Chapter 30 Diesel
THIRTY
DIESEL
She’s here. Safe. No blood. No injuries I can see. Breathing. And in my fucking arms. I don’t think I’ve ever shaken this much. I feel sick, my stomach doing that frantic roll that goes hand-in-hand with anxiety.
I don’t care what the hell is going on behind me. I barely acknowledge Crank on his knees, surrounded by my brothers as I drag Makenna out of the room.
As soon as we’re in the corridor, I back her up against the wall, and drop my head into her shoulder. She’s here. She’s breathing. And she’s still mine.
“Zane?” The sweet softness of her voice is a bandage over the fear that bled through me the entire way here.
When Blade said Crank was coming here, I swear I lost 10 years of my life. I’ve never been so terrified.
I breathe her in, not moving an inch.
“Baby? You’re scaring me.”
It’s the wobble in her voice that has my head lifting. I never want her afraid, especially not of me or for me.
I press my forehead to hers, like I can fuse our minds together. “When I heard he was coming here —” I can’t finish the sentence. Not without feeling sick to my stomach.
She cups my face, like I’ve done to her a hundred times, and kisses the corner of my mouth. “I’m safe. The guys took care of everything. Truthfully, it was kind of a pitiful attack.”
I smile, trying to lighten the situation.
“He thought he was walking into an empty clubhouse,” Zane explains. “He had no idea that we left brothers behind.”
I kiss along her jawline, unable to stop touching her. The way she responds tells me she doesn’t want me to either. She soaks in every press of my lips against her skin like it’s sacred. Because it is.
Because it’s her.
Because I love her.
“I thought I was going to be too late.” It hurts me to say that. To admit it.
“You weren’t. You were just on time, like you always are.” She strokes over my cheek with her thumb. Warmth and hope bloom in my chest. “You always save me.”
That belief, that faith she has that I’ll always be there feels like a gift I don’t deserve.
“I always will.” I kiss her again, needing to taste her. “I’d follow you into the pits of hell if that’s where you went. You don’t get to go anywhere without me, not again.” I let out a ragged breath that seems to catch my chest.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Her fingers curl into my shirt. “It’s you and me against the world, Zane. Just like it’s always been.”
Against foster parents, entitled men, monsters who wanted to take without permission… It’s always been me and her.
I soak her in for a moment longer, and then I close my eyes. I don’t want to do this, but it’s the last hurdle. “I have to finish this.”
She doesn’t ask what I mean. She knows.
“So do that and then come back to me.”
I open my eyes, mapping every inch of her face even though I can do it in my sleep already.
“I was ready to kill anyone who stood between you and me.”
Her lips twitch. “And who says romance is dead?”
“I don’t give a shit about romance. I give a shit about you.
” I push her hair off her face. “About keeping you breathing, about putting an end to this shit so I can stop waking in the middle of the night wondering if someone’s gonna put a bullet in you to get to me.
” I can’t stop the full body shiver that goes through me as those words leave my mouth.
“One last time, Kenna. One last move and then I’m coming back to you. ”
I kiss her like I’m stitching a piece of my soul into her, then I force myself to step back.
“Take care of business,” she says. “Go and be Diesel for them and then come back to me as Zane.”
When I walk back through the bar, only the girls and Toby are here. I don’t need to ask where the others went. I already know. I make my way to the shed.
Two of the London boys are waiting outside, arms folded over their chest like they could break the world with just their glares.
They part to let me through, and I step inside. The smell hits me first. Musty, damp. Blood. Piss. The walls are heavily soundproofed, because I didn’t hear the screams from outside, but now they reverberate through the space.
Nic is standing in front of Crank and Blade.
I’ve only been gone a few minutes, but already both men are strung up by their hands, dangling like sacks of meat.
Riot is in the process of cutting both of their shirts off.
Their kuttes are already piled on the floor in front of them. Someone definitely took a leak on them.
Ravage is leaning against the wall, thick arms folded over his chest, his boot pressed against the wall like he’s watching a show and not the execution of two of our own.
He steps forward, coming to stop in front of Nic, and then he hands him a patch. The presidents patch. Nic takes it like it’s something sacred, tracing the stitching on the word lightly. “Ain’t sure I’m worthy of this,” he murmurs, “but I’m going to try and be.”
“Then you’re already worthy,” Ravage says.
Nic holds it in his fist, like he’s soaking the title into his skin, his cells. I tap my tongue against my teeth, not because my brain is glitching, but because this is finally over and I don’t know what to do with my body.
“Is this how low the club has stooped?” Crank rasps. His voice is shredded. There’s already the start of bruising around his throat and his face is swollen. Nic turns to glare at him as Ravage steps back to his place at the wall. “That you’d kill two patched brothers just so you can take my seat?”
Nic stares at him. I’m sure he has so many things he wants to say, but he delivers the ultimate blow. He doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, he turns calmly to me and says, “Diesel, bring me the blowtorch.”
I don’t flinch. Even though I know what that blowtorch is going to be used for. Violence is stitched into every part of my body. It’s who I am, who I’ve had to be over the years.
I walk over to the table pushed against one wall. There are multiple tools laid out, household items that the average DIY dad would keep in their shed or garage. I skim my fingers over the knives, the saws, the pliers before I grab the blowtorch.
Crank is whimpering, like he thinks that’s going to save him. It won’t. His fate was sealed the moment he killed brothers. Blade shivers, like the whole club walked over his grave.
I light the blowtorch, the flame casting a warm glow over my face. There was a time when I would’ve enjoyed this, would’ve lived for this. But now? All I want to do is get back to her.
Nic takes it from me, then glances over his shoulder at Ravage. “You want to do the honours?”
He shakes his head. “This is all yours, prez.”
That word lands heavy. With Nic leading us, maybe, just maybe, we can drag our chapter back in line with the rest of the club. Maybe I can finally give my wife a safe place to land.
Nic slowly rounds them, his boots loud in the silence. Blade finally breaks, whimpering, pleas spilling from his lips. No one listens. He knows he’s next, knows the pain he’s going to endure.
He’ll smell Crank’s burning flesh before his own. And watch Crank choke on his own blood before he suffers the same fate.
Mercy isn’t a gift that is given to those who betray the patch. It shouldn’t be. Those vows we take when we earn our colours aren’t just pretty words. They mean something. It’s why I didn’t leave when I had the chance. It’s why I didn’t go nomad like Hawk.
Blade thrashes against his chains, the last desperate act of a man staring down his own end. “Fuck you!” He sneers. “Fuck all of you!”
Nic slides his gaze from Blade back to Crank. Then he lifts the blowtorch to Crank’s back, where his club tattoo sits between his shoulders and he leans in. Then, in the darkest, most vicious tone I’ve ever heard from him, Nic says, “Scream loud for me.”
And Crank does.
Nic sits at the head of the table. There’s no blood on him now, which is a miracle. Less than an hour ago, he was wearing it like war paint.
The gavel sits in front of him like a fucking trophy and his new President patch is stitched onto his chest. It’s too pristine for how worn the rest of his kutte is.
Mace is on his right, the VP patch laid out in front of him. Riot is on his left, staring down at the Sergeant at Arms patch like he’s deciding if he wants to pick it up.
I sit across from Dash, Riley beside him, and the empty seat on my left King’s—for when he pulls through.
Nic leans on the table, interlacing his fingers together.
“Wasn’t sure we’d ever get here,” he says.
“You deserve to be sitting in that seat,” Mace tells him, and he does. Nic’s been leading us for months. He just didn’t have the patch.
“The London and Manchester chapters are pulling out in the morning. After that, we start recruiting. Building back up our numbers. Putting this shit back together.”
His voice cracks on the last word. We buried so many loyal men in this war. Brothers we’ve known for years, men that Nic grew up with.
Men who never got to see this moment.
“Ain’t gonna be easy to trust outsiders again.” Riot leans back in his chair. His shoulders looser now. Maybe it’s knowing Crank and Blade’s carcasses are rotting in a hole so deep no one will ever find them.
“No,” Nic agrees. “But we will. Because that’s how we fix this.”
I tap my finger on my thigh once. Twice. Three times. Then I flatten my hand and take a breath. “The only thing I care about,” I say, “is whether you’re going to make good on your promise.”
He stills, remembering that conversation. I don’t take my eyes off him. I can feel Riot and Mace shifting in their seats.
But I need to know if I can raise a family in this club.
“I meant every word,” he says quietly.
“Meaning it and doing it are different things,” I shoot back. “I need to know this club will be a place I don’t have to hide my wife just to keep her alive. That I don’t have to watch my back against my own brothers. I need to know that this club will be something worth bringing my family into.”
I lean forward, giving him back the vows he gave me in that tiny little café when this shit all started. “Because if I’m asked to choose again between the club and my wife? There won’t be a choice.”
The room goes quiet. No one speaks, not even Riot.
But Nic doesn’t flinch. He meets my gaze like he knows he’s going to deliver this promise.
“I swear I’m going to give you something worth protecting.”
I sink back into my chair, my hand unmoving on my thigh. My tongue still. No taps. No nothing.
“Then I’ll bleed for this club. And I’ll bleed for you.”