“Can I ask for something in return?”
A couple of days ago I would’ve rolled my eyes but I find myself nodding and waiting for him to speak.
“Stay safe, son,” he hoarsely asks of me.
I raise an eyebrow as his eyes plead with mine and for the first time since they showed up on my doorstep I actually start to think about him and my mom having a place in my life, in my family. I think of the future and I can see them fitting in.
“Haven’t you heard? Safety is my middle name,” I say, sliding off the desk before I return the gesture and pat him on the back. “Just ask, Kitten.”
He chuckles as I start for the door with a smile on my face. Reaching the hall, I turn and glance over my shoulder at my dad. He leans against the desk, mimicking the stance he held in that old photograph and I smile at him.
“Thanks, Dad,” I call before striding down the hallway, confident Lauren and Eric will be just fine here. My parents may have made a bunch of mistakes throughout my childhood but I couldn’t deny the change in them and how genuine their newfound love for their grandson was.
My phone rings, pulling me away from my thoughts and I swipe my thumb across the screen to answer the call.
“The Tiger speaking,” I answer.
“You take care of the family?” Blackie asks.
“Yeah, they’re good,” I reply, closing the door behind me and stepping toward the car waiting for me. “I’m on my way back,” I tell him as I climb into the car.
I stare out the window at the house that holds my family until the limo drives away from the safe haven and whisks me away to Hell.
Chapter Forty-Five
Three days later I got a call from Jones giving me a heads up that Brantley was sniffing around the clubhouse—whatever the fuck was left of it. Technically, it was a crime scene, and we weren’t allowed passed the compound gates but after a call to the club attorney I got us access. The nomads were living at the clubhouse before the explosion, everything they fucking owned was inside and if anything could be salvaged they needed to get to it. Poor bastards came to Brooklyn, got their shit blown to bits, and their asses thrown in some fleabag motel. Stryker got off easy doing a bid in prison, poor Linc needed six surgeries, a metal rod put in his back and fuck if I know how many screws, pins and bolts to keep his fucking spine intact.
Pulling my truck into the compound, I pass the glass enclosure, still splattered with Mack’s blood, and the gruesome reminder we’ll be burying him tomorrow. Disgusted, I throw it into park and climb out before stopping in my tracks and staring at the damage.
The yellow caution tape obnoxiously stares back at me, taunting me, reminding me how fucking hopeless this whole thing is. Jack’s out for the count, leaving this shit on my shoulders, and I don’t know where to begin. This attack differed from the others. This wasn’t anywhere close to the shootout at Pops’ gun range, or the sneak attack drive-by that pussy, Wu, played on us. The Bastards left us in ruins, without a home, half our club in the hospital, some in the morgue and all our bikes blown to smithereens.
Tearing down the tape, I climb over the rubble and debris and stand in the center of what used to be the Dog Pound. I bend down, pushing aside pieces of glass and Sheetrock and pull the corner of a tattered American flag to the surface.
“Yo, Blackie’s here,” Deuce calls out, forcing me to divert my eyes away from the flag in my hands to the three men walking toward me.
Stryker, Deuce and Cobra look similar to the way they did after the bomb exploded—sans the blood—covered in dust, dirt and soot. I watch as something flashes over Stryker as his eyes drift down to the flag I was holding.
“Think this belongs to you.” I offer the flag.
“Shit,” he mutters, taking the worn fabric from my hands, running his fingers over the stars and stripes. Lifting his head, he nods in appreciation. “This flag survived Afghanistan and now this. It’s indestructible,” he says thoughtfully, folding it expertly into a triangle, like they do at a soldier’s memorial. Tucking the final corner away he hands it back to me. “Fix this shit, Black and show every motherfucker from here to the West Coast the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn are just as resilient as that flag.”
“Deep shit, bro,” Deuce comments.
“And if that’s not enough incentive,” Cobra begins as he glances over his shoulder. “There’s a man hurtin’ over there that is desperate to make that message clear.”