Prologue - Silver #2
A moment later, we’re hitting the road. Pulsboro is usually dead at night, most places in town closing with the sunset.
Once you make it past the small strip of bars and clubs, you’re dealing with quiet streets and darkened houses.
But we’ve got a ways to go; we’re driving to Portales where the Road Rebels reign supreme.
Our mission? Vandalize their club house in retaliation for how they trashed ours a couple weeks back.
Most of the club is out of town this week for a bike show in Colorado. But it’s still a risky undertaking, which is why Skull and Pistol want us in and out.
The drive takes well over an hour.
Tom nods off several times. I don’t bother waking him.
The way I look at it is, the sleep’ll help him sober up. It’ll freshen him up for when we do arrive in Portales.
“Get up,” I say, shoving at his shoulder. “Hey! Tom, get the fuck up. We’re here.”
He jumps, snorting and mumbling as he sits up in his seat. It takes him another moment before he’s rubbed the sleep from his eyes and processed what I’ve said.
I park half a block down from their clubhouse, a bar called the Roadside Club.
We hop out of the truck and head to the back for the supplies. We’ve got everything from spray paint to crowbars, even fucking eggs.
“They’re about to be pissed when they return,” Tom says, grabbing a couple cans of spray paint. “Imagine their faces.”
“I’m sure we’ll hear all about it. C’mon.”
We use the crowbars to jimmy our way into the club, then duck inside. We forgo any lights, working in the dark as we start trashing the place.
Their club’s not so different from ours—wood panels, neon beer signs and scantily clad bikini posters, a huge bar with a wide selection of liquor.
I shake a spray can and then start drawing on the main wall, spelling out the message Skull gave. That this is their warning. If they fuck with us again, it’s over.
They’re dead meat.
Tom takes to the bar, popping open a bottle of whiskey to chug down, then smashing rows upon rows of other bottles. The glass shatters all over the floor as he bursts into deep laughter.
“Hey, keep it down,” I order. “We don’t want to draw too much attention. The more noise you make, the greater the chance somebody’ll hear.”
“Ah, take the stick outta your ass!” he laughs, sweeping his arm across a shelf and sending five more bottles tumbling down. “We’re here to fuck shit up, Jack! Those bastards’ve got nobody to blame but themselves!”
He vaults over the bar counter and then takes to the furniture. He slams the crowbar into a table and creates a deep crack in the wood. He kicks out the legs of several chairs and smashes some overhead lights.
I’m getting impatient, more ready to get the hell out of here than anything.
“What’re you doing?” comes a third voice.
I’m halfway through spray painting another wall, and Tom’s snapping some more legs off chairs. We both look up at the wheezy sound and find a hunched old man in the doorway that leads to the back of the clubhouse.
He’s sporting a sleeve of tattoos on both arms, a couple of which are the Road Rebels insignia. One look at his weathered face, I already know what we’re dealing with.
This is a former member. Probably somebody’s grandpa that’s still affiliated. Maybe he works the bar or some other job for the club.
“Get the fuck outta here!” Tom roars, raising his crowbar.
The old man doesn’t back down. He doesn’t even flinch. “Me get the fuck out? Seems to me that should be you!” he counters boldly. He points a shriveled finger at the door. “You sorry Steel Kings think you’re gonna come to our home and trash us? Wait ’til Rowdy hears about this!”
“You ain’t gonna tell him shit!” Tom growls, taking a step toward him. “This don’t got nothing to do with you—get the fuck outta here!”
“Damn if I do! This is my club. I’ve been a member for thirty-seven years. Longer than your candy ass has been alive!”
“Okay,” I say calmly, setting down the can of spray paint. “Everybody cool it. This doesn’t need to turn into a screaming match. We’ve made our point. We’re done here anyway—”
“The fuck we are!” Tom interrupts. “I’ve got more shit to destroy. Like this.”
Tom swings the crowbar at a club shadow box mounted to the wall. The glass explodes into dozens of jagged pieces, scattering across the floor.
“Hey, I told you to keep your sorry ass away from our shit, you punk!” the old man yells, stepping toward Tom. “I’m calling Rowdy right now and he’ll see to it that you jackasses are handled! He’ll make sure you’re—”
THUNK!
The sound of the metal crowbar colliding with the old man’s skull reverberates through the barroom.
Tom’s swung the crowbar like it’s a baseball bat and the old man’s head is the ball. The two collide, and the old man’s on the losing side.
The crowbar bashes into his fragile skull, immediately cracking it open in a thick spray of blood. But Tom doesn’t even give it a second before he’s going back for more. He swings again, slamming the crowbar into the old man’s head and sending him crashing to the floor.
“TOM!” I bark, rushing over. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”
“Taking care of business!” He brings the crowbar down a third—and final—time on the sprawled out old man, bashing his skull in as if the damage he’s already done isn’t bad enough.
The old man’s body twitches at the assault, but he otherwise lies still.
Dead.
Killed just like that.
I’m so fucking shocked, for a second all I can do is gape at his body sprawled out on the floor in a pool of blood and Tom standing over him with a crowbar that now drips crimson.
What the fuck just happened? What the fuck have we done?
Our mission was to vandalize the clubhouse. It wasn’t to commit murder. Damn sure not against some frail old man who caught us in the act.
Tom wipes at his cheek where some blood has splattered, then jogs for the door. “C’mon, Jack! We’ve got to get the fuck outta here! Before anybody else shows up! NOW!”
I hang back for a moment, still shocked.
Still unsure what the fuck to do. I stare at the old man’s dead body and his bashed-in skull and my stomach roils with unease.
This wasn’t right; this wasn’t justified.
It was wrong. Cold-blooded murder.
But as Tom shoves open the door and sprints into the night, I also know the dark reality of the matter.
That there’s nothing else I can do in this moment. I can’t save the old man and can’t hang around long enough for any Road Rebels or police to show up.
And tonight I pledged allegiance to the Steel Kings.
I am a Steel King. Which means this was just part of the games we play.
The wars we wage.
So I take off. I flee the scene, leaving the trashed clubhouse and dead body behind. I follow Tom Cutler into the night, starting down a dark path there’s no coming back from…