by Kati Wilde
They’re grinning as they climb into the truck. Jokers, the both of them, until shit starts going down or they’re on duty. Then they’re two of the coldest bastards currently wearing the Riders’ colors.
The tires kick up the red dirt and dried pine needles lying on the ground outside the clubhouse before they hit the gravel drive. We’ll need to get asphalt laid down before too long. Now that we’re moving out here, we’ll be riding that road often, and gravel’s hard as hell on a bike. Hard as hell on a biker’s face, too.
I can’t see the need for many more changes. The clubhouse used to be the main lodge for a dude ranch that Red Erickson’s grandfather operated. The property passed to Red just before he started up the Steel Titans. That club has made their home at the lodge for a few decades now, and unlike some MCs, they’ve taken care of their house—along with the old stable that’s been converted to a repair shop and garage. Behind the lodge sits a couple of cabins that the brothers can bunk in if they’re too wasted to ride home, or if there’s no home to ride to and they need a place to crash for a while.
It’s a damn good setup. Not as modern as the clubhouse the Riders had in town, but the lodge is bigger and the property gives us more room to spread out. And there aren’t any neighbors complaining about engine noise or fearing that we’re going to burn their pretty little houses and rape their pretty little daughters. As if most of us don’t live or work right next to them—and as if those daughters haven’t been coming to us looking for every kind of ride that a brother can give them. I expect we’ll have just as many come looking out here, though they won’t come directly. They’ll hook up at the Den or the Barracks first. Then their daddies will follow, searching for them. In the five years I’ve been president of the Hellfire Riders, I’ve had to warn off more than a few fathers who were coming for my brothers’ blood—and stare down the cops they often bring with them.
My inclination is to let the brothers handle that shit, instead. They bang the pussy, they deal with the consequences. The trouble is, more than one Rider is hotheaded enough to make a crap situation worse. Others think with their dicks. So it’s better to take care of it myself.
But I won’t have time for it over the next few weeks. Not while trying to bring two clubs together and getting rid of the Eighty-Eight Henchmen. Except for the old ladies and the girls we’ve known a while, best to forbid the brothers from bringing any women around here until everything has settled down. They want to fuck, they can do it in town.
I’ll get some pushback from the club, but it’s not the fathers I’m worried about now. The Eighty-Eight are cowardly motherfuckers. They won’t try to take us down face-to-face. Instead they’ll sneak up behind us, or they’ll find a vulnerable spot and weasel their way inside, where they’ll try to poison everything they find.
A woman can turn into a man’s vulnerable spot real quick. So we’ll have to look hard at any new pussy that shows up and starts clinging to one of the brothers, just in case she’s been sent by Reichmann, the Henchmen’s president.
Those Riders that already have women, we’ll be making sure they stay safe. Because that’s one way the Eighty-Eight will probably come at us. They’ll try to hurt our women. They have before. They went after Red Erickson’s daughter, and it’s the reason behind everything that’s happening now—the Steel Titans and the Hellfire Riders coming together, this brewing war with the Eighty-Eight Henchmen.
They went after Red’s daughter—and my woman. That’s when Reichmann and his men fucked up.
Jenny doesn’t make me vulnerable. She makes me a force of fucking nature. Unstoppable. Unyielding. There’s no line I won’t cross in order to protect her. I’ll have the blood of every single Henchman on my hands before they ever lay another finger on her.
No matter what it costs.
Almost fifteen years ago, protecting Jenny cost me a nickel over at the Snake River pen. I didn’t even know her then. I just saw a girl screaming as the Eighty-Eight’s president pinned her to the ground and got between her legs. With my arm fucked up by a shrapnel wound I got in Kosovo, I couldn’t pull him off her. So I kicked him off, instead.
That boot to the head killed him. I didn’t see Jenny again until she was testifying on my behalf at the trial. I still got five years in a prison cell for manslaughter, but I don’t regret a second of it. Didn’t regret it then, don’t regret it now. I’d do it a thousand times over again to anyone who threatened her. And this time, the killing wouldn’t be an accident, because if I ever lost her, I’d lose everything. Spending my life in prison would be nothing as long as I know she’s safe.
She’ll be safer if I’m with her, though. So we’re not charging in and killing Reichmann and his crew. Not yet.
We won’t wait long. The Eighty-Eight already killed one of my brothers, Goose, then planted enough heroin on him that the feds would have been taking a long, hard look at the Riders if we hadn’t found the stash first. I expect more sneaky shit will be coming at us.
But there’s another reason it’ll all be going down soon—and he’s riding his custom chopper up the drive toward the lodge. Red Erickson, the Steel Titans’ prez. This is his place. Jenny’s his daughter. And in a few months, the cancer eating away at his lungs will kill him. It’s why he came to me about folding the clubs together. There are two things he wants before he’s in the ground: to know that Jenny’s protected and to see Reichmann dead.
I’ll give him both.
The sickness isn’t showing yet. Red’s always been a big bastard, and he’s still solid muscle. He got his road name years ago because of his hair but the red’s not so bright anymore; his beard is mostly gray. Since Jenny’s small-boned and dark-haired, I figure she must take after her mother, who was killed in an accident when Jenny was a teenager.
Red cuts his engine, his gaze sweeping the near-empty lot. “Did everyone head out on a ride I don’t know about?”
Because so few bikes are here, even though it’s a Sunday afternoon in summer. “It’s moving day,” I say. “So almost every brother suddenly has a family reunion or a church service to attend.”
His grin is like his daughter’s—quick and wide. “And I’m suddenly not sorry that Jenny had me checking in on the brewery today. You hear from her yet?”
“About an hour ago.” When I was in town loading up the truck. She might have texted me—and Red—since then, but reception out here is shit. “She was just packing up. Says she’ll be heading out of Portland by six.”
Where she’s been tending a booth at a brewer’s festival for the better part of the week. A damn long week. Every night on the phone, I could hear how tired she was. And now she’s got a four-hour drive ahead of her. Chances are, she’ll head straight home and I won’t see her until she’s off work tomorrow.
Red nods. “I’m meeting Thorne up at the house. Why don’t you come on by and have a cold one.”
The back of my neck tightens. It seems like a simple invitation.
It’s not.
Before today, I haven’t stepped a foot in Jenny’s house. She’s invited me to but probably knew I wouldn’t come in. Because it’s not just her place; it belongs to Red, too. And although he handed over the lodge to me and the Hellfire Riders, this is still his territory. So I wasn’t about to disrespect him by going in.
Now it would have been disrespecting him not to. So I’m standing on his deck with one of Jenny’s ales in my hand, watching him lay half a dozen bratwurst on the grill. It’s a big deck, attached to a big house. He inherited it with the ranch but he and Thorne have done well for themselves over the years, partnering in a construction firm specializing in irrigation systems and reservoir tanks, and he’s poured some of that cash back into the house. Every room looks like it came out of a magazine, but they’re not fancy or sterile. Just large and open, the kind of place where you imagine strawberry pie in the summer and crackling fires in the winter.
And the entire spread—from the lodge to this house—will be Jenny’s when
he’s gone. Maybe it already is. She’s told me that their lawyer keeps bringing around papers for her to sign.
Thorne comes through the French doors carrying a tray of plates and fixings. It’s easy to see he’s at home here. Years ago, he and Red both used to be Hellfire Riders. They walked away after clashing with Lucifer, the Riders’ first president, and started up the Steel Titans together. Thorne has been Red’s VP all that time—and they’re close enough that Jenny calls him ‘uncle.’
As soon as we fold the clubs together, Thorne will serve as my veep, too. So this probably won’t be the last time I’m standing here with him.
“You got everything moved over?” he asks me, leaning back against the deck rail and lighting up a Marlboro.
“Everything but what’s in the garage. Blowback’s taking care of that.” My current veep. “He’s particular about the tools.”
As in, he’ll kick the ass of anyone who leaves them lying around or out of place. So best to just let him put them all in their new places.
Thorne grins. “Sounds like Red. He show you his garage yet?”
I’ve only been through the front door, the main living room and kitchen, and out onto the deck. “Not yet.”
“We’ll get around to it. He’s got his own garage to clean out soon enough.” Red looks to me. “You set a date yet for moving out here?”
Into this house. With Jenny.
Something in my chest constricts. Just getting the chance to be with her was like being offered the moon. Living here with her? That’s like being given the sun. But I can’t take it yet. No matter how I want it, I can’t take it.
And I’ve waited too long to answer. Though Red’s eyes are the same light green as Jenny’s, hers have never been so cold. There’s serrated steel in his voice when he asks, “You having second thoughts about being with her?”
“No.” Fuck, no. “Not one.”
“But you aren’t sure about something.” Thorne’s tone is easy, but he’s white-knuckling his beer as he asks, “Maybe you think moving in here would be pushing Red out?”
“Bullshit,” Red says. “The house is big enough, we can both swing our dicks around without smacking each other. So what is it, boy?”
Now he’s just pushing my buttons. Boy. Another man would be swallowing broken teeth right now. No one calls the president of the Hellfire Riders boy.
But I can’t say what I need to say as the president of the Hellfire Riders. As prez, I don’t need to justify or explain myself—and I sure as hell don’t need to earn my place. We aren’t talking about the club, though.
“We aren’t speaking now prez to prez. I’m speaking to Jenny’s father. All right?”
“That depends on who you are.”
“I’m the man who’d rather be dead than live without her.”
“You lived without her for a long time.”
“No. She’s always been here.” Close enough to see, but never to touch. “She just wasn’t mine.”
Watching me, Red takes a long pull from his beer before nodding. “All right. Talk.”
“I haven’t earned the right to lie beside her here.”
“You think I’m deaf and blind?” He snorts and shakes his head. “She’s been in your bed for weeks now.”
And if that’s all Jenny ever gave me, I’d take it. But it’s not the same.
“That wasn’t here.” At this big house she calls her home. “This place means her future lies with mine. This place is for a family. I’ve got to earn those. I haven’t yet. Not until Reichmann’s dead.”
Because even though I was protecting her, Reichmann still got to her a few weeks ago. Got his hands on her. It doesn’t matter that I pulled him off or that he’s paid with pain and blood. It’s not enough. Not when he’s still out there and will still hurt her, given any chance.
“She wouldn’t agree you need to earn your place,” Thorne says. “She’d say you earned it fifteen years ago when you saved her at that rally.”
Red shakes his head. “She’d say he doesn’t have to earn it at all. That just her wanting him here is enough.”
“All respect to Jenny,” I tell them, “but she’d be wrong. On both counts.”
And I don’t need to explain that to Red. His anger’s gone now. He takes another long drink and finally says, “Even if you kill him, you’ll never deserve her.”
That’s a bare fact and one I’ve known for a long time. But it doesn’t mean I’ll ever let her go.
“I won’t argue that,” I tell him.
“Even if you did argue, I don’t give a shit about what you deserve. What I care about is what Jenny deserves. She deserves a man who’ll lay down his life for her. A man who’ll give his heart and his loyalty to her—and not just when it’s easy, but when it hurts.”
“That’s what she has.” What she’ll always have.
Red nods. “She might need you to move out here before you get to Reichmann.”
Because Red’s sick and going to get worse, and she won’t have anyone else. “If she needs me, I’ve already told her I’ll come.”
“That’ll do.” Smoke billows up when he opens the grill lid. “Now, prez to prez—how do you want to move forward? You want to patch in the Titans right away?”
“I want to wait. There’s bound to be friction now that the clubs are sharing the same house. We’ll let that settle down, go on a few rides together, let them start to feel like brothers. That way it’ll mean something when we give your men their new colors.”
“And my role?”
“You’re the Titans’ prez. I’ve no interest in pushing you out. The Riders aren’t taking over. We’re just coming together. So we’ll ride side by side until you can’t.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long minute, just turns the brats over. I’m not looking for an answer, anyway.
Except this one. “When the time comes, I’d like to patch you in first. Unless you plan to remain a Titan.”
Now he looks up. “I’ll tell you what—if Reichmann’s in the ground, I’ll die a Rider.”
Works for me. “You’ll look damn good in our colors.”
“He always did,” Thorne says as he crushes out his cigarette. “So we’re down to one problem: How are we taking out the Eighty-Eight?”
2
Saxon
Taking out the Eighty-Eight Henchmen won’t be the hard part. The hard part is getting to them. The how of that is still eating at me later that night while I’m working the speed bag in my garage. Though I’ve got the main door raised and a fan going, the air’s stifling. The muscles in my arms feel like hot iron, but I want the pain. It burns away the frustration of not knowing how to get at the Eighty-Eight, helping to clear my head and refocus on the problem.
And, Christ—I miss Jenny.
I should be hearing from her soon. My phone’s sitting on the weight bench. Any time now, she ought to be calling to say that she made it home all right. A week without her is too damn long. Next time she has one of these festivals, I’ll try to arrange at least a few days away and go with her.
But not until the Eighty-Eight are gone.
And this is not focused. Shaking my head, I pick up my gloves and move over to the heavy bag. The light in the garage spills down the short driveway. There’s no sound from outside but crickets. The street’s quiet. My place is on the tail of a dead end, with retirees living on either side of me. The lights in their houses went dark almost before the sun was down. Around eleven, Mrs. Caffee will come out in her robe and wait while her Pomeranian pisses on the Yoder’s flower beds. If I’m still out here then and she sees my garage light on, she’ll walk by and look in—just checking to make sure I haven’t accidentally left the garage door open, she always tells me. Jenny says the older woman’s probably just checking to see whether I’m wearing a shirt while I’m lifting.
Fuck. Maybe I should just ride out to the ranch house. I’ll see Jenny and get rid of this hollow ache in my gut.
But she’s been
working her ass off all week. She’s always working her ass off, yet she’s never sounded as tired as she did on the phone. So I’ll let her rest—and keep my hands off her until tomorrow.
Anyway, I still haven’t earned that spot in her bed. And never will if I don’t focus on the fucking Eighty-Eight.
Their greed is going to take them down. Lots of outlaw clubs get mixed up in shit like they have. The Hellfire Riders haven’t—but we don’t have clean hands. When we’ve got a problem, we take care of it and the law wouldn’t look too kindly on some of the methods we’ve used. But we’re here to ride. We’re here to fuck and fight. We’re not here to get rich, and I’m careful about who the Riders ask favors from and who we end up owing.
But the Eighty-Eight started in California with a supremacist agenda and then began chasing the cash, adding chapters in other states. The local Eighty-Eight settled here about twenty years ago. Mostly they cook meth and supply the more powerful chapters. They’ve probably added other shit—hauling guns or whatever else—but it’s the meth that’ll bring them down. Because I don’t have a single fucking illusion about how brotherhood works in those clubs. If the supply doesn’t come, Reichmann and everyone else is dead.
I don’t want the bigger chapters to do my work, though. I just need the Eighty-Eight panicking. If I get rid of their cook, their kitchen, and the club’s officers, the others will scatter—afraid that they’ll be the ones to pay for the shipments that didn’t come.
It’ll have to be hard and clean and quick. And that’s the fucking trouble. The Eighty-Eight has a compound out in the boonies. Word is, there’s booby traps laid all around it. Maybe that’s just to scare people off, but I’m not betting my brothers’ lives on it. Some of the Eighty-Eight’s members make Ted Kaczynski look sane. And although we outnumber them, a head-on confrontation isn’t going to work. Riding in on fifty bikes is probably just asking to be gunned down from some fortified tower.