The patrol radioed ahead to the camp, and so there was a welcoming committee when the truck drew up before the temporary med unit, tent sides flapping in the sand-filled breeze. He laid back on a stretcher with relief, letting his eyes drift closed, reveling in the knowledge he was finally back among friends…he was safe.
He listened to the voices of the docs and med team discussing the injuries they could see as hands sat him up, cutting his cammies off with blunt-tipped scissors. Fingers pressing into his head wounds caused a muttered, “Fuck,” and he flinched before he could school himself to stillness. Then came a hushed, “Bloody Hell,” and the horror in that low tone registered as the hands returned, gently flipping him to his stomach while gloved fingers explored the painful wounds on his back.
His eyes flickered open when the CO’s voice pierced the haze of fatigue threatening to drag him under, and he dreaded passing on this news with every fiber of his being. All he could do was shake his head when asked if there were other survivors, pressing his cheek hard against the canvas. He had not been in a position to go back and check, but knew there was no way any of the men who fell during the initial attack had lived. The scenes he still saw every time he closed his eyes were a testimony to the brutality of the attack. Gaping, ragged holes piercing bodies from wounds that were not survivable. Blood spilling into the sand in amounts too profuse to allow for continued life. Then, huddled behind that boulder, he had watched as his LT died in his arms. Their CO pushed harder, probably hoping for a different answer, but all he could do was shake his head again and again as each man’s name was recounted. Eklund, Schwartz, Odenoski, Kincade, Lieutenant Porter—all dead.
Six weeks later, he was stateside, on his way out of the Marines, healing physically, but having been told he was no longer deployable. Gunnery Sergeant Lane Robinson would receive a medal for his wounds, but no answers for his questions. No one wanted to talk about what had happened, but after seeing the Intel sheets for the mission, he knew in his gut the reason for the losses. Wardah. His desire for a girl met in-country, the sister of one of their trusted translators, had cost his brothers their lives. Never again, he swore. Never again would he let lust place him in a position of compromise. Never again would he allow a woman close enough to hurt him or the ones he cared about.
2 - Brotherhood
Lane Robinson sighed. They were only five minutes into the meeting, and he was already bored. They were all standing around and talking about fixing things everyone in the room knew would either never get fixed or be jury-rigged only well enough to get them by for another season. He looked around at the rest of the city crew, shaking his head. These were all good guys and wanted to do well, but restrictions from the city and state tied their hands much of the time. The city’s principal summer festival was only a week away, and yet here they were, still arguing about the best detour patterns for both residents and festivalgoers. Shit that should have been published on websites and in the paper two weeks ago was still in the discussion phase of this hopeless committee.
Raising his hand with a wave, he drew the crew boss’ attention away from the clipboard full of papers he was holding. The man stared at him with narrowed eyes for a moment, and then nodded brusquely, granting permission to offer his solution. Standing, Lane walked to the map they were projecting on the wall and touched a point with his fingertip. “Festival parking is here,” he said, moving his finger several times. “Also here, here, here, and here. We need to keep those streets accessible, because as long as people can drive into those areas, they can walk to the park where the stages and vendors will be setup.” He glanced over, seeing his boss nodding in agreement, and he continued.
“If we shut down these three streets for the run,”—he traced lines on the wall—“we’ll need to keep these ones open for residents, especially if we close this bridge.” He indicated another three streets. “So let’s run the detour from here, to there. It’s a good corner, plenty of room for even big trucks to make the turn. Everything else should be okay, unless the city decides not to run trolleys for mass transport, and even that only changes a couple of things. The baseball game isn’t until Sunday, which means we don’t have to worry about the run at that point.”
He looked around the room, cataloging the responses. “I know it’s different from what we did last year, but those arrangements didn’t work. Hell, we had a shit ton of people trying to drive through the fun run to get to parking. There were some near misses, and the last thing we want is having folks get hurt when they’re just trying to come out and have fun.”
His boss nodded, catching his attention and said, “Looks good,” then glanced down and made a note before looking back up. Lane caught his gaze, and they looked at each other thoughtfully for a moment before the man nodded again and said, “Robinson, wanna follow me over to the bar for a beer? Gimme five minutes.”
Deke, his boss, rode motorcycles with a group of men belonging to a club called the Rebel Wayfarers. Lane also had a motorcycle, which for him was because it was a gas saving convenience, so he typically only rode during the summer and then into the fall, as long as it was comfortable. Deke was something different. Last winter, even when there was six inches of snow lying thick on the parking lot, he would see Deke come riding in on his Harley every day. The man was hardcore, and he respected someone who lived their life like that, by their own rules. He shrugged and said, “Okay,” before turning to walk to his locker, putting up his gloves and tools.
He finished putting his things away and stood near the doorway, waiting. His alert gaze swept the area again and again, looking for a threat he well knew did not exist here. But, the knowledge that nothing was going to happen did not lessen his need to continue watching. He knew his obsession of vigilance wasn’t reasonable, because he was no longer at war, hadn’t been for years, but staying alert helped calm his thoughts, so was all the reason he needed.
Nearly twenty minutes later, not the promised five, Deke sauntered out from the office, giving Lane a chin lift and a gruff, “Come on.” They walked to the fenced parking lot for city workers and mounted their bikes. Lane took his cues from Deke, following his lead as they started their bikes and rolled them out the one-way gate into the after-work traffic. Traveling on the surface streets, he hung back about twenty feet, staying to one side of Deke’s bike, the two men taking up the width of the lane. Soon, they were pulling into the lot beside a local bar and restaurant, where he knew a lot of Deke’s friends hung out.
Backing his bike in next to Deke’s, he stood, setting his helmet on the seat then looking a silent question at his boss. “Yeah,” Deke responded, nodding, “your stuff will be okay here. No one fucks with shit on Rebel property.”
His eyebrows drawing together, Lane asked, “Rebel property?”
Walking towards the front door, Deke glanced over his shoulder at him. “Yeah, we own this bar and some other places in town.”
“We? As in the guys you run with?” Lane was intrigued; he had never thought about a group of people going in together to buy something like a bar. The logistics would be interesting, and he briefly considered percentages, responsibilities, personalities, all the pieces that could make it challenging, then discarded the thought as trivial, not a puzzle he needed to solve tonight.
Deke responded, “My club, yeah. The club owns everything. Our national president, Mason, he has it all tied up in a legal corporation or some shit. Profits go to the club, and every active member works for the club in some capacity, so we all get a cut.” He pushed the door open and stood for a second, seeming to take the measure of the room before heading towards a booth along the back wall.
Lane saw there were already a couple of men seated in the booth, and his footsteps faltered before continuing. Somewhat reluctantly now, he shook his head as he slowly followed Deke across the room. He might not realize I’m not good with strangers, he thought, and then saw Deke glance over his shoulder at him again. He frowned and stopped, waiting for Lane to catch
up, then quietly said, “Robinson, come on, these guys are all right. I wouldn’t fuck with you, man. It’s all good, okay?”
Nodding stiffly, he followed, taking the remaining half-dozen steps to stand at the end of the booth alongside Deke. Each of the two men seated acknowledged him, one with a chin lift and the other with a raised hand, two fingers flicking gently against the man’s brow. How did he know I’m ex-military? he wondered, and looked towards Deke as he began introductions.
“Robinson, this is Winger and Bingo. Bingo is the chapter president of the Rebels here in town. He’s my club boss, if you will.” The man with the thick gray beard laughed loudly, red lips framing his white teeth, and gave another chin lift. Lane nodded at him and turned his attention to the other man, the one who had saluted him.
Deke said, “Winger here recently folded his club into the Rebels, which I happen to think was a good move. Handed us another fifteen solid members, and seriously strengthened his position in the Fort.” As Winger held out his hand to shake, Deke continued the introductions. “Robinson rides, a pussy six-fifty, but he rides, not a weekend waxer.” Both men laughed at that and moved slightly in their seats, making room for himself and Deke to sit next to them.
Several hours later, he had met another dozen Rebel members and had a better idea what kind of group it was. He liked the comradery and ease they showed with each other. Then, later in the evening, when one man mentioned he had to go take care of what was clearly going to be some kind of uncomfortable business, four men had risen to their feet without a word and followed him out. Whatever it was he had to take care of, he would not be alone.
Sitting on his bike in the quiet of his home garage, he watched as the overhead door slowly closed, shutting out the night. Glancing behind him at the door leading into his house, he realized both spaces were equally empty of company and snorted at himself when he stood, saying aloud, “Kincade, you think I’m nuts? One night with those guys, and I want what they have, man.”
The next day, he approached Deke right before lunch, asking, “Did you bring a box, or plan on eating out?”
“Wish I had a bitch’s box to eat out.” His crude comeback was humorous, but even as Lane laughed, a sudden vision of Wardah’s soft, brown thighs flashed through his head, twisting the tone of his laughter to harshness.
“Yeah, me too, buddy,” he muttered, then shook his head, “Limiting the answer to lunch today, think you could be bothered to respond to the question? I’d like to talk to you about the Rebels, if you have time.”
“Always make time to talk about my brothers, man. One of my favorite topics of conversation.” His response was quick, but seemed sincere. “Let’s grab some dogs at Coney Island, take ‘em to the park. Have a convo. Bear with me, though. I gotta answer a couple of emails, be right out.”
Nodding, Lane walked to his bike and straddled it, waiting patiently.
***
“You were a Marine?” Deke’s question didn’t surprise him; the information was in Lane’s personnel file, and Deke would be a stupid boss if he didn’t pay attention to details, especially important ones such as this. They found seats on a retaining wall surrounding a large, open space set aside for foot traffic, somewhat away from the rest of the lunchtime crowd. The area, adjacent to downtown, was an office worker favorite, because it allowed for an easy stroll to and from a couple of good lunch places.
Lane took a drink of water before he answered, taking his time to push down the anger that always swelled when he talked about leaving the military. “Yeah, put in a good few years, a couple of back-to-back deployments. Did you do any?” He took a bite from his dog, loaded down with his favorite toppings, taking care not to get kraut all over his clothes.
“Yeah, Army. Sappers don’t live long, so I stuck out my enlistment and then walked.” Deke cut his gaze over at him, and Lane endured the weight of the stare like a physical thing. “Was my decision, not theirs. Hell, they wanted me to stay, but I was absolutely done. I was wandering, had been out about a year, when I met a Rebel member. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“I caught a couple of bullets,” Lane said, running his palm over his shaved head, fingers rasping against the short stubble there. “They didn’t want me anymore or I’d have stayed in, I’m sure. I was Force Recon in Iraq, and it was all I knew. There aren’t any desk jobs in that outfit, so when I couldn’t go back into the field, I got dumped out. Probably for the best.”
Swallowing a bite of his own dog, Deke asked, “Why couldn’t you go back into the field? You seem healthy, and I don’t remember any restrictions from your paperwork.”
“PTSD.” He felt sweat break out across his shoulders simply saying those letters. “I had a mission go south, total cluster.” He sighed and turned to look away. “Needed a couple surgeries to dig out the bullets.” He shook his head, his gaze ricocheting around the plaza out of habit, as he noted the places an attacker could hide. “So that bad one turned out to be my final one, because in the opinion of the white coats, it took me too long to get past everything.”
“But you’re good now?” Lane was glad Deke wasn’t looking at him anymore, just eating lunch and calmly watching the people walk past, like any ordinary person.
“Yeah, pretty good. I have some…habits still. You already seem to know some of my quirks. I saw you pick up on a couple last night at the bar.” He laughed softly, saying, “Was interesting, because, for a change, I didn’t feel anxious, which is pretty unheard of for me in a new setting with new people.”
“We’re good people, though.” Deke laughed, crumpling up his paper wrapper and tossing it hand-to-hand as Lane watched. “My brothers are all good people. I wouldn’t hang out with them otherwise.”
“Yeah, about that,” Lane began, and then stood abruptly, interrupting himself. For a single frozen moment, he thought he saw Kincade in the crowd, but the face was gone as quickly as it had appeared. He shook his head and sat, pulling his thoughts together and hoping Deke didn’t think he was nuts. “How long have you been part of the club?”
“You get points for calling it what it is, a club. I fucking hate when people ask me about being in a gang. Stupid, bigoted motherfuckers.” He shook his head. “I’ve been with the Rebels for several years. I patched in after Bingo started this chapter, but I’ve been back and forth between here and Chicago quite a bit. I work closely with Bingo here, and our national president, Mason, and I help coordinate shit with our other chapters, too.” He stared at Lane. “Why the interest in the club, man?”
“There are other chapters? You said last night you were a member of the Fort Wayne chapter; do you know how many members there are in all? How many chapters?” He would sidestep Deke’s question for a little longer, if he could.
“Why the interest in the club, Robinson?” Deke’s face was set in unmoving lines, and Lane knew he would have to respond before he got anything else out of the man.
He decided to answer honestly, because there was nothing to gain by hiding his interest. “I don’t know, really. Just…last night, sitting with you guys, seeing the back and forth between the members…” He swallowed. “It was easy…comfortable, and reminded me of the military. My team. That was one thing I could always count on, was the fact they had my back. Last night, that same kind of loyalty seemed so strong among the men you ride with. It simply went unsaid, but everyone knew it. It was there. They all know it, and even unspoken, not one of you doubted it. If you had needed something, there would have been a dozen men holding out whatever it was, no questions asked. They’ve got your back, so you don’t have to always be watching your own six.”
“That’s right enough,” Deke said. “We got our fair share of dickheads, but the membership as a whole helps keep them in line. Distributes the load so no one person has to do everything. Rebels have four chapters; I think we’re standing at about five hundred members right now.”
“How do you become a member?” he asked, glancing nervously at Deke.
; “We have a couple of probationary periods guys go through. They start as a hangaround, learning a little about the life and getting to know the individual members in different settings. They attend parties at the clubhouse, spend time with us, and see if it’s a fit for everyone. If that seems to go well, and they can find a member willing to sponsor them, the chapter members vote on them based on their interactions. It’s an important reason for the man who’s interested in the club to put the time and effort into getting to know the members. At that vote, if they receive a majority, we’ll partially patch them in as a prospect. Club responsibilities will get assigned to ‘em, nice and easy to start with, but we watch carefully to see how they perform under different situations, evaluating them, if you will. Performance under stress.”
He laughed and looked at Lane under his brows with a grin. “Some guys call it the torture time, but we try to make sure it’s never more than the man can handle. If they don’t cut it, it wasn’t a fit, ya know? But, if all goes well, they’ll be given the main club patch to wear, our colors. We hold those motherfuckers tight, because they mean everything. When a man wears our colors, his actions are ours.” He took a drink from his water bottle, recapping it slowly while Lane waited impatiently for him to continue.
“That generally lasts a while longer, and some prospects don’t earn their next patch for months…sometimes years. Down the road, if the chapter officers are unanimous in their final assessment of the prospect, the man’ll be fully patched in and their prospect rocker replaced with the chapter location. Hangarounds and prospects don’t get a voice in church, our club meetings, but because a patched prospect has more responsibilities, they sit in at least, have a say on some things.” He looked at Lane. “Once guys hit the patched prospect phase, we’ll generally try to find their job fit at that point. Lots of members work outside the chapter, like me, but there are still roles to fill within the club. My brothers need me to pay my dues; plus, I contribute in other ways.” He paused, and then laughed. “Shit. I’m fucking long-winded sometimes, man. Does that answer your questions, or you got more?”
Gunny (Rebel Wayfarers MC Book 5) Page 2
