“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.
I lead my men and the men of the Bergen County charter into the garage and brief them on what I plan to do. An operation that seemed hopeless a few days ago springs to life and retribution is so close I can taste it. With the help of the other charter, the new bikes and enough ammo to take out a village we have a strong chance of wiping them out, especially if they don’t see us coming.
Surprise them.
Introduce them to the ghost of the Satan’s Knights.
Make them fade to Black.
My body is here lying on the couch next to Reina’s but my mind isn’t, my mind is out there, with my brothers fighting to take back what is ours. Even before I was the president, as long as I’ve held my patch I’ve been on the front lines. I don’t know what it’s like to be left behind while my boys are off riding and avenging.
I glance down as Reina reaches for my hands and rests them on top of her belly. I bury my face in the crook of her neck as the baby kicks against my hand. It’s my kid who reminds me that sometimes we all need to take a step back and appreciate the little treasures in life. The blessings.
She lifts her head from my chest and I stare at her lips as she says another name.