Chapter 5 Whiz
WHIZ
“Next year, we’re stealing the electric chair.”
The sun beats down on my back as Undertaker’s voice crackles through my headset, and the smell of spilled beer and burnt rubber fades the farther we get from the rally’s location.
Every minute of laughter, chaos, roaring engines, and music is swallowed up by the distance as we head north, head home.
I smirk as the wind hits me in the face. “And who’s going to explain that to Big Daddy? You volunteering?”
“Sure, I’ll just tell him that we’re trying to make the Washington chapter a mirror-image of the mother chapter.”
Lyric’s laugh comes through the coms. “You do that, and Big Daddy’ll come north to make sure Death’s Door hosts your funeral.”
Undertaker chuckles. “Totally worth it.”
The rally was amazing, as always.
Chapters from all over packed Anarchy for days.
Old allies and the newly patched mingled, and any lingering rivalries were left at the gate.
Races, fights that stopped short of death, and alcohol-fueled story swapping filled the hours, none of the fun and camaraderie stopping, even in the dead of night.
We all made up Kings of Anarchy at its loudest, proudest, and most alive.
We rode hard, partied and laughed harder. For the first time in a long time, I let myself… relax.
An hour passes before we leave the highway and begin a stretch of our journey that’s nothing but two lanes and little to no traffic.
It’s one of the legs I rerouted two weeks ago in an effort to obtain less visibility and less chance of running into the law.
This part of our travels is remote and quiet.
Too quiet.
Out of nowhere, my gut churns, and an all too familiar prickle crawls up my spine.
“Something feels off,” I mutter into my mic, knowing every single brother will hear me.
Lyric’s head swivels left and right at my words, scanning our surroundings, but it’s Undertaker who speaks.
“You say that every time we ride through a desolate area.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “And I’m usually fucking right.”
Static crackles a split-second before Lyric’s sharp tone cuts through my worry.
“Eyes up,” he commands. “Tighten formation.”
I glance around, trying to find the source of my president’s sudden unease.
Nothing. I see absolutely nothing but the stretch of road bolstered by a sea of grass and trees. It’s beautif—
Gunfire erupts from the tree line.
A bullet whizzes by only to hit the road just in front of me while more seem to crack in the otherwise silent air.
Acting on instinct and pure adrenaline, the club breaks formation.
Harleys swerve, SUVs bank left and and right, and chaos ensues as bullet after bullet after bullet strikes all around me.
“Contact! One made contact!” Lyric yells, pain lacing his words.
My mind goes blank, forcing me to rely solely on muscle memory.
“Push through!” I shout. “Do not stop!”
More shots ring out, and each projectile somehow misses their targets. Whoever is behind this is wild, sloppy, desperate.
In my peripheral, Undertaker’s bike lurches to the right just as a shot connects with his rear tire.
“No!”
His bike fishtails. Time slows to a crawl. Undertaker fights it and is almost able to correct things, but the road dips unexpectedly, and bike and biker go down.
Metal screeches as Undertaker slams into the asphalt, his Harley coming to a stop long before his body.
“NOOOOO!” My scream is consumed by the mayhem.
I wrench my bike sideways, skidding to a halt as Lyric orders the others to provide cover fire. A few brothers return shots into the trees, but whoever the fuck is shooting at us melt into the copse of trees as fast as they appeared.
A hush blankets us, the only remaining sounds are idling engines and the hard breathing of someone through the coms.
I’m off my bike before it settles, not giving a fuck if it’s damaged when it falls.
Undertaker isn’t moving. There’s no rise and fall of his chest, no twitch of his limbs. Blood pools beneath his head, and bone is visible on his leg where his jeans and flesh are torn open. His side looks like it lost a battle with a meat grinder.
“Shit! Shit, shit, shit.” I drop to my knees beside him, hands shaking as I try to find a pulse. “Sawbone!” I shout, calling for the club’s medic.
Lyric and Sawbone fall to their knees opposite me, the latter immediately leaning down to listen for a heartbeat as his fingers press against Undertaker’s throat.
“Call it,” Lyric orders quietly.
“I’m not calling it,” Sawbone says, but he isn’t doing anything to help our brother.
Because nothing can help the dead.
Undertaker, the man who surrounded himself with death, the biker who’s loyal and stubborn and never backs down from a challenge, lies broken on a stretch of road that was supposed to be safe, that wasn’t supposed to matter.
“This was my route,” I whisper harshly. “This was—”
Lyric grabs my shoulder hard. “Not now.”
He presses fingers to Undertaker’s pulse.
Nothing.
“Where the fuck did they go?” Zombie roars from somewhere behind me, his tone raw and ragged.
No one answers because there’s nothing to say. They’re gone. The ones responsible for the broken man before me are gone.
Hurried footsteps echo around us, and then I hear my VP demanding to see his wife and kid.
“We’re fine,” Lucy says. “Sari and I are fine.”
“Mellie,” Lyric says, surging to his feet and disappearing to check on his own old lady.
Rage hits me like a ton of bricks. It’s heavy, crushing, all consuming. It seems to flow from me to the others like the plague spread through Europe centuries ago. One by one, my brothers dismount, their breathing harsh and their weapons drawn.
“Circle ‘round,” Lyric orders.
Only seconds pass before each and every one of them move to surround us, survival overriding grief by sheer force of will.
“Whiz,” Lyric says, walking toward me and resting a hand on my shoulder. “I need you focused.”
I nod absently.
He hands me his cell. “Call Big Daddy. He’s speed-dial three. Tell him what happened and ask for an assist with cleanup.”
With hands that won’t stop shaking, I fumble with his phone as I do as instructed.
Big Daddy answers on the second ring.
“Lyric, you never call unless it’s bad,” Big Daddy says. “Talk.”
“It’s Whiz,” I say. “We were hit. Ambushed. Undertaker’s down. We need cleanup. Now.”
There’s a beat of silence before Big Daddy demands, “Location?”
I give him the information, and he doesn’t waste time with more questions.
“I’ll send a team. We’ll handle things there. Just get our brother home.”
The call ends, and as soon as I hand Lyric his cell, he starts barking orders.
Everything happens quickly, efficiently.
The SUVs maneuver as close to Undertaker as they can.
Lucy drapes the Kings of Anarchy blanket that was a gift for Sari over his body.
The action isn’t meant to hide him, it’s meant to honor him.
It takes four of us to lift him from the ground and gently load him into a vehicle.
His blood stains my hands as my own whooshes in my ears. I startle when the door is shut and have to stop myself from lashing out when everyone begins to return to their bikes or whatever vehicle they were riding in before all hell broke loose.
Engines turn over, but there’s no excitement in the action. The thrill of the ride is as dead as Undertaker.
I follow suit and position my Harley behind the SUV carrying my brother. Lyric watches my movement but says nothing about the fact that I’m breaking formation. Even if he did, I wouldn’t care. There isn’t a fucking thing in the world that can stop me from tailing him the rest of the way home.
As we begin to move, guilt weighs heavy in my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe.
I had one job. This was my plan, my route.
And Undertaker paid the ultimate price.