by Madison Faye
“Oy, you’re next, cunt.”
He starts to turn back towards me, but I haul back and spit a fat wad of spit up at him, catching him in the chest. Yep, it’s a stupid fucking move on a good day with Basher Bronson, Shoreditch’s most recent top thug-lord. As you might have guessed, a man named “Basher” isn’t exactly renowned for his cool temper and non-violent tendencies.
And today? Well, today is about as far from a “good day” as Basher can get. For one, his “sure thing” at the horse tracks was a no-show, which put him out a pretty pound, I’ll tell you that. He’s also short two kilos of marching powder from his latest delivery, which ain’t exactly helping his mood. Oh, right, and on top of that, he thinks I knocked up his sister, Silvia.
Believe me, I did no such thing.
I might be a scumbag, and a villain, but even scalawags like me have standards. And my dick is going nowhere near Silvia Bronson, who’s fucked easily two-thirds of East London. I’ve no bloody idea who the lucky father is, and I doubt Silvia does either. But my quid is on either Marcus Cooley or the bartender from the Ditch and Damned down on Queensgate Road.
But what the fuck do I know.
“You daft little prick.”
Fuck.
The hit comes real hard this time, and I can feel warm blood trickle quickly down my face. Asa roars and manages to get one arm free from Basher’s boys, and he slams an elbow into the fucker’s face. But we’re outnumbered about twenty to one right now, so while I appreciate the brotherly gesture, it’s a moot point. Asa bellows as four other fuckers tackle him back down and start to lay into him.
Now, if I didn’t fuck Silvia, and neither did Asa, this begs the question: why the fuck are we here on our knees in the middle of a warehouse straight out of a crime film getting the shit beat out of us? Why not tell Basher it wasn’t us, or fuck, get Silvia in here to confirm it?
Well, it’s because it’s a balance. It’s a give and take, like everything in Shoreditch. Right now, Basher’s giving it to us—“it” being the punishment he sees as warranted for saddling him with a sixth niece or nephew all from the same sister. The beatdown hurts, but it could be worse. He could be killing us, slowly and quite painfully.
The thing is, he might be pissed about Silvia and the newest addition to the Bronson family tree. But when he gets his hands on the daft cunts who were stupid enough to steal his cocaine or fuck up his track bets with a missing horse, well, those pricks are as good as dead.
…You can see where I might be going with this.
Right now, Basher’s doing the giving, for the crime of insulting what very, very little “family honor” the Bronson’s could possibly have left. But earlier today, Asa and I already did the taking.
Give and take. So long as Basher is concentrating on the giving, we might actually get away with the taking.
The two kilos are already gone—fenced to an Albania dealer in Camden for fifty-fucking thousand pounds, which is by far and away the best score Asa and I ever pulled in a very storied history of scores in our young lives. Oh, and that horse? Don’t worry, he’s living his best life right now.
See, the owner was “moved” to retire his prized stallion and gift him to a lovely retirement home for former racing animals after two enterprising and concerned citizens—that’d be Asa and me—showed him the evidence they had of betting collusion with known criminal entities. He fought it, especially when he realized how young Asa and I were. But thirty-thousand pounds, cash, courtesy of the coke we nicked from Basher, did a whole lot of talking, and the man caved.
Oh, and that “sure thing” of a horse? Well, seems everyone knew how sure a thing he was, which meant betting against him was “the daftest fucking thing I’ve seen all year,” as the bookie at the tracks muttered to us when we slid the remaining twenty thousand through the betting window to him.
But “sure things” who don’t even show up to the race? Well, that’s when the real fun started. And now, a hundred and forty thousand pounds in winnings later? Yeah, I’ll take a few cold cocks to the head from a cunt like Basher. I mean he isn’t going to murder what he thinks is the father of his new niece or nephew, right?
Basher glares down at me, and I blink away the trickle of blood that drips into my eye.
“You think you’re a smart fucker, don’t you?” he growls.
“Not smart enough to wear a condom with your bloody sister.”
His crew glances at each other like they can’t believe I’ve said it. Basher just smiles thinly.
“Oy, and he’s a fookin’ comedian too, now isn’t he?”
His grin widens, and he drops down onto his haunches to look me in the eye.
“Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
He shakes his head and reaches out to tussle my hair roughly. I snarl at him, and he chuckles.
“You think you’re a smart lad,” he mutters. “And maybe you are.” He leans closer. “But not fucking smart enough.”
“Oy, let him fucking—”
“Shut your fuckin’ gob,” Basher hisses at Asa without turning. He keeps smiling at me, his head slowly shaking back and forth.
“Where is it?”
“Where the fuck is wha—”
His gun cocks, and suddenly, it swings to point right at my brother’s chest.
“Where the fuck is my coke?”
Cue record scratch. Cue my stomach dropping like fucking stone through the floor. Oh fuck.
“I’m counting to three, and then I’m going to start letting sunlight into your brother’s chest. Understand, cunt?”
Crystal. Beyond crystal.
“It’s gone.”
“Oliver!” Asa growls, but I ignore him. I’m reckless, I’m taking life at a breakneck pace without even knowing where the bloody brakes are. But I’m not going to watch my brother die here in this fucking warehouse.
“It’s gone,” I say again, my voice edged. “Sold.”
Basher’s mouth tightens. “Sold.”
I nod.
“To bloody who.”
“A guy in Camden.”
“Zamir,” one of Basher’s guys grunts. “Gotta be. He’s the only cunt out there with the kind of quid to pick up two kilos.”
“Find him and enlighten him about who he just stole from. Now.”
“On it, boss,” the guy nods, turning and fucking off.
Basher’s eyes hold mine, and he slowly shakes his head.
“You did a dumb thing, lad.”
You don’t know the bloody half of it.
But suddenly, he goes still.
“Where’s my fucking horse?”
Aw, shit. Big, big shit. I turn and glance at Asa, and his jaw tightens.
“Oh you fucked up now, son,” Basher says quietly. “Oh did you fuck up something wicked.”
This is end of the road territory. This isn’t a fuck-up or a misstep, this is a last step. I look at Asa, and we both know that this just went from us getting a beat down to us probably not leaving this warehouse alive.
I look at Basher, I look back as Asa. And I think we both get it at the same time. We both understand that this is fight or die—do or do not pass go and collect two hundred quid, ever.
“Fuck it,” I grunt.
I lock eyes with my brother, and he grins.
“Oy, fuck it, ay?” he chuckles.
I turn back to Basher and hold his gaze.
“Last chance, you little cunt,” he growls deeply. “Where’s the horse, and where’s my fucking money?.”
I nod slowly. “Okay, okay, just don’t hurt us.”
Basher’s crew snickers and laughs around us, and Basher himself chuckles deeply, his ruddy jowls flapping.
“Oy, son, we’re a bit past that I’m afraid. But I might just leave one of your fuckin’ hands attached if you start talking.”
“Okay, okay!” I nod empathetically. “It’s here. The money’s here.”
“Where?”
“It’s in my p
ants.”
He scowls. “Say what?”
“The money, it’s in my pants. Tucked it into my underwear.”
Basher’s scowl deepens, and his lips curl.
“So get it.”
I shrug, raising my shoulders as if to remind him that my arms are tied behind my back.
“Oh, fuck it,” Basher grunts.
And sure as shit, he actually goes for it. The dumb cunt starts to stick his hand into my belt, and he gets about as far as touching my pubic hair before I lose it. I start to fucking howl with laughter, and the stupid prick yanks his hand back, his face bright red.
“What the fuck is so fucking funny?!” he barks.
“Oy!” I laugh, glancing around at his crew. “Did this pervert just stick his hand down my fucking pants?”
His crew glances at each other. Basher just turns bright crimson with rage. He snarls and starts to haul back to pistol whip me again, but I stop him with just a few words.
“Do you know how old I am?”
Basher freezes, and it’s the only window Asa and I need. My brother moves first, and while all of Basher’s guys are staring in shock at what just happened, Asa wrenches free of the two blokes holding him and stomps down hard on both of their feet. Even I can hear the cracking of bones from where I’m kneeling.
But I don’t dwell, I lunge up and slam my head into Basher’s fat gut. The big cunt groans and doubles over, and I slam my shoulder into his nose, shattering it. He screams and drops his gun as he reaches for his face, and I kick it away before sweeping his legs. Asa roars and yanks a gun out of the back of one of the guys’ pants, and all of a sudden, he’s blasting away.
We’re way outnumbered, and it’s not like either of us can actually shoot for shit. But Asa empties enough rounds into the crowd of them that they all duck for cover, giving us the perfect opportunity to turn and fucking run.
Bullets whiz past us, and I don’t even realize I’m laughing until we smash through one of the boarded-up windows of the factory and go stumbling off into the dreary London night. We stop just once so Asa can cut my hands free, but then, we’re gone.
And I do mean gone.
Us and that hundred and forty thousand pounds head right to St. Pancras Station and get on the first train to Brussels. From there, it’s a quick hop to Dublin, and that’s where we fade into the underworld.
The money goes fast, because of course it does. We’re young, we’re dumb, and we think we’re untouchable. And that shit is gone in the blink of an eye. But at least speaking personally, it buys me a very, very important lesson: you go fast enough, and you go bold enough, and you’re untouchable.
That lasts me the next ten years, pretty much up until the very second I lay eyes on Delphine Armory.
Chapter Eight
Oliver
It’s close to five in the morning when I pull into the compound. I grin, even though my eyes are bleary, and the sun is rising, and I’m dead fucking tired. But I’m just grinning, because all I’ve got in my head is her.
The “compound” is the headquarters for the relatively new Lost Devils. It’s not like I ever pictured myself being in a motorcycle club, but it also makes complete sense. After all, I grew up racing and fiddling with anything I could get my hands on, and that’s when I got my first taste for speed on two wheels. Back in Shoreditch, it was shitty old BSAs and cobbled-together Triumphs.
And as for my life of… well, shall we say, “living outside the lines?” I guess that set me up for where I am now nicely. Back in Dublin, some of my shit finally caught up with me, and I ended up splitting and crossing the pond to America while Asa stayed back, working for some of the Irish crime families over there.
It was in the States that I linked up with Shepherd. We both got hired by these small-time, rival wannabe gangsters out of Detroit to rip off this jewelry store. You know when you just meet people and you know it’s meant to be? That’s how Shep and I were. Alright, first it was pulling guns on each other for breaking into the same spot. But then we clicked and started joking about it. After that, we realized both the guys who’d hired us were bloody incompetent twats, and paying us peanuts, and there we were in a store full of money.
Needless to say, those two goons never saw us again, and that store never saw its diamonds again. But I met my best friend, and Shepherd and I have been cruising around the States and Mexico for the last couple of years basically getting into shit and then getting ourselves out of it.
The HQ is an old airplane hangar on a forgotten airfield that nature reclaimed. It’s surrounded by woods, and not far from Blackthorn itself, which is great. The main hangar itself is our dining hall and clubhouse where we conduct business. Around it, we’ve built up almost a little town of other buildings—a garage that Ryker, Axe, and Stone helped set up in their roles as “ex members of the old Lost Devils slash consultants for the new club.” Shep and I and some of the new guys put up a bunch of cabins around the property, too, to house us and any new Lost Devils members or pledges.
I park in front of my own cabin, but I can hear the sound of a welding torch over in the garage, so I head over that way. Hopefully, someone’s got some coffee going.
I might be dead tired, but when I look around at the paradise I’ve found myself in somehow, I grin. It’s a good life here in Blackthorn—a really good one. Well, aside from owing money to that fucking psychopath Barnes. I shake that aside, and instead, it’s Delphine that fills my mind as I head over to the garage.
The new faces over the last few months have come in slowly, but it’s a real club we’ve got forming here, and people are into what we’ve got going on. We’re not a gang, or a criminal enterprise, though there’s shit we do that isn’t exactly above the law. The first goal though is that we’re a protection force for the folks who live up here in what’s basically a dead zone between counties. And that means no real services, since Blackthorn isn’t technically a town at all. So that’s where we come in—protecting the people who call this place home, especially since most of us have plenty of demons in our past that might come looking for blood.
There’s Shepherd, of course. My best mate and the new President. I never would have thought of him as a leader, but shit, he’s got it. He’s got that charisma people look up to. I don’t, and I’m fine with that. I’m the class clown—the annoying cunt that won’t shut the fuck up, which suits me just fine, except it does land me in trouble pretty much constantly.
Rowan’s our Vice President. He’s actually an ex-cop turned outlaw, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s married to Shep’s sister, Lucy, who by the way rides full patch with us. I’ve seen dumb cunts out on the road give her shit or try and label her as some biker bitch. But they don’t laugh much after, or eat solid food for a few months, because that girl can fucking hit like a sledgehammer. Rowan’s definitely got his hands full, that’s for sure.
Hush is one of our newer guys, and the Sargent at Arms for the Devils. He’s actually the last holdover from the old Lost Devils. Before, it was Ryker, Stone, Axe, Hush, and a lot of other guys. Most of them are dead now, and some of those guys were dead or at least thought to be dead. Hush recently resurfaced in Mexico about a month ago and found his way back here—him and his girl, Catalina—a cartel boss’s daughter he stole back with him.
And then there’s me. I’m just a member, and that suits me just fucking fine.
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club is blasting over the garage speakers, and there’s a welding torch roaring away across the garage when I step inside. Two brawny, tattooed figures are standing over the tailpipe of a bike, their welding masks flickering in the light of the torch. One of them catches sight of me, and they both glance up as the torch turns off.
“Hey, what’s up man?”
Bishop, a guy in his late thirties who looks like he was carved out of stone, with a beard, and inked arms, greets me first. He pulls his welding mask up and smirks at me.
“Shit, up early or still up late?”
; The other guy stands and chuckles as he pulls his own mask off.
“Up late. His bike was gone when I woke up an hour ago.”
Bastion, who arrived alongside Bishop, is about ten years younger than his friend, with dark hair, a stubbled jaw, and just as much ink. I don’t actually know much about the two of them—it’s not like we’re in the habit of asking outlaws about their past before they want to join our slightly less than law-abiding motorcycle club. But I do know that they used to run with some mafia types out of New York City. Apparently, they were over that scene, went looking for some peace and quiet, and wound up here. I’m sure it’s a longer story than that, but I don’t dig much, especially with guys like us.
“Felt like a drive,” I shrug.
“At four in the fucking morning?” Bastion grins, arching a brow at me.
“I’m on London time, remember?”
The two of them chuckle and shake their heads.
“Got some coffee on back there,” Bishop grunts, nodding at a worktable at the back of the garage.
Thank fucking God.
“Cheers,” I grunt. I step over engine parts, tires, transmissions, and more, and I grin. Damn, this is my element—this is where I feel complete. Well, no. This is where I thought I felt complete, until I met Delphine.
I pour myself a cup and head back to check out what Bastion and Bishop are up to.
“Uh-uh,” I grunt, shaking my head at the bike they’re working on.
Bastion frowns. “What?”
“You’ve got the chain too tight.”
Bishop cocks a brow at me, grinning. “All due respect, your highness…”
I roll my eyes. These two love to call me “highness” or “the duke” or my favorite, “Prince Hairyballs.”
Bishop strokes his chin. “All due respect, I’ve been working on bikes since before you were an glimmer in your daddy’s eyes.”
I laugh. “I doubt I was ever a glimmer in his eye. Not unless I was born looking like a kit of heroine.”
Bishop winces. “My bad, brother.”