I follow his eyes and spot Pipe sitting on top of what’s left of the bar. Without hesitation, I nod to the three men new to our charter, ready and willing to ride to their death, and it becomes clear, whatever it takes, however it can be done, I will make it right. With a tip of my chin, I leave them behind to continue recovering whatever they can and I make my way to Pipe.
Lifting a silver flask to his lips he notices me standing close but says nothing. He tips his head back and guzzles the alcohol unfazed by presence. I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror a thousand times. I know everything Pipe’s feeling, the regret, the anger, the loss, the ache ripping through his heart. The dire need for revenge pulsing through your veins. I felt all of that and more after Christine died and there are days I still feel it.
“Found her body right there,” he slurs, using the tip of the flask to point to the end of the bar. “Her head hanging on by a thread.”
Shoving one hand into my pocket, I step closer to him and bow my head to collect my thoughts. We’re supposed to say we’re sorry, it’s what society deems right when someone loses one they love, but that shit don’t work. It’s not what you want to hear. You want to hear the voice of the one that’s left you broken and alone.
“Pipe, I’ve been where you at,” I start. “Felt everything you’re feeling, brother, and I ain’t going to give you my apologies because it won’t bring her back. It won’t fix you.”
He takes another gulp from his flask, dangling it over his mouth to catch the last drops before he tosses it into the rubble.
“Finally a piece of truth,” he mutters, lifting his beady eyes to mine. “You people all thought my marriage was a joke.”
“That ain’t true,” I argue. “We busted your balls but only a man who knows love could see how much you loved Oksana. I saw it.”
He swipes a hand over his face and I think he’s probably debating on whether I’m being sincere.
“The men who did this will pay,” I vow. “We will torture them with our bare fucking hands, Pipe.”
With a groan he stands.
“The Bulldog ain’t got his ears, and it’s my understanding he won’t be riding,” he says, settling me with a stare. “You got Wolf in ICU, Linc in a goddamn full body cast and two dead prospects. No fucking clubhouse and the only one who still has a bike is Riggs. Don’t be making promises, Black. This shit is over. The Satan’s Knights are done.”
“So, that’s it?” I question, watching as he moves to walk passed me. “We throw in our cuts and call it a day? Let the Bastards get away with murdering your wife? You disappoint me, Pipe.”
“Fuck you,” he hisses, grabbing the ends of my cut. “Don’t need the club to take care of what’s mine, Black.”
“You’re not doing anything without the club,” I warn.
“And who the fuck is going to stop me?”
“You really want me to answer that, brother?”
Stumbling backward, he releases my cut and narrows his eyes at me.
“You’re done, Black, accept that shit and move the fuck on. Be happy you got your life and your woman has hers,” he sneers, his boots crushing the debris as he stalks away from me.
I fist my hands at my sides, itching to punch a fucking wall but there aren’t any left standing. I glance over my shoulder at the nomads, sifting through the dust, maybe Pipe’s right.
“One of you stay with him and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid,” I order.
“Can you define stupid?” Deuce asks.
“Don’t let him fucking kill anyone,” I growl. “Including himself,” I add. Turning around to I stomp through the grit toward my truck. I pause mid step and divert my attention back to them. “Did you happen to find the table?”
“He’s kidding right?” Deuce asks absurdly.
“Smartass,” I sneer. “It’s there somewhere. Wolf was dragging it before he collapsed.”
“We’ll keep looking,” Cobra says.
I nod before continuing for my truck. Once I reach the car, I toss the flag into the passenger seat and stare at it for a moment, wishing the table was as indestructible as the red, white and blue cloth staring back at me, desperate for a sign that the club engrained into my soul wasn’t dead too.
Sitting still, lying low—it’s not me. But what choice do I have? If I want to hear that baby’s cry I need to heal and as much as revenge is a priority, hearing that baby means more. Seeing Reina through the last leg of her pregnancy, making sure she obeys her doctor’s orders and stays on bed rest—that’s my fucking job.
That doesn’t mean I will allow the Corrupt Bastards to reign over my city and it sure as shit doesn’t mean I will let them get away with fucking with my club. That tear drop sporting prick will pay for what he’s done. He will cry, bleed and wish his mother swallowed him.
Reina stands from the couch, jolting me away from the sadistic thoughts of revenge and how I will cut Charlie’s balls off and feed them to whatever whore is currently sucking his dick.
“Where are you going?”
“The bell rang,” she answers, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
“Sit,” I bark, standing and pointing back to the couch.
The one good thing about this hearing loss thing is I can’t hear her curse me under her breath as she reluctantly sits down with a huff. Guess who has trouble sitting still too? We’re fucked.
I pull the door open and find Blackie looking all sorts of haggard on my door step, running his fingers through his hair.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” he agrees, holding up a pad and pencil. “We need to talk,” he drawls, waving the pad.
“Cute,” I growl, knocking the pad out of his hand before spinning back around and leaving his ass on the front porch.
As I head for the kitchen, Reina says something I can’t make out and Blackie slams the door. I know he slams it because the whole fucking house vibrates. It’s true what they say, when one of your senses fail you, the others work overtime.
I grab a beer from the fridge, lean against the counter and pop the top off the bottle. I’m guzzling the ale when Blackie stomps through the kitchen and lays his pad on the kitchen island. He shrugs his jacket off and drapes it over the back of the stool, twisting his neck from side to side before he rolls up his sleeves and grabs a pen. Angrily I watch the ink bleed onto the paper as I drain the rest of the bottle down my throat. Lifting his eyes to glare at me, he throws down the pen and pushes the pad toward me.
“Read,” he says, and by the way his jaw tightens I know it’s not a request but a demand.
Holding his gaze, I push off the cabinets and walk to the island. I grab the pad and see the three underlined words.
THE FINAL RIDE.
Arching an eyebrow, I slide the pad back to him.
“What kind of bullshit is this?”
He grabs the pad, starts scribbling words but I lean over the island and knock the pen out of his hand.
“Talk slow and loud,” I demand.
“Fine,” he starts, sighing heavily. He explains our situation, some words I catch others are difficult, and he uses the pad to jot them down. Piecing together both, I understand what the three underlined words mean. No one expects us to prevail from this, in fact, I’d bet the house the Corrupt Bastards are confident we won’t even retaliate because they have left us on the balls of our asses.
“I rented six rooms at the Motel Six for Stryker and the boys who are temporarily staying there until we figure out what we will do with the Dog Pound. I can’t get a look at the books and where our numbers are because Pipe is in bad way. I don’t know how long I will keep him at bay. The man is thirsty for blood and doesn’t give two shits about consequences. I need to get this plan in motion quickly or else he will tear into the Corrupt Bastards with no one behind him.”
“Riggs can get you hard copies of the club’s finances, make sure you get him put a call into the ins
urance company. It will take time to get everything up and running so you will need a temporary place to congregate. Pops’ shooting range will do for now, and while your ass is in Jersey, you will need to pay a visit to our friends at the Bergen County charter.”
“I was thinking that,” Blackie says. “I was going to see if they’d lend us their pipes.”
“Fuck that, we’re not showing up at Charlie’s door with a bunch of loner bikes. I was working on a gun deal with Rocco Spinelli, go to him tell him the deal is off the table unless he comes up with the money now, and you replace our pipes with that money.”
“So why am I going to Bergen County?”
“Black, they blew us up, with every intent to wipe us off the grid. Who you going to ride with? Riggs? You two going to be the dynamic duo? You need more man power. You want to avenge this shit then you need an army or this final ride will be our final ride and not theirs. You need to roll up to those gates in Boston, deep and wide, headlights for miles.”
I watch as he absorbs my words and nods his head as he takes the pen and makes a list of our men. He’s first on the list, then Riggs, Stryker, Cobra, Deuce and five prospects.
“Pipe,” I add, watching as he hesitates before writing his name.
“I’m worried about him,” he admits.
“I’ve known Pipe for many years,” I start, taking the pen and circling my Sergeant of Arms’ name with the ink. “That motherfucker will be your most lethal weapon.” I cross my arms against my chest and glare at him. “Call Jones and tell him we’re done, not to expect any pay offs. I don’t trust that prick Brantley and we can’t be sure he doesn’t know Jones is on our payroll. You rebuild and you bide your time, make everyone believe what they want. Charlie didn’t do this to avenge Boots’ death he did it to push through our streets. Let him think he can. Let the whole fucking world think Jack Parrish and the Satan’s Knights are finished.”
“Then we get them,” Blackie confirms.
“Then we fucking get them and we hit them hard. They didn’t just go after our club; they went after our families too, no one is safe. Not this time. This time we don’t give a fuck who is innocent and who isn’t. You go in guns blazing, vicious and hungry. When you start to feel your conscience creeping up on you, remember the faces of everyone in that room before the bomb went off. Remember that feeling in your gut, that hopeless feeling when you knew you wouldn’t be able to get to Lacey quick enough, and you fucking shut down that little voice in your head and you do what has to be done. You hear me?”
He takes the pen and paper and writes his reply.
I hear you.
“You’re a dick,” I say, ripping the paper in half before throwing it back at him.
Blackie smirks as he shrugs on his leather jacket.
“Black,” I call out and watch his eyes turn back to me.
“You got this, brother,” I tell him.
I should be leading my club to retribution but if I can’t, there is no one better suited than the man standing before me. I won’t hold the gavel forever, someday I will pass that shit down, someday it’ll be Blackie sitting at the head of the table. It will be his job to bring Satan’s law to justice and now is the time to see if he’s capable.
We might plan the final ride for the Corrupt Bastards but this shit right here, this was Blackie’s test drive, riding front and center, leading the pack of Knights straight to Hell.
Where did that leave my daughter?
I suppose on a test drive of her own.
Could my sweet girl stand in the shadows of the acting president of the Satan’s Knights?
We’re about to find out.
Chapter Forty-Six
Sitting on an empty oil drum in the middle of Pipe’s garage I turn to Riggs, watching as he pulls his hat off and runs his fingers roughly through his hair.
“Bro,” he starts, fitting the hat back to his head. “Where the fuck is everyone?” He asks tapping his fingers on the rolling tool chest in front of him. “I mean it’s not just me and you on this suicide mission, right?”
I sure fucking hope not.
Pulling a toothpick out of my jacket, I roll it between my lips and try not to dwell on the urge burning inside of me to seek something out and alleviate the itch to drink this whole fucking ordeal away.
“We’ve got company,” he announces as he jumps off the hood of the car he was sitting on and heads out to the lot. I follow him and watch as the flatbed truck, loaded with Harley’s, backs into the lot, stopping right in front of us.
“Merry fucking Christmas to us,” Riggs mutters, jumping onto the flatbed to inspect the brand new bikes as I walk around to greet the trucker opening the driver’s door.
“Either one of you Blackie?”
“Who’s asking?” I question as he waves a clipboard at me.
“Delivery from Jack Parrish,” he grunts, picking up his pants that hang beneath his belly and shoving his clipboard into my hands.
“You’re shitting me,” Riggs calls.
“Sign,” the trucker orders as he waddles to the back of his truck.
I glance down at the invoice for twelve new bikes and notice the make and models of them. These broads were beauties and cost twice the amount of our old ones. Placing the invoice on the hood of the truck, I pull out my phone and dial Jack’s house to confirm with him. Reina answers the phone since his hearing is still sketchy.
“Hey, Reina, do me a favor and ask Jack if he had something delivered to Pipe’s garage?”
“Sure, give me a minute,” she says and I hear her shuffle around and Jack’s loud muffled growl. Riggs and the trucker start unloading the bikes as a van pulls into the lot and parks right beside the bikes.
“Give me the phone,” I hear Jack call.
“Blackie, you’re on speaker,” Reina adds with a huff.
“Told you my club won’t be ridin’ with borrowed pipes and I meant it. Break them bitches in and make them sing pretty for me,” he says.
“You hear that, Blackie?” Reina questions.
“Loud and clear,” I respond. “Take care of the big guy, Reina. I’ll be in touch,” I add before disconnecting the call. Stryker, Deuce and Cobra climb out of the van and curiously stare at the bikes.
“A present from the Bulldog,” I explain, signing the invoice on the clipboard.
“Guess today is a good day for the Satan’s Knights,” Cobra mutters as the three of them open the back doors of the van and pull out a piece of wood. Turning it over, they prop the wooden slab against the side of the van and the reaper carved into the center stares back at me.
“We need to put some legs on it and sand this beast down but next time you speak to the Bulldog, tell him we dug his fucking table out of the rubble,” Stryker says, running his hand carefully along the splintered edges.
“You called church didn’t you?” Deuce questions, reaching into his pocket and producing a meat mallet.
“It’s not the original but it’ll do,” he adds as I stare at the silver mallet with the Bed Bath and Beyond ticket still attached to it.
Fighting back a smile, I take the mallet from his hand and tip my chin toward the table.
“That’s it, go on, you know you want to,” Riggs encourages as he steps behind me and the trucker peels away from us, without twelve new motorcycles. I tighten my grip around the silver kitchen utensil and bring the head down to the table top and bring my first meeting as acting president to order.
Riggs clasps his hands over the back of my shoulders.
“Let’s tag some toes, motherfuckers,” he cheers.
I’m about to order them to drag the table into the garage when I hear the distinct sound of engines blaring. Without hesitation I reach behind me and draw my gun out of the waistband of my jeans and aim it at the gates. Riggs, mimics my stance and together we start for the gates. Stryker, Deuce and Cobra are right behind us, the adrenaline vibrates through the air as the bikes draw
closer.
My finger steady on the trigger I watch the first bike turn into the lot.
“What the fuck?” Riggs says next to me, keeping his gun just as cocked and ready as Pipe leads a pack of at least ten bikes. I narrow my eyes as Pipe breaks in front of me and throws down his kickstand.
Lifting his helmet from his head, he turns to face me, bloodshot eyes peer back at me. There is nothing left of the man, his eyes are as dead as his soul and his body is just a shell, just a place to house the vengeance pulsing through his veins.
I avert my eyes to the men pulling up behind him and zero in on the Satan’s Knight’s patch sewn into their leathers.
“Brooklyn meet Bergen County,” Pipe introduces, tipping his chin to the gun in my hand. “You going to shoot the men here to help us or are you going to invite them to your table?”
Lowering my gun with one hand, I size up the president of the Bergen County charter, a man who goes by the name of Smoke.
“Word on the street is there is no Brooklyn charter,” Smoke says, dismounting from his bike.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to believe everything you hear?” I retort, tucking my gun into the front of my jeans.
He shrugs his shoulders.
“Better off letting them believe you’re dead that way they don’t expect to see your ghost,” he counters, holding out his hand. “Time for you to put those rumors to rest and show everyone what you’re made of, Blackie.”
I’ve been Jack’s right hand for years, been the talk of many, on the outside I’m nothing but a recovering junkie, a hothead who lost his way when he lost his wife. No one speaks of my loyalty to the reaper on my back, or the men I stand with. They don’t know what I’m capable of, what happens when I’ve been pushed too far. They don’t know the reason my road name is Blackie, they don’t know it’s because I’ve faded more lives to black than most—without consequence, without regard.
They tried fading us to black and now it’s their turn to fade. There won’t be any mishaps. There won’t be anyone left standing, not a fucking fly on the wall of their clubhouse will survive what we’re going to do. It’s not a test of physics, there won’t be some little prick in a basement making a bomb to strap to an unsuspecting asshole. No, revenge will be at the hands of the men surrounding me and it will be executed the old fashioned way, where we take life with our bare hands.
Eternal Temptations (The Tempted Series Book 6) Page 35
