Tank (Wolf Rider MC Daddies #5)

Chapter 1

Tank

“Fucking order!” I bellow, slamming my hefty fist down onto the table.

The clubhouse smells like it always does—motor oil, stale beer, and the faint tang of sweat baked into the walls. And the noise is as boisterous as ever, that’s for sure.

It’s home, more than any apartment I’ve ever crashed in.

The Wolf Rider MC’s banner hangs crooked above the bar, its snarling wolf faded but fierce, like us. I lean back in the chair at the head of the table, my boots propped on the scarred wood, and scan the room.

“I said order!” I roar once more, making it very clear to new members and old that I’m in charge tonight.

The boys are restless, their voices sharp as they argue over the next gun run.

Clay, our president, should be here, his gravelly voice cutting through the bullshit like a blade. But he’s off in Nevada—along with some of the other senior members—dealing with some supplier who thinks he can short us.

So it’s on me to keep this pack of wolves from tearing each other apart…

I’m Tank, the enforcer. Forty-five years of scars, bad decisions, and loyalty to this club etched into my bones. My kutte weighs heavy on my shoulders, the leather creaking as I shift. The boys look to me, waiting for me to shut down the squabbling.

I don’t mind the weight, or the conflict.

Never have.

It’s what keeps this club together, keeps us alive.

But tonight, something’s off. The air’s too thick, like the calm before a storm rips through the desert.

“Enough,” I growl, slamming my fist on the table but my voice cold now rather than angry.

The room suddenly goes quiet, all eyes on me.

My voice carries the kind of authority you earn after breaking enough jaws to prove you mean it.

“We’re not kids fighting over candy,” I say. “Kash, you got the route mapped for the run?”

Kash, our road captain, nods, his shaved head catching the dim light. “Yeah, Tank. Got a clean path through the backroads to the border. Cops won’t be a problem.”

“Good. And the buyer?” I ask, my gaze flicking to Arch. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his red hair tied back in a messy bun. Arch is sharp, but he’s got a temper that flares like gasoline.

“Paid half up front,” Arch says, his voice clipped. “Says he’ll have the rest when we deliver. I don’t trust him, though. Feels like he’s jerking us around.”

I grunt, rubbing the stubble on my jaw.

“Then we go in heavy,” I say. “No chances. Prospects, you’re on lookout. Anyone smells trouble, you signal. Clear?”

The prospects nod, their faces pale under the weight of my stare. They’re green, barely patched, but they’ll learn. Or they’ll bleed.

That’s how it works in the Wolf Rider MC.

I’ve been here since I was younger than them, back when the club was just a ragtag crew of outcasts with bikes and dreams bigger than our brains. Twenty-five years later, I’m still here, still breathing, still wearing the patch.

Not everyone can say that. Far from it, in fact.

My mind drifts to the turf war, fifteen years back.

The Wolf Riders versus The Fury...

Blood in the streets, brothers lost, and me in the middle of it, my knuckles raw from smashing faces.

We won, but at a cost. I don’t talk about it, don’t think about it if I can help it.

But some nights, the ghosts creep in, whispering names I’ve tried to forget.

Marco. Their sergeant-at-arms. I can still see his face, twisted in pain as I left him broken in the dirt.

I didn’t kill Marco, but I might as well have.

The Fury scattered after that, their club a shadow of what it was.

But shadows have a way of coming back.

“Tank?” Kash’s voice pulls me out of the memory. He’s staring at me, his brow furrowed. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I say, shaking it off. “Meeting is… done. Get your shit together for the run. I want everyone ready by dawn.”

The boys grumble but start to clear out, their boots scuffing the floor. I stay seated, watching them go. The prospects linger, waiting for a nod from me before they scatter. I give it, but my gut’s still churning.

Something is wrong, and it’s not just Arch’s bad feeling about the buyer.

As the room empties, one of the prospects, a scrawny kid named Twitch, hangs back. He’s got that nervous energy, like a dog waiting to be kicked. “Tank, uh, can I talk to you?”

I raise an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Spit it out, kid.”

Twitch glances around, like he’s afraid the walls are listening. “I heard something. From a guy at the bar in town last night. Said there’s a ghost from the past sniffing around. Someone with a grudge against the club. Against… you.”

My blood runs cold, but I keep my face stone.

“A ghost, huh?” I laugh. “You been drinking too much of that cheap whiskey, Twitch?”

Twitch shakes his head, eyes wide. “No, sir. He was serious. Said it’s someone tied to the old days. Didn’t say who, but he knew your name.”

I lean back, my fingers drumming on the table.

A ghost from the past.

Could be anyone—cops we’ve pissed off, rivals we buried, or some nobody looking to make a name. But the way Twitch says it, the way it lands in my gut, tells me it’s more.

“Keep your ears open,” I tell him. “You hear anything more, you come to me. No one else.”

Twitch nods and bolts, leaving me alone with the hum of the fluorescent lights.

I stand, my knees creaking, and head for the door.

The clubhouse is quiet now, just the faint thump of music from the bar across the lot. Outside, the night air hits me, sharp and cool. The desert stretches out beyond the chain-link fence, all shadows and secrets.

Arch is waiting by the bikes, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’s my oldest friend in the club, one of the few who’s been around as long as me.

“You look like you’re chewing on glass,” Arch says, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “What’s up?”

“Twitch says someone’s got a hard-on for me,” I mutter, scanning the lot. “Some ghost from the past.”

Arch snorts, but his eyes narrow.

“Ghosts don’t ride Harleys,” Arch deadpans. “You think it’s serious?”

“Don’t know yet.” I cross my arms, my gaze catching on something across the street.

A motorcycle, parked under a flickering streetlight. It’s not one of ours.

Too sleek, too new, with a custom paint job that screams trouble. No Wolf Rider would ride something that flashy.

“You see that bike before?” I ask, distracted.

Arch follows my gaze, his cigarette pausing halfway to his mouth.

“Nope. Ain’t one of the prospects’ either. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yeah.” My jaw tightens. “Someone’s watching us.”

I start toward the bike, my boots crunching on the gravel. Arch falls in step beside me, his hand slipping under his jacket where his piece is holstered.

The street’s quiet, too quiet, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up.

I’ve been in enough fights to know when trouble’s close.

This feels like it’s already here.

The bike’s a beauty, I’ll give it that. Black with red flames licking up the sides, polished to a mirror shine.

But it’s the emblem on the gas tank that stops me cold—it’s startlingly similar to The Fury’s old emblem, a rose wrapped in barbed wire. My heart kicks hard in my chest. The Fury are gone, have been for years.

But that emblem, it’s a fucking taunt, a middle finger from the past.

“Son of a bitch,” Arch mutters, his hand on his gun. “You think it’s them?”

“They’re long gone,” I say, my voice low. “But whoever left this here wants us to see it.”

I circle the bike, looking for anything—a note, a trap, something to tell me who’s playing games.

Nothing.

Just the Fury emblem, mocking me.

I think of Marco again, his screams, the blood. I shake it off, but it sticks, like oil on my skin.

Whoever this is, they know me. They know what I did.

“We need to find this bastard,” Arch says, his voice hard. “Before they bring trouble to our door.”

“Yeah.” I straighten, my fists clenching. “Tell the boys to keep their eyes open. No one rides alone until we know what we’re dealing with.”

“We could trash the bike right now,” Arch smiles. “But I’m guessing the play here is to leave it. Let whoever it is know that we don’t give a single fuck about their games.”

“Got it in one,” I laugh, trying to shake off a feeling of dread rising up inside me. “Now, back inside.”

Arch nods and heads back to the clubhouse, already pulling out his phone.

I stay for a moment, staring at the bike.

My reflection in the chrome is warped, older than I feel, but the fire in my eyes hasn’t dimmed.

I’ve fought for this club, bled for it, and I’ll be damned if some ghost from the past thinks they can take me down.

I turn back to the clubhouse, but the weight of that Fury emblem follows me. It’s not just a bike. It’s a warning. And I’ve got a feeling this ghost is closer than I think.

I’m back in the clubhouse now, the door slamming shut behind me.

The silence is heavy, the kind that presses on your chest.

The boys are gone—off to their bunks, their bikes, or the bar across the lot.

Arch is probably still on the phone, barking orders to the prospects about that damn Fury bike.

Me, I’m not ready to sleep.

Not with that emblem burning a hole in my brain.

I head to the bar, the floorboards creaking under my boots, and grab a bottle of Jack from the shelf. The glass is smudged, but I don’t care. I pour a double, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and settle onto a stool.

“Hell yeah,” I say, eyeing up the drink with thirsty eyes.

The clubhouse is empty, just me and the ghosts. I take a sip, the whiskey burning a familiar path down my throat.

It’s late—past midnight, probably—but time doesn’t mean much in this life.

Days bleed into nights, and the only thing that keeps me grounded is the patch on my back.

Wolf Rider MC.

My family, my blood.

But tonight, even that feels hollow.

I lean back, my eyes drifting to the photos tacked to the wall behind the bar.

Clay, our president, grinning with his arm around his boy, Dylan, a wiry kid with a smile that could light up a storm.

Jace with his boy, Caleb, always whispering something to make Jace laugh.

Arch and his love, Keegan, who’s got a mouth on him but keeps Arch sane.

Even Raze, our resident psycho, found his match in Nico, a spitfire who matches him blow for blow.

All of them, paired off, settled.

Forever boys, they call ‘em.

The kind you don’t just fuck and forget.

The kind you keep.

And then there’s me. Tank. The lone dog. Forty-five years old, and what do I have? A bike, a gun, and a rap sheet longer than the highway to Vegas.

I swirl the whiskey, staring into the glass like it’s got answers. I’ve had my share of hookups—pretty boys who like the danger, the leather, the way I take control.

But it’s always temporary.

They come, they go, and I’m left with nothing but the road.

I’m good at being the Daddy, the one who lays down the law, who protects, who takes care. But who’s gonna take care of me?

I snort, shaking my head.

“Getting soft, old man,” I mutter to myself. This isn’t me. I don’t sit around pining likesome lovesick kid. I’m Tank, the guy who breaks bones and keeps the club in line.

But the thought lingers, heavy as the kutte on my shoulders.

My closest friends have all found something I haven’t. Someone who fits, who stays. I wonder if I’ll ever find mine. If there’s a boy out there who can handle me—gruff, stubborn, and too damn old to change...

“Pffft,” I spit. “Pull yourself together, man…”

The whiskey’s half-gone now, and I’m starting to feel the buzz, warm and loose in my veins. I shouldn’t be drinking this much, not with trouble sniffing around.

That Fury bike is still out there, parked under the streetlight like a bad omen.

Twitch’s words echo in my head: a ghost from the past.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but I believe in enemies. And enemies don’t just vanish. They wait. They plan. They strike when you’re not looking.

I down the rest of the whiskey in one gulp, the burn snapping me back to reality. Enough of this moping bullshit. I need air, need the road. Nothing clears my head like a late-night ride, the cold desert wind cutting through the haze.

I push off the stool, my boots heavy on the floor, and grab my keys from the bar.

The clubhouse feels too small, too quiet, like it’s closing in. I need to move.

Outside, the night is sharp, the kind of cold that bites at your knuckles. The lot’s empty, the boys’ bikes lined up like soldiers.

I pause, my eyes drifting to the street where that stranger’s motorcycle was parked earlier. It’s still there, gleaming under the flickering light, the Fury emblem staring back at me.

My gut twists.

I should check it out, maybe run the plates, but I’m too buzzed, too restless.

I shrug it off, telling myself it can wait till morning.

Whoever left it there isn’t dumb enough to make a move tonight. Not on our turf.

My bike’s waiting, a black-and-chrome beast that’s carried me through more shit than I can count. I swing my leg over, the leather seat creaking under my weight.

The engine roars to life, a deep growl that vibrates through my bones.

It’s the only thing that feels right tonight. I pull on my helmet, the weight familiar, grounding.

Right now, I need the road.

I ease out of the lot, the clubhouse fading in my rearview.

The desert stretches out ahead, endless and dark, the stars sharp as knives overhead. The whiskey’s still warm in my blood, but the cold air hits like a slap, waking me up.

I twist the throttle, the bike surging forward, and for a moment, it’s just me and the highway.

No club, no ghosts, no lonely nights.

Just the rumble of the engine and the wind tearing at me like a wild banshee.

But even out here, I can’t shake it—the feeling that something’s coming.

I’ve done things I’m not proud of, things that keep me up at night. The turf war, Marco, the blood on my hands—it’s all there, waiting in the shadows.

And now, someone’s out there, watching, maybe planning to make me reckon with it.

I lean into a curve, the bike handling like a dream. Maybe I’m too old for this shit, too old to be riding drunk and chasing ghosts.

But I’m a Wolf Rider, through and through.

I’ll fight for this club until my last breath.

And if there’s boy out there for me, someone who can handle the mess of my life, I’ll find him. Or he’ll find me. Either way, I’m not done yet.

The road stretches on, and I ride, the Fury bike a distant speck in my mind.

Whatever’s coming, I’ll face it. I always do.