CHAPTER 30
There’s no negotiating with the Devil. He’s never satisfied.
The atmosphere is tense as we prepare to leave the clubhouse.
No one talks, but the silence is far from peaceful.
There’s the click, click, click of bullets being loaded, plus the clang of metal hitting metal as magazines slide into place and our heavy artillery is piled into duffles we’re taking with us.
My brothers and I have done this enough; it’s like clockwork.
Bodie’s standing across from me, shirtless. He reaches forward and grabs a Kevlar vest from the pile on the pool table and straps it on, before yanking his tee on over the top. He’s one of the last to don one.
They’re a precautionary measure—in case this meeting is a trap, and the weight of that possibility sits heavy in the room. It’s the reason for the silence. We’re mentally preparing ourselves for whatever’s waiting for us in the desert.
Maybe it’ll go smoothly, like Cap hopes. Maybe it won’t.
Either way, whatever outcome we face is on me. That truth gnaws like sharp teeth at my conscience. Cause and effect. Saving these girls has repercussions. This is it. It’s a fact, and it’s fucking with my head, because how can it be the right thing if I’m just trading a life for a life?
If I lose a brother today because I save Larissa, is it worth it?
I don’t have the answer.
All I have is the unease sitting like a dead weight in my gut and the mother of all migraines pulsing in a constant beat behind my eyes.
This is what has me digging through my supply of pills before we leave and popping one.
I need to be able to see straight and have a clear mind going into this.
The pain and guilt make it damn near impossible to do so, and I won’t be the weak fucking link today if the 13Ds come to the meeting with ill intentions.
When we exit the clubhouse, I immediately put on my shades to block out the bright-orange ball sitting high in the sky, casting long shadows across the cracked lot.
Heat radiates off the asphalt, penetrating through the soles of my boots.
The dry, arid scent of earth on the breeze is of little comfort.
I latch my gear to my bike first. After pulling on my gloves, I roll my shoulders and try to relieve some of the tension in my upper back. It’s caused by bracing against the pain and has only gotten worse as the day progressed.
Before I can straddle my ride, Cap comes over. His large hand grips my shoulder. He squeezes once.
“You good?”
Cap’s always been like that—able to read people like they’re an open third-grade textbook.
He’s a mountain of a man, with lines carved into his face from years of sporting wide smiles and deep frowns.
Guess it comes part and parcel with leading an MC and a bunch of misfits who, at times, don’t act like fucking grown-ups.
The pain is hard to hide, but with him, there’s little need to. He knows. The concern covering his features says as much.
I shake my head once. “Would you be?”
“Nothin’ to it.” Cap’s tone is steady, grounding, the kind of voice that could talk a man off a ledge.
“We knew this was comin’. Was fully aware of what you were doing, and you had my blessing.
Just because we have blowback doesn’t mean you gotta let that rest on your shoulders alone.
Anything worth doin’ comes with consequences, right? ”
I let his words sink in, but the guilt doesn’t release its hold on me. I still hear the news about Edge, still imagine him in the prison infirmary, stabbed and beaten half to death.
I didn’t stab the knife or dish out the beating, but I might as well have.
Cap pats the Road Captain patch on my cut and nods once. “This means you look out for others. Doesn’t mean just for the club.”
I nod and the tight band constricting my chest relaxes a little at his words.
“But Edge, man. Fuck.”
“We’re gonna get Edge the help he needs on the inside. We’ll make it right in the end, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. It’s a promise, and one I plan to keep.
Cap makes his way to his bike. He thumps Dozer on the back of the head as he passes. Dozer grumbles and tries to swipe at his old man, but Cap evades him. The usual banter between the guys feels forced today, like we’re all just trying to keep the nerves at bay.
Bodie catches my eye. He lifts his chin in acknowledgement. I do the same. My gaze travels over the group assembled. I take a mental picture of this moment and store it away before throwing my leg over my bike and turning the ignition.
The familiar rumble that used to be a balm to my soul has my head pounding, but I fight through it as I yank my neck gaiter up to cover the lower half of my face.
It’s black and white, faded, half stars and stripes, half skeleton with sharp canines on the top.
I strap on my helmet and then gun the throttle a few times before pulling up behind Cap and Dozer, ready to lead the way for the others.
We jump onto Highway 85 and head south. It’s a long, empty stretch of road. No signs of life except the occasional car and a few tumbleweeds blowing across the asphalt. The horizon is a wavering line, distorted by heat, and in the distance are red jagged plains.
The sun burns hotter as we go. I sweat like mad under the layers, and the Kevlar makes it ten times worse. It’s the kind of heat that feels insufficient to your lungs, leaves you with cracked lips, and makes you desperate for a tall glass of water.
The landscape changes as we take a narrow one-lane road toward our destination.
The ground beneath us turns rougher, more uneven, cracked from years of neglect.
The air is thick with dust, like a suffocating blanket, and I can feel the grit collecting on my skin and coating my mouth despite the neck gaiter.
When we finally reach the wide, open stretch of desert, there’s nothing except endless sun-scorched earth. Which is a blessing and a curse—few places to hide if things go south, but few places for our enemies to run as well.
I stay on high alert, scanning the area for any sign of movement. Every shadow feels like a threat, every ripple in the heat a warning. The closer we get to the meet-up point, the tighter my chest feels, the sense of wrongness coiling.
We have one goal in this meetup, and that’s to put the truce back in place long enough to get Edge out. Making temporary peace is not what we want to do, but it’s the only way we can buy the time we need to make that happen.
Antonio and his people arrive ten minutes late. Their rides consist of two trucks, and two souped-up SUV’s. They gleam with fancy paint jobs and chrome rims that catch in the sunlight.
I clock fifteen 13Ds, including two that stay in the SUV.
There’s a vast difference between Antonio’s men and Veno’s, mainly in dress and posture.
Antonio’s are dressed in designer labels, nice button shirts, and slacks, where Veno’s are in T-shirts, plaid, jeans, and one big motherfucker has no shirt at all.
He’s covered in dark tattoos. They cover his chest, face, and bald head.
It’s not the sight of him that has us moving with caution as we get closer; it’s the amount of hardware the 13Ds are flaunting, ARs and handguns.
I analyze everything I can through the fog of dulled pain. Their stances, where their trigger fingers are, how they hold the weapons, and where each man stands. I need to know who the primary threats are going to be if bullets start flying.
Antonio is standing cool and collected in front of a midnight Escalade, radiating arrogance, chin lifted, like he already knows how this is going to play out.
He exudes wealth and power—navy suit, crisp white shirt, a few pieces of gold jewelry, and shiny shoes.
Visible tattoos everywhere except for the left side of his face.
Taz, always the loose cannon, is the first to break the silence. “What? No welcome wagon and hellos?” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He’s grinning like a madman, like he’s hoping shit goes sideways.
“Lock it up, T,” Mav growls.
Taz just laughs, that manic sound that lets everyone know exactly where his head’s at. “Just saying… these fuckers don’t quite look ready to kiss and make up.”
Dozer is shaking his head. “This already looks like it’s gonna go to hell in a handbasket, no need to send it downriver.”
Cap throws Taz a look that could cut steel as he swings off his bike. “Don’t start something I’ll have to finish.”
Using the gun in his hand, Taz salutes him with it like an asshole, a grin still firmly in place.
Cap turns to Antonio, his voice low and calm. “Thought this was to be a peaceful meetup to discuss new terms.”
Cap follows Veno’s glare to me, and our gazes connect. I nod at him because I know he’s got to do or say whatever he needs to make peace.
I have no problem towing the line today, but the way Veno is eyeing me gives me the impression that’s the opposite of what he wants. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and dark jeans, and a blue bandana is tied around his head. His Glock is currently pointed down and resting next to his thigh.
He may be letting his brother do the talking, but by the looks of it, he has plenty to say.
Dozer moves with Cap as he strolls forward, standing at his right side in case he needs to become his shield. The rest of the HOCs spread out.
Antonio calls out, “Thought it necessary to show you we mean business since from what I’d heard, you’re not keepin’ up your end of the deal.”
Cap huffs. “Neither are you, though, if we’re splittin’ hairs.”
Antonio’s mouth pulls into a taunting smile. His dark eyes crinkling at the sides. “Looks like we have things to work out then, boundaries to reset.”
Cap’s never one for small talk, nods. “That we do.”