by Ivy Black
Spyder
Dark Pharaohs MC Series Book 3
Written by Ivy Black
Copyright © 2021. All rights reserved.
It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Ivy Black
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Nitro Preview Chapter One
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Your Free Gifts
Chapter One
Spyder
Prophet shuffles into the clubhouse, looking vastly older than his forty-three years. His face is pale and drawn, he’s moving slowly, and judging by the grimace on his face, not without some substantial amount of pain. It’s understandable. I’m sure I’d feel like shit if I’d taken four bullets, too.
Doc moves to help, but Prophet waves him off, dropping down heavily into a chair, wincing with the effort. The clubhouse is silent, all eyes on our prez as he shifts uncomfortably on the hard, wooden seat. The entire MC is here today and the air inside of the clubhouse is stifling and ripe with some pungent body odor. Not all of our guys are big on personal hygiene.
“Can somebody crack a fuckin’ window, please?” Cosmo shouts.
“And some of you animals need to get acquainted with soap and water,” Prophet says. “Jesus Christ, it smells like a goddamn zoo in here.”
Laughter ripples through the room, but Prophet isn’t smiling; he’s obviously not kidding. Can’t say I disagree with him, either. With the entire MC in the clubhouse, the atmosphere is tense. Expectant. We don’t have club meetings very often, so we know something big is coming—and I think most of us already know what it is.
I’m standing behind the bar, fulfilling my duty as a prospect by handing beers to the guys. The murmur of conversation is a loud buzz and the tension only seems to be ratcheting up the longer we wait. Finally, Prophet bangs his beer bottle on the table like a gavel.
“Okay, settle down,” he calls. “Let’s get this started.”
The chatter immediately ceases and all eyes snap forward, locking onto Prophet and the rest of Leadership, standing in a half-circle behind him. We may be an unruly, and in some cases, smelly-as-hell group of bikers. We may be a bit rough around the edges. But if there’s one thing you can always count on from us, it’s discipline. Since virtually everybody in a Dark Pharaohs kutte spent time in the military, it’s ingrained in us.
“It’s no secret the Zavala cartel is coming at us hard,” Prophet says. “They murdered Costco. They took a shot at me. And from what I’m hearing, that’s just the tip of the iceberg of what’s coming.”
As Prophet’s voice trails off, giving us all a moment to absorb his words, the murmuring starts again. There’s a tightness in the air that’s woven around the anger as we recall our fallen brother, Costco and the attempt on Prophet’s life. When you come after one of us, you come after all of us. And there is a price to be paid when you do. It’s a lesson the Zavala cartel is going to learn.
“I’m sure it’s not going to come as a surprise to any of you to hear me say that we are officially at war with the cartel. Miguel Zavala is at the top of our most wanted list with a bullet, I suppose you could say,” Prophet says, eliciting a grim chuckle from the crowd.
“So, let’s do it. Let’s take these shitbags out,” Monk calls out. “Let’s show them what happens when you fuck with the Pharaohs.”
Most of the guys cheer as they bang their beer bottles on the tables, making a noise that reminds me of thunder. Prophet and Leadership remain where they are, though, not speaking and not moving, their expressions dark and foreboding. They give the guys a couple of minutes to settle down again, remaining stoic all the while. And when silence falls over the room again, Prophet speaks, his voice as grim as the expression on his face.
“Before we get too ahead of ourselves, hear me out first. Yes, we’re taking the fight to these shitbags. But this is volunteer only. I cannot stress this enough—this fight is strictly for those who want to take part,” Prophet says.
“We’re with you, prez,” one of the guys calls out to the muttered agreement of the others.
Prophet holds his hand up and everybody settles down. “I mean it. You do not have to join us in this. We’re going to war fellas, and if you don’t want any part of this, now’s the time. There will be no repercussions. No judgment,” Prophet says, casting a meaningful glare around the room. “You want to walk, nobody here is going to say shit. You all got me? So, if you don’t want this fight, then you’re free to stand down with no consequences. From anybody. You’ll not lose your patch or your standing in the club.”
The silence in the clubhouse is heavy. It’s oppressive and has a physical weight that feels like it’s pressing down on me. I don’t think anybody is going to walk. We’re a brotherhood. All for one, one for all, and all that. So, it surprises me when I hear the squeal of the legs of a chair dragged across a hardwood floor. One of the older guys gets to his feet, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I’m sorry, boys. I’d go to war with you all, but I got a wife and kids to think about,” he says.
Prophet nods as the man walks out of the clubhouse, his head down. Even from where I’m standing, I can hear the low mutters following him out the door. But Prophet slams his bottle down on the table.
“Cut the shit,” he growls. “I meant it when I said there is no judgment for anybody who doesn’t want this fight. Not from me and not from you. This fight is going to be nasty. Bloody. You know these cartel pricks play for keeps, and I can’t guarantee your safety. And because I can’t, I’m only looking for volunteers. You got me?”
Everybody properly chastised,
the room falls silent once more. Half a dozen more of the guys stand and slink out of the clubhouse, their eyes on the floor, expressions of shame on all their faces. Prophet can say there will be no judgment or repercussions all he wants, but some of the guys are going to feel abandoned. Some of them will undoubtedly feel like the guys who left are turning their backs on those of us staying in the fight.
In times of war, all we have is each other. We rely on our brothers. Our lives are in their hands and theirs in ours. Walking out on your brothers when there’s a fight coming is a cardinal sin in the military. You never walk out on your brothers. No matter how fierce the enemy, no matter how steep the odds, you have your brother’s back. Always.
The dark looks the guys are casting at those who are walking out worry me. I hope I’m wrong and hope that when this war is done, this is something that will blow over. I understand why some of the guys don’t want any part of this—they’ve got families to think of. And like Prophet said, the cartel doesn’t fuck around, and they play for keeps.
Zavala’s animals don’t respect the normal rules of war and will go after somebody’s family. Women. Children. Young. Old. It doesn’t matter to them. They’ll kill anybody and everybody to further their goal. To make a statement. And I can only hope the guys who are staying will come to the same understanding I have, simply because this is something that can tear an MC apart.
The slow trickle of guys leaving has stopped and Prophet looks over the men who are left and nods to himself. It’s a hardened bunch of men. Combat veterans all—except for me. I’m a veteran, but I never actually saw any action. I spent my time overseas as a glorified cop at Rammstein Air Base in Germany.
On the one hand, I’m glad I never saw combat. The guys here, the veterans who went through some shit over there, all have a hard edge to them. There’s a brittleness and an anger that runs just below the surface in all of them. They’re jaded in ways I’m not. But the flip side of that coin is, there’s always a small gap between them and me. We all wear the patch and we’re all brothers here. As combat vets, though, they share a bond I’ll never have with them. They’re a club within the club that I’ll never have membership in.
Not that any of them treat me any differently because of it. None of them look down on me, or lord their experience over me in any way. For the most part, it seems that as far as they’re concerned, we’re all the same. It’s a division of my own creation, in my own mind. I’m aware of that. But it’s a division that stands out to me, and perhaps makes me even more eager to prove myself to them.
“Okay, so this is it. This is the crew we’re going to war with,” Prophet says. “But I want you to know, since this is a voluntary deal, you’re free to come and go as you please. If you ever get to a point where it’s too much and you want to bail, no harm, no foul. Understood?”
We all grunt our approval, and he nods, then his eyes fall on me. He holds his hands up to quiet the room again and everybody falls silent.
“Derek, front and center,” he calls.
Scooting around the bar, I make my way over to his table and stand before him, my hands clasped behind my back, as I unconsciously fall into a parade-rest stance. Like I said, the military is deeply ingrained in all of us.
“Derek, you’ve displayed courage and grit. What you did with Domino’s whole situation proved your value to this club. Your worth. You’ve proven yourself to us ten times over,” Prophet says. “And because of that, we all voted already and we’re going to patch you in early. Congratulations, kid. You’ve earned it.”
As Doc lays a brand new kutte down on the table in front of me, I’m overcome by an unexpected wave of emotion. I’m dimly aware of the room around me exploding with applause and cheers. My body is rocked by the hard thumps on the back of my brothers as they congratulate me. Prophet gives us all a few minutes to celebrate before calling for order once more.
Everybody takes their seat again and Prophet leans forward. “I’m sorry we don’t have time to throw a proper bash to celebrate right now, but there are a lot of things in motion right now. I promise you we’ll do it up right when this is all over.”
“What’s his name gonna be, prez?” Domino calls.
Prophet smirks at me. “Since you’re working this whole James Dean vibe, we picked out a special name for you.”
Doc laughs. “Turn your kutte over.”
I do as he says and look at the nameplate above the right breast. “Spyder,” I read with a laugh. “The car Dean died in. That’s a little morbid.”
“Thought you’d like it,” Prophet says.
“I do, strangely enough,” I say, then look up at Leadership, giving them all a nod. “Thank you.”
“Like I said, kid, you earned it,” Prophet says.
“And I have a feeling you’re gonna earn it ten times over before this is all done,” Cosmo adds.
It’s a sentiment that doesn’t only send a chill down my spine but also seems to steal over the entire room. We all know the storm is coming and we want to be out ahead of it before it breaks.
Chapter Two
Bellamy
“How are you feeling, Mom?”
“Like I’m dying. How are you?”
The burst of inappropriate laughter is out before I can stop it. But it’s quickly followed by the heavy weight of guilt and grief pressing down on me. I know gallows humor is the way my mom deals with things—it’s always been her way. She’s always said she’d rather laugh at the darker side of life than give it power by fearing it or letting it take hold of and control her.
I used to think it was an admirable way to handle things. I used to applaud her for being so rational and even-keeled in how she dealt with adversity. But now, as I look at her lying in her enormous bed, her small, frail frame engulfed by a massive and fluffy comforter and pillows that seem too large for her, I want to smack her for being so darkly humorous. This isn’t funny. This isn’t a game.
“I wish you wouldn’t make jokes like that, Mom.”
She grins. “Then, maybe you shouldn’t laugh at them.”
“Mom,” I say more sternly.
“What? It’s true. There’s no tap dancing around the fact that I’m dying, Bellamy. And pretending otherwise isn’t going to change that fact, dear. So, given the choice between lying here being miserable all day and having a few laughs, I’m going to choose the laughs every time. You should know that about me by now.”
I let out a long breath. I do know that about her, but that doesn’t make this any easier. She’s always been a small woman, but now, she looks so small and so fragile. She looks diminished. The ovarian cancer is ravaging her body and she’s wasting away before my very eyes.
I sit on the edge of the bed and take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze and she offers me a small smile. The disease might be destroying her body, but she’s still got that spark of intelligence as well as that familiar glint of mischievousness in her eyes. Physically, she might be deteriorating, but mentally, she’s still very present.
But I know it’s only a matter of time before those lights are snuffed out and she’ll become a little more than a hollowed-out shell of her former self. It’s a thought that tears my heart into pieces every single time it passes through my mind. I try to keep from thinking dark and despondent things, but I can’t help it. I can’t keep those thoughts at bay entirely. And I hate that I can’t. I don’t know how much time I have left with my mom, but I don’t want to spend it miserable any more than she does. I want to enjoy every last moment I have.
“I wish you hadn’t come back here, honey. I know what you gave up just to be here and I hate that you did it because of me,” my mom says.
“I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I hadn’t, Mom. How could I not be here when you needed me most?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I didn’t need you here, honey. I’ve got nurses and others who look after me,” she argues.
“Strangers shouldn’t be looking after
you, Mom. That’s my job.”
A sorrowful look crosses her face and I know what she’s thinking. It’s true that I’d built a life for myself out in Colorado. I was a well-respected teacher, was working on becoming a homeowner, and had been dating. Nothing serious, but I’d been slowly working on opening myself up enough to the possibility of love—something I wasn’t sure was possible in my life.
But when I got the call telling me my mother had ovarian cancer, I gave it all up and returned to Blue Rock Bay—something I told myself I’d never do, once upon a time. Don’t get me wrong, Blue Rock is a nice city. It’s a great place to live, to raise a family, and build a life. It’s just too small and confining to my liking.
Having spent the first eighteen years of my life here, I was hungry to see more of the world. And so, I traveled for a year after high school—mostly through Europe—then took the academic scholarship I was offered to go to the University of Colorado. I got my bachelor’s, master’s, and teaching certificate from Colorado, then went to work there. Built my life there.
“I am glad to have you here, honey. It’s so good to see you,” she says.
“I’ve missed you, too,” I tell her. “I’m sorry I didn’t come back for your birthday. I wanted to, but I couldn’t get it worked out.”
“Oh, that’s all right, sweetheart. I was happy enough that you did the video conference thing with me,” she tells me, which somehow adds another layer of guilt to the heap I was already feeling.
“Well, we won’t have to worry about it now, since—”
“Since I might not make it to my next birthday,” she says with a cackle.
“Mom! You are awful,” I say, unable to help myself from laughing along with her despite myself.
“That I am,” she replies. “And even though I hate that you gave up your life in Colorado to be here with me, I’m glad you’re here all the same.”
