Like the night before, I let my mind wander back to the night before I left for Boston. I see her face, flushed, a fresh sheen of sweat glistens over her creamy skin and her lips are swollen from the desperate assault my mouth played on hers. Her limbs weak as they wrap around me, and though she’s fucking exhausted, she arches for me one last time, drawing me into her until we become one. She whispers my name, tells me she loves me and makes me promise to always love her.
And I will.
I’ll always love Lace.
The Corrupt Bastards' clubhouse comes into sight and I push back the sweet face of my girl and bury Dominic Petra. Leading what we’ve dubbed as the final ride, the devil resurrects in my saddle and Blackie emerges. I lift my hand off the handlebar and circle my index finger in the wind.
Round up boys.
Satan’s ready to fade these motherfuckers to black.
My brothers flash their headlights behind me.
Ready, all we see is red. We’re broken down, battered but we’re ready to crawl our way back to the top. They tried to break us but they don’t know we’re made of concrete skin—it’s time they learned. Thirty bikes deep we roll through the gates, Stryker and Cobra come up alongside me, each steer with one hand and fire with the other, shooting at any living thing in the parking lot. I pull in front of the clubhouse, drop my kickstand and pull the glass bottle out of my saddlebag shoving the rag inside of it. I pull a lighter from my jacket and watch the flame travel the length of the fabric before rearing my hand back and tossing the bottle into the glass window. I don’t care where it lands or who it hits. Burn motherfuckers.
Pulling the machine gun over one shoulder and fitting the magazine of bullets to the other I dismount my bike. The sea of headlights illuminates the path our boots pound as we race toward the clubhouse. Three Bastards emerge from the shattered glass, guns blazing, but Riggs skids to a stop and sprays them with bullets, waving me to go ahead.
I shoot my way through the front door and catch sight of the woman dancing in the fire, but before I can put her out of her misery, Deuce does. They creep out of the corners like cockroaches, whores and Bastards, but our bullets don’t stop. We have no regard for human life; we pump them all full of our lead and won’t stop until every last one is dead.
With another twirl of my finger in the air I let my boys loose and let them do whatever the fuck they want. I’ve got my sights set on the leader, ready to cut him to the marrow and watch the life fade from his eyes. I crave it like the drugs that used to haunt my dreams.
Charlie lifts his head from the bar, aims the barrel of his rifle at me and fires off a round.
Come at me motherfucker.
Let’s go.
“Promise me you’ll come back to me.”
“I’ll always come back for you, girl.”
I take cover behind a wall, close my eyes for a second and she’s back, miles of dark, wavy hair that match her dark eyes. I can almost see the tortured expression reflected at me when they tell her I’m gone. I want to make it better, I want to dance with her and make it all go away but the only way I can do that is if I keep my promise and keep coming for her.
I reload my clip and step out from behind the wall. My eyes do a quick sweep of the room and watch as Bergen and Brooklyn destroy and rob the lives of the men responsible for the destruction of our club.
Pipe crosses his arms, a gun in each hand, and fires away, screaming out in agony as he keeps his index fingers firm on the triggers.
That’s for Oksana.
Riggs jumps on top of a chair and spins around in a full circle shooting six Bastards. Repeats the act, shooting the same targets, making sure they’re dead.
That’s for Mack and Bosco.
A bullet pierces Cobra’s shoulder and he screams through the pain continuing to shoot, lining up a clean shot and shoots the ear off one of the Bastards.
That’s for Jack.
Smoke and his men drop bodies as quick as they appear, we’ve got this.
Out of the corner of my eye I see the barrel of Charlie’s gun. I cross my left arm over my right and pull the trigger before he can. I pull it again. And again, once more.
Spinning around, I watch as Charlie clutches his chest with one hand and raises his other with the gun and struggles to pull the trigger.
“Go on, I’ll give it to you,” I dare him.
His finger closes around it as my bullet whizzes through the air and blows his finger off. The shots begin to die down, the gun powder is thick in the air and the bitch is still burning on the ground. Smoke throws his gun over his shoulder and walks over to the unfortunate club whore and whips out his cock and takes a piss on her.