The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition

by Janine Infante Bosco

  Fucking manners, man—they go a long way.

  “Respect,” Johnny Cash repeats. “You want to know what respect is? It’s having your brother’s back without hesitation. Not asking questions or giving a damn about names before you lay yourself on the line for a brother—that’s respect, Cowboy.”

  Speechless, I watch as he takes a knee and unfolds the tarp the bartender handed to him. Fascinated by the stranger and his ethics, I kneel beside him. He spreads the tarp over one body, pausing when he reaches the man’s face to make the sign of the cross.

  Ah, so Johnny Cash is a believer.

  He spits on the dead guy's face before covering it with the tarp.

  “See you in Hell, motherfucker,” he sneers.

  Or maybe not.

  “Well, don’t just fucking sit there, grab the other end,” he orders.

  “Who are you?” I mutter.

  “The big bad Wolf,” he seethes. “Now let’s move it, Cowboy, you and I got somewhere we need to be.”

  “You and I?”

  “To quote a very stupid man,” he begins, kicking the corpse at his feet. “Did I stutter?” he mocks, flashing me a grin before he laughs in my face. “Shit, man, you should see your face,” he continues to snicker.

  This guy is fucking nuts.

  Deciding I need to get the fuck away from this guy and the sweet fucking mess my dick ultimately created, I grab the other tarp. Quietly we work together, two strangers with the reaper on our backs. While mine reads nomad and his reads Brooklyn, we are both Satan’s Knights and together we wrap the tarp around the bloodied bodies. It’s not long before we haul the corpses into a van parked behind the bar.

  “Now what?” I ask as he slams the back doors of the van. This isn’t my first rodeo. These bodies will be added to the long list I’ve already collected. If it was up to me I’d drive that van off a pier. I’d light a joint, sit back and watch nature finish the job, but clearly I’m not running this show and the man who is has a screw loose somewhere.

  Ignoring me, he flicks his Zippo open and lights a thick cigar as he leans against the back of the van. After he draws out a big cloud of smoke, he turns to me.

  “Now you pay up,” he says pointedly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did you a favor, didn’t I? Now, you pay me.”

  Kicking off the rear bumper, he stands tall as he fixes me with a look. Ready to throw my manners to hell and tell this guy to go fuck himself, I lift my eyes to his and match his stare. That’s when I notice the intensity, the spark of life behind his cold gray eyes.

  “Get the fuck in the cage, Cowboy,” he orders.

  Squaring back my shoulders, I slowly turn around and cross my arms so the leather stretches across my back and my patch glares back at him.

  Nomad.

  I glance over my shoulder and wait for him to cast his eyes down and take in the word that separates me from all the other Knights. The word that separates me and him.

  He doesn’t look at the patch.

  Hell, he doesn’t even blink.

  “I take my orders from the wind,” I clarify, dropping my arms as I turn.

  “Not no more,” he amends. “I saved your ass and killed for you, that makes you indebted to me. So, one more time, Cowboy. Get your ass in the van, you’re coming back to Brooklyn.”

  “The fuck I am,” I growl.

  He laughs.

  He fucking laughs in my face.

  Again.

  “Kiss the wind goodbye, Cowboy. You’re about to become property of Parrish.”

  Fuck my life.

  -Two-

  DEUCE

  Age: 27

  Place: Brooklyn, New York

  For a long while, I stopped believing in the sanction of brotherhood. I thought it was just a meaningless word thrown around out of force of habit. It’s been nearly a year since I first met Wolf, and in that short time I’ve learned brotherhood is more than a word. It’s an act of dedication to one another, to your club. While many may use the word loosely, there are very few who live for it.

  It’s a lesson I desperately needed to learn to restore my faith in the MC. I just didn’t expect the crazy bastard who saved my ass in a bar one night would also be the one who saved my faith. But back then Wolf knew exactly what he was doing. His motive was clear from the very beginning.

  After we left the bar that night and the bodies were buried deep in the earth, I sat beside him as he drove to Brooklyn and tried to understand why he put his ass on the line for me. Was it because I was a Knight? He didn’t even give me a chance to defend myself. He took matters into his own hands, making me a prisoner to some mythical debt he claimed I owed. I often wondered if the roles were reversed, if he was the man with five guns aimed at him, whether I would have jumped into action like he had.

  Probably not.

  Wolf claims he saved my ass by carting me to Brooklyn, to the chapter of the Satan’s Knights ran by the self-proclaimed bulldog, Jack Parrish. If you ask him, he’ll tell you giving me a home and a chance to find my heart is what will mend my wild and reckless soul. He doesn’t know I’m a walking bomb ready to explode.

  None of them do.

  To the men I now call my brothers I’m just a wild cowboy, one of the four men recruited by Wolf to save the club he cherishes. A club in ruins isn’t much of a threat to anyone, it’s an easy target and the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn were crippled beyond measure. Taking hit after hit from whatever enemy was hunting Parrish and his club left Wolf the man in charge of bringing new blood to the chapter.

  They were fucked, so fucked that four lost men roaming the world became their salvation. Wolf hadn’t only conned me into joining the ranks of his club. He managed to sway three other nomads, Stryker, Cobra and Linc. We parked our bikes in Brooklyn, each of us with a story we didn’t want to share.

  Looking over my shoulder, trying to save my own hide became a distant memory as I swapped my nomad patch for one that read Brooklyn. Once the roamer who let the wind guide him, I am now a man with responsibilities. A man who can’t adjust his sails when the wind changes direction because he swore to serve and protect the men he calls his brothers. Not an easy task when I can barely keep tabs on all the people who want us dead.

  Blowing out a ring of smoke, I ash the joint between my fingers and watch as the wind wrestles the aluminum sign perched high on top of the Pipe’s garage. It picks up, ripping the corners from the brick and tries to drag it into nature’s chaos. Hanging on by a single bolt, the sign flaps against the wind, fighting to remain rooted to its home as I crush the joint with the heel of my boot. Suddenly, the wind calms, but the damage is already done.

  “Cowboy, quit bird watching and drag your ass in here,” Wolf growls from inside the garage. Tearing my eyes away from the sign, I draw in a deep breath and peer across the lot, past the sea of chrome and toward the men standing in front of the garage waiting for me to join them.

  Scratching the scruff lining my jaw, I pad across the parking lot, making my way toward them. I bite back the smart retort itching to escape my lips and glance at my president, Jack Parrish. The hair on the back of my neck stands to attention as his cold eyes meet mine. Those eyes, so fucking dark and twisted, I never know what he’s thinking. None of us do.

  Some might argue that having a mentally ill man as our fearless leader is a handicap, but I’d have to disagree. Sure, he’s fucking crazy and all, but there isn’t anything that man won’t do for his brothers. When he takes a liking to you, when you become someone important in his life, you become property of Parrish and he’ll go to hell and back for you. He’ll lay his life down for those he considers his.

  It’s a beautiful thing.

  And it’s a curse all the same.

  The walls are closing in and Jack Parrish can’t keep everyone safe.

  The wind is changing.

  The storm is rolling through.

  Jack’s gaze cuts to Blackie.

  “Everyone here?” he
asks, rolling a toothpick between his teeth.

  “We’re waiting on Cobra and the bounty hunter,” Blackie replies.

  Our vice president might not be crazy, but he’s another badass motherfucker. After an explosion rocked our clubhouse and left our leader in the hospital, Blackie took the reins from Jack and became our acting president. The recovering addict had his work cut out for him and it didn’t help that we were down a bunch of men. Two of our prospects were killed; Linc, another former nomad, was not only in a coma but also paralyzed and we weren’t sure if it would be temporary or not. On top of that, Pipe, one of the original Knights, was mourning his wife, another victim of the bomb, and Wolf, fucking Wolf went and had a heart attack.

  In our time of despair, Blackie proved he was just as lethal as Jack. He kept us breathing, delivered retribution and even though we later found out we attacked the wrong men, Blackie showed us a glimpse into the future. He showed us how he’ll run our club if Jack should ever hang up his cut.

  Following them into the garage, I pause when I see who is worshiping at our table.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” I ask, glaring at the cocky mobster sitting in my seat.

  “Play nice,” Jack orders, taking his rightful place at the head of our table as he points to a vacant chair. “Sit.”

  Balling my fists, I eye Rocco Spinelli as he smirks and leans back in the chair. Itching to break his nose, I gather my self-control and kick out the chair. The fucker is more trouble than he’s worth and he’s partially to blame for the problems that have landed on our doorstep.

  After inheriting his uncle’s empire, Rocco made several attempts to reach out to Jack, hoping to work closely with the club like his uncle had. Done with the mob, Jack shut him down every fucking time.

  Until he couldn’t.

  Until Rocco’s world bled into ours.

  Until his wind blew over us.

  It turns out Rocco has a sister, a pretty girl with green eyes. Rocco’s enemy used her to send a message to him. The same girl our brother Stryker was falling for. Stryker found his girl brutally raped and left for dead in an alley, making Rocco’s enemy ours as well.

  But the wind took another direction and threw us for another loop. It turns out the man responsible for Gina’s rape is also the man who kidnapped Cobra’s twin sister when they were fourteen years old.

  Vladimir Yankovich is the man we’re all hunting.

  The same phantom Cobra’s been chasing for years.

  Once the cops closed the case on his sister’s disappearance, his parents hired a bounty hunter who uncovered Yankovich and his infatuation for young girls. Finally having a name and face to blame for the death of their daughter, Cobra’s parents went after Yankovich which resulted in their death. Now, with a past that haunts him and a daughter he didn’t know he had, Cobra is a mess.

  An unfamiliar voice shouts, pulling me out of my head. Cobra storms into the garage and heads straight for Jack, slamming his fist on the table in front of him.

  Shit.

  I shake my head as I watch him unravel. He’s slowly spiraling out of control. Not that I blame him. Knowing his story and seeing him with his little girl, I get it. I’d fucking fight tooth and nail to keep that little ray of sunshine safe too.

  We chose this life.

  The people we care about didn’t.

  They just fell victim to it.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Blackie sneers, jumping out of his seat.

  “You know something I don’t about Yankovich?” Cobra growls, ignoring Blackie as he points a finger directly at Jack.

  Casting those dark eyes of his on Cobra, Jack leans against his chair and studies him for a moment before diverting his eyes to the man standing beside him.

  “Cobra, I’m going to give you ten seconds to get out of his face before I remove you myself,” Blackie hisses.

  “Leave him, Black,” Jack orders. “You got something you want to say, boy?” he asks, turning his attention away from the stranger.

  “Rick got a hit on Yankovich,” Cobra reveals, grabbing the attention of every man in the room. The man beside Cobra pulls him back and steps in front of him, holding out his hand to Jack.

  “Rick Grayson,” he offers. The room becomes quiet as we silently size the bounty hunter up. Not that it matters, the man could be a complete fucking asshole and we’d still have to kiss his ass because he’s our best shot at grabbing Yankovich. This guy has studied him for years, knows more about him than any of us ever will.

  “Jack Parrish,” Jack replies, sliding his hand into Rick’s. “You want to explain what’s got him all riled the fuck up?”

  Rick tosses the envelope in front of Jack. Lifting the envelope, Jack motions to the empty seats, ordering both Rick and Cobra to sit.

  Holding the envelope in one hand, Jack raises the meat mallet—a gift from us nomads—against the table. Blackie takes charge and introduces Rick to the rest of us sitting around the table, including Rocco and his two goons. By the time we cut through the introductions, Jack lifts his head to Rick and shoves the contents of the envelope away.

  “How accurate is this?” he asks.

  “As accurate as knowing we’re all going to die one day,” Rick retorts.

  “You going to shed some light on what’s in that envelope to the rest of us?” Wolf grunts.

  Jack tips his head toward Rick, giving him the floor.

  “Yankovich met with the president of the Satan’s Knights Albany chapter last week. Any of you familiar with him?”

  “Rush,” Wolf says, before pointing toward the empty seat across the table that belongs to Stryker. Since Gina’s attack, he hasn’t left her side and won’t until we deliver him the men who violated his woman.

  “He’s been the president for years. That’s also Stryker’s old stomping ground before he went nomad. If anyone knows Rush, it’s him,” Wolf continues.

  “Well, Stryker’s not an option right now. He needs to take care of his woman and trust we’re going to do our part,” Jack reiterates.

  “Hold it,” Rocco says from across the table. “Your part? Understand this, Parrish. I came to you several times. You didn’t want to listen. Now you think you’re going to take the reins on this one…you’re wrong. It might be Stryker who is taking care of her, but it’ll be me who takes care of the men responsible for what happened to my sister.”

  “Not going to happen, Spinelli,” Jack spits. “I made a promise to my brother, told him I’d deliver those men to him and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. You can take part in that, but they will go by his hand not yours, otherwise you and I won’t work together at all.”

  “Can we get back to the Albany shit because if we don’t find the bastard no one is doing anything,” Cobra hisses.

  “Yankovich transferred funds into Rush’s account. It’s a personal account that has nothing to do with his club. What those funds are for I don’t know. I also don’t know if his club knows he’s dealing with Yankovich. It might be something just between the two of them. I traced Rush as far back as I could go and there was another transfer made about ten years ago, but after that nothing,” Rick reveals.

  “Ten years ago, half of us weren’t even sitting around this table,” Blackie supplies.

  “Cain was the president back then,” Jack says, turning to Wolf. “I don’t even remember if we had many dealings with Rush then, do you?”

  Wolf shrugs his shoulders.

  “Not many that I can recall,” he offers, turning to our tech guy, Riggs. “Can you find out the club’s holdings? What could Rush offer a man like Yankovich that would require a payout?”

  “I’ll tell you what he’s getting in exchange,” Rick says, pointing to Rocco.

  He quirks an eyebrow as he rubs his neck, tugging at the stiff collar of his dress shirt.

  “Triton Containers. Rush is the middle man in that deal. Originally, Yankovich was leasing the containers and used the Corrupt Bastards’ address. In exchange,
he funded the rebirth of the club before you people wiped them off the grid. Now with them out of the picture Yankovich needs a new front man. It also helps that Albany isn’t that far from Canada. What he can’t transport through the harbor he’ll move over the border.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Rocco asks. “I have very good intel that says the shipment he’s planning through the harbor is a go.”

  “Of course you do,” Rick replies. “And I’ll bet my life those containers will be empty. All you’ll find there are the men who raped your sister. That’s how Yankovich works. He’s feeding your enemies to you. Those men who fucked with your sister don’t know their days are numbered, but you better believe Yankovich knows you guys are hunting him. He distracts you, gives you what you want and then when no one is watching he moves what he really wants.”

  “Which is?”

  “Women,” Rick answers, turning to Cobra.

  “He uses women or sometimes young girls to transport his product to other countries. They swallow balloons full of drugs, shove them in places where no one will be looking and gives them a fake identity to get them over the border. Then after the shit is delivered, he kills them or sometimes he sells them,” Cobra adds.

  Silence engulfs the room as we all wonder what the fuck we signed up for. I don’t think any of us have any regrets vowing to bring this cocksucker to his knees, but I believe every one of us doubts our capabilities, none of us wanting to fail.

  “Jesus, fuck,” I hiss, breaking the silence. “So what the fuck does all this mean?”

  “It means we need more information,” Rick answers. “Jagger and I have been chasing this cocksucker for years and right about now is where it always becomes a dead end. I can guarantee you I’m not going to get any more information on this guy.”

  “Are you saying the shipment I was planning to intercept is in fact a decoy? Do we move ahead and plan to intercept anyway knowing we’ll at least get the men who harmed Gina?” Rocco questions from his end of the table.

  “I would think so,” Rick says. “I mean that’s between the two of you,” he says as he points from one end of the table to the other. Quietly, we all watch as the mob boss and our president engage in a stare off as Rick continues. “You want to avenge that girl’s attack, you start there.”