by K. Webster
“Fuck!” he yells, his eyes landing on Rancid as blood gushes down his face. “What the fuck did you do to him?”
Rancid’s head lies at a funny angle, his eyes open and dull.
Snarling like a bear, I charge this fucker again. He scrambles back. And then he turns away to run. I kick him right in the spine, making him howl, but he keeps running. Why the fuck is he running?
COME BACK HERE, MOTHERFUCKER!
But he’s gone.
The back door slams and then I hear the distinct sound of a motorcycle revving.
I should be dead.
With them.
My eyes land on my girls and a ragged sob escapes me. I need to hold them. I need to fucking hold them. With hot tears in my eyes, I back up and gently relieve my daughter of the knife in her neck. It takes some difficult maneuvering and I gouge the knife into my arms several times, but I eventually cut through the rope. As soon as I’m free, I yank off the tape and then cradle my girls. I pull them into my arms, squeezing them tight as I scream until I’m hoarse.
I scream and scream and scream.
And when their bodies feel cold, I dig my hand into my slacks pocket. With shaky fingers, I call the only person I have left.
“If you changed your mind about Thanksgiving—”
And I scream again.
Koyn
Present…
Goddammit, this kid is going to be the death of me.
“Sorry, Prez,” Nees grumbles as he picks up his wrench from the garage floor and darts his eyes to the dent on the fuel tank.
I swear to fuck, Copper better come get this klutzy motherfucker before I cut his hands off and feed them to him. His eyes widen and he takes a step back, nearly knocking my 2020 vivid black Sport Glide Harley over. A growl of warning rumbles through me.
“Yo, Prospect,” Filter says, strutting over to us from his own bike. “Why don’t you go grab a water and take a break? You look about ready to shit yourself. And if you knock over Prez’s bike, you’re going to be shitting through about forty hollow-point holes in your ass.”
Nees hands the wrench to Filter and scrambles away mumbling apologies.
“I’m going to drown him in Keystone Lake,” I warn, my voice rough and annoyed.
Filter laughs as he drops the wrench on the work table with a clang. “Your brother will be pissed if you drown his son.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“Get over what?” Dragon asks, looking all too fucking chipper today, grinning like a fool.
“Me killing Nees.”
Dragon’s green eyes light up with violence, his large green and black dragon tattoo on his neck moving like it’s alive. “Oooh, goodie. Can I help?”
Filter shoves him. “Go blow up shit elsewhere. I’m trying to dismantle the bomb at the moment.”
Me.
I’m the bomb.
Always ticking.
If it weren’t for my VP, Filter, I would’ve blown up the whole goddamn world years ago. Filter keeps me grounded and focused. Mostly. I’m always teetering on the line of losing my fucking mind and going nuclear. He keeps me from doing either.
“You always spoil my fun.” Dragon pouts like the girl he is.
Filter laughs. “Get out of here, dickhead. We’ll see you at Church.”
“Why does he smell so…” I trail off, looking for the right word.
“Gay?”
“I was going to say bitchy.”
“Because he’s Dragon,” he says with a shrug. “For some damn reason, he thinks the motorcycle club life is better for him than the dance club life. Though I beg to differ.”
Sure, Dragon is a fucking metrosexual if I ever saw one with his perfect hair and celebrity smile and stupid tight leather pants, but he’s lethal. A pussy magnet killing machine. And the fucker is brilliant with social media. He’s one of my best assets, though I’d never fucking tell him that. His head’s big enough as it is.
“Tell him his sister wants her perfume back,” I grumble, walking over to my bike to inspect the damage. I’ve had this bike for three fucking weeks. Three weeks. How Nees’s wrench managed to come in contact with it is beyond me.
“You can tell him yourself,” Filter retorts. “That fucker bites.”
Unfortunately, when that asshole gets drunk, he turns into a fucking wannabe vampire. Starts fights and finishes them with his teeth. He and my buddy Drake from Savannah could be best fucking friends. But the world has enough assholes who are one bromance away from serial killer partners status. No need to set loose more crazies into the world, and I know if those two fuckers got together, the world would be a much darker place. Definitely not encouraging that shit.
“You ready for Church tonight?” Filter asks as we walk out of the club garage on my property and into a copse of trees that open up to a fucking amazing view.
“Yeah,” I grunt. “Lots of shit to go over.”
I cross my arms over my chest, staring out at Keystone Lake. Ellie would have loved this place. She wasn’t the city girl I turned her into. I should have fucking settled with her in Beaumont rather than moving her to Houston. So many should haves…
“Everything okay, man?” Filter asks, drawing me from thoughts that will only grow darker if I let them. He pulls his Marlboro reds from his pocket and offers me one. I push it between my lips and wait for him to light it. After I take a long drag, I blow it out and finally answer him.
“Fucking peachy.”
He snorts. “I think you meant to say, ‘Hey, Filter, let’s go shoot shit up so I can relax.’”
“Can Nees run around holding the target?” I ask, smirking. I inhale more of the smoke that calms my fucking soul—another bad habit I picked up after that night.
“Why don’t you ask Copper if that’d be okay?”
The crunch of a big-ass truck on gravel sounds as my brother makes his way up the long road to the compound. I had this place built about five years ago, moving our location from a shithole in Tulsa to Sand Springs where we could fucking breathe.
Copper’s Ford Super Duty King Ranch truck is gold with chrome trim. He rides around in that thing like he’s the fucking god of the roads. Filter and I walk over to him as he climbs out. My brother has been with the FBI for over twenty years. But, in the last ten, his views on justice have changed. The night those fuckers took my family, I was no longer Jared and he was no longer Jeremy. The Koynakov brothers died that day along with the sweetest girls on earth. Vengeance became what we talked about over turkey dinners. We became Koyn and Copper.
“Where’s my boy?” Copper asks, a wide grin on his face that used to match mine. Mine now bears scars from Rancid.
“Fuckin’ Prospect dinged up my bike,” I grumble, my cigarette bouncing between my lips as I talk. “Take his useless ass back with you.”
Copper just laughs and runs his fingers through his nearly black hair that’s sporting a few grays lately. “You’re such a dick, Jared. You’re his uncle. Cut him some slack.”
“You know I can’t save you if he blows a fucking gasket when you poke him, right?” Filter asks, giving my brother a playful slap to the back.
“I’ve been poking my baby brother for sport since I was four years old. He’s used to it.” Copper flashes me an arrogant smile, his dark brown eyes glinting with amusement. “He likes it.”
“I also like cutting the throats of fuckers who talk too much,” I remind him, glaring. I toss my cigarette at my feet and stub it out with my black boot.
Copper shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at the bright yellow FBI logo on his navy long-sleeved shirt under his matching jacket. “And I’m bound by duty to arrest you if you do.”
We share a knowing look. He’s my fucking brother. Blood over everyfuckingthing else.
“While this has been a touching moment,” Filter jokes, “let’s head over to the range. I’m feeling ragey since my bitch is on the rag and didn’t feel like giving head.”
I lift my brows
. “Stormy’s always on the rag.”
“Better than being fucking pregnant,” he bites back.
True fucking story. I can’t be losing my VP to a pregnant bitch who I’m pretty sure gives it up to half the other Royal Bastards when he’s not looking. They’re not exclusive, so it’s not like he’ll kill anyone for touching her, but he’s the kind of guy who lives by some sort of moral code that most of us are missing. If Stormy gets knocked up, he’ll father the fuck out of that kid.
“Let’s roll then, assholes.”
I can hear Bermuda, my club treasurer and the big fucking redneck of the group, trying to explain to Nees how to hold his weapon. Filter gave Nees a little Glock that his green ass should be able to handle. I mean, I know the kid’s fresh out of high school, but this is common knowledge bullshit. I blame Copper for letting Nees spend so much time with Krista the cunt. It made him a fucking pussy. If I’ve learned anything in this lifetime, it’s that if you want to survive, you can’t act like a goddamn vagina.
“You coming to Church tonight?” I ask my brother as I load bullets into a magazine.
“Naw, man,” he grumbles. “I’m not patched in. Don’t change your rules for me.”
My rules.
Sure, I am president of the Tulsa chapter of the Royal Bastards MC, but at the end of the day, I abide by a different set of rules. My club follows those rules without hesitation. They may not understand where the hell my mind goes half the time, but they’re right there with me. Loyalty is everything to me. I reward them with money, pussy, and endless opportunities.
“Least stay for dinner. Stormy can cook half the time,” I offer. “You can spoon feed your baby boy.”
He laughs. “I still can’t believe you nicknamed him Nees. That’s harsh. Even for you.”
“He doesn’t act like a nephew. He acts like a vagina. A fucking niece. It’s better than Momma’s Tit, which was the other option.”
“Asshole,” he says with a smile.
Filter and Dragon begin firing at one of the targets, taking turns like two kids on the schoolyard. Nees awkwardly shoots his Glock while Bermuda watches like a proud parent.
Copper picks up one of my AKs and shoves a magazine into it. I grab my own AK and walk with him over to a dirt patch. We both raise our weapons, standing side by side, and without hesitation unload into the target tied to a bale of hay about fifty feet away. The sound is deafening as we unload our magazines. We finish at the same time and lower our guns like practiced soldiers.
Some call it target practice. I call it preparation.
The other Royal Bastards chapters are building their clubs with members.
I’m creating a fucking army.
“Calm the fuck down,” Payne, my SGT at Arms barks out. “You dumbasses better not be drunk.”
Gibson and Bizzy try and fail to stop their laughing. I don’t have the energy for their comedy tonight. They’re the fucking bozos of this club. Goddamn children.
“Not drunk,” Gibson assures Payne. “Scout’s honor.”
Payne grits his teeth. It’s his job to keep order at Church, but sometimes these outlaws are too damn disorderly for that shit. “Bermuda, give us a rundown on finances.”
This is my favorite part of Friday nights. Discussing how much money we made. At one time, I was the breadwinner for my family. Now, I’m the leader of a club of misfits who are pretty fucking smart and can win their own damn bread. They make me lots of money. Dirty, filthy money. Money we take from those who don’t deserve it in order to further our own agenda.
Bermuda pushes his reading glasses up his nose, looking like a fucking grandma, and opens his laptop. We’re like those other Royal Bastards and other motorcycle clubs in the sense that we have a strong brotherhood and are always up to some shit. But where we differ is we don’t live in some rundown clubhouse that smells like piss and old beer. We look like bikers, but beneath the leather and hair and snarls, we’re savvy businessmen. Every single one of my guys drives an expensive-ass bike, has a fat bank account, and takes a fucking shower every day.
“I swear to God, I will tape your mouths shut,” Payne warns, snarling like a rabid wolf at Gibson and Bizzy. They live to torment him. If they weren’t loyal as fuck and great marksmen, I would’ve kicked their asses out long ago. But, like two goddamn eager puppies, they like to annoy the shit out of me and would lick my ass if I’d let them. They’d take a bullet for me and that fucking matters to me.
Church, for our chapter, is a massive boardroom-style room with a huge window that overlooks a thicket of trees. The room is outfitted with Wi-Fi, a Keurig, and a sixty-inch TV hanging on the wall. We take our meetings seriously. Well, most of us.
Gibson and Bizzy continue to snigger like a couple of girls, but I ignore them. Bermuda has my focus. He clears his throat and taps on his computer. Then, he grins at us. Bermuda is thirty something and a former ranch hand from Dallas. He ran the books for the ranch owner, but when the guy died, the kids took over, leaving him shit. The ranch filed bankruptcy not long after he left and they begged him to come back. By then, though, he’d already patched in under me and I was giving him the acknowledgments he deserved.
“I’ve been following that lead Drake gave us,” Bermuda says. “You know he hates those human traffickers, but even crazy ass Drake can’t kill everyone. He hooked me up with a few names there in Georgia. Followed the money. Siphoned a shitload out of three players’ shell accounts.”
“No shit?” I say, leaning forward in my chair. At one time, I sat in a boardroom just like this one but wearing a suit and a smile that made deals happen. Now, my smiles are evil and sinister. Vindictive. I roll my cigarette between my finger and thumb, itching to light it up. But per my own rules, no smoking in the goddamn house.
“Bannon White, some dude named Will Dartmouth, and Grady Anderson.” He turns his laptop around to show me his spreadsheet. “Two mil, six mil, and half a mil.”
Several guys slap the table and holler out praise for Bermuda.
“Good fucking work,” I tell him. “Any of it trace back to us?”
He rolls his eyes. “Koyn, you know me better than that. I ran it through so many loops, it’d take a whole damn team of digital experts and fucking Snowden to make any sense of it.”
“Good. Looks like everyone’s getting an early Christmas thanks to Bermuda.”
Bermuda scratches at his close-shaved beard and then twists the laptop around again. “I moved some of last quarter’s profit into the stock market. Been doing a little day trading to turn a quick dollar.”
Day trading is exhausting and will give you ulcers, but Bermuda lives for this shit. I trust him implicitly, so I know he won’t fuck us.
“Great, we’re rolling in the dough,” Payne says, slapping the table with his huge, tattooed hand. “Next order of business.” His eyes cut to me, imploring to move the meeting along.
It’s always the second thing we go over after finances.
Revenge.
Always revenge.
“Anything on Bastards in Blade Blood?” I ask, my voice tight as I rein in the violence thrumming through me.
Several guys shake their heads, but Dragon slaps Katana on his shoulder before leaning in. Katana—a small, quiet Asian guy who’s a fucking ninja with a blade, but can’t grow a single hair on his face to save his life—remains emotionless despite Dragon grinning in his face.
“We heard some things today,” Dragon reveals, his voice low and wicked like he’s a character on stage at the fucking performing arts center.
I don’t have patience for his theatrics when it comes to this. Never this. My blood boils and before I can punch him in his pretty fucking face, Filter smooths shit out like always.
“Dude, spit it out. Prez has been working on this shit for a decade. If you have something, fucking tell us already.”
Dragon has the sense to look ashamed. “Right. Sorry, Koyn. Katana and I rode to McHenry’s downtown. Some old biker was there we didn’t know
named Bison. Bought him some drinks and he got to talking when we inquired about the BBBs.”
Katana nods, his nearly black eyes gleaming. “He’d heard of them. Started telling stories about what a bad gang of bikers they were, especially this one guy named Randall Putnam.”
I remain still, my blood freezing in my veins. Randall. The name—though I never knew it before—causes a ripple of malevolence to shudder through me.
“Bison said he was thinking of joining their club because they were out of El Paso where he lived, but then he got bad vibes. He’s one of those do-gooders,” Dragon says, rolling his green eyes. “It ended up he joined a gang out of Austin. When he asked about the BBBs again later on down the road, he learned they’d simply vanished. Every single member.” His eyes dart to mine in a knowing way.
I murdered my way through that entire gang hunting for that motherfucker. Never found him either. And my brother, the loyal bastard he is, made it all fucking disappear. Being related to a Fed has its perks after all. It was as if the BBBs never existed. No one who ever patched in was seen again.
“How do we know this is the guy Koyn’s looking for?” Filter asks. “Could have been some Joe Schmoe member.”
“That’s what I said,” Katana agrees.
“And I knew you assholes would question it, so I dug deeper.” Dragon flashes us a smug grin, the dragon tattoo seemingly pulsating with the twitch of his neck muscle. “I asked why Randall gave him bad vibes.”
Filter glances over at me to make sure I’m not about to lose it.
“He said the guy had a thing for young girls,” Dragon finally spits out. “Real young. Like land his ass in the slammer young. If you want, I can call Drake and let him handle—”
“He went to prison?” I grit out. “He there now?”
“Nah, Katana made some calls and discovered he got out eight years ago. Overcrowding. The system is fucked for letting that predator back out on the streets.” Dragon cracks his neck. “If you don’t want Drake having him, I’ll take great pleasure in hunting him down.”
