Chapter 1
ONE
NIGHTMARE
I jolt awake, a roar ripping from my throat.
Chest heaving like I sprinted through hell.
Sweat slicks my skin, runs down my temples, and drips into my beard.
My fists are locked, knuckles screaming, nails buried deep in my palms. I can still feel the rifle’s weight.
Still see the boy’s face… pale, terrified, frozen in the breath I stole from him.
The smell lingers too… gunpowder and burning flesh, thick in my nose like it never left
“Clear the room! Clear the room!” The words rip out of me before I even know I’m saying them.
My heart’s pounding so hard it rattles my ribs, and for a second I don’t know where I am.
The bedroom walls blur into cracked mud, dust choking my throat, adrenaline surging like pure octane.
The gunpowder stung so sharp after I pulled the trigger, it burned my eyes for days.
Bad intel. That’s what they wrote in the report.
Two neat words in a file that give me permission to sleep.
But it doesn’t erase the fact that I pulled the trigger.
That I dropped a kid no older than twelve.
His face haunts my dreams. A punishment for stealing a life he never got to live.
Samir’s name burns on my skin, permanent as the memory of him.
The nightmares don’t just haunt me. They gut me.
Leave me rotting in my own guilt every damn night.
Pushing the blankets off, I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, dragging both hands down my face.
My skin’s clammy, hot, and I can feel the sting of tears I don’t want to admit are there.
Doesn’t matter how many years go by… it’s the same nightmare, the same face, the same guilt sitting on my chest like a fucking anvil.
I get up, pacing, because sitting still just makes it worse. My fists clench and unclench. I think about putting one straight through the drywall just to let it out. But I stop myself. Breaking shit doesn’t help, just leaves me patching holes later. And I have a job to do tonight.
The bottle on the nightstand sits half-empty, waiting for me to claim it. Waiting for me to grab it and drown in all my sorrows. I stare at it for a long second, jaw tightening, hoping the pain will go away on its own.
“You’re no damn cure, but you’ll quiet these demons for a while, won’t you?”
The cap’s off before I’ve even made up my mind.
Tipping the bottle back, I take a long pull, the whiskey scorching its way down, hot enough to make me cough.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I shake my head, staring at the bottle, wondering when the nightmares will end.
When will I get some relief from the guilt.
Forgive myself for something that was out of my control.
“Son of a bitch! Every time, it’s the same. Burn me, choke me, hell, I don’t care… just keep his face out of my head for five goddamn minutes.”
For a moment, it works. My shoulders drop, the tightness in my chest lets up, and the kid’s face fades… just a little, blurred at the edges. But it never lasts. The guilt always finds its way back in. I set the bottle down harder than I meant to, the thud breaking the silence.
“Yeah. Real fucking progress,” I grumble.
I stand there for a moment, trying to get my head straight.
The whiskey’s still burning in my gut, but it’s not doing a damn thing for the guilt.
I rub my face and start pacing again, restless and wired, like my body’s trying to hold onto what my mind won’t let go of.
I keep moving, hoping something will shake loose, but it doesn’t help. It never does.
I walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. It stings, but I welcome it. Gripping the counter, I stare into the mirror, not liking what I see… bloodshot eyes, a clenched jaw, and a man who looks like he’s been in a fight he keeps losing.
Being locked in your own head? That’s a battle nobody else can fight for you. You either put your demons down, or they twist you into someone you don’t even know anymore.
“Get it together,” I mutter. “You’re Sergeant at Arms, not some broken vet hiding in the dark.”
I dry off, throw on my jeans, and reach for my kutte. The bottle’s still sitting there, like it’s daring me to come back for round two. I give it the finger and head for the door.
The club doesn’t need me soft, not today. We’ve got a run tonight, picking up a shipment from a mule, and if I’m not dialed in, things can go sideways fast.
Outside, the air’s cool against my face, cutting through the sweat and the fog in my head. The streets are empty, just a couple cars rolling by. I walk hard, fast, until my lungs burn and my legs remind me I’m still here. It helps, not much, but enough to keep me moving.
I stop under a streetlight and take a minute to catch my breath.
Pulling a Black & Mild from the pack, I light it, dragging in thick smoke.
It’s harsh, and heavy, but it puts something in my chest besides guilt.
The smoke settles slow, curling around me in the quiet…
no cars, no voices, just the sound of my own breathing.
For the first time this morning, I feel a little more steady.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Flicking the ash on the sidewalk, I check the screen.
Mav: Heard you step out. You good, brother?
I stare at it for a second, roll the cigarillo between my fingers, then text back.
Me: Yeah. Just clearing my head.
A reply comes quick.
Mav: Good. Do what you gotta do. Just remember, I need my Sergeant at Arms sharp tonight. No one else can hold that line but you.
I smirk a little at that, shaking my head. He always knows how to put it. Straightforward, no bullshit, but it lands. I type back.
Me: I’ll be ready. Don’t worry about me.
Another buzz.
Mav: Not worried. Just making sure you don’t forget who you are to this club. Handle your business, we’ll handle the rest. See you when you get back.
I’ve known Silas… Maverick to the brothers, since middle school.
After I chose not to re-enlist, I came back to Atlanta with nothing but a duffel bag and a head full of noise.
No plan. No direction. It didn’t take long for things to unravel.
I burned bridges, wrecked trust, and pushed my parents to the edge.
They nearly cut me off completely, and begged me to get help.
I was drifting, hollowed out by what I did and the silence that followed.
One night, drunk and broken, I stood on the tracks waiting for the next train to end it all.
But fate had other plans.
Maverick and a few of the brothers were out on a run that night. They found me before the train did, and pulled me back from insanity.
The PTSD still claws at me, but I’ve got purpose now. Being part of the Royal Bastards gave me that. My skills keep us sharp, keep us safe. And it was the first time I found a way to deal with my shit.
I pocket the phone, drag deep off the Black & Mild, and blow the smoke into the night air.
The whiskey, the smoke, the walking… they don’t fix anything. But they buy me enough time to lock it down and do my job. That’s the patch I wear, the weight I carry with me every single day.
Grinding the cigar out on the sidewalk, I head back toward the clubhouse. The street’s quiet, the sky just starting to pale with the first hint of daylight. There’s no reason to keep wandering around. If I’m gonna keep my head straight out here, it’ll be surrounded by my brothers.
By the time I get back to the clubhouse, a few of the guys are already outside, loading the SUV in silence.
No jokes, no bullshit… today’s not the kind of run you laugh through.
We’re moving weight, and using a mule instead of the train yard puts us in a tighter spot than usual.
The warehouse we’re meeting at is supposed to be off the grid, but it’s not.
Too exposed. Too many moving parts. If someone’s hunting, we won’t be hard to track.
I never saw myself ending up in this world. But life doesn’t always ask… it just grabs your choices and drags you where it wants. The drug game wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was the club.
But the club found me. And the brotherhood? That’s real. That’s the only thing that’s ever felt solid since I got back to Atlanta.
Walking up the stairs, I yank the door open and step inside. The place hits me with its usual mix… leather, whiskey, motor oil, and a hint of last night’s smoke. Not rank. Just lived in and familiar.
A couple of brothers are crashed out on the couches, sleeping off whatever they drank last night, boots still on, bottles tipped over. One of the prospects, Renegade, is sweeping near the bar, trying to look busy. He throws me a nod, and I give him one back before moving past.
Heading toward the war room, adrenaline already kicking in.
This is my space. The weapons locker sits in the corner, always stocked, always ready.
Popping it open, I pull my Glock free, and lay it flat on the table.
Slide racks smooth. Chamber clear. Lining up the mags, I check each one, and load them back with sharp, deliberate clicks.
Order and discipline. That’s what the military drilled into me, and it stuck. It’s the difference between walking out or getting zipped up in a bag.
“Sergeant at Arms. No fuckups tonight,” I say out loud to no one, giving myself a little pep talk to get my head right.
After that, it’s prep. I tighten my kutte across my shoulders, feeling the weight settle in. With my knife strapped in tight and gear squared away, I check the saddlebag I keep stashed for runs… empty, just how I left it. There’s no excuse for being sloppy or unprepared.
It’s not the same high as combat, but this shit is close enough. The edge, the hum in your blood. One wrong move and it all goes to hell. If it does? Mav will roll heads. That motherfucker doesn’t yell… he just gets quiet, cold, deadly. And when he’s like that, people disappear.