Chapter 2
The door buzzed and clicked before the guard pushed it open, allowing Pistol to step out into the warm, late-summer, afternoon sun.
He walked a few paces away from the prison then paused and looked down at his feet, tucked into his favorite boots.
It felt odd, wearing his old clothes. Odd, but good.
Liberating. The old tee he had on was taut across his chest, the short sleeves clinging to his biceps.
The kutte he wore felt heavy on his shoulders, like a mantel—a reminder of who he was and where he belonged.
He closed his eyes, pulled in a deep breath, and tilted his head back as he basked in his newly granted freedom.
The sound of a loud whistle caught his attention, and he looked in the direction from whence it came, spotting Nomad with ease.
The man stood leaning against the driver’s side door of his pick-up—one hand resting on the giant belt buckle he always wore, the other hanging by his side, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers.
Even with that old, worn cowboy hat pulled down low on his brow and a pair of sunshades covering his eyes, Pistol suspected Nomad’s calm and collected mannerisms were a front, masking the relief he was sure they both felt.
Pistol smiled, grateful for the opportunity to put one foot in front of the other in order to make his way across the parking lot toward his friend.
Nomad stuck his cigarette between his lips, near the corner of his mouth, and helped close the yards that separated them.
When he was in reaching distance, Nomad didn’t hesitate to pull Pistol in for a hug.
He gave a tight squeeze Pistol was sure to reciprocate.
“Fuck, it’s good to see you out of that shit khaki.”
Pistol patted his brother on the back with a chuckle, inhaling the familiar scent of leather and tobacco. “You have no idea.”
Their hello was interrupted by a frantic whine followed by three sharp, insistent barks. The two men pulled away from each other, both looking toward the driver’s side window of Nomad’s truck. Reaper was in the front seat, jittery with excitement.
“Think someone’s dyin’ to see you,” mumbled Nomad around his cigarette.
“That makes two of us,” Pistol replied with a grin. “How bad did you spoil my girl?”
“Give me some credit. I didn’t ruin her. She’s still the same beast she always was, fluent in fuckin’ German.”
“Alright, let’s see,” chuckled Pistol.
Nomad strode back to his pick-up, reaching for the door handle before glancing back at Pistol. He nodded, signaling his friend to free his girl, and he pulled open the door. Reaper immediately leapt from the cab of Nomad’s cage and started sprinting.
“Ah—halt. Bleib,” he commanded.
Reaper stopped immediately, voicing her reluctance with a whine and an impatient bark.
“Ri, don’t be an ass. If she whips that tail any harder, she might fly off.”
Pistol smirked as he knelt and murmured affectionately, “Das ist ein braves M?dchen.” She lowered her nose, her whole body wiggling as she inched toward him. Now longing to put them both out of their misery, he whistled and called, “Heir.”
She charged, knocking him on his ass as she leapt at him in her exuberance, frantically licking at his face as she squirmed about in his arms.
“I missed you, too, girl. Fuck, I missed you, too.”
Pistol spent a solid five minutes on the ground, loving on his dog while Nomad finished his smoke.
“Don’t know about you, but I’d say it’s time to get the hell out of this place,” he stated, snuffing out the remains of his cigarette with the heel of his boot.
Peering up at the man with the sun at his back, Pistol agreed. He was sentenced to five years behind bars but managed to get out on good behavior after three. Even with a reduced sentence, he was in that hellhole three years too long, and he couldn’t put it in the rearview fast enough.
Pistol stood, Reaper still circling her way around him in her excitement. He felt bad for the way he left her—the way he was taken from her—without a proper goodbye. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel abandoned. He had every intention of keeping her extra close for a while.
“You hungry?” asked Nomad as they closed themselves into the truck. “Figured I’d swing you by Viv’s for a bite if you don’t mind the wait.”
Reaper licked at Pistol’s ear from behind him before he could reply. He reached his hand up to scratch between her ears. “Alright, Reaper, girl, that’s enough. Platz.”
She nuzzled him once more then obediently plopped down across the bench seat with a sigh, her eyes still trained his direction as though she, too, had every intention of keeping him in her sights.
Shifting his attention beside him, Pistol answered, “Nomad—I’ve been dreamin’ of one of Viv’s bacon cheeseburgers with a hot fudge bourbon milkshake for so long, it was startin’ to feel like a nightmare. Waited one thousand, one hundred, and thirteen days—think I can wait an hour more.”
Nomad chuckled, started his engine, and began to make the drive back to Missoula without further prompting.
They rode in silence for a while, Pistol staring out the window.
It surprised him how much he missed the view that came with traveling eighty miles an hour on I90.
There was so much he longed for while he was locked up, the freedom he felt now was almost overwhelming—like unpacking a trunk he didn’t realize he managed to stuff so full.
The thought of being home, of mounting his hog and riding in formation with his brothers—it made him emotional even thinking about it.
He cleared his throat, afraid he would legitimately get choked up if he didn’t break the silence. “Fill me in. What have I missed?”
It had been a couple of months since Nomad’s last visit.
They were usually few and far between, at Pistol’s insistence.
During his first several weeks inside, a handful of his brothers visited whenever they could, trying to get answers out of him—answers as to why he did what he did to land him in the clink in the first place. Answers he wasn’t willing to give.
Assault and battery of a Copper King was what put him in cuffs.
A judge and jury were who found him guilty.
But for three long years, it was the unfinished nature of it all that left him up at night.
He kept his mouth shut because he didn’t want his brothers cleaning up his spilt milk.
Moreover, he made a promise.
So far as his fellow Stallions were concerned, his reasons for why he did what he did were his own. He got caught and paid the price. He wanted no retribution. No battles or threats of war. What business he left undone, he planned on finishing himself. Soon.
But even when the visits became less frequent and his brothers let him be, Nomad never stopped dropping in on him.
The bond between the two was forged during Pistol’s darkest days, when he first became a fully patched member of the club—right after he lost his mom to a battle with breast cancer that took her faster than either of them imagined.
The pain of her absence made him dangerously reckless; but Nomad kept him from going over the brink.
To this day, he was the voice of reason Pistol trusted above all others.
“Not much to tell,” said Nomad. “Got a new probie roamin’ among us. Couple months in. Pretty fuckin’ green if you ask me; but I’m not rulin’ him out. Gettin’ his hands dirty at the shop. Nighthawk has him on as an apprentice. Don’t worry, though—your job’s still there.”
“Never doubted it,” Pistol replied. He meant it, too. He’d been a Stallion going on fifteen years, and under Nighthawk’s leadership for a decade. He knew his place, and he had the rank and the patches to prove it.
“Got your hog fueled up and ready to ride. Spurs planned a route for a welcome home tour. Soon as your stomach is full, we’ll head to the clubhouse, gather the guys and roll out.”
Pistol pulled his eyes away from the road in order to look at Nomad. “Welcome home tour or a full-strength message?” he asked.
The corner of Nomad’s mouth twitched with a smirk that came and went just as fast.
“And why would we be needin’ to send a message?”
When Pistol didn’t respond, Nomad glanced over at his brother. Something in his expression made Nomad chuckle before he redirected his attention out the windshield.
“Still keepin’ that shit to yourself, I see.”
“The Kings stirrin’ up trouble?”
“No more than usual.”
Pistol nodded to himself and replied, “Then, yeah—keepin’ that shit to myself.”
Missoula wasn’t the biggest city in Montana, but it was large enough for two rival motorcycle clubs to exist. Ten years ago, when the Stallions were looking to expand beyond the borders of Wyoming, it so happened there was a plot of land in town owned by a family member of one of their own.
It was more than big enough for what they needed, so they bought half of it and built the compound with the clubhouse and the garage.
When they moved in, they were aware of the Copper Kings. The club owned a body shop on the northside of the river. Same industry, different purpose. Nighthawk reckoned the two outfits could coexist in peace—until they caught wind of what the Kings got up to after hours.
Even when the Wild Stallions were in the drug game, they weren’t the real players.
They were the muscle assisting Alvarez’s operation in the movement of drugs across the Canadian border.
They didn’t deal and they didn’t partake.
The Copper Kings were smugglers and dealers, making them the competition Alvarez was up against in the college town of Missoula.