by Nicole Snow
Thunder clapped above us. The damned deluge soaked both of us, right through our cuts.
And I loved it. This was the shit I lived for before Cora, and it still got my blood pumping about half as hot as she did.
I'd ride these mountains wild 'til the day I died. Rain, sleet, or even snow. Out here, on the open road, a man was free. His heart strummed along with the engine hurling us through nature. His very life growled in his skin and didn't quit when his bike tore straight over God's green earth.
Speaking of which, everything was becoming a whole lot greener now. Spring was in full swing, making the forests so lush it was almost blinding. Soon, we'd be feeling the humid steam of summer.
Fuck, boy, you'll be a married man by then. Living your first summer as a biker, a bastard, and a husband.
I gripped my bike's handlebars harder as I followed Dust off the curvy exit leading toward Knoxville. Couldn't stop grinning like a goddamned fool, wondering why it had taken this many years to make the future look so bright.
“Flash bangs!” I called out.
“Check.”
“Fresh clips?”
“Check.”
“Bayonets mounted on those fuckin' guns?”
“Yeah, Firefly, they're – aw, shit.” Sixty spat at the ground and held his rifle up.
I yanked it outta his hands and saw it was missing the blade on the end. “This is why we drill,” I growled, walking it over to the big storage lockers where we kept our gear.
If my years in Afghanistan taught me anything about war, it was that you could always beat the other bastards if you were better at killing shit than they were. And all too often better meant organized.
I reached for one of the big dagger shaped bayonets and clipped it to the gun. “Never know when you're gonna exhaust your ammo. If some prick gets the jump, you can tear his fuckin' head off before he does it to you first.”
Sixty nodded as I shoved the rifle into his arms. “We're ready, Firefly. Nobody's getting an edge on this club.”
“Correction, nobody's getting an edge on us if we've got one so big and sharp it'll cut their hands off at the fuckin' stumps.”
Next to him, Crawl chuckled, cleaning his gun. I spun around, giving him the same look my old drill sergeant used to give me.
“Keep going, Chuckles. I'll have you cleaning and polishing all this shit if you think this is a damned joke. Get serious.”
Being Enforcer wasn't just about making sure the weapons were lined up and the bikes were tuned to carry us into battle in the blink of an eye. I also made sure these boys remembered what they were getting into, reinforcing the chain of command.
This life wasn't all about riding, brotherhood, and partying. Every man who'd ever worn the one-percenter diamond on his cut knew we earned it down to the last drop of blood, sweat, and tears.
“Listen to the man,” Skin piped up, laying out a group of fresh nines on a cart. “Numbers only go so far here, and he knows the math better than I do when we've got a rival club out for blood.”
I walked over, inspecting the handguns, ready to slap him on the back. He'd been a better brother since I brought Cora into my life.
Shit, I finally understood everything Skinny boy had gone through with Meg. I respected the hell outta that.
Ready for a brotherly slap, my palm stopped in mid-air when I heard Bingo start barking out back. The big dog always let out a few yips when the Veep was around, but this time it sounded urgent, angry, grinding into a growl a second later.
“The fuck?” Skin started moving as quick as me, and soon the others were behind us.
I slammed the door going out back to our makeshift shooting range with both hands. Damned thing blew open, just in time to see Bingo tearing the shit out of some poor motherfucker's leg.
The stranger rolled on the ground, screaming bloody murder, something black and plastic squeezed in his fist. “Get off, off, off, for the love of fuck!”
Veep came rushing out from the opposite direction. I tackled him first, but Joker wasn't far behind, pulling on his dog's collar to ease him away.
“It's all good, boy. We'll take it from here,” he growled, and then he was next to me, his blade drawn and poised against the bastard's throat.
“How'd you get in here? You with the Torches?” I pulled him by the flannel jacket he had on, shaking the sonofabitch with all my might before I smashed him into the ground again. “Answer me, you piece of shit!”
“What's going on out here?” Prez came walking up a second later, his fists tense at his sides. “Shit,” he said, soon as he saw the shitshow in front of us.
“Don't know, Prez. Bingo caught him wandering in, sneaking around out back. He's got himself a present.” I pried the object outta his hands while Joker put the knife near his wrist, scaring him so shitless he let it go without a fight.
“Christ. It's a fuckin' switch. This motherfucker was rigging up our clubhouse!” I lost my shit.
Coming after Cora, after my brothers, after the place that'd always be home...I pushed him into the dirt and punched his smug face 'til I saw blood smearing my knuckles.
Took the entire crew screaming to make me back off, just short of leaving the bones in his face a broken mess.
“Who. The. Fuck. Sent. You?!” I roared, throwing him into the ground like a goddamned ragdoll, over and over. Didn't stop 'til I heard the fucker trying to gurgle some words through the teeth I'd knocked out.
“Assholesss,” he slurred like a snake. “You're done. All of you.”
“Other way around, shit stain.” Veep pushed his knife against the bastard's belly, and ripped it upward, slicing through the shirt he had on underneath the open jacket.
If he had a Torches tattoo, that shit would be coming off, inch by brutal inch. We'd take ourselves a fuckin' trophy before we put lead in his skull and buried him deep in Smoky Mountain soil.
His chest was clean, except for some shitty looking lantern with a skull inside it, like something a skater kid would wear. I pulled his shaggy blonde hair, jerking his head so hard I could hear his spine creak.
“Better start talking, asshole. Or else Joker here's gonna take your tongue first. You've gotta be a fuckin' prospect if you're not wearing their ink.”
The bastard laughed. Prez just stood over us, watching, his eyes fixed on the asshole's chest. Then the Veep pushed his knife against his throat, ready to start peeling skin.
“He ain't gonna tell us shit unless we make him. I say we get serious, before we're wasting our fucking time. He already upset my dog!”
The knife flipped around in the Veep's hand. Crazy brother was about to let it sink in, somewhere in the man's face, when Dust kicked it outta his hand.
“Hold it, Joker – no! Should've seen it fucking sooner. He's Irish. Muddy Bray Clan. Took me a minute to remember where the fuck I'd seen that shitty ink job before.”
“So what?” I growled, my eyes searching the Prez's.
“So, we kill him, or fuck him up too bad, we'll have the Torches and all this asshole's hitman brothers after us. And you'd better believe they've got an easy road to Knoxville, straight through Charleston or Norfolk. These bastards got themselves a little monopoly going on all the shipyards east side. I remember that shit from my Navy days.”
Fuck. Goddamn, I hated it when he talked sense.
Not as much as Joker, though, who still looked at the fuckhead like he wanted to skin him alive. Losing the knife didn't matter, he'd have done it with his bare hands if the Prez wasn't holding him back.
I moved outta the way reluctantly, watching as our leader put his boot down on the bastard's chest. “How much they paying you?” Dust asked, murder in his voice. “We'll double it.”
Asshole started laughing again before he answered. “Your little piss trickle of a club? Come on, mate. Everybody across the Atlantic knows the Deadly Pistols have been broke for years – anyone who's heard of you, anyway.”
“Skin – go to the vault and grab a stack,
” Prez ordered, grinding his boot deeper against the man's sternum while we waited.
Skinny boy moved fast. Came running back in a minute or less with at least ten big clutched in his hands, two fat, crumpled stacks of cold cash.
“We ain't broke no more,” I said, taking the money from him and shoving it in the fucker's face while his big green eyes bugged out. “Start talking, or you're going home with nothing more than a few broken ribs and bruises to show for it.”
“I'll need more than this, lad,” the man said.
More?! Wrong fuckin' answer.
My fist went straight into his guts and kept going, reaching underneath his ribs, stopping just short of cracking a couple more. Punched so hard I bruised organs.
I stood up, watching him writhe. Dust nodded, suppressing a smug smile, and he took over the space I'd just vacated, leaning over the bastard with his frigid gray eyes.
“My old man did plenty of biz with the Irish back in the day. We can do it again, but not if we're gonna get ourselves off on the wrong foot. Be a sport and tell me about the Torches' plan.”
“No more blows to the gut, mate. Promise me that,” mafia man growled, his words a harsh rattle.
“Sorry, mate.” Dust growled the last word. “Don't make promises I can't keep. I'll make sure you're able to speak clearly for the next few minutes as a sign of good faith. Where's yours?”
“All right, you bloody fucking bastards,” Irish said, staring at the money in my fists. I wanted to finish beating the fuck outta him with it, drown it in his blood. “They'll be here soon. Torches hired me to sneak in and rig up your place, then blow the charges when I got the call that they're coming into town. Maybe it would've killed a couple of you up front, who knows. Definitely would've sent your men scurrying like vermin, scared, straight into their trap.”
Dust wasn't looking at him anymore. He crouched next to the mobster, looking bored, and slowly pulled out his pipe. He lit it, taking a good, long pull before he said anything else.
“Fuckin' amateurs,” the Prez rumbled.
Sixty grinned. Joker and I shared the same dark glance.
“Tell you what, Irish, we'll keep your phone and send you on a ride back to your chaps in the Carolinas or Virginia or wherever the fuck. You'll get half of what my boy Firefly's holding. Take a few hundred to lick your wounds, and give the rest to your bosses. Tell 'em there's plenty more where that came from, long as you cut the Torches out of your deals tomorrow.”
The bastard's eyes jumped from the Prez to me, and then to Joker. He licked his lips, like a fuckin' hawk eyeing a mouse creeping along near its burrow.
“The whole ten thousand. For my pain and suffering.”
“Six and a half. That's my final offer. I'm already meeting you in the middle here. Also doing you a solid by keeping my men from fucking you up worse than you already are.”
Irish snorted, spat blood, and swore, rolling so he could stagger to his feet. We'd already patted the fucker down, took his gun, so we knew he wasn't gonna draw shit on us.
“Bullocks! You lads don't have the piss to draw more blood, and we both know it.”
Dust stood, lending him a hand. “Wish that was true. I run a tight ship, no doubt about it. But that boy over there, my Veep, his name's Joker. He's fuckin' crazy, and so's his dog.”
Bingo chose the perfect time to wander up next to Joker on his leash, and the big wolfhound bared his teeth, letting out another ferocious growl. Joker stroked the dog's head with one hand, and put his switchblade between his own teeth with the other, running his tongue along the edge.
Just seeing my brother tongue-fucking the knife caused my guts to churn. It must've worked because the Irishman started going pale, and not just from the blows we'd given him.
“Look, friend, I'll do everything I can to keep my boy under control if you wanna try to walk past, but I can't make promises. Sometimes these Pistols got a mind of their own, Irish. You know how it is here in the States. Hell, forget the US of A. This is Dixie. Things are a little wilder out here. We've got a history of knowing when we need to take the law into our own hands.”
“You...you wouldn't dare, Dusty. Don't bullshit me, now.”
“No bullshit. Just fair warning.”
Joker snapped his neck up, launching the blade high into the sky. The knife spun overhead, and I shielded my eyes while that fucker whirled like something in orbit, coming down a second later, aimed right at our psycho Veep's face.
Even the damned dog looked jealous when Joker caught it in his teeth again. Sixty burst out laughing. Prez and I gawked, and Irish – well, that fucker damned near shit himself.
“Okay! Fucking hell, you win,” he hissed, stepping away from Dust, pawing at my hand for the cash. “Six and a half, like you said. I'll take your offer back to the round table, and we'll see what they say. No guarantees.”
“Understood,” Dust said, taking another long drag from his pipe. “Firefly, take this boy in and watch him while he gets cleaned up. We'll have the prospects haul his ass across the state line when they're done with your girl. Oh, and one more thing.”
Prez walked up, reached into the Irishman's pocket, and pulled out his burner. “Gonna have to keep this. Easy way of knowing when the Torches get into town, plus we'll make sure you don't have a remote detonator wired into this shit some way. Wouldn't want any hard feelings to ruin the fine new friendship we've started here today.”
Friendship, my fucking ass. Working with the pukes who'd just tried to blow our headquarters to kingdom come made me wanna choke.
But the Prez had an eye for strategy, I couldn't deny it.
Buying ourselves time, or maybe even a working relationship with the Irish mob, that was valuable when the time came to fuck the Torches hard. Shit, might be more useful down the road, when we had our next run in with the Deads.
“Follow me, and don't step the fuck outta my sight for a single second,” I warned him, taking the asshole by the wrist like an overgrown kid.
“Firefly!” Prez yelled after me, when we'd only taken a couple steps. “Drag him along the wall. We'll make damned sure all the charges are pulled before he's pulling his fuckin' pud in the shower.”
Irish looked at me, moving at a hobble. That pain in his chest must've been settling in something furious.
“You heard the man,” I growled, slamming him against the wall.
Made him tear off each of the three explosives he'd stuck to the clubhouse's perimeter. When the bastard was finally done, I led him inside, straight to the bathroom.
Thought about my girl the whole time while I stripped his ass down and shoved him into the showers, waiting for Laynie to show up and look him over. Hoped Lion and Tin were taking good care of her.
I watched him move like he was eighty, slowly running soap and water all over his skinny body. “Hurry up, asshole,” I said, slapping the tile wall.
I meant it, too.
Soon, we'd be finishing this shit. Just had to wait 'til Irish's burner phone rang with a call from the Torches.
Once they got into town, they wouldn't be leaving our home turf alive.
We'd gut their asses and hang their fuckin' insides from the trees, deep in the dense mountain forests.
Then I'd give my woman and this club one fuck of a wedding bash like nothing they'd ever seen.
10
Thin Pink Line (Cora)
I woke up sick, throwing up, the second time since he'd left. It had been three days, and Firefly had only called me once in the mad rush to do...whatever the hell these men did when they ran off to play hero.
“Mercy,” I whimpered to myself, huddled on the floor next to the toilet.
After the breakfast I'd just lost, I was ready to call out to Jesus, Buddha, and Zeus all the same. Anyone who'd make my poor stomach stop flinging my insides around like they were on a roller coaster would win my good graces forever.
I'd had my stomach bugs before, like any girl in her twenties, but this...this was differen
t. When the room stopped spinning, I stood up, grasping the wall.
Cupping cold water in my hands, I splashed it across my face.
Horrid timing. I'd just taken a shower before the nausea hit, and now I looked like total crap again.
The strange tension and sickness wasn't just in my belly. It stabbed deeper, through my entire body. A shaky, tingling sensation took hold and wouldn't let go, suggesting possibilities that turned my blood cold.
It couldn't be...
Oh, but it could.
I had to know. I had to get out of here.
Unfortunately, the prospects who'd replaced Firefly as my temporary bodyguards sniffed out every movement I made like bloodhounds. They watched me when I went down to the kitchen, checked on me every other hour, even when I tried to sleep.
Lion, the beefy young man with the scruffy beard going down to his collar, hiding his whole neck.
Tinman, roughly the same age. Tall, silent, and lean, like someone who'd seen too much. He only spoke when he had to.
They manned their posts like sentinels, protecting me from crashing into men who were supposedly much worse. But they felt like wardens, too, keeping me here when all I wanted to do was run to the nearest drug store and discover the terrifying truth...
I closed my eyes, fighting against another ache in my belly.
Think, Cora, think. There has to be a way. There always is.
It came to me when Lion knocked gently on the door, asking if I'd like him to bring something up for breakfast. I ordered a good old pimento sandwich with lemonade, hot tea, and brown sugar. I also asked him if there were any pickles.
They'd done some real damage to me when I was a kid. Ever since daddy left me alone with a homemade jar of pickles and I'd eaten my fill until I threw them up, they'd never sat well with me.
If pickles, sugar, and a cheese sandwich didn't trigger my gag reflex, nothing would.
I was already feeling fifty-fifty by the time my food arrived. Downing the food quickly, I let the pain come, racing for the bathroom when it was time.