Chapter 6
SIX
DAGGER
Life on the road is shit.
I miss my bed, the one with the expensive-ass mattress that I splurged on because I’m too damn old to sleep on crap. I miss Brutus, my dog, who’s probably losing his mind without me. He’s a stubborn bastard, just like me, and I bet Mason’s ready to throw him out by now. But more than anything, I miss my club. My brothers.
And Mason.
He’s pissed. No, beyond pissed. He’s called me nonstop, demanding to know why I walked away, why I stepped down as VP. Every time, it’s the same thing, “What the hell’s going on, Dagger?”
And every time, I give him nothing. “Needed some air.” “Needed a break.” Bullshit excuses he doesn’t buy for a second.
But what the hell am I supposed to say? That I left because of her? Because I can’t stop looking at Chloe like a goddamn idiot? That every time she walks into a room, I feel like the biggest piece of shit alive because I want something I have no business wanting?
Mason would kill me. Or worse, he’d cut me out of the club for good. And I wouldn’t blame him. Chloe’s too young, too good, and way the hell out of my reach.
So, I left.
It’s not like I didn’t try to bury it. Tried ignoring her, avoiding her, pretending like she wasn’t around. Didn’t work. Just made me look like more of an asshole. So now I’m out here, driving aimlessly down one highway after another, trying to outrun the mess in my head.
But let me tell you, the open road isn’t the freedom everyone says it is. It’s boring, it’s lonely, and it gives you way too much time to think. Every mile, I feel like turning the bike around, like just going back and dealing with the fallout.
But I can’t.
Not yet. Not until I figure out how to look Mason in the eye without feeling like a traitor. Not until I can be in the same room as Chloe and remember my goddamn place.
So yeah, Mason keeps asking why I left.
Truth is, I don’t have an answer he’d want to hear.
I’m sitting in a dive bar over a thousand miles away from Jackson, nursing a whiskey and trying not to think about everything I left behind, when my phone buzzes. Mason.
I let it ring a few times before answering. “Yeah?”
“Need you to meet up with a club,” Mason says, skipping the pleasantries. “They’ve got some of their guys going rogue and causing trouble. Figured you’d know how to set them straight.”
I take a slow sip of my drink. “You got it. Which club?”
“The Iron Valkyries,” Mason replies. “Thor Prez is Harlan Scott. Remember him? South Dakota rally a few years back?”
A grin tugs at my lips as the memory hits. That trip was chaos from start to finish. “The ones we got drunk off our asses with?”
“The very same,” Mason says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Harlan’s a good guy, but he’s got his hands full. He needs backup, and I told him you’d come help get things sorted.”
I lean back in my chair, drumming my fingers on the table. “You already told him I’d do it, huh?”
“Damn right I did,” Mason snaps. “You’re out there wandering around anyway. Figured I’d give you something useful to do.”
I shake my head, smirking. Leave it to Mason to call me out and give me orders at the same time. “Fine. Where do I find him?”
Mason rattles off the details, and I jot them down on the back of a coaster.
“And Dagger,” Mason says before hanging up, his tone softening just slightly. “Try not to burn the place to the ground while you’re at it.”
“No promises,” I mutter, but the line’s already dead.
I toss back the rest of my whiskey, throw some cash on the bar, and head for my bike. Looks like the road’s got a new destination.
The next day, I pull up to the compound, my bike rumbling beneath me as I take in the sight. The place looks like a damn fortress—fenced in with tall metal barriers and barbed wire coiled at the top. It’s got the vibe of a prison more than a clubhouse, and I can’t help but wonder what the hell they’re so worried about.
I roll up to the gate, slowing as two muscled, tattooed bikers step out to block the way. They’re both big—built like brick walls—and their eyes sweep over me like they’re sizing me up. One of them gives me a quick chin lift but doesn’t look any friendlier for it.
“Name?” the guy on the left asks, his tone sharp and no-nonsense.
“Dagger,” I reply, keeping my voice calm and steady. No need to flex. My name’s all the weight I need.
The two of them exchange a glance, then step back, letting the gate creak open.
“Park by the main building,” the first guy says. “Harlan’s inside.”
I nod and ease my bike forward, my eyes scanning the compound as I roll in. Bikers are scattered around the yard, some working on bikes, others lounging with cigarettes and drinks. There’s a tension in the air, though—something just under the surface that doesn’t sit right.
I park near the main building, cutting the engine and stepping off my bike. The moment my boots hit the ground, I feel the weight of eyes on me. They’re watching—some curious, some suspicious. I ignore them and head for the door.
Harlan Scott, huh? Let’s see what the hell kind of mess I’ve been dragged into.
Walking inside, I can feel the tension hit me like a wall. Eyes follow me, sideways glances from every corner of the room. The air is heavy, charged, like everyone’s waiting for something to go down. It’s not the usual clubhouse vibe—it’s tighter, harsher.
My eyes sweep the room until I spot Harlan at a table in the back. He looks up, and his gaze locks on mine. He lifts a hand, motioning me over.
The shift in the room is immediate. The men watching me size me up one last time but stand down when they see Harlan’s signal. Guess I’m cleared—for now.
I make my way across the room, boots scuffing against the old wood floor, ignoring the lingering stares. Harlan’s eyes don’t leave mine, and when I reach the table, he gestures to the chair across from him.
“Dagger,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Been a while.”
I nod, lowering myself into the seat. “It has. Place doesn’t feel like I remember, though.”
He snorts, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, we’ve had to lock it down. Shit’s changed since South Dakota.”
I glance around again, the tension in the room still buzzing under my skin. “What the hell’s going on, Harlan? This place feels more like a fortress than a clubhouse.”
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’re in deep, brother. Some of our guys went rogue, and now they’re causing trouble, stirring shit up with people we don’t want problems with.” He leans forward, his voice dropping. “It’s bad. Real bad. That’s why Mason sent you. Figured you’d know how to handle it.”
I study him for a second, his face lined with exhaustion. Whatever this mess is, it’s taken a toll.
“Alright,” I say, leaning back. “Lay it out for me. Let’s get this shit handled.”
Harlan nods, his expression hard. This isn’t going to be easy—but it’s what I came here for.
The roar of my bike cuts out as I park in front of the Iron Valkyries' compound, my eyes scanning the place. It looks more like a prison than a clubhouse. Tall fences topped with barbed wire surround the property, and cameras are perched at every corner. The tension in the air is almost palpable, even before I step inside.
The gate creaks open after one of their guys gives me a once-over, his sharp eyes narrowing before he waves me through. I roll in, passing groups of men working on bikes, smoking, and watching me like I might be a threat. The place is busy, but there’s an edge to it, like everyone’s waiting for something to happen.
I park near the main building, kick down my stand, and swing off my bike. The second my boots hit the ground, I feel the weight of their stares. Harlan better have a damn good reason for dragging me all the way out here.
Inside, the tension only thickens. Guys lean against walls, their eyes following me as I make my way to the back of the clubhouse. A few nod in acknowledgment, but most just stare. The place is rough—scuffed floors, peeling paint, and the faint smell of oil and stale beer.
Harlan’s sitting at a beat-up wooden table in the corner, his back to the wall. The guy hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw him. Still stocky, with a beard that’s more gray than black now, and eyes that seem to catch everything.
“Dagger,” he says, standing as I approach. He claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm. “Appreciate you coming, brother.”
“Would’ve been nice to know what I was walking into,” I say, my voice gruff.
He chuckles, motioning for me to sit. “Fair enough. Let’s get into it.”
I drop into the chair across from him, and he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “We’ve got a problem with some of our own,” he starts. “Couple of guys went rogue, started dealing on the side without club approval. We shut it down, or so we thought. Turns out, they’ve been stirring shit up behind our backs. They’ve got some locals involved now, and it’s turning into a damn mess.”
“How big of a mess?” I ask, my jaw tightening.
“Big enough,” he says, his voice hard. “They’ve been cutting deals with the Sable Serpents—you know them?”
I nod. “Ran into them a few years back. Bad news.”
“Exactly,” Harlan says. “These bastards think they can use our name to shield their side hustle. The Serpents are sniffing around, thinking we’re involved, and now I’ve got a shitstorm brewing in my backyard.”
I let out a low whistle, leaning back in my chair. “Sounds like you need to make an example out of someone.”
“Already started,” Harlan says, a grim smile tugging at his lips. “But it’s not enough. They’re dug in, and I can’t risk going in half-cocked. That’s where you come in. Mason told me you’re good at sorting this kind of thing out.”
I nod slowly, my mind already spinning. “How many guys are we talking about? And how deep are they in with the Serpents?”
“Three of ours, for sure,” Harlan says, holding up a hand. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if there are more. As for the Serpents, they’ve got a small crew around here, but it’s enough to make shit complicated.”
I rub my jaw, considering. “First thing’s first. You need to figure out who’s loyal and who’s not. If you can’t trust your own guys, you’re screwed before you start.”
He nods. “Already working on that. But trust takes time, and we don’t have much of it. I need someone I can count on to help me make moves now.”
“Alright,” I say, sitting forward. “You give me the names of the guys you’re sure about, and I’ll start there. See what I can shake loose.”
Harlan’s grin is sharp, approving. “Knew you’d be the right guy for this.”
Over the next few weeks, I dive headfirst into the mess Harlan’s dealing with. This isn’t just some rogue members acting out—this is a full-blown disaster waiting to explode. The deeper I dig, the more it’s clear that if we don’t clean this up fast, the Iron Valkyries are going to have a war on their hands.
First, I spend time figuring out who’s loyal and who’s not. Harlan gives me the names of the guys he trusts, but the list is shorter than it should be. A lot of the club is sitting on the fence, unsure who to believe after the shitstorm the rogues kicked up.
“First thing we do is tighten up your loyalists,” I tell Harlan one night in his office. The place is a mess—papers everywhere, whiskey bottles scattered around, and maps pinned to the wall.
“And how do you suggest we do that?” Harlan asks, his voice low and rough.
I shrug, leaning back in the chair across from him. “Run a job with them. Something simple. Get them working together again. Trust isn’t built in a day, but you’ve gotta start somewhere.”
He nods slowly. “We’ve got a delivery run coming up. Parts for a local auto shop. Easy ride, but it’s got enough moving pieces to test them. You think that’ll work?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll ride with them, keep an eye on how they handle things.”
The delivery run isn’t smooth, but it’s not a total disaster either. Two of the newer guys start bickering about who’s taking point, and before it gets out of hand, I step in.
“Knock it off,” I bark, my voice sharp enough to shut them up mid-sentence. “We’re here to work, not stroke egos. Figure it out, or I’ll figure it out for you.”
That shuts them up, and the rest of the run goes off without any more bullshit. When we get back to the clubhouse, I see a flicker of something I haven’t seen since I got here: respect.
After that, I turn my focus to the rogues. Harlan gives me three names, and I make it my job to find out exactly what they’ve been up to.
The first guy, Trey, is cocky as hell. I track him down at a bar a few towns over, sitting with a couple of Sable Serpents, laughing like he owns the place.
I plant myself at the bar, waiting until he notices me. When his eyes meet mine, his grin falters.
“Dagger,” he says, trying to act casual. “Didn’t know you were around.”
“Yeah, well, here I am,” I say, standing and motioning toward the door. “Let’s talk.”
He hesitates, looking at the Serpents like they might back him up, but I don’t give him a choice. I grab his collar and haul him outside, pushing him up against the wall.
“You’re gonna tell me everything,” I growl, my fist tight in his shirt. “Who you’re working with, what deals you’ve made, and why the hell you thought screwing over your own club was a good idea.”
Trey spills fast. Turns out, he’s been skimming off club jobs to fund his side hustle with the Serpents. He gives me names, places, and dates, and it’s worse than I thought. The Serpents are deeper into this than Harlan realized.
I bring the intel back, and we start dismantling the operation piece by piece. We hit their stashes, cut off their supply lines, and put the pressure on anyone who steps out of line. It’s slow work, but it’s getting results.
In between jobs, I put in time with the club. I help fix bikes, mediate disputes, and make sure everyone sees me pulling my weight. Trust doesn’t come easy, but over time, the guys start to see me as one of their own.
One night, Marc, one of the newer recruits, pulls me aside. “Didn’t think much of you when you first showed up,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck. “But you’ve been solid, man. Respect.”
I grunt, nodding. “Appreciate it.”
It feels good to be trusted, to be needed. But no matter how much I settle in here, I can’t shake the ache in my chest.
I miss Jackson. I miss Mason, Brutus, the chaos of the Perdition clubhouse. But most of all, I miss Chloe.
She’s in my head constantly. I think about her laugh, her smile, the fire in her eyes when she’s determined about something. Being away from her was supposed to help me get my shit together, but it’s only made me realize how much I want to be near her.
One night, I’m sitting at the bar after a long day, nursing a whiskey, when one of the club girls saunters over. She’s tall, blonde, and dressed to turn heads, but I barely glance at her as she slides onto the stool next to me.
“Hey, stranger,” she purrs, her hand brushing against my arm.
“Not interested,” I say flatly, staring into my drink.
“Come on,” she says, leaning closer. “You’ve been here for weeks and haven’t let loose once. Let me help with that.”
She presses her lips to my neck, but I grab her wrist and push her back, gentle but firm. “I said, not interested.”
Her pout quickly turns into a frown, and she tilts her head. “What’s the deal? You got an old lady or something?”
I pause, my jaw tightening. “Something like that,” I mutter, finishing my drink and standing up.
She huffs, crossing her arms. “Whatever. Your loss.”
I walk away, my chest feeling heavier than it should. She’s right—it is my loss. Because the only woman I want is back in Jackson, and I have no idea if she feels the same way.
One day, I’m going to have to stop running. One day, I’ll go back and face everything I’ve been avoiding. But for now, I’ve still got work to finish. And the road ahead isn’t getting any shorter.