Chapter 1 #2
Proving Los Coyotes under his leadership will be more brutal, more aggressive, more willing to burn everything down.
"So Sebastián's consolidating power by proving he's more ruthless than Miguel ever was."
"Exactly." Phantom pulls out another beer from a cooler I didn't notice beside his chair, the ice inside mostly melted now.
"And we're all scrambling to respond while he picks us off one by one.
Divide and conquer, classic strategy. Hit everyone hard enough they can't coordinate, then crush whoever's left standing. "
Boots on wood announce Blaze before he appears.
The VP is built like the bulls he raises—thick shoulders, barrel chest, hands that look like they could bend steel, and probably have.
He's in his forties, with a beard going gray that he keeps trimmed but not too neat, and eyes that miss nothing.
Blaze grew up on this ranch same as Phantom, knows every inch of it.
The difference is Phantom inherited it, while Blaze earned his place through loyalty and blood.
"Sorry," he says, grabbing a beer from Phantom's cooler without asking. "Fucking heifer decided today was a good day to get stuck in mud up to her belly. Took four of us and a winch to pull her stubborn ass out."
"Get her out?" Phantom asks.
"Eventually. Lost two hours and probably ten years off my back." Blaze drops into the chair on my other side, the wood groaning under his weight. "We talking about Los Coyotes?"
"We are."
"Good. Because I'm tired of losing people and product to that piece of shit Sebastián.
" Blaze drinks half his beer in one go, like he's trying to wash away the taste of the day.
"Three drivers dead. Three good men. Manuel had a wife and four kids.
Cisco was two weeks from retirement, had a fishing cabin in Colorado all picked out. And Tommy..."
He trails off, shakes his head. "Tommy was nineteen. Prospect who wanted to make full patch. Now he's in pieces on a highway because we didn't see this coming fast enough." The anger in his voice is justified.
When you run a club—really run it, not just wear the patch—you're responsible for your people.
Their deaths are on you. Their families are on you. Their blood stains your hands even if you weren't the one holding the knife.
Everything is on you.
"That's why I'm sending Bravos to Florida," Phantom says.
Blaze looks at me, assessing. "When?"
"Tomorrow morning. Early." Phantom leans forward, elbows on his knees, beer dangling from his fingers.
"Runes called two days ago. Wants a meeting—him, Damon from Reapers Rejects Nevada charter, and us.
Forming an alliance to push back against Los Coyotes before this gets worse.
Before we're all bleeding out on highways. "
"Why Florida?" I ask. "Neutral ground makes more sense."
"Because Raiders got hit hardest. Their territory, their rules.
Plus, they've got the facilities—secure clubhouse, safe places to meet, enough manpower to protect everyone during the meeting.
" Phantom's face does something complicated.
"And because I'm not setting foot in the same state as Runes if I can help it. "
The old grudge. I don't know all the details—happened before I prospected, back when Phantom and Runes were younger and apparently stupider.
Something about a deal gone wrong.
Money or territory or pride, maybe all three.
Whatever it was, they've hated each other for twenty years and counting.
The kind of hate that's personal, that runs deep enough to override logic. "So I'm going instead," I say.
"You're going instead." Phantom meets my eyes, and his are hard, unyielding. "You speak for Shotgun Saints. Whatever you agree to, we honor. Whatever you refuse, we refuse. You have full authority to make deals on our behalf."
That's significant. Most clubs wouldn't send anyone but the president or VP to something this important.
Too much at stake, too much that could go wrong.
But Phantom knows I won't let personal shit cloud my judgment.
Know I'll negotiate clean, think long-term, make the moves that need making without emotion getting in the way.
That's why I'm a Nomad.
Why I've been handling sensitive situations for years. Because I don't get attached.
Don't let emotion drive decisions.
My dead eyes aren't just trauma—they're an asset.
"What are the terms?" I ask. "What are we willing to give?"
Phantom thinks about it, takes another pull from his beer.
"Alliance is fine. Coordinated action against Los Coyotes is fine.
Sharing intel, resources, manpower—all fine.
We pool information, hit them together, cover each other's backs.
What we don't do is give up territory or profit.
This is mutual defense, not charity. We're not bailing out the Raiders or the Reapers, we're protecting ourselves by working together. "
"And if they want more?"
"Then negotiate. You know what we can afford to lose.
You know what crosses the line." He pauses, watching a bat swoop past hunting insects.
"But Bravos? We need this. We can't fight Los Coyotes alone, not with Sebastián in charge.
He's too aggressive, too willing to burn everything down to prove a point.
We need allies or we're dead in six months. Maybe less."
The admission costs him.
Phantom doesn't ask for help easily, but even he recognizes when the math doesn't work.
When pride has to take a back seat to survival. "I'll get it done," I tell him.
"I know you will." He stands, stretches, his back cracking audibly. "You're leaving at dawn. Six hours to Baton Rouge, then another few to Tallahassee. Should get you there by late evening if you don't stop much."
Tallahassee.
The name sits strange in my head.
I've been through there a dozen times, never stayed long.
Just another city on the way to somewhere else.
Another place to get gas, grab food, and keep moving. But something about it feels different this time.
Like maybe this trip is going to be more than just another negotiation.
"Need anything for the road?" Blaze asks.
"I'm good."
"Weapon?"
"Carrying two." I tap my hip where the Glock sits, then my ankle where a backup rests. "Plus the rifle on the bike."
"Paranoid," Blaze says, but he's grinning.
"No, just focused on staying alive."
"Same thing in this life." Phantom walks to the porch rail, looks out over his land.
The sun's almost gone now, just a sliver of red on the horizon like a wound in the sky.
The temperature's finally dropping, the oppressive heat giving way to something almost comfortable.
Stars are starting to appear, pinpricks of light in the gathering dark.
"This ranch has been in my family for generations, since they came here from Ireland," Phantom says, his voice quiet but carrying in the stillness.
"My great-great-great-grandfather won it in a card game, or stole it, depending on who you ask.
Built it into something. Passed it down.
Survived droughts and depressions and wars.
My father gave it to me, and I'll give it to my son someday, whenever his stubborn ass decides to come back home. "
He turns to look at me, and his eyes are hard. "Los Coyotes want to take it. Want to take everything we've built. I won't let that happen."
"No, sir."
"So, you go to Florida. You make this alliance work. You keep Runes from being a dick just because it's me sending you." He grins slightly, humor breaking through the tension. "And you come back with a plan to end Sebastián before he ends us."
"Understood." We finish our beers as full dark settles.
The ranch transforms at night—lights in the bunkhouses, the clubhouse glowing like a beacon, stars so bright they hurt to look at.
Out here, away from cities, the sky is something different.
Something vast and indifferent and beautiful.
The Milky Way stretches overhead like a river of light, and I can pick out constellations my father taught me before he died.
Before everything burned.
I've slept under this sky more nights than I can count.
Never stays the same, never gets old.
"You should get some rest," Phantom says. "Long ride tomorrow."
"Yeah." But I don't move yet. Just sit here breathing in Texas—dust and grass and cattle and oil, all mixed together into something that smells like home even though I don't really have one.
Not since the fire. Not since I learned that home is just another thing that can burn.
"Bravos," Blaze says, and something in his tone makes me look at him. "Watch yourself out there. Los Coyotes are unpredictable right now. Sebastián's trying to prove something. That makes him dangerous. Makes his people dangerous too."
"I'm always careful."
"I know. But still." He stands, stretches. "We need you back in one piece."
After they go inside, I sit alone for a while longer.
The porch is quiet except for the wind and distant cattle, and the hum of oil derricks that never stop.
A coyote yips again, closer this time.
Hunting or calling to its pack, I can't tell.
This is my favorite time.
When everyone else is gone and it's just me and the dark.
When I don't have to pretend to be anything but what I am—a man with dead eyes and a dead family who keeps moving because stopping means remembering.
Tomorrow I'll ride to Florida.
Meet with clubs I barely know to form an alliance against an enemy who's already won too many battles.
Try to keep us all alive while Sebastián tries to kill us.
But tonight, I'm here, on this porch that's older than me.
On this land that's survived worse than Los Coyotes, watching stars that don't give a shit about human problems.
I finish my beer, set the bottle beside Phantom's on the rail.
My room in the bunkhouse is sparse—bed, dresser, weapons safe.
Nothing personal, except the drawings I don't show anyone. Sketches of the family I lost. Attempts to remember faces that get blurrier every year.
My sisters were seven and nine when they died.
Would be twenty-five and twenty-seven now.
Would have lives, maybe families, maybe happiness.
Instead, they're ash and memory, and the reason I can't stay anywhere long.
I pack light for Florida—spare clothes, toiletries, ammunition.
Everything fits in the saddlebags on my bike.
A Harley Road King, black and chrome, custom work done by members who knew I needed something reliable.
Something that could carry me anywhere and never quit.
The rifle case attaches to the side, concealed but accessible.
I'll hit the road at dawn, before the heat gets unbearable.
Stop for gas and food when necessary, but otherwise just ride.
Ten hours to Florida if I push it.
Ten hours of wind and engine noise, and the road stretching forever.
Ten hours to not think about fires or families or the fact that I'm going to negotiate peace while carrying enough firepower to start a war.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling where shadows play.
Sleep doesn't come easy.
Never has, not since I was fifteen.
But eventually, exhaustion wins, and I dream about flames.
I always dream about flames.