He’d wrenched the streets from the control of Mexican drug cartels in the 80s, beaten rival biker gangs back to the outskirts of town and chased common street thugs out of his territory. He’d reached border agreements with the Demon and Coyote Motorcycle Clubs and skirted around petty conflicts through the 90s and early 2000s. Life had been almost stable.
Then Cosmo Auditore had shown up. Stupid asshole.
Axle wanted more than anything to secure the future of the Ruiners by regaining control of the Strip. Drugs, sex and guns on the Strip paid the mother charter’s bills and a good fifty percent of the operations cost for their distant cousins, or at least it had in the past. Cosmo Auditore’s stranglehold was choking their cash flow. The bastard had assassinated the Demons’ president and the Coyote’s vice president his first day in Vegas.
Thinking of it, Axle spit over his shoulder. Every fucking day had been a struggle since the Italians had decided to invade Derian’s hard-won turf. Not even the cease-fire arranged by Axle’s former Sergeant at Arms Bronson Ramsey had really helped the situation. And once Ramsey had expatriated to Mexico, the shit hit the fan. Axle’s hit on Joey Auditore had only been the next logical step. He needed the Auditores permanently removed.
Now was the time to unite his club and make the final plans to win the war, once and for all. The Bleeding Cheeks Run was the perfect opportunity to unite and update the diaspora of the Ruiners, to get them all on the same page. Together, the Ruiners brothers had clocked over a thousand miles in a single day on their annual iron butt ride, enjoying the road and each other. Tonight, they’d hold church and make decisions.
Family style.
Axle nodded in the rear-view mirror as his son Rex Derian, the Ruiners Vice President, roared on his Triumph up near his father’s elbow. Rex nodded back, a curt acknowledgement. There was no need to talk as they rode together in companionable silence, soaking in the champagne sunlight and open clean smell of the road.
Their engines growled in tandem, the high moan of the Ducati and the baritone murmur of the Triumph, as they crossed the Bleeding Cheeks Run finish line at the clubhouse nose to nose. The women and men who hadn’t taken the ride were waiting, barbecue pits lit, stereos blasting, and streamers waving. The long formation of bikes followed Axle’s lead and filled the clubhouse parking lot as the men duck-walked in to park, their bikes sparkling in the late afternoon sun like rows of armor.
Rex’s wife Mara, her belly heavily swollen with her third trimester of pregnancy, waddled over to greet her husband. She was sweating and fanning herself with a paper palm leaf, and watched through narrowed eyes as her husband dismounted his bike and strode over to her. His arm reached possessively around her shoulders, and he took turns kissing her protruding stomach and smiling lips.
“Right on time,” she said, grabbing Rex’s bottom playfully and planting an affectionate kiss on his lips. “Jesus, it’s hot. I might head inside for the air conditioning. Your mother timed the barbecue perfectly as usual. It smells amazing. I can’t wait. Saddle sore?”
Rex grunted. “Nothing some tequila and naked aerobics won’t cure.”
Mara laughed. “I’m all warmed up if you are.”
Axle watched Rex catch his wife in his arms and interrupted their tender moment with a comically loud clearing of his throat. “First church, kids. Then you can play.”
“Church?”
The piercing word was a disparagement more than a question. Hairs rose on the back of Axle’s head and he ducked his head as if to avoid a blow, making Rex and Mara chuckle. Axle turned slowly, facing down the formidable person that stood scolding him.
Hands on her hips, short curly hair bleached fiery red, dark eyebrows stormy, Voski Miriam Derian stood resplendent in the sultry golden light of evening, rocking her leather skirt and boots, covered with her signature silver and turquoise jewelry. Her make-up was flawless, the cat-eye eyeliner supporting the intensity of her eyes.
Axle felt his breath catch and his belly twist. Amazing that his wife of thirty-six years still had such an effect on him, after all the time and history. She still turned him on. He felt like a teenager, eager to find a darkened corner and have his way.
“Babe,” she was saying in a low warning tone, “I’ve been cooking khorovats all afternoon. Time to eat. Time to say hello properly. I haven’t seen you in two days. Tell me you are not having church in the middle of my party.”
“Not until after I kiss you I’m not.”
His son wasn’t the only Derian man with the moves. Axle sauntered toward Voski with a wolfish stride, embracing her with his eyes and letting all his sensual thoughts show in his face. When he reached her, he followed through on the promise with his arms. Catching her up, he felt the softness of her warm skin in the hot afternoon sun.
Ignoring the whoops and catcalls of the rowdy gang around them, Axle tipped his wife back in a dip, kissing her long and deep. He felt her soften against him as her body responded, years of violent intimacy and passion echoing soundlessly between them until both were warm and melting.
“Yeah boss!” shouted someone.
“All right Mr. President!”
“Get a room!”
“Aw yeah!”
Axle triumphantly swooped Voski back to her feet, but she was not to be so easily placated. She batted him playfully on the shoulder with a balled fist, her eyes alight and slightly clouded with arousal.
“Don’t think you can just kiss me and butter me up,” she chided. “This isn’t the prom and I am not a nice girl from the village. You could have mentioned to me that there’d be a meeting tonight. Fucking bombs going off on D Street and the Bleeding Cheeks Run and now you want church? God damn it, everyone needs a break Axle-jans! The meat will be dry by the time you are done with church. Couldn’t you let the guys eat and relax first before you coop them up inside? Take a breath. What’s the matter with you, they’ve all been sitting on their ass for a thousand miles. Let them eat meat!”
Voski had a mother’s sixth sense about how and when club morale needed building. If Axle could claim any pride in the extended network of Ruiners he had co-founded and fathered, he knew deep down that most of their success and vitality as a clan stemmed from Voski’s mothering. His customary grimace softened, and he rubbed the back of his head with a hand that was missing a few digits of various fingers.
“Fine.” Axle smiled and gave Voski’s bottom an assertive squeeze, the sensation of her flesh making his pulse jump. He was still a man, after all. “We’ll wait until after the food.” He locked eyes with his amused son. “God forbid we anger the Queen Bee.”
Rex and Mara laughed at the jab.
Voski playfully punched Axle’s shoulder and clicked her tongue. “That’s right god forbid. My stinger is ready even for you, mister president.”
Over the playful squeals of her in-laws roughhousing, Mara cleared turned to Rex, lacing her fingers through his. “Your mother was just showing me the last letter from Mexico.”
Rex and Axle both knew damn well who it was who wrote them from Mexico. The two men exchanged an eye-roll and sigh.
“Bronson and Rowan?” asked Rex.
“Duh, now they are Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey.” Said Mara. “Who else?”
“It was meant as a rhetorical question,” quipped Rex.
“Rhetorical?” Mara laughed. “Now you are a college graduate?”
“What did he say?” asked Rex. “Any mention of when he’s coming back?”
“He’s not coming back.” Axle clenched his jaw. “Not any time soon.”
Rex’s eyes flashed. “Dad, Baba, think about it. We need him.”
“We’ve replaced him at the table.”
“He’s still a member, and he knows the Auditore organization better than any of us.”
Rex and Axle had disagreements about the whole situation, which made it harder to make decisions because they were also the only two club members who knew exactly what had happened the day that Bronson and Rowan and Lola
disappeared; they had been there, together, and helped Rowan load Lola’s dead body and Bronson’s drugged body into a Bronco. Rex had watched his dad give Bronson most of the club’s money and send them on the lamb.
“Boys, you should keep it down,” hissed Voski. “Not a good time and place to talk about this. Geez, men cannot be subtle if their life depends on it. And it usually does.”
“The Italians won’t care about Ramsey so much now,” Rex reasoned, ignoring his mother. “They’ll be after all of the rest of us for Joey. We’re all on their shit list, him no more than the rest of us. So what’s the difference? We need Ramsey.”
“We’ve replaced him at the table,” Axle repeated stonily.
“Oh, right, because we can only have one Sergeant at Arms. Baba, why not two? Why not five? This is a tough time for us.”
Replacing Bronson Ramsey as Sergeant at Arms for the mother charter, after he’d expatriated, had been a logistical nightmare—especially because they had to keep the reason for his disappearance secret. The answer had come from Bronson himself in a letter when he suggested the perfect successor: Jesse “Nitro” Cruz.
The kid had patched into the club a few years back, a volatile, recovering heroin addict, but his progress in the club was cut short when he shipped overseas for war not long after. He’d come back a changed, more dangerous man. Rex had wanted to hold off on his promotion, but the vote to instate Jesse as an officer had been unanimous. As far as Axle was concerned, it was a done deal.
“This is not the right time and place for your conversation,” Voski repeated, smacking her son’s forearm.
“I still say we should bring them back,” said Rex. “The Ruiners need all the manpower and brainpower we can get to outsmart Cosmo Auditore.”
“Stubborn as a bulldog,” Mara laughed, winking at her mother-in-law. “Where does he get it from?”
“It’s too complicated to send for him,” Axle argued. “You know it’s not safe for either of them with Dolce on the warpath. Bringing him back was never part of the plan.”
“Must be nice to have a nice cushy early retirement in Mexico,” muttered Rex. “Funded by the club.”
Axle glared at him. “That money was out of my winnings from Ramsey’s fight. As far as I’m concerned, he’s entitled to what I gave him.”
“Knock it off!” Voski groaned. “I miss Ramsey and Blondie too, but right now, let’s eat! It’s a party! You can talk at church, or after, or whatever. Not now.”
“All right, Voski, I hear you. Let’s not go there right now,” muttered Axle, giving Rex a look. “Your mother’s right, we need a break. We can look at the letter after church and continue our pissing contest after we get some sleep. I’m beat, and it’s not urgent.”
The men stared at each other a second longer until Rex shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
“Shh, yes.” Mara screwed her head around, peering through the thick crowd of black-clad bikers, skimpily dressed sweet butts, and boisterous hang-arounds seeking to impress. “Keep it down you two, I just saw Dolce come out of the clubhouse. Let’s drop it. Where’s Nitro? There was a card for him with the letter.”
The surreptitious chain of letters between the exiled Ramsey couple and the Derian clan had been increasingly difficult to hide from other club members, especially after Jesse Cruz had found out and insisted on getting in touch with his predecessor. Jesse had persuaded Axle to let him write. For information, he said, for advice.
Voski and Mara relayed messages between Jesse, Rex, Axle, and the Ramseys. The women enjoyed it, as it satisfied their desire to stay connected with Bronson and Rowan, whose new marriage they took some misplaced credit for, and also made them feel of use to the club.
But it was dangerous. If Luther with his loose lips or Smiley and his absent-mindedness got a hold of a letter, Dolce would know. And if Dolce ever found out, there would be hell to pay.
Dolce. Axle sighed and rubbed his eyes. There was a whole other problem.
Dolce and Bronson had always fought, two cocks trying to stand on the same spot of the same tiny wall. Axle had tried to give them equal and separate responsibilities in the club, extinguish their fighting that way. It hadn’t worked. They’d fought over the same woman, Lola, until Ramsey tired of her. Then Rowan had shown up and Ramsey fell for her like a ton of bricks, making her a partner in a profitable confidence scam against the Auditores. Dolce had tried to rape her; Lola had tried to kill her. Instead, Rowan had surprised everybody by killing Lola in self-defense.
All this while Cosmo and Joey Auditore had tried to kill everybody.
Dolce still didn’t know the details. Axle was keeping it that way.
“Love notes from one Sergeant at Arms to another,” snorted Rex, who thought the whole correspondence with Bronson unnecessary. His snide tone snapped Axle back to the present. “How sweet.”
“No, no, no, it was from Rowan. Not Bronson.” Mara said, exchanging a meaningful look with Axle. “You seen him today Baba?”
“Nitro wasn’t on the run,” rumbled Axle. “I had him planted on a job with Verona Security, an important opportunity. He’ll meet us here.”
“I’m worried about him,” Mara sighed.
Axle let his head wobble from side to side, a pained look on his face. “Don’t. He’s not using. He’s fine.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
When Mara turned her stubbornly inquisitive face to her husband, Rex shrugged and took in a deep breath through his nose.
“You’ve got enough worry about with our own kids without adopting a grown-ass man,” Rex said, tenderly. “Worry about finding an air conditioner and sitting down so you and the kid you’re cooking in there don’t get heat stroke out here. And all I want to have to worry about right now is that barbecue, not my pregnant wife’s anxiety.”
“Fine!” Mara rolled her eyes at her mother-in-law Voski as if to say, men! “Calm down. All I’m saying is, I’m worried about Nitro ok? Don’t make a federal case out of it, just keep an eye on him.”
“You mean keep an eye on him like I would anyway without your bitching?” teased Rex.
“Right. Like you would anyway if you could remember without my bitching.”
“Thanks for the reminder, snookums.”
“No problem, fuck-face.”
“I love you, you pain in the ass.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“All right kids,” barked Axle, “Knock it off, your mother’s barbecue is waiting.”
Mara and Rex pecked sardonically on the lips before turning to follow Voski and Axle over to the barbecue pit.
“Don’t worry Mara,” Axle added. “If Nitro was using, I’d be the first person to find out, and I’d kick his ass myself. We all want him clean.”
From the corner of her eye, Voski caught the glint of sun reflecting off a dusty windshield pulling up at the far end of the parking lot, making its way to the quieter side of the clubhouse away from the crowd. She screwed her eyes. It was a junky old jeep, open-topped and covered in mud splatters.
“There’s Nitro now,” said Voski. “Perfect timing.”
“Told you, he’s fine,” shrugged Axle, waving his hand dismissively and turning toward the barbecue pit. The road had been long and he was growing painfully aware of the hollowness of his belly and the cramping in his ass. His wife had been right all along: business should wait until after chow.
“I’d better give him Rowan’s card before I forget.” Mara shielded her eyes and turned to look where Voski was pointing. She took a few steps in the direction of Jesse’s jeep. Rowan’s message from Mexico was safely concealed in her pocket. “Nitro,” she called, waving and smiling. “Come here a sec!”
Axle turned back to watch in amusement as his pregnant daughter-in-law waddled like a duck away from him, each step laborious. It would take her five times longer than normal to walk to the other end of the parking lot, and Axle chuckled to himself.
Axle noticed with a
half-smile that Jesse had parked meticulously inside the lines of a space in spite of the chaos of the barbecue all around him. What a character. The younger man jumped down from his jeep and was now striding toward Mara, his face stretching in a rare, dazzling smile. Suddenly Jesse’s smile froze and twisted into a fierce expression Axle had only ever seen Jesse make in the middle of fights and deals gone wrong.
“Something’s not right,” Axle realized. A chill went down his spine as Jesse’s easy amble in their direction exploded into a full sprint. Jesse’s arms waved wildly.
“Down!” Jesse shouted, sprinting at Mara. “Get down! Everybody down!”
Axle twisted his neck to look behind him, to see Jesse’s field of vision and figure out what was wrong. He turned just in time to see three dark vans with tinted windows sidle up to the curb at the driveway of the clubhouse parking lot, not 15 yards away from where he stood with his family. As they slowed in unison, the van’s dented sliding side doors flung open with a vroom.
“Down! Everybody get down!” Jesse was screaming at the top of his lungs.
Axle’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, shit!”
Jesse’s voice reverberated over the music and conversation of the barbecue crowd, but his crazed warning was cut short but the rapid rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire. It sounded like a M4A1s.
Axle saw the bright muzzle flashes blinking from inside the vans like tiny fireworks or kamikaze fireflies in a planetarium. Even as accustomed as he was to violence his brain was having a difficult time processing what was happening, what he was seeing. Here? Now? No, it couldn’t be. The time and place were off. He was with his woman, their children and grandchildren at a club family barbecue. This was wrong. This couldn’t happen, not now.
Time seemed to grind to slow motion and the splattering sound of gunfire faded to the background of Axle’s consciousness. He saw Mara’s body jerk and tumble to the ground just as Jesse reached her, catching her in his arms before she landed on her belly. He heard Voski scream.
Rex had spun to face the source of the gunfire. His Sig-Sauer P229 handgun leapt into his hands as he countered the attack, aiming at the tires and the dim interior of the van. People were screaming and diving around him, bikers and women throwing their arms around their heads and running in no particular direction, scattering, confused.
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