Chapter 2 Hellsing
HELLSING
Islid my jeans up, buckled my belt, and pulled an old black t-shirt over my head, letting the faded fabric settle over my shoulders.
My leather cut came next, then the heavy weight of the long, black overcoat that once belonged to Virgil.
The thick leather and club patch had come to feel more like armor these last few years.
Becoming a Bastard, that was my true salvation.
Virgil had never forced me to talk about my childhood; he just let me figure things out on my own.
I appreciated respect in that sense, especially since he had no other choice than to take me in.
I’d stayed to myself, always out of his way, learning quietly about club life.
I’d left my mother and my youth and abuse behind me.
Instead, the club became my purpose, a family I didn’t think I could have.
But I was always on Virgil’s radar, I sensed the warmth he tried so hard not to show.
His hardness was just another mask, one that I saw through a little too easily.
I rolled my shoulders, working out the old ache that had made itself a permanent part of me.
I felt the taut scars flex and I flinched, trying to work the pain out before heading out to the clubhouse for Church.
I lived in an old piece of property that Virgil had left in my name the day he decided to head out.
It was as decrepit as the old son of a bitch’s soul.
With a little TLC it became what it was now, a small blue house tucked into the French Quarter, standing just a few steps shy of St. Louis Cemetery.
Most people thought living that close to the dead was unsettling, but I found peace in it.
The dead don’t ask for anything. They don’t lie.
They don’t betray. They just lie in a deep, peaceful slumber.
A reminder of where we’re all headed sooner or later.
It took me a couple years before I made the house truly mine.
Signed the deed, gutted the place, tore out the rot, and rebuilt it one nail at a time until it felt more like home.
Two bedrooms, a kitchen that always smelled like old wood and burnt coffee, and walls that still held whispers of Virgil’s past. It wasn’t a big property, but it was solid, and for me, that was enough.
The clubhouse was about an hour out into the Bayou, buried along Highway Fifty-Seven.
No one would ever be able to stumble upon it, even by accident.
The path that led to the property was nothing more than a slit in the trees, half-swallowed by the swamp, hidden under the heavy arms of weeping willows that bent low and swayed heavily against the wind.
As I rolled deeper, the fog thickened, curling around the headlights, wrapping itself around me like the Bayou itself was testing whether or not I belonged. That’s when the old lookout tower came into view, its shadow rising above the trees and looming over the road that led in.
At the gate, one of the prospects stepped out of the dark.
His cut hung loose on his shoulders, his hand resting on the chain.
He didn’t say a word. Just gave me a sharp nod before dragging it open and letting me through.
Out here, the Bayou devoured anything it didn’t claim.
But for me? The path split wide open. Because I wore the patch, and the patch meant I was home.
The clubhouse was an old church house that had been run down and in need of some serious restorations when we first arrived.
A fixer upper as they say. Bulldog had done what he could to it, but in the last few years, it had been Jameson, his son, who had renovated it.
He added extensions, balconies, more bedrooms, a covered garage, and he made sure he kept that lookout tower intact.
He’d even torn down the old shed beyond the clubhouse, where he’d kept Sadie all those years ago.
In its place he constructed his own little house to keep Sadie and his new baby boy away from the hustle of club life.
I guess some sense of normalcy is always good for the soul, although I did hear he kept that damn cage back there. I guess everyone has their kinks.
There was an desolate, crooked road back there that led to an old, abandoned runway where Bandit, our pilot, lived.
He’d recently gone on and crashed the only plane we had, nearly killing Snare and himself.
Bandit was as crazy as they come. Jameson bought two in its place and had Bandit hide them away in the old hangar.
Just shows how much money we were making with all the changes that had gone on since his return.
I rounded the corner of the brand-new wrap-around that surrounded the property, greeting prospects and members as I reached the back door, the one that led to the new secluded meeting area.
Jameson had made it known that only Exec members were allowed back there.
We each got a code to the new keypad which we were supposed to guard with our patch.
Scorn, or Sargent at Arms, considered it a Safe Room.
All surveillance and any business were made from this room.
It was a place you knew you could go to when shit went down.
Virgil had once been the Chaplain of the RBMC.
After the shit that Rancid put us through, he stepped down and he’s taken his wife, Barythaya, and his little girl, Grace, away from the bloodshed that ensued.
I didn’t blame him; none of us did. He was protecting his family and that was sacred within Club walls.
He’d asked me to leave with him, but I had other battles I had to fight, and I stayed.
Besides, it was pointless to leave. The Bayou was always my home, and it always had a way of pulling me back.
I’d fought worse enemies than the self-proclaimed President of the RBMC.
Between Tick Tock and a few other, still loyal members, we figured out Bulldog’s death wasn’t an accident and had a pretty good idea that Rancid had executed his murder.
The proof was there, the bruises, the impact that initially killed him…
we just couldn’t solidify it. But we all knew what had to be done and it had to be done quickly.
Rancid wasn’t just any man. I was convinced he was a demon wrapped in flesh.
I’d faced monsters before, but Rancid? That was a different kind of darkness, one I couldn’t exorcize.
He was poison to the club, a danger to everyone who went near him, especially Jameson.
When things came to a head, I did what I could.
I considered myself a big brother to Jameson, but at the time I felt I’d let him and Bulldog down.
Many of us kept loyal to him, and we’d kept our mouths shut and endured beatings and punishments from Rancid’s men when questions came about his whereabouts.
When Poet, the VP of the Death Row Shooters MC, reached out.
He let us know that Jameson was unharmed.
We asked for his location, but Poet never once gave that out, he just gave us a number where he could be reached when the time was right.
We made sure to keep that intel under wraps as we continued our fight with Rancid.
It wasn’t until years later, when we finally grew tired of Rancid’s reign, that we found our opening.
Colt, the current VP, and Jameson’s so-called best friend, finally stepped up.
Proving that he had never turned his back on us or Bulldog.
It was all a guise to ensure he didn’t let his father, Guardian, or Bulldog down.
Throughout the years, Colt had done his best to keep the bloodline within the RBMC, and he swore to himself that he wasn’t going to let go of his title, no matter what Rancid put him through.
And trust me, that son of a bitch put that boy through hell.
It wasn’t until Rancid had gotten paranoid and decided that his brothers had snitched him out to the FBI, that Colt reached out.
The order was to kill us all and he wasn’t about to follow it.
At that time, we didn’t know who we could trust. The idea was to start putting word out to the older members.
The ones who’d once ridden with Bulldog.
Then eventually I’d given Colt the number Poet had given us.
He then reached out to the only person Jameson would listen to…
Knuckles. Knuckles had been in prison, blamed for helping Jameson, and he couldn’t wait to get his hands on Rancid as soon as they caught him for killing those girls.
But that wouldn’t happen, because reinstating Jameson as the National President was quick, and he wasn’t going anywhere without his Sergeant at Arms.
Jameson was the only one capable of destroying Rancid, and we owed him and his father that.
Tick Tock decided it was best to keep the truth from him, either way, he had the satisfaction of putting a bullet through that motherfucker’s skull.
Not only did he do the honor, but he made damn sure that each of us got a whack at him.