HAMMER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 1)

by Faith Winslow

  Hannah rolled her watery eyes, and Crete smiled back at me.

  “Lovely,” he said. “So you are familiar with the concept—and apparently, with some of our other lingo—and you saw Pigpen’s Seraph stamp, which, I hear, is rather poorly done and not nearly as impressive as some of the many I’ve seen over the years.

  “Sam, for example, used to have a very impressive one—until he had it covered up and redone. His angel’s wing—which pointed to his right, of course—is now part of the eagle tattoo he wears on his left shoulder.”

  “Wait,” I said, trying to see if I’d heard Crete correctly. “Sam was a Seraph?”

  “Yes,” Crete replied. “Before Sam was a Wolf, he was, indeed, a Seraph. And before Sam was a Seraph, Hannah was…to put it kindly, she was what could be considered one of their lackeys. Her wing, which is now part of her phoenix tattoo, pointed to her left.”

  I looked at Hannah, and she quickly bowed her head and turned it away from me. She was even more shaken and stirred than before.

  “You see, Rachel,” Crete went on, “the unfortunate reality is that our Sam and Hannah came from a broken home—if you could even call it that. Their mother was—and is—a hopeless alcoholic. She married an undesirable sort when Sam and Hannah were in their teen and adolescent years, respectively, and he held a very heavy hand to them—though undoubtedly, Sam fared better with him than Hannah did.

  “That undesirable man—Sam and Hannah’s stepfather—did things to Hannah that a father of any sort should not do to a girl he calls ‘daughter,’ and it should come as no surprise that Hannah did not handle it very well.

  “At the age of fourteen, in the middle of her freshman year in high school, Hannah ran away from home, and Sam, who was a high school senior at the time, dropped out of school—four months before his graduation—to find her.

  “Sadly, Hannah had taken up with the Seraphs and was being passed around among them for reason I can’t bear to repeat though I’m sure you can imagine. To keep her in line, and on her back, the Seraphs fed her a steady supply of drugs—or rather, pumped her full of them—and in no time, Hannah became addicted to heroin.

  “By the time Sam found Hannah, she was already deeply engrossed in the Seraphs’ wicked lifestyle and was highly dependent on the drugs, as well as the people who supplied them. He tried to break her free numerous times… to no avail.

  “So since he couldn’t beat them, Sam joined them. He became a Seraph and tried to do whatever he could, from the inside, to get Hannah out. Within a few months of his joining the gang, he was able to save Hannah from the Seraphs’ physical abuse—they came to respect him enough to keep their hands off of his sister—but he was still battling, hard, to save her from her addition.

  “As expected, while he was pursuing his own goals behind the scenes, Sam was expected to pursue the Seraphs’ goals on the streets. And at one point, he was given an awful assignment, which he simply refused to do.

  “The Seraphs weren’t just pumping heroin into Hannah and their other vixens. They were also pushing it on the streets—and they were continually trying to expand their operations.

  “Sam was nineteen at the time, and his awful assignment was to use his age—and good looks—to make connections with unruly, troubled kids at two local high schools.”

  Crete took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and lifted his glasses so that he could rub the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. A moment later, he opened his eyes again, looked at me, and readjusted his glasses. I was too stunned to speak, and like I’d done so many times before—for so many different reasons—I decided to remain silent and listen.

  “In case you don’t know what that means, Rachel,” Crete went on, “that means that Sam was asked to befriend high school kids, get them hooked on dope, and set them up as dealers at their schools. He was asked to plant seeds for the spread of the heroin epidemic.

  “And as I’ve said, he simply refused to do it. He got major guff from his higher-ups for his refusal, but that didn’t matter to Sam, and he stayed true to his convictions. In fact, he not only refused to be a part of the plan, he also decided to do what he could to destroy it.

  “The Seraphs had already found another young, good-looking member to fill Sam’s role in their plan. And that member—and Irish boy they called ‘Scotty’—swiftly established connections at one of the schools and had invited those connections to a party at a house, very much like Tony Ink’s house, where he intended to get them high, get them hooked, and get them ready to start pedaling.

  “Sam heard about the party and crashed it, with the intent of cornering the kids and talking some sense into them. But before Sam could corner the kids, Scotty cornered Sam, and the two of them got into a fistfight.

  “Another Seraph at the house separated the young men and broke up the fistfight, and Sam had agreed to leave. But of course, we all know how Sam is—and Scotty knew too. Scotty knew that Sam was far from done, and he had his own interests—his own needs—in mind, which he did not balance against any others. Scotty wanted the money that he’d get from the kids’ sales, so he reached in his pocket, pulled out his pocket knife, and, literally, stabbed Sam in the back.”

  Without even realizing it, I’d gasped and raised my hand to my mouth. The story Crete was telling me was so intense and alarming, and it made me feel all the worse for judging Sam the way that I had. Granted, there was no way that I could have known any of these things about Sam without him telling me or my asking, but there was also no reason—at all—for me to have reached some of the unfavorable conclusions about him that I had so blindly reached.

  “Scotty was young, but apparently, he knew what he was doing,” Crete continued. “The wound he’d inflicted on Sam perforated Sam’s small intestine in several spots and caused severe internal bleeding and intestinal leakage.

  “But those diagnoses only came after Sam made it to the hospital, which he wouldn’t have done had it not been for that other Seraph on hand at the house—the one who’d separated the fight only moments earlier.

  “That Seraph—or former Seraph—holds two records in the biker world that have yet to be matched. He’s the first biker anyone in L.A. ever heard of who was able to singlehandedly carry one of his brothers three miles, on his shoulders, to the nearest hospital. And he’s the first biker anyone in L.A. ever heard of to be granted an official change in street name, which he was allowed to select himself.

  “The Seraphs called him ‘Retard,’ because of his size, broad features, and funny way of talking--but when he joined our ranks and was granted a name change, he opted to name himself after the ornery beast that almost bit his leg off back in Louisiana.”

  My skin was covered with thousands of tiny, little goosebumps. The Wolves’ world and web of affiliations was so much more intricate than I would have ever even dared to imagine.

  “Now, here’s one of those kickers, or points in the story that someone would incorrectly refer to as ‘ironic,’” Crete said, shaking his head. “When the man who just brought you here on his bike took Sam to the hospital, he was covered in blood, out of breath, and unable to come up with an explanation. Even though Scotty had just knifed Sam, the guy they called ‘Retard’ refused to rat him out—and as a result, ultimately ended up spending six months in county jail for a crime he, clearly, did not commit.

  “But that man, who we now lovingly refer to as ‘Gator,’ never complained about it, never resented Sam, or the corrupt justice system that put him away, and never, for one second, regretted what he’d done. He’d saved Sam’s life that night, as well as Hannah’s—and even though he was still going by the name ‘Retard’ at the time, he was advanced and sophisticated enough in his thinking to know that six months in jail was a small price to pay in exchange for the greater good that he’d accomplished.

  “During Gator’s six months in jail, Sam was in this very hospital recovering, and Hannah was at my house defeating her addiction. I’d recently come in to my
position of power in the Wolves organization, and word of what had happened to Sam had reached me through several different channels.

  “From what I’d heard, Sam was exactly the kind of guy I wanted on my side, working with me toward my goals. So I sent two of my men into Seraph territory to ‘buy’ Hannah from her abusive masters, and I, personally, came to this hospital every day and sat at Sam’s bedside, waiting for him to wake from his coma.

  “When he did, I was the first face that he saw. He didn’t know who I was at the time and assumed I was one of the hospital’s clerical volunteers—and I used his assumption to my advantage. I talked with him about his past, his present predicament, and his hopes for the future, and I assessed his values, interests, and incentives. After just two weeks of meeting with him, I concluded that my previous conclusions about him were not correct.

  “Sam Hammond was not the kind of guy I wanted on my side. He was the kind of guy I needed on my side. So on the day of his release from the hospital, I came to him with his clean, sober sister, told him who I really was, and invited him to join the Wolves organization… and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  Chapter 25

  ~ Sam ~

  “You’re not in California anymore, Sam,” Thing said, wearing nothing but my beat-up, old blue and green flannel. “A tornado hit while you were playing around at Tony’s house—and look where it landed.”

  I looked through the sea of gray, in the direction Thing was pointing. Tony Ink’s party house had been picked up and carried far, far away to a field of white cotton speckled with pink flowers. And from underneath the bottom of the house, two legs stuck out like a pair of chopsticks. They were long and went on for miles, and they were clad in calf-high suede boots that would’ve made my cock hard… if I still had one.

  “Where’s my cock?” I yelled, looking down at my blank crotch. There was nothing there, and I looked like a Ken doll.

  “It’s right here,” Thing said, sucking at what, at first, looked like a lollipop.

  “Give it back,” I demanded, reaching out to grab it.

  “Not yet,” she laughed. “I’ve gotta show it to the Guild first.”

  Like that, Thing—and my dick—vanished into thin air.

  I didn’t know where I was, but I knew I’d been here before—years ago. Only then, it was much different. It wasn’t a cotton field, but a playground; and I’d been taunted by a red leprechaun with a hyperemic needle for one arm and a pocketknife for the other.

  “Hey, sweet thang, I’ll give you a piece of pie if you give me a little sugar,” the hooker from outside of Kent Town called out to me from atop the large hammer-shaped mushroom on top of which she was sitting. Her legs were sprawled, spread wide open, and something crawled out from between them.

  “Hey, Hammer,” the miniature, five-inch-tall version of Tony Ink shouted up at me. “I’ll be your dick if you want me to. Just strap me on—and let’s go get some pussy!”

  “No thanks,” I said, looking down at him. “You’re way too small and dirty.”

  I turned and floated away in the other direction and didn’t stop until I reached a signpost with four signs on it.

  “I have to get out of here,” I said out loud.

  “Which way do you want to go?” the signpost responded.

  “Whichever way will get me out of here,” I told it.

  The signs on the signpost started spinning around like blades on a propeller, then stopped, and I moved forward to read them. They were labeled: “Hannah,” “Rachel,” “Katy,” and “Harley.”

  “I can’t choose,” I told the signpost. But the signpost had become a regular signpost and didn’t answer.

  I’d been here before and made it out of here before. I knew I could do it again, but couldn’t remember how I’d done it in the first place.

  “When in doubt,” a voice said from out of nowhere.

  “Who’s that?” I asked. “Who’s there? And where are you?”

  “I’m behind you,” the voice answered.

  I tried to turn around but couldn’t.

  “We have a responsibility,” the voice went on, “to be loyal to ourselves, one another, and our brotherhood. It’s our duty to protect each other and treat each other with respect and integrity. We don’t just watch out for each other. We watch out for each other’s families. Because like it or not, we’re in this together—and ‘together’ is the only way that we’re ever gonna get through this, or whatever else comes our way down the road.”

  Those words sounded so familiar to me. But I realized that I hadn’t heard them before. I’d said them. They were part of the lecture I’d given Terry on his twenty-fifth birthday, after I’d found out about him and Hannah.

  “Terry?” I called out. “Is that you?” I still couldn’t turn around, no matter how hard I tried.

  “Don’t turn back, Sam,” Terry instructed from behind me. “Move forward.”

  “But which way?” I asked.

  “You know which way,” Terry answered.

  “No, I don’t,” I insisted.

  “Yes, you do,” Terry assured me.

  “Why do I have to choose?” I asked.

  “We all have to,” Terry answered. “And no one else can make our decisions for us. Those are the rules, Hammer—and you should know them better than anyone.”

  The rules! “When in doubt, go with your bike.” That’s one of the first rules they teach us.

  “But I can’t chose my bike over any of those women,” I told Terry. “And I can’t chose between them.”

  “No one said you have to do that,” Terry laughed, and his laugh rolled out over the cotton field like thunder. “You’re just choosing which way to go from here, that’s all.”

  “I don’t understand,” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

  “You will,” Terry whispered.

  Chapter 26

  ~ Rachel ~

  “I’m sure you’re wondering,” Crete said, looking at me from above his glasses, “what any of this has to do with your brother. And if you are, rest assured, you’ll see soon enough. But before we talk about your family, let’s talk about mine.

  “Remember this wedding band I showed you yesterday?” he asked, holding his left hand up in the air. “I’ve been happily married for twelve years now. But about eight months ago, my wonderful wife, Katy, went missing. She just vanished without a trace—and I knew it was not of her own volition. I knew that a rival gang—likely the Seraphs—had kidnapped her, and I had no choice but to bide my time until they came at me with their demands.

  “As decent a man as I try to be, I am, nonetheless, a biker and gang boss—and those titles come with prejudices, as I’m sure you are well aware. Considering these prejudices, and the nefarious nature of the Seraphs, going to the police for help was out of the question, and my only hope at getting my wife back was to call upon my own resources—some of which I’ve already described.

  “I had, in my forces, a man who’d been stabbed in the back by his own biker brother because he wanted to save countless children from a deadly addiction. I also had a man who’d carried someone on his shoulders for three miles and spent six months in jail, out of loyalty and compassion. And I had a few others who had values or skills that were needed, including a young man who hadn’t officially earned his street name yet, who we were going to call ‘Fier’—spelled F-I-E-R.

  “In case you haven’t figure it out yet, Rachel, our street names our not random. Some of them come variations or tweakings of our birth names, and others come from our characteristics or habits.

  “Take my street name, my full street name, for example. When I was named, I was either going to be called ‘Granite’ or ‘Concrete’ because of my firm religious beliefs and values, as well as the common combination of letters. In the end, my higher-ups decided on ‘Concrete’—rather than ‘Granite’—because of some of the personal struggles I’d endured in my younger years. I’d developed firm beliefs and values on my own, rather
than being born into a family with them, and was therefore, a manmade product, like concrete, rather than a product of nature, like granite.

  “As per this one we were going to call ‘Fier,’ his street name didn’t come from as complicated a process, but it was still quite clever. This young man had an uncanny ability to tolerate others and refused to resort to violence under any circumstances. He just didn’t have it in him, I guess.

  “He was the type of guy who, say, would stand there and let an arrogant asshole, if you’ll pardon my language, pin him against a wall and yell at him in front of a room full of people. He wouldn’t push the asshole away, punch him, or do anything to further incite him. He’d just stand there and take it. He’d tolerate it, rather than fight it, any day of the week—even if it was his birthday.

  “What some might have seen as a weakness, I saw as a strength. Fier’s uncanny ability to tolerate others usually rubbed off on them, and in the end, his resistance and nonviolent approach ultimately taught them a lesson, which was an apt outcome, considering that Fier dreamed of one day becoming a teacher.

  “Now Fier’s skills may not have been fit for the streets like Sam ‘The Hammer’ Hammond’s, but they were fit for other positions within our organization, such as mine, which would one day need to be filled by someone with the sensibility and sensitivity that your late brother had.

  “‘Fier’ is short for ‘Pacifier,’ meaning one who brings peace, and it was going to be your brother’s street name had he survived the punishment he opted to tolerate in order to serve the greater good.

  “But unfortunately, he was snuffed out by order of the same people responsible for my wife’s abduction, which he, Hannah, Hammer, and Gator, among others, had been diligently helping me try to solve.

  “So, you see, Rachel, your brother wasn’t accidentally killed in a prison clan conflict. Nor was he killed for what he supposedly did to Jake Keller. He was killed for what he meant to the Wolves organization, and for who, and what, he would one day become.