rocco steps out of his fancy car.

  “Give me a minute,” Stryker says, dropping his hands from my face before stepping around me and meeting my brother halfway.

  Curiously I watch the exchange between the two men, inching my way closer to eavesdrop. Stryker reaches behind him and pulls out a piece of paper, no bigger than a business card, and hands it to my brother. Rocco glances down at his hand, takes the card and slips it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

  The only reason I know they’re speaking is because Rocco’s lips are moving, but for the life of me I can’t decipher what he’s saying. As quickly as the exchange happens, it ends and Rocco turns back to his car. He reaches into his pocket for his ringing phone as I tiptoe back to the stoop.

  Stryker shakes his head and finally turns back to me when Rocco pauses in the middle of the street.

  I glance over Stryker’s shoulder at my brother and watch as he goes still, ignoring the oncoming traffic.

  “Rocco,” I shout as a car zips by him, nearly running him down.

  He drops his phone into the street and turns around. Shock masks his features and I don’t know if it’s because he almost got hit by a car or the phone call he received.

  “Uncle Vic passed away,” he says.

  And I have my answer.

  One phone call.

  One death.

  The shock on Rocco’s face is the realization that he has just inherited a criminal empire.

  Rest in peace, Uncle Vic.

  Rest in peace, Rocco.

  For you just sacrificed your soul.

  -Twenty-three-

  Gina

  The last time I saw my Aunt Grace or my cousins was my mother’s funeral. I barely paid them any mind and when they offered their condolences I laughed. Saying you are sorry won’t bring my mother back. It’s kind of ridiculous don’t you think? Apologizing because someone died when you’re not the reason they died. Why is that the acceptable thing to say?

  Maybe we say it for lack of anything better to say because it doesn’t sound right when you tell someone the truth.

  The truth being you will never see your parent again.

  Your life is different now.

  There is no picking up the phone to call your mom or dad.

  Now, you must rely on your memory and hope it never fails you.

  Your life will go on but something will always be missing.

  I guess I’m sorry does sound better than all that.

  “Stop fidgeting,” my brother whispers through gritted teeth.

  “I’m nervous,” I hiss, staring up at the crucifix hanging above the altar of the church.

  “Then you shouldn’t have come,” he bites back.

  “Forgive me, Father,” I mutter, making the sign of the cross before turning to my brother. “You’re an asshole.”

  “Say a Hail Mary and calm the fuck down,” he whispers, plastering a somber look on his face as the church begins to fill. I watch in fascination as every person who enters the church greets my brother. He doesn’t introduce me to anyone and lets them assume I’m his flavor o
f the week.

  Weird.

  Not that I’m complaining.

  I have no desire to know these wise guys.

  There are tons of them though, old and young who traveled near and far to pay respects to the legend that was Victor Pastore.

  I could only imagine what the funeral home looked like. After my mom’s wake I made it my mission to avoid them at all costs, there is nothing pleasant about sitting in front of a coffin for hours. I don’t like remembering people like that.

  Turning to the photo displayed on the easel in front of the altar, I stare at my uncle’s smiling face. Dressed to the nines as usual, with an arm slung over Aunt Grace’s shoulders and a cocky smirk on his mouth.

  That’s how I’m going to remember Uncle Vic.

  Not as the gangster, but as the man who loved my aunt.

  The church choir begins to play ‘Amazing Grace’ and everyone stands, turning around to face the gold casket and the men carrying it. Goosebumps cover my arms as I stare at the men posing as pallbearers. They’ve removed their leather jackets but there is no denying who they are. Jack Parrish’s face has been on the news as much as my uncle’s and the man on the other side of him is the man everyone knows as Blackie. I don’t recognize the one behind him but he must be the one that married Adrianna’s sister-in-law. Then my eyes land on the man standing behind Jack Parrish and I swear the air leaves my lungs. Subtly, Stryker winks at me as he carries my uncle to the altar.

  After Rocco told us Victor had passed, Stryker got a phone call from one of his brothers and our reunion was cut short. I expected to see him here today, but I didn’t expect him to have such a profound role in my uncle’s funeral. Stryker might not have known Victor Pastore well, but the Satan’s Knights held my uncle in high regard.

  The church grows silent as the men in leather position the coffin in front of the altar and the priest blesses it with holy water. A sob belonging to Aunt Grace rings out against the silence and everyone watches as she breaks down. Her daughters flock to her sides, lacing their arms with hers as the priest tries to comfort them. Tears fall from my eyes as I watch them band together and turn to my own brother.

  We never had that.

  We didn’t console one another.