Chapter Forty-Six
Firestride
I stood holding Kyllian close as Morpheus strode over to me, and I heard King shout, “Jesus fuck! Patch, get the fuck over here.”
Looking at my woman from head to toe, Morpheus nodded before he turned and looked around the bar, his eyes searching for his son, who stood near the exit, blood marring his face and clothes.
Neither man said a fucking word as they stared at each other, until Ravage smirked and then ducked out of the building. Moments later, I heard his bike rev before it faded into the distance.
Zeus stood next to Eros, talking quietly amongst themselves, while a few of my brothers helped the Silver Shadows remove the dead bodies lining the floor of the Tumbleweed. As a brother tended to Banshee, we all heard a dying laugh.
Everyone stopped and slowly turned to see one of the Death Dogs lying at Indigo’s feet, coughing up blood, a grin on his face. “You think you’ve won. You played right into his hand. The Death Dogs always get their man.”
King made a move, but Morpheus got to the fucker faster. Grabbing the fucker by the scruff of his dirty shirt, Morpheus sneered, “What man?”
The fucker coughed again, blood spewing from his mouth.
“It was a trap. A way to get you all away, and you fell for it. Skinner knew you wouldn’t keep your end of the bargain.
So he wanted me to pass along a message.
” The fucker coughed again, his eyes slowly closing as he whispered his last words. “A life for a life.”
The dying man’s words hung in the air, a chilling prophecy of doom.
Morpheus’ face contorted with a fury I’d never witnessed before, his obsidian eyes blazing like twin infernos.
The carefully constructed facade of control he’d maintained throughout the night shattered, revealing the raw, unadulterated rage of a cornered animal.
Dropping the dead man, Morpheus looked at King, then at Zeus. “He’s attacking the clubhouses!”
King’s roar, “Zero! Burn the fucking bodies,” was a guttural command that reverberated through the room, a primal call to arms.
“Heretic, go with him,” Morpheus ordered.
Heretic, his face a grim mask, nodded, his own eyes reflecting the grim determination to handle what needed to be handled, no matter how vile. Then Morpheus’ bellow, “Bastards, to your bikes!” echoed through the clubhouse, a thunderous command that sent a jolt of adrenaline through me.
The party was over.
This was no longer a game of posturing and power plays.
This was war.
We spilled out of the Tumbleweed, the cold Wyoming air a stark contrast to the inferno that had raged within.
The Death Dogs’ trap had been sprung, and now, the Brotherhood of Bastards had to deal with the fallout.
My gaze found Kyllian’s as we mounted my bike, her turquoise eyes wide, mirroring the terror I felt churning in my gut.
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
I nodded and peeled out of the parking lot, my brothers with me.
The roar of our engines was a guttural symphony of fury as we tore through the Wyoming landscape, the dust kicked up by our bikes a testament to the storm we were about to unleash as we headed for home.
Kyllian’s arms were a tight anchor around my waist, her presence a constant reminder of what was at stake.
She had seen the brutality firsthand, the raw, unvarnished truth of the Brotherhood, and yet she had fought, had stood her ground.
That fire in her eyes, the one I’d tried to extinguish, now burned brighter than ever, a beacon in the encroaching darkness.
Skinner had made his move, a desperate gambit that had backfired spectacularly, and now he would pay the price.
The Tumbleweed had been the stage for his downfall, and now, the entire Death Dogs club would become the spectacle of our vengeance.
Morpheus, a shadow in my side mirror, rode beside me, his face a mask of grim determination.
He knew the stakes. He knew what this meant.
The war had begun, and it wasn’t just about club business anymore.
It was about blood, about loyalty, about the woman who had somehow woven herself into the very fabric of my existence.
Skinner had made a fatal mistake in threatening Kyllian, by daring to challenge the Brotherhood’s claim.
He had ignited a fire, not just in me, but in every single brother riding behind us.
And that fire, fueled by a righteous fury, would burn until there was nothing left but ash.
As we sped toward Deadwood, a unnerving realization settled in my gut.
This wasn’t just about vengeance for Kyllian; it was about sending a message to every other club in the Federation.
The Brotherhood of Bastards had always collected their debts, and tonight, Skinner would learn the true meaning of that promise.
He had tangled with the wrong woman, threatened the wrong man, and now, he would face the full, unadulterated wrath of the Brotherhood.
The rumble of our engines was a war cry, a promise of the bloody reckoning that awaited those who dared to cross us.
We were coming for them, and we wouldn’t stop until every last one of them had paid for their transgressions.
Roaring through Deadwood, we split up into pairs, each destination the same.
The Brotherhood of Bastards’ clubhouse.
Pulling into the compound, I cut my engine as Kyllian jumped off my bike. Morpheus stopped beside me, already dismounting as he reached for his machete. The silence told us what we already knew. They had already been here and were gone, taking what they wanted.
The clubhouse doors lay wide open, a deathly welcome, inviting us in to see the carnage those sick fucks left behind.
We entered the clubhouse cautiously; bodies littered the floor. Broken glass glinted in the moonlight that spilled through the shattered windows, and overturned chairs bore silent witness to the chaos left in their wake. Lying across the bar in his own blood was Jester, with a bullet to his head.
Xzibit sat on the floor, holding a club whore in his arms, her eyes vacant, her life already drained. In the corner, Lollie rocked herself as silent tears streamed down her face, her body covered in blood, naked as she held a knife in her hand, her eyes on the dead Death Dog beside her.
The backdoor opened, and heavy footsteps thundered toward us.
“Dagger’s gone,” Wanderer stated as he and Carver entered the main room to survey the damage.
“Where is Cerberus?” Morpheus asked, looking around the clubhouse. When no one spoke up, Morpheus roared, “CERBERUS!”
The stench of gunpowder and spilled whiskey hung thick in the air, mingling with the sorrow that gripped every survivor in the room.
I scanned the carnage, my fists clenched, rage and helplessness warring inside me.
Somehow, in all the violence, our creed felt both hollow and sacred—vengeance was inevitable, but the cost was more than any of us could have imagined.
Kyllian moved to comfort Lollie, her touch gentle, but her eyes burning with the same resolve I felt.
Morpheus cleared a path through the chaos, every movement deliberate as he searched for his best friend.
We were battered but not broken. Tonight, the Brotherhood would remember, and we would make sure the rest of the world did, too.
Garrote stumbled into the room, holding his stomach, trying to stem the flow of blood as he fell to his knees. “They took Zephyr.”
Rushing to him, Wanderer and I helped him to a chair.
“How many, brother?”
“Too many.” Garrote grimaced as Carver moved his hand to check the damage.
“Inferno and Karter are gone,” Morpheus seethed as he stormed back into the room. Grabbing Garrote, he hauled him to his feet and snarled. “Where the fuck is Cerberus?”
Garrote sputtered, “He wasn’t here. He took Alice home.”
The roar of Morpheus’ fury was a chilling sound that echoed the emptiness where Cerberus should have been.
Inferno and Karter were gone.
Those words were a brutal hammer blow, shattering the fragile peace I’d clung to.
I watched Morpheus, a titan brought low, his usual iron grip faltering as he reeled from Cerberus’ failure.
He was a Bastard, a monster, but he was also family.
And now, our family was being ripped apart.
My pain, the deep-seated ache of betrayal and violation, paled in comparison to the raw agony that contorted Morpheus’ face.
I knew with a certainty that settled like a shroud that Skinner would pay.
This war, ignited by his greed and cruelty, was far from over, and with Zephyr taken, and Inferno and Karter gone, the Brotherhood felt hollowed out, a shell of its former self.
The laughter and camaraderie of the night before felt like a distant memory, replaced by a grim, suffocating reality.
I looked at my woman, her face etched with a grief that mirrored my own. She had seen the worst of us, had been caught in the crossfire of our war, and yet, she remained resolute as tears streamed down her beautiful face.
The silence hung heavy, broken only by Garrote’s ragged breathing and the distant wail of sirens outside. Nobody spoke, each of us haunted by our own losses and the question of what came next. I looked around at the faces that remained—faces marked by blood, fear, and the stubborn refusal to yield.
As the first light of dawn began to seep through shattered windows, it cast long shadows over the battered room. Every member of the Brotherhood understood: this night had changed everything.
There would be no forgiveness, no mercy.
The Brotherhood would teach the Biker Federation the true meaning of a life for a life, and it would be a lesson they would never forget.