Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Bravos
Ten hours on the road turns your ass numb and your mind quiet.
That's why I ride.
The wind, the engine, the endless stretch of asphalt—it all drowns out the noise.
The memories. The fire.
The things I'd rather forget but can't.
By the time I hit Tallahassee city limits, the sun's starting its descent.
Not quite sunset but getting there, the sky going soft around the edges.
I follow the directions Runes texted—north out of the city, away from the urban sprawl, into land that's more rural but not quite country.
Florida's different from Texas.
Greener. Wetter.
The air tastes like humidity and swamp, thick enough to coat your lungs.
The trees are different too—live oaks dripping with Spanish moss instead of mesquite, palmetto scrub instead of sagebrush.
But the heat is the same.
That oppressive, relentless heat that makes you understand why people go crazy in the South.
The Raiders of Valhalla compound sits on maybe fifty acres, surrounded by a fence that's trying to look decorative but is clearly security.
Eight feet tall, wrought iron with spikes on top, cameras every twenty yards.
The gate is solid steel, automated, with a guard shack that's currently occupied by a prospect who looks barely old enough to shave.
I pull up and kill the engine.
The sudden silence is almost loud after ten hours of rumbling.
"Can I help you?" the prospect asks, stepping out. He's got his hand near his weapon—not on it, but close. Good instincts for someone young.
"Brazos. Shotgun Saints. Runes is expecting me."
Recognition flashes across his face. "Yes, sir. One second." He speaks into a radio, gets confirmation, and the gate rolls open with a mechanical groan. "Straight ahead to the main building. Park anywhere. Someone'll meet you."
"Appreciated."
The compound is impressive in a different way than Sharp Shooter Ranch.
Not sprawling and open, but concentrated and fortified.
The main building dominates the space—an old warehouse that's been converted into something between a fortress and a clubhouse.
Three stories of brick and steel, with newer additions that speak to money and planning.
Security cameras are everywhere, some obvious, some hidden.
Motion sensors in the trees.
Probably pressure sensors in the driveway.
These boys take protection seriously.
The parking lot is separated into sections—members, prospects, visitors, civilians.
I park in visitors, between a Harley Softail and a restored Indian that probably cost sixty grand.
The back area where I'm parked is enclosed by another fence, separating club space from civilian space.
Smart. Keeps regular people from wandering into business they shouldn't see.
Beyond the fence, I can see another building—smaller, more commercial looking.
A neon sign that's not lit yet reads BUBBA'S in letters three feet tall.
The bar, probably.
Every MC has one, whether they own it outright or just control it.
A place to launder money, employ members, and keep eyes on the community.
The clubhouse doors are solid oak, reinforced with steel plates that are trying to look decorative but aren't.
Norse designs carved into the wood—runes, dragons, that Viking aesthetic the club's named for.
Inside is cooler, air-conditioned to a temperature that feels like luxury after hours in the almost April heat.
The main room is massive, taking advantage of the warehouse bones.
High ceilings with exposed beams, concrete floors polished to a shine, leather furniture scattered in conversation areas.
A bar along one wall—full setup, professional grade.
Pool tables, dart boards, a big-screen TV currently showing ESPN with the sound off.
The walls are decorated with club history—photos of members past and present, newspaper clippings, a giant Raiders of Valhalla patch that's probably six feet across.
Norse imagery everywhere—Odin, ravens, wolves, that mythology they've built their identity around.
It's impressive, but it's not home. Nothing ever is.
"Brazos." A voice from my left.
I turn.
The man approaching is maybe late fifties, or early sixties, built like he's been lifting weights since before I was born.
Solid but not bulky, the kind of strength that comes from years of work, not gym time.
His cut identifies him—president patch, his name across the top.
"Runes." I extend my hand.
His grip is firm, measuring. "Good ride?"
"Long. Uneventful."
"Best kind." He gestures to another man who's joined us. "This is Fenrir, my VP."
Fenrir's older, maybe sixty, with silver hair and eyes that miss nothing.
He's got that look of someone who's been in this life since before it was romanticized.
Old guard. Dangerous in quiet ways.
"Welcome to Florida," Fenrir says, shaking my hand.
"Phantom sends his regards?" The question is careful, testing waters.
"He sends his respect for the club. Said to handle negotiations professionally."
"Diplomatic." Runes almost smiles. "That's more than I expected from that stubborn bastard."
"He said you'd say something like that."
"I bet he did." Now Runes does smile, but it's sharp. "We'll hash out old shit never, and focus on new shit tomorrow. You've been riding all day. Need to settle in, get your bearings."
"Appreciated."
"We've got a room set up for you. Third floor, nice and private. En-suite bathroom, which I hear is a luxury you don't get at Sharp Shooter’s Ranch."
"News travels."
"It does." Fenrir pulls out a keycard, hands it to me. "This gets you into your room, and also into Bubba's through the connecting door on the first floor. Bar's open till two, food till midnight. Help yourself to whatever, it's on the club."
The keycard is the kind hotels use—white plastic with a magnetic strip.
Professional. Secure.
"Meeting's tomorrow," Runes says. "Ten AM, in the chapel. Damon from Reapers Rejects MC Nevada charter should be here by nine. We'll sit down, talk strategy, figure out how to handle this Los Coyotes situation. But tonight, you rest. Settle in. Get a feel for the place."
"Sounds good." A prospect appears—a different one from the gate, this one probably mid-twenties.
"Bodul will show you to your room, help you with anything you need."
Bodul's built like a linebacker, with shoulder length blonde hair and a nose that's been broken more than once.
He's eager in that prospect way, trying to prove he's useful, that he belongs. "This way, sir."
"Just Bravos."
"Yes, sir. I mean, Bravos."
The stairs are industrial, steel and concrete, echoing with each step.
The third floor is quieter, away from the main action.
Four doors, all closed except one at the end.
"This is you." Bodul opens the door, steps aside. The room is simple but clean. Queen bed with a plain comforter, dresser, small desk, window with blackout curtains.
But the bathroom—that's the luxury.
Full shower, not just a stall.
Good water pressure, you can tell from the fixtures.
Towels that aren't threadbare.
At the ranch, we share bathrooms down the hall.
This is practically a hotel.
"Need anything, just call down to the bar," Bodul says. "Or if you want food, or anything else."
"I'm good. Thanks." He leaves, closing the door behind him.
I'm alone with the settling silence.
I drop my bag on the bed, checking the room automatically.
Window locks—good.
Door locks—solid.
Sight lines—could be better, but acceptable.
No cameras that I can see, but I check anyway.
Nothing obvious.
Either they're respecting privacy or they're very good at hiding surveillance.
I unpack minimal—spare clothes in the dresser, toiletries in the bathroom.
Weapons stay with me. Glock on my hip, backup on my ankle, knife in my boot.
The rifle case goes under the bed, accessible but hidden.
Old habits.
Always be ready to leave. Always be ready to fight.
The shower calls to me, but I resist.
I'm too restless to settle, too wired from the road.
Ten hours of riding, and my body still thinks it's moving.
I need to walk, to move, to do something other than sit in this room thinking about tomorrow's meeting.
The connecting door to Bubba's is on the first floor, tucked in a hallway marked PRIVATE.
The keycard works smoothly, lock clicking open with a green light.
Beyond is another hallway—shorter, cleaner, transitioning from club space to civilian space.
You can feel the difference.
The air changes, becoming less cigarette smoke and leather, more beer and fried food.
Bubba's is busier than I expected for early evening on a Friday.
Maybe forty people scattered around—mostly civilians at tables, a few obvious club members at the bar and pool tables.
The space is what you'd expect from an MC bar.
Dark wood, neon signs, a jukebox playing southern rock that's just loud enough to hear but not intrusive.
Pool tables in the back, dart boards on the wall, TVs showing sports.
The bar itself is solid oak, worn smooth from years of elbows and spilled drinks.
Behind it, another prospect.
I take a stool at the end, away from the main crowd but where I can see both the front door and the connecting hallway.
"What can I get you?" The prospect wipes down the bar in front of me. "Whatever's on tap. Local if you've got it."
"We've got Proof, from Tallahassee. Good stuff."
"That works." He pours it perfectly, no excess foam, and slides it over. "You're the guy from Texas, right? Shotgun Saints?"
"Word travels fast."
"Small club. Everyone knows everything." He grins. "I'm Njal. If you need anything while you're here, just ask."
"Appreciated."
"How's Texas? Never been."
"Hot. Dry. Big."
"Florida's hot and wet. Everything grows too fast, rots too fast." He gestures around. "But we like it."
"Seems like a good setup here."
"Runes runs a tight ship. Good leadership." He lowers his voice slightly. "Been crazy lately though. Los Coyotes causing problems. Road Captain got taken, tortured. His daughters are a mess. The whole club's on edge."
“Heard about that. Part of why I'm here."
Yeah, well. Hope you guys can figure something out. Can't keep losing people like this."
A group at a table calls for another round, and Njal excuses himself.
I nurse my beer, watching the room.
The dynamics are different from Texas.
More mixed—club members and civilians intermingling in a way that wouldn't happen at Sharp Shooter.
But maybe that's because this is a business, not just a clubhouse bar.
Needs to appeal to regular people, make money, maintain cover.
The front door opens, bringing in the last of the daylight and the smell of gasoline and hot asphalt.
I glance over automatically, cataloging the new arrival.
Then I stop cataloging and just stare.
She's in full racing leathers.
Not just a jacket thrown over jeans, but the real thing—full suit, armored at shoulders and elbows and knees.
Black with subtle red accents, fitted like a second skin.
The kind of gear that costs serious money and says serious rider.
Her helmet's under her arm—full-face, matte black with a visor that's probably seen some speed.
But it's not the gear that stops me.
It's her.
Blonde hair, curls gone wild from helmet compression, falling past her shoulders in a way that should look messy but doesn't.
Should look soft, but doesn't.
She's built lean and hard, the kind of body that comes from riding and fighting and surviving.
Not delicate.
Not performing femininity for anyone's benefit.
Just existing in her skin like a weapon that knows exactly what it's capable of.
Her face is striking—strong features, high cheekbones, a mouth that looks like it doesn't smile often.
But it's her eyes that catch me.
Dark brown, almost black in this light.
And dead.
Not dead like empty, but dead like mine.
Like she's seen things, done things, lost things that changed her fundamentally.
She scans the room automatically, threat assessment.
Exits, weapons, potential problems.
The way I do.
The way soldiers do.
The way people who've survived violence do.
Our eyes meet across the space.
Just for a second. Maybe two.
But in that second, something clicks.
Recognition.
Not of her specifically—I've never seen her before in my life.
But of what she is.
Someone running. Someone dangerous. Someone who'd be a bad idea to get involved with.
The kind of bad idea that looks too good to resist.
She doesn't look away first.
Doesn't drop her eyes or smile or do any of the things women usually do when a man stares.
Just stares back, flat and assessing, like she's deciding if I'm a threat.
Then someone calls her name from across the bar.
"Helle!" A woman's voice, desperate with relief.
The blonde—Helle—turns, and the moment breaks.
I watch her cross the room toward a dark-haired woman who's standing up from a table.
They embrace, the dark-haired one holding on like she's afraid to let go.
Sisters, maybe. Or very close friends.
Helle's back is to me now, and I can see more details.
Road dust on her boots.
A small tear in the leather near her left knee, recently repaired.
The way she stands even while hugging—balanced, ready to move, never fully relaxed.
"Another?" Njal asks, pulling my attention back to the bar.
"Yeah."
He pours, and I force myself not to look at her again.
But I can feel her presence across the room like a magnetic pull.
The kind of awareness that's either instinct warning me of danger, or attraction I shouldn't be feeling.
Probably both.
A few members drift over to the blonde and her companion, greeting them, creating a small crowd.
She's known here.
Part of this world.
Which makes sense if she's at the bar connected to the clubhouse.
Club family, probably.
Sister or daughter of a member, maybe an ol' lady.
Either way—off limits.
I don't get involved with MC women.
But… damn do I want to.