Chapter One
Firestride
That same night, in Deadwood, South Dakota...
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the quiet town of Deadwood, South Dakota, as the roar of our engines thundered through town, shattering the peaceful evening with the thick smell of gasoline and burnt rubber.
Fear held everyone captive, preventing a single soul from daring to look in our direction.
Now, the town barely housed over a thousand residents, and not a single fucking one of them gave two fucking shits about anything but themselves and their precious dying town. Their sly looks, hushed whispers, and condemnatory stares did nothing to endear me to them.
They didn’t give a fuck about me, so why should I give a fuck about them? Their cowardice never ceased to amaze me. Their scared blatant gestures as they hurried to close their shops, refusing us service, or petrified pitiful glances as we passed—still brought a subtle smile to my lips.
Judgmental pussy motherfuckers.
Good thing they were safe from me tonight because I was in the mood for a little terror.
Heading out of town, my destination was the Dead Stop, a bar known for its problematic clientele, nightly brawls, over-priced sex, and recreational drugs that did nothing to help Deadwood’s economy.
All it did was keep the local sheriff in business and desperately in need of more deputies.
Pulling into the dirt parking lot, I dismounted my gleaming classic 1972 Triumph Bonneville, meticulously maintained and cherished.
Its chrome gleamed under the moonlight as its engine purred with a deep, throaty growl that echoed through the empty streets.
My bike was more than just a means of transportation; she was my trusted companion, my vessel of freedom—an extension of who I truly was.
I didn’t ride her often, choosing to keep her safe most of the time, but occasionally I brought her out and rode her until the sun rose over the horizon.
There was nothing better than a long midnight ride, and I planned to do just that after I took care of some club business.
My eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the bar’s exterior before pushing open the creaky wooden door.
My other brothers followed, a wall of leather and steel, our presence commanding immediate attention as the bar fell silent.
Patrons froze mid-drink, their conversations dying on their lips as they turned to face the hellfire that had just walked through the door.
While some returned to their drinks, most fled as the bartender, a burly man named Jack, wiped his hands on a rag, his eyes narrowing as he slowly shook his head.
He fucking knew why I was here and who I was looking for.
Striding to the center of the room, my heavy boots thudded against the wooden floor, and the bartender lightly shifted his head toward the corner of the bar, where a man tried to shrink into the shadows.
But it was too late. I would spot that fucking scruffy figure with his nervous twitch anywhere.
Advancing, I flipped a chair around and straddled it while my brothers surrounded the table, leaving him no room to escape.
“Pauley, Pauley, Pauley.” I sighed, leaning in close. “You lying piece of shit. Thought you could get away from me, did ya? You know what happens to people who don’t pay their debts.”
Pauley swallowed hard. His eyes darted around the room, seeking an ally, a way out, anything, but I fucking knew no one here would give him aid.
The motherfucker made a deal with the Devil, and now it was time to pay up.
“I... I just need a little more time,” he stammered. “I’ll get you the money, I swear.”
My face remained impassive. Just like all the others, it was the same old spiel.
“Time’s up, Pauley. You had your chance.” I glanced at one of my brothers, a hulking figure known as Carver, who cracked his knuckles ominously.
The tension in the bar was palpable. Everyone knew that a refusal or further delay would lead to violence. Pauley’s hands trembled as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled wad of bills. “It’s all I’ve got right now,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
I took the money, counting it slowly, methodically. “This is a start,” I said finally, pocketing the cash. “But it’s not enough.”
I let my threat hang in the air, the implications clear.
Fear overwhelmed Pauley as his face lost all its color, and his eyes betrayed the terror in his heart. Impassively, I watched as he frantically struggled to find the words that might give him the extra time he so desperately needed. “Please. I’ll get you the money. I just need more time.”
With a frustrated shake of my head, I stood, sending the chair flying backward before shoving the table so hard that it slammed Pauley against the wall, the table’s edge pressing agonizingly into his gut.
Leaning over the table, I grabbed the lying motherfucker’s neck and squeezed. “I don’t believe you.”
Despite his attempts to claw and scratch at my hand, I tightened my grip, feeling his nails dig in, and watched as Pauley’s eyes bugged out, blood vessels bursting, turning the whites of his eyes a horrifying blood red.
When I witnessed his lips begin to turn blue, I squeezed harder, and with a quick flick of my wrist, I smiled when I felt and heard the snap of bone under my fingers—the smile growing as I watched the life drain from Pauley’s bloodshot eyes.
With a final release, his body thudded heavily onto the table, his limbs askew, a smell of stale alcohol clinging to his clothes.
To any other person, he looked as if he were sleeping off a drunken stupor.
Standing at my full height, I took one last look at the dead man before I uttered, “The Brotherhood thanks you for your payment.”
The bar held its breath, a heavy silence falling as the weight of what I’d done settled over the room. Glasses paused mid-air, conversations abandoned in favor of wary, sidelong glances. Carver loomed at my shoulder, his presence a silent warning to anyone who might have considered objecting.
No one did.
They never did.
Leaving the way I came in, I headed straight for my bike, threw my leg over the seat, and quickly started it up. I looked over at Carver and informed him, “Heading to Rapid City.”
Carver said nothing as he walked over to his bike.
I knew he wouldn’t.
Backing out of the parking lot, I gunned my engine, heading south to collect another debt.