Chapter Two #2
“Most of you probably don’t know this,” I said, addressing the group.
“But Flash’s great, great, great, great Grandfather, John Milton Wallace was a drummer boy and surgeon’s assistant in the Union Army during the Civil War.
In fact, he served for the entire duration of that horrible war.
He was on the battlefield for both Sherman’s March to the Sea and The Grand Review of the Armies.
John’s father, J.T. Wallace was a Midshipmen in the US Navy at sixteen, and later became a spy for the Union army.
J. T.’s baby brother, John’s uncle, William Henson Wallace, was the Governor of both the Washington and Idaho Territories during Lincoln’s Presidency.
William H. Wallace was a dear, long-time friend of Lincoln’s, and was the last person to meet officially with him on the day of his assassination.
In fact, Lincoln asked William and his wife to accompany him to Ford’s Theater that night, but they had just arrived in DC from the Pacific Northwest and were exhausted from the trip and so declined. ”
“Really?” Flash asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m giving you all this little history lesson, so you’ll know how deep the Wallace family roots run here. Wallace men and women have been leaders and protectors of the Pacific Northwest since the beginning. Our blood is in its soil.”
“That’s fuckin’ cool,” Booker said.
I turned to my son. “Flash. Are you willing to spill blood, whether your own, or your enemies’ in order to protect this club, its members, and the families of those members?”
“Fuckin’ A,” Flash replied with his normal ‘piss and vinegar’ energy.
“You ready to take on the responsibility of your first crew?” I asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve got some young men within our recruits that need some strong leadership. You ready to provide that leadership?”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“Alright, then,” I said, addressing the group. “Unless anyone has a reasonable objection as to why Flash shouldn’t get bumped up, let’s get this man a new patch.”
The chorus of the brotherhood sang out in celebration of Flash’s promotion and my heart swelled with pride.
I couldn’t have asked for a better son or example of what I wanted this club to be.
I only hope he’d never have to make the kinds of decisions I’ve had to make when it was his time to wear the crown.
After the celebration had died down, I addressed the group one last time. “Okay, we all good then? Any questions?”
Everyone shook their heads, so I banged the gavel and said, “Dismissed,” pulling Flash aside before he left.
“I meant what I said before. I see a leader when I look at you. I’m proud of you and I believe you’re gonna make a great Road Captain. Now go out there and prove me right, okay?”
Flash smiled. “Come on, Pop. You know how much I hate it when you’re right.”
“I do,” I replied. “Seriously though. I wish I was promoting you at a more peaceful time, so we could really let loose, you know?”
Flash nodded.
“We’ll have a big blow out once all this shit with the Spiders is settled.”
“I don’t care about all of that,” Flash replied.
“You should. You’ve earned this promotion and the party that usually goes along with it.”
“You know I’m not gonna automatically side with you during officer votes, right?”
I laughed. “I’ve never filled my table with ‘yes men’ and I’m not about to start now. Honestly, I appreciate that you see things from different angles than I do. It’s fucking frustrating sometimes, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t see the value of your insight.”
“Jesus, Dad. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“You know what? I take it all back. Gimmie the patch,” I said grabbing for it.
“No way, old man. No take backs,” he growled as he held the patch above his head. Exactly two inches out of my reach.
“Damn, kid. What have you been eating? You still growing?”
I was proud as a father could be. And for a few moments I was able to put aside the exhausting task of navigating the tides of the river of shit we were currently in.
He laughed as I followed him out of the room.
* * *
I’d been a member of the Dogs of Fire MC for most of my life and was by no means a stranger to death.
The club had lost its fair share of members over the years due to violence, illness, or time, but this was different.
This time an innocent member was executed right in front of me.
A young man cut down in the prime of his life by an evil sonofabitch I never thought I’d see again. A man who’d already stolen from me.
Grip’s funeral was brief. He didn’t have much in the way of blood relatives.
He was an only child whose mother passed away seven years ago from cancer.
His dead-beat dad was ten years into a thirty-five-year stretch without the possibility of parole, leaving only an uncle and two cousins to attend.
The rest of the mourners were Dogs. Dogs who wanted to get out of the funeral home and into a bottle.
Or, as it would come to pass, many bottles.
I tried my best to deliver a thoughtful eulogy, but I could barely get through a sentence or two before being overtaken by waves of deep sorrow and burning rage.
“Even though Grip wasn’t with us for very long, I know he looked up to all of you,” I said, addressing my brothers.
“I think I’m not spilling any secrets that he didn’t start out as the most promising recruit I’d ever seen, but y’all whipped him into a fine prospect.
A prospect who would have worn this had he not been taken from us.
” I held up Grip’s cut. A Dogs of Fire MC members patch on the back and placed it on top of his casket.
“The funeral director told me that he’d see to it that Grip would be wearing this when they put him in the… ”
That’s the moment I broke. I was unable to speak or move. I’m not sure how I even stayed standing. Overcome with grief for this young man who had miles of open road before him. A young man I was responsible for. It was the moment I hit rock bottom.
It was also the moment I swore vengeance against Warlock.
“To Grip!” Booker said, squeezing my shoulder and walking down the steps to the chairs in front. Maisie joined me wrapping her arms round me, already sobbing uncontrollably.
As were all of the women. He’d had a rough start with them, but they had taken a shine to him because he’d worked hard to earn their trust, and Maisie, in particular, was having a difficult time processing the brutality of it all.
A couple of the brothers who’d ridden with him the longest said a few things, then we made our way back to Big Ernie’s to tie one on and our clubhouse nearly became the second casualty of the month, as Grip’s wake turned into the wildest gathering I’d ever witnessed.
The Dogs were pissed off, drunk, sad, fucked up, and completely unhinged.
“What are we doing about this, Prez?” Archer (Booker’s other son) asked, well into a case of beer as Flash, Train, Mack, Booker and I sat by the fire.
“I’m still figuring that out,” I replied.
“Warlock dies, that’s all there is to it,” Booker said.
“Jesus,” I hissed. “You know it’s bad when Booker starts cleaning his gun.”
“Dad’s right,” Archer said. “Next time it’ll be a member Warlock goes after. And if he succeeds in killing one of us, we’ll look weak not just to the Spiders, but to every club in the country who’s looking to move into the Pacific Northwest.”
“We run the same risk of bringing on heat if we kill Warlock,” I replied. “Another Spider will just take his place, just like he took Wolf’s.”
“Then, what? We give Warlock the keys to our weed business and whimper off with our fucking tails between our balls?” Flash asked. My kid had a point, but I needed to handle these questions with care.
“Not a fuckin’ chance,” I replied. “We’re gonna get justice for Grip and Warlock is gonna pay. We have to be smart how we play this is all. We have to be smarter than Warlock. He’s expecting us to be emotional, knowing that will make us vulnerable.”
“Fuck emotional, he killed a kid,” Booker snarled.
“I need you all to trust me. Give me a beat to figure things out, alright?”
My brothers nodded in solidarity.
“Good,” I replied. “Let’s raise ’em up for Grip,” I said, making a toast. “The newest, posthumous, member of the Dogs of Fire.”