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They thought we were a local motorcycle club, and we were, but with a lot more going on behind the scenes than weekend rides and charity events. We were a cover to help protect New Orleans’ citizens from the dangerous supes.
We had also taken down some humans, saved the taxpayers from having to try, convict, and imprison pieces of shit. We had a no-harming-humans rule, like the vamps did, but we broke that rule when we had to. When they became worse monsters than we were. Did I have any regrets at being judge, jury, and executioner? No, the fuck, I did not.
Behind the clubhouse, armory, and Rumble, sat a large warehouse where we did the majority of our business. The main source of our income. To the back of the compound, there were small homes I’d had built to house club members. Some of the prospects lived in small, dorm-style rooms inside the clubhouse. Once they became full-fledged members, they got to choose a house, if one was available.
I parked my bike in front of the clubhouse. As I entered into the large, open space, I saw a few of the guys sitting in the plush leather loungers. We didn’t allow smoking inside, but the area reminded me of a smoker’s lounge, with small tables in the middle of each set of chairs. We kept a small bar along the entire west wall of the space and a kitchen adjacent, taking up the north wall. An eighty-inch television took up real estate on most of the eastern wall, and was playing the LSU game.
“Hey, man,” greeted Trigger. He grabbed a beer and then lifting the counter divider to come out from behind the bar and join me as I walked through a large opening next to the television and into the other part of the clubhouse.
“’Sup?” I grunted.
“We got a shipment in last night, just arrived today.”
I nodded. I’d seen the truck on the cameras earlier. The app alerted me every time the front gate buzzer sounded. “Anything good?”
He took a swig of his beer and nodded. “New and used shotguns, AKs, M16s, and even two rocket launchers.”
I bit back a grin at the excitement in his blue eyes. He was our weapons expert, hence his name. I glanced at it on his cut as he continued.
“…but I don’t think one of the bazookas is going to be any good. It looked to be damaged, but I’d have to tear it apart to see if it can be salvaged. They practically threw it in free since it was malfunctioning.”
“Good. I can see how stoked you are. Send me the inventory sheet once you get done logging all of it,” I requested.
“You got it,” Trigger replied.
He excitedly split off from me. I passed by the enormous wall of animal cages we kept on the eastern wall of this particular room and went into one of the three communal bathrooms. This side of the house was set up more like a dorm with bedrooms, a laundry facility, and an open room with another television and more seating. Everyone had access to any part of the clubhouse, as long as they respected it.
We’d had a young prospect last year who had grown up pretty feral, raised by a single wolf father with no discipline, and started getting in trouble with the law at a very early age. In my arrogance, I told myself I could tame him. I tried—we all did—but he behaved like a literal animal, the other prospects cleaning up after him. And being the ungrateful twat he was, never thanked me or any of them. I put up with him for about a year but he became too much and I booted his ass, tossing him five hundred bucks and his belongings outside the gate and told him good luck with life.
Some argued he just needed time, but it was mostly a unanimous decision made by me and my packmates—our club mates—to boot him the fuck out. I hadn’t seen him since, and deep down hoped he was okay. Not that I’d admit that aloud to anyone. Honestly, he was probably in prison or dead. Not that he’d last past one full moon in prison.
No wolves ever did.
The next morning, I woke early, unable to sleep very well after the long night. I lived in the largest house on the compound—alone. The way I liked it. I hit the button on the coffeemaker and waited for the device to drip out some much-needed caffeine. It took three times the amount that would affect a human, but I didn’t give a shit. I simply bought the strongest they sold and downed two cups before hopping on my bike and heading to the clubhouse.
All was quiet as I entered. After grabbing more coffee from the bar that someone had brewed up, I made my way to my office, which was up a short flight of stairs to what used to be the attic. It was a small space, but I’d renovated it with solid hardwood floors, central air, a new wood desk, and two additional windows tinted in dark tint to keep the sun from baking it. I set my phone on the desktop and sat behind my computer.
Wizard, our new resident tech guy, had hooked me up with a huge setup with two screens, a lightning-fast computer, a 50-inch wall-mounted TV, surround sound I could access with the click of a remote or my phone, and a plush couch and rug for visitors. I scrubbed my fingertips down my beard as I waited for the machine to boot up, and clicked the remote to turn on some background noise in the form of a television news channel. I usually tuned it out, but if something that sounded important came on, I paid attention. Especially if it was a strange happening in New Orleans.
I put my password in the computer and groaned when I saw I had twenty new emails. I was thankful half were spam or ads, so I deleted those and clicked on the ones that looked somewhat important. A few bills waited, including one from our supplier. I opened it and clicked on the attachment. The header showed the weapons’ dealer’s “business” name.
Bill to: Dualistic, Inc.
Amount: $14,226.62
Due: Upon Receipt
Items:
16 beer steins
22 back bar shelves
62 floor mats
I grinned in amusement. They really had it down. “Beer steins” were actually rocket launchers and bazookas, the “shelves” were the semi-automatic rifles, and the “floor mats” were pistols and revolvers.
And fourteen grand didn’t even cover it. It was double that, but he knew better than to go over fifteen when billing us. Staying under the IRS’s radar, and all that.
