Chapter 3
Three
Jersey Boy
The clubhouse felt wrong when Miami wasn’t in it. It was too quiet. Too sober. Like somebody turned the volume down on the whole world and forgot to tell us why.
Church at night always hit different. You could feel it in the air the second you walked through the doors.
No music, no laughter spilling from the bar, no pool balls cracking.
Just the low murmur of brothers filing into the back hall, boots heavy on old wood, leather creaking, patches catching yellow light.
The chapel room sat at the end of the hall. Long table, twelve chairs, plus the prospects’ bench near the wall. Club flag on the back, our patch painted big: skull, horns, ace cards. Gauntlet room door just off to the side, where grievances got settled with fists instead of feelings.
Ace was already at the table with his notepad when I walked in, pen tapped on the blank page.
Mirage stood at the coffee pot in the corner, adding just enough whiskey to make it honest. Spade leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, glare fixed on nothing in particular.
Snake Eyes sat near the end, rolled a toothpick between his teeth and stared at the tabletop like the future was hidden in the scratches.
Miami’s chair was empty. Too empty. That’s where the wrongness lived.
Turnpike, Jackal, Badger, and Raptor lined the wall.
Prospects together. Hands loose at their sides.
Faces serious. Turnpike looked like he was witnessing a funeral.
Raptor still had that wide-eyed edge he couldn’t hide no matter how hard he tried.
Blackjack ran his MC different then other’s.
Prospects mattered, their choice was made.
Names were given, but patches still needed to be earned.
They were just as much family as everyone else, so they got to sit in church and participate when spoken to.
Everyone mattered here. All ideas and opinions counted.
Priest came in behind me, big shoulders brushing the frame. He slapped my back once, heavy. “He’s fine,” he said, even though I hadn’t asked. “Pretty boys bounce.”
“Like your tab,” I said.
He snorted and dropped into his chair, beads on his wrist clicking.
8-Ball came next, eyes tired, jaw shadowed. He moved like a man who’d been grinding his teeth since we left the docks. He nodded at me once. I nodded back.
Blackjack was last. He always was. Might’ve been a power move once upon a time.
Now it was just how things went. He stepped in with that slow, steady walk, gray beard braided tight, red leather cut worn like a second skin.
Tank under it, tattoos crawling down his arms. Eyes hard and bright and pissed-off calm all at once.
He sat at the head of the table. The room shut up on instinct.
The doors closed, Blackjack lifted and tapped the gavel.
Ace cleared his throat. “Church is now in session.”
The words dropped heavier than the actual gavel.
Blackjack looked at each of us in turn, like he was counting sins. His gaze paused a half second longer on Miami’s empty seat and I saw his jaw flex.
“Somebody start talking,” he said.
All heads turned toward 8-Ball and me. We’d led the bike’s run. It was our mess to explain.
8-Ball rubbed his hands once, knuckles popping. “Drop site was cold when we got there, but got hot quick,” he said. “No family contact. No Carlo. No car.”
“Anybody call ahead?” Blackjack asked.
“There was no info given,” 8-Ball said. “And when we got there, it was a ghost town.”
Blackjack’s glanced to 8-ball and grunted. “Then what?”
“We waited,” I said. “But not long after we got there, bikes started showing up pretty quickly.”
The room shifted. Chairs creaked. Priest’s fingers drummed a slow rhythm on the wood.
“Not ours, obviously.” I added. “But not a local chapter either. Not one I recognize at least. They rode in the dark. No lights at first. Kept their distance like they were waiting on something.”
“Angling for intimidation,” Mirage murmured.
“Angling for something,” Spade said. His mouth twisted. “They wanted that bike.”
“They didn’t say shit,” I added. “No introductions. No patches we recognized. They just stared.”
“We gave ’em a chance,” 8-Ball said. “Told ’em if they had business, they could state it. No response.”
Turnpike shifted his weight at the wall. I caught the edge of his nervous energy. He was built like a tank, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d seen how fast things can go sideways, and thanks to his move with the cage, Miami was able to get away.
“That’s when I told Miami to take the bike and go,” 8-Ball said. “Keep the goods moving. Keep them focused on us.”
I nodded. I could still feel the moment in my bones, the way the air had snapped right before 8-Ball said, “Drive like you’ve never driven before,” to Miami.
“Miami peeled off,” I said. “They went to follow but Turnpike blocked the exit with the cage.”
Blackjack’s gaze flicked to the prospect.
Turnpike straightened. “They weren’t getting past me,” he said, voice low but steady.
“You did good,” Blackjack said. Not warm. Not soft. Just a verdict.
Turnpike’s shoulders dropped a millimeter in relief.
“I saw a weapon. Gave warning. We exchanged.”
Priest cracked his neck. “That’s the polite version.”
“Anybody hit?” Blackjack asked.
“Not ours,” I said. “We’re clean. Not sure about them. They pulled back. Evacuated fast. Military fast. Like they drilled for it.”
Snake Eyes leaned forward, toothpick pausing. “Like it was second nature,” he continued. “They retreated like they had to be somewhere. Maybe find another way around. Either way, we didn’t see them again on the way back out of there.”
Mirage finally left the coffee in the corner and took his seat, mug in hand. “And Miami?” he asked.
“He took the bike to Redline,” I said. “I asked him if he was clear. He texted us when he got there. Bike’s secure. No tails. I told him to stay put for now. We’ll deal with the Giorlando’s and let him know when it’s good. That was the last we heard.”
Blackjack drummed his fingers once on the table, then steepled them. “How long’s it been?”
I checked the mental timeline. The ride back here after the regroup at the docks. The cleanup. The hours since. “Few hours now.”
“Maybe his phone died,” Roadkill said. “You know how he treats that thing. Like a disposable lighter.”
That tugged a grin out of me despite the knot in my stomach. “Quinn’s probably losing her mind right about now,” I said. “Girl sends him ten texts, two tit pics, and a video every hour she’s bored. If he goes longer than ten minutes without answering, she starts writing his eulogy.”
A couple of the guys snorted, tension cracking for half a second. Priest smirked. Voodoo huffed smoke from the vape he wasn’t supposed to have in Church.
Then the worry seeped back in.
“Quinn’ll keep him alive out of spite,” Priest said. “She’s invested.”
“Phone or no phone,” Snake Eyes said, “I have a bad feeling about this.”
A low groan rolled around the table.
“You have a bad feeling when the coffee’s out,” Spade muttered.
“Yeah,” Snake Eyes said. “And you ignore me just about as often. Doesn’t make me wrong.”
Blackjack cut through it. “We’ll worry about Miami when we have something to worry about,” he said. “I trust that he’s safe as long as he’s right about no tail. Right now, we worry about the deal.”
The room sobered in an instant.
“Somebody suggested the Shore Vipers,” Ace said quietly, flipping his pad to a page with scribbled names. “Out by the bar.”
“That was me,” Jackal said from the wall. “Just thinking. Drop was north. Vipers are more north. Could’ve been ’em testing lines.”
Every eye went to Blackjack.
He sat back slowly, chair creaking. For a moment I saw the years in his face, the weight of all the roads he’d ridden and all the graves he’d put men in.
“Wasn’t Liberty’s girls,” he said.
“How you so sure?” Spade asked, not challenging, just blunt.
“Because I know Liberty,” Blackjack said. “And I know how she runs her MC. Vipers handle their own. Their girls. Their streets. Strip joints, dancers, women who need a roof. They don’t ambush other clubs’ business in the dark. They don’t circle trucks, and they don’t patch in men.”
“They strapped?” Voodoo asked. “I’ve seen their cuts in passing. Mean bitches.”
“Mean doesn’t equal stupid,” Blackjack said. “Liberty’s smart. She doesn’t work for men like the Vincinos. She doesn’t work for men at all.”
A couple brows rose at that.
“You know her?” Priest asked.
Blackjack’s eyes went distant for a second, like he was watching an old reel in his head.
“Long time ago,” he said. “Before half of you were even old enough to ride. Me and Liberty have an understanding. What’s ours is ours.
What’s theirs is theirs. We keep the lines clean and we won’t have problems.”
“Then who were they?” Spade asked.
Silence settled. You could hear the refrigerator kick on in the bar outside.
8-Ball cleared his throat. “I got a guess,” he said.
Blackjack nodded once. Permission.
“Back when I was doing time,” 8-Ball said, “there were rumors about a club out of Philly. Not a real club. No bar runs. No charity rides. No rallies. Just patches. Bikes. Work. They’d show up when someone with deep pockets wanted a message sent, or a job done with deniability.”
“Bikers for hire,” Mirage said. “That’s new.”
“Not that new,” 8-Ball said. “Name was Steel Serpents. Gray and gunmetal cuts. Black coiled snake patch. Didn’t take territorial claims. Didn’t care about brotherhood, either. They answered to cash only. Vincinos, mostly. Word was they used them when they didn’t want to dirty regular soldiers.”
The name slithered through the room and stayed there.
“Steel Serpents,” Priest repeated. “Cute.”
Jackal’s eyes went wide. Badger froze mid-breath. Turnpike frowned like he was filing it away for later.