Butcher's Honor (Iron & Blood MC #2)

Chapter 3 - Butcher

The night air whips against my face as I ride toward the clubhouse, but I can't shake the image of dark waves and frightened eyes from my mind. Focus, I tell myself. Club business needs a clear head, not thoughts about pretty neighbors and their kids.

The familiar neon sign of the bar comes into view—our legitimate business front and clubhouse. A row of bikes already lines the parking lot, chrome gleaming under the streetlights.

This isn't a social call, not after what happened to young Mickey two days ago—clearly payback for exposing their trafficking ring.

I park my Harley between Hellfire's custom chopper and Ruthless's black Road King. Inside, cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air, mingling with the smell of leather and stale beer.

The regular patrons clear out of my way as I head toward the back room. They know what's coming. Everyone does.

"About fucking time," Hellfire growls when I push through the door.

Our president sits at the head of the table, his scarred face twisted in barely contained rage. At forty-eight, he's seen more blood and violence than most war veterans.

"Had to handle something at Mom's," I reply, taking my seat at his right hand.

Around the table, our core members watch with varying degrees of impatience.

Ruthless is cleaning his favorite knife with methodical precision. Crow is chain-smoking as he studies a map spread before him. Wrath and Maverick are checking their weapons with practiced ease.

"Mickey woke up," Hellfire announces. "Doc says he'll keep the eye, barely. Outlaws worked him over good."

My jaw clenches. Mickey's just nineteen, a prospect who joined us seeking family more than trouble.

"They attacked the clubhouse just a week ago, but hitting one of ours in broad daylight? They’re getting bolder."

"Too bold," Crow adds, tapping ash from his cigarette. "My sources say they're planning something big. That new weapons cache we've been tracking? It's just the beginning."

Hellfire slams his fist on the table. "They want a real war? We'll fucking give them one. Tonight."

A current of anticipation runs through the room. We've been waiting for this, planning for it since they attacked our weapon stash… Since they killed Mark. Since they attacked our clubhouse.

"What's the play?" Ruthless asks, his knife catching the light.

Crow points to the map. "One of their new stashes is here, old warehouse on the east side. Guards change at midnight. Usually six men, but after Mickey, they've doubled it."

"Twelve men guarding one cache?" Maverick scoffs. "They're scared."

"They should be," Wrath says with a grim smile.

Hellfire looks at me. "Plan?"

I study the map, pushing thoughts of frightened eyes and gentle smiles far away. This is who I really am—not a protector of single mothers but a dealer in violence and revenge.

"Three teams," I say. "Crow and Wrath take the back. Maverick and Ruthless, side entrance. Boss and I go through the front. Hard and fast, no survivors."

"They'll have a backup on speed dial," Crow warns.

I nod. "That's why we need to be in and out in ten minutes. Burn the weapons we can't take, leave nothing for them to salvage."

"And send a message," Hellfire adds, his voice rough with promise.

We spend the following hour planning details, checking weapons, and synchronizing watches. This isn't our first raid, but it needs to be perfect. The Outlaws have upped their drug dealing and are getting more violent. They’ve been testing our borders and recruiting in our neighborhoods.

After Mickey, they'll expect retaliation—they just won't expect it so soon.

At eleven-thirty, we mount up. The rumble of six Harleys shatters the night's quiet as we head east, taking back roads to avoid attention. The warehouse district is deserted this time of night, perfect for what we're about to do.

We park two blocks away, going the rest of the distance on foot. My Kevlar vest feels heavy under my cut, the familiar weight of my Glock at my hip both comforting and damning. This is what I am, what I've always been - Violence waiting to happen.

For a moment, I think of Tommy's innocent question. Are you a superhero? No, kid. I'm the monster other monsters fear.

"In position," Wrath's voice crackles through our earpieces.

"Same here," Maverick confirms.

Hellfire looks at me, waiting for my signal. As VP, raid strategy falls under my command. I take one last look at the warehouse through my night vision scope. Two guards visible at the front, more shadows moving inside.

"On my mark," I whisper. "Three... two... one... Go."

The night explodes into chaos. Our synchronized assault takes them completely by surprise. I put down the front guards with two silenced shots before they can raise the alarm. Hellfire moves in behind me, efficient and deadly.

Inside, gunfire erupts as the other teams engage. I duck behind a crate as bullets spray overhead, returning fire with precision. Years of violence have taught me to move like a predator, to see threats before they fully materialize.

"Back cleared!" Wrath calls out.

"Sides cleared!" Maverick echoes.

Bodies litter the floor as we push forward. The Outlaws fight hard, but we fight harder. This is our territory, our revenge. Each shot, each kill, is payment for Mickey's eye, for Mark’s life, for their audacity in thinking they could challenge us.

I spot movement high up—a sniper in the rafters. My bullet finds him before he can take aim, sending him crashing down among the crates of weapons.

"Time!" Crow warns.

"Plant the charges," I order, providing cover fire as Ruthless sets the explosives.

We grab what weapons we can carry—enough to make it hurt but not so much it looks like a simple robbery.

"Thirty seconds!" Ruthless calls.

We retreat in order, covering each other's backs. Outside, engines roar in the distance—their backup finally arriving.

"Move!" I shout, breaking into a run.

We're on our bikes when the first explosion hits, followed quickly by more. The warehouse lights up the night sky, a beacon of our retribution. Sirens wail in the distance as we split up, taking different routes back to the clubhouse.

The ride helps clear my head, adrenaline slowly fading into a familiar numbness. By the time we regroup, the news is already spreading through our networks. Twelve Outlaws died, one of their weapon supplies was destroyed, and their reputation was damaged.

"That'll keep them quiet for a while," Hellfire says, pouring shots for everyone.

We drink in silence, each processing the night's violence in our own way. Ruthless cleans blood from his knife. Crow makes calls to spread our version of events. Wrath and Maverick compare kill counts like kids comparing baseball cards.

But my mind keeps drifting back to a small yellow house and its neighbors. To a woman who thanked me for protection, not knowing what these hands have done. To a kid who called me a superhero, not knowing I'm anything but.

"You good?" Hellfire asks quietly, noticing my distraction.

"Yeah," I lie, throwing back another shot. "Just thinking about our next move."

He nods, buying it or pretending to. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we'll deal with whatever fallout comes."

I ride home as dawn breaks, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to my clothes. My apartment feels empty and cold. In the shower, I watch red-tinged water swirl down the drain, someone else's blood washing away like it never existed.

But it did exist. It always does. And sooner or later, Ruby will see what I really am. They all do, eventually.

It's better this way, I tell myself. Better she stays just a neighbor I helped once, nothing more. Better for her, better for Tommy, better for everyone.

But as I finally fall into bed, exhausted and battle-worn, I can't help but think about her – her curves, her beautiful face…

God, I'm so fucked.