Chapter 7 Blood Oath
Blood Oath
The dawn came in dirty.
Low clouds bruised purple over the horizon, light bleeding through diesel haze.
The clubhouse lot glittered with rainwater and oil, a mirror of all the ghosts waiting in it.
Twenty-three bikes lined up neat as rifles, pipes ticking in the cool air.
Every one of them wore the crown-skull. Every one of them was his’s to lose.
Eagle stood by the gate, checking mags and radios. Mouse passed out rags to wipe visors. The rest just stared at him, waiting for the signal.
Tater wasn’t the loudest Bastard; He never needed to be. When he walked out onto the concrete, helmets came off. Boots straightened. The world got real quiet.
“Brothers,” he said, voice carrying without trying. “You all saw the video.”
A few nods. No one spoke.
“The Hades Hellhounds thought it’d scare us,” he went on. “They thought we’d hide behind the bar and pray the fire didn’t come back. They forgot what patch we wear.”
Someone laughed, short and mean.
“They came for one of ours,” he said. “That’s all the reason we need.”
Eagle moved up beside me, his eyes dark under the brim of his cap. “Tell ‘em what it is, Prez.”
“This is a blood oath,” Tater said. “No one runs. No one talks. No one touches our own without paying the debt in skin and blood.”
Engines answered before voices did—growling, hungry, ready.
Tater climbed on his bike. The seat was still damp from the rain. The chain he’d found sat wrapped around the handlebars, a promise glinting gold in the weak light.
“Let’s ride.”