Vandal
The duffel bag on the passenger seat vibrated.
It was his burner phone—again. He ignored it—again, and the phone stopped buzzing, but started again thirty seconds later.
Whoever was calling wasn't giving up, but that was too damn bad.
The phone buzzed a third time before finally going silent.
He reached over, pulled the battery free, and tossed both pieces into the center console.
Nobody needed to find him, and if he had his way, nobody would. At least, that was the plan.
The GPS announced his destination, and he killed the voice before it could finish.
The clubhouse sat well back from the road, surrounded by thick woods and protected by a high chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
Now, this place looked more like what he was used to.
Motorcycles filled the lot, and the place felt like home.
Or maybe it was exactly the kind of place where he shouldn't be.
The large wooden sign over the gate read:
ROYAL BASTARDS MC – HUNTSVILLE.
He shut off the engine, but didn't move.
He hadn't planned on coming here. Truth was, he hadn't planned on surviving long enough to need somewhere to land, but Savage had once said, "If a man named Vandal ever comes looking for us, feed him first. Ask questions later.
" At least, that's what the old man at the Louisiana Royal Bastards had claimed before pressing a folded piece of paper into Vandal's hand. Inside had been one sentence.
Go to Huntsville. Tell them Bishop sent you.
There was nothing else. No explanation, no reason, just the name—Bishop. He was the only man Vandal had ever trusted and the only man who'd ever called him by the name he'd been born with. Not that anyone alive still remembered it.
The clubhouse door opened before he reached it and a massive biker stepped onto the porch. He had long hair, a gray beard, hard eyes, and wore a leather kutte. His patch read:
ROADKILL.
The older man looked Vandal up and down. "You lost?"
"No,” Vandal said.
"You got business here?" he asked. He wasn’t sure, but the guy sounded Irish or something.
"Depends,” Vandal said.
RoadKill crossed his arms. "Depends on what?"
"Depends on if Bishop was telling the truth,” he said. Something changed in the old biker's expression, only for a second, but Vandal caught it.
"You know Bishop?" the guy questioned.
"He told me to come here if I ever needed help,” Vandal said.
RoadKill's gaze sharpened. "That all he told you?
" Vandal reached into his jacket slowly, and RoadKill's hand immediately settled on the pistol beneath his kutte.
He seemed smart, and Vandal appreciated his caution.
He pulled out the folded note instead, and RoadKill took it from him and read the first six words out loud before his face lost every hint of amusement.
Without another word, he looked toward the clubhouse.
"Bowie!" The roar echoed through the building. Seconds later, the front door swung open again and a broad-shouldered man stepped outside wearing a Royal Bastards’ kutte.
The guy looked older than RoadKill. His darker hair was streaked with gray and his eyes told Vandal that he had probably buried too many brothers.
Behind him came another man—younger, tall, with broad shoulders, dark hair and cold blue eyes.
His Presidential patch identified him immediately as Vengeance.
He was the man Bishop had mentioned—the kid Savage had saved.
He was the one who became a legend around the biker community.
Vengeance studied him carefully, as though measuring him—just like Vandal was measuring him up. "You knew Bishop?"
Vandal nodded once. "Bishop and I had a common friend—Savage. Bishop saved my life."
Bowie's expression darkened. "When?"
"Three nights ago,” Vandal said.
Vengeance frowned. "Three nights—" His voice trailed off.
RoadKill slowly looked at Bowie, and Bowie's jaw tightened. "When did you last talk to him?" RoadKill asked.
Vandal held his stare. "About fifteen minutes before he died,” Bowie said. The parking lot fell silent. Even the laughter drifting from inside the clubhouse stopped.
Bowie took one slow step forward. "I think you should start explaining what exactly happened,” Bowie said.
Vandal reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, and this time, nobody relaxed.
He pulled out a bloodstained envelope and handed it to Bowie.
He stared at the familiar handwriting on the front, and his face went pale.
"It's for you,” Vandal said. Bowie accepted it carefully—almost reverently. The dried blood covering the envelope wasn't Vandal's, and Vengeance seemed to notice.
"Whose blood is this?" Vengeance asked. Vandal didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted toward the tree line beyond the clubhouse. His instincts screamed that someone was watching them. He couldn't see them, but they were there.
He looked back at Vengeance. "It’s Bishop's blood. He died making sure I got that letter to you." Bowie slowly opened the envelope, and his eyes raced across the handwritten page. Every ounce of color drained from his face.
"What is it?" Vengeance asked. Bowie didn't answer. Instead, he handed the letter to him, and Vengeance read it. His expression hardened almost instantly.
RoadKill frowned. "What the hell does it say?"
Vengeance slowly lowered the paper and looked directly at Vandal. "They're coming."
Vandal nodded. "They've been coming since Mississippi."
"Who?" For the first time since he'd arrived, Vandal smiled.
There wasn't an ounce of humor in it, though.
"The people who murdered Bishop." A deafening explosion ripped through the front gate—steel twisted and concrete shattered.
Motorcycles toppled like dominoes and every patched member in the parking lot reached for a weapon.
Smoke rolled across the entrance, and a black SUV burst through the destroyed gate, followed by three more.
Vandal sighed. "Fuck, they found me." He drew both pistols in one smooth motion.
"I was hoping we'd have another five minutes.
" The first shots rang out before the smoke had even settled, and he realized that no amount of extra time would save him from the trouble that he had just brought to the Royal Bastards' front door.