Chapter 1 #2
One of the younger guys pokes his head in. “You good, Sarge?”
I glance up. “I’m breathing and that’s enough, kid.”
Chuckling, he nods, smart enough not to push, and backs out without another word.
By the time I finish, my head’s quieter. Not clear, but quiet enough to focus. The nightmares will come later. They always do. But right now? I’m where I need to be. At the clubhouse, locked in, loaded, and ready to roll.
I’m finishing up loading mags when the war room door creaks open. Maverick leans in the frame, arms crossed, eyes locked on me.
“You look like shit,” he says. He’s not judging, just spittin’ facts.
“Appreciate the pep talk, Prez,” I snort.
He steps in, drops into the chair across from me.
“Vandal’s done with the route. Mule rolls in just after midnight, so I need you on point tonight. You clear enough for that?”
I set the Glock down and meet his eyes.
“I’m clear, Prez,” I say, but my voice’s tighter than I want it to be. “Went through my gear twice. Glock’s clean, mags are loaded, knife’s where it should be. I won’t fuck this up.”
Maverick doesn’t blink. “That’s not the same as being ready.”
I grip the edge of the table. “I’m locked in. I know what this run means, and I know what happens if it goes sideways.”
He leans forward, eyes sharp. “You sure? Because if you’re even a little off, I need to pull you now.”
I meet his stare, jaw clenched. “I’m good. I’m not perfect, but I’m good enough to get this done clean.”
“Prospect said he saw you out there. Said you were pacing like you got a lot of shit on your mind,” he says, leaning back in the chair.
“That kid’s got too much time on his hands if he’s watching me,” I reply, making a mental note to give Renegade a lesson in minding his own fucking business.
“The kid’s just doing his job,” Maverick snaps. “And I’m doing mine. You’re Sergeant at Arms. I need you focused. Not halfway here and halfway stuck in some flashback.”
“No disrespect, Prez, but I said I’m good and ready to roll.”
He watches me a beat longer, then nods once. “Good had better be damn near flawless tonight.”
Mav didn’t have to say the exact words for me to hear the threat in his tone. Part of our loyalty is accountability. If this goes sideways, it doesn’t matter that we go way back. He will have my ass and then some. May even pull my rank. He won’t kill me, but he’ll get damn close.
He rises to leave, but pauses. What he says next catches me off guard a little. Maybe the fucker does care more than he lets on.
“You remember Striker from the St. Augustine chapter?” He asks.
“Tatted motherfucker? Can smoke a quarter mid-flip and still put a bullet through your eye without breaking a sweat?”
“That’s him,” Maverick nods. “He’s been where you’re at. Pulled a kid on a bad mission. Screwed him up for years. But he figured out how to carry it without letting it eat him alive. You oughta call him.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need therapy.”
“He’s not a shrink,” Maverick says, voice firm. “He’s a brother. Been through the same kind of hell. Doesn’t sugarcoat. Doesn’t judge. You think you’re the only one in this patch who’s seen ugly? You’re not. Striker’s proof. You don’t have to like it, but it’s on the table.”
I exhale hard. “What’s he gonna do? Tell me it wasn’t my fault? I already know it was. I pulled the trigger.”
Mav shakes his head. “He’s not gonna feed you bullshit. He’s gonna tell you how he keeps himself from drowning in it every night. That’s worth something. You can keep white knuckling it and burning out, or you can learn from someone who’s walked the same road.”
I stare at him, jaw tight, conceding. “You got his number?”
Pulling a folded paper from his kutte pocket, Mav slides it across the table. “Call him. Tell him I told you to reach out. If he’s up, he’ll answer. If not, wait. Don’t overthink it.”
I pick it up, turn it over in my hand. “You really think this is gonna fix me?”
“No,” he sighs, tired of my bullshit. “Nothing fixes it. You learn how to carry it. You either get better at it, or it breaks you. Striker can show you how not to break. That’s it.”
I fold the paper and shove it in my kutte pocket. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” He pushes back from the table, but before he leaves, he grips my shoulder.
“Now, about tonight. Mule’s a little nervous because of the amount he’s hauling.
You and Buckshot take point. Demolition will sweep the area.
We get in, grab the package, get out. Quiet.
Nothing fancy. You feel something’s off, you call it, and we regroup. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say, straightening up.
“Good,” he says, heading for the door. “One last thing… we don’t drag club business into your nightmares, and we don’t drag your nightmares into club business. Keep the line sharp. That’s how we all walk out breathing.”
I nod. “Yeah, I hear you, Prez.”
He gives me one last look. “Call Striker. Don’t be a stubborn bastard.”
“I said I’d think about it,” I grumble.
“Thinking about it isn’t calling him,” he fires back, then walks out.
I guess it ain’t a bad idea to talk to a brother who’s been there, done that. Not many make it through war, and fewer survive the shit it does to your head. Maybe Striker’s got something I can use. But that’ll have to wait… this run comes first, and I’m more than ready.”