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Nick
Thirty-six hours.
Thirty-six long fucking hours out of forty-eight on the back of a bike. The pickup of guns had gone as smoothly as it could have. Kaash had dealt with Vasily Markov, and even though the deal had been brokered before we’d even left Michigan, Markov had changed his mind when we’d arrived. The Russian fuck had wanted something immediately for his “generosity”—his motherfucking words, not mine. Kaash had had to pull a rabbit out of the hat to keep the deal from falling through, but the bastard was tight-lipped over what that rabbit had been—not a fucking surprise.
After loading the weapon crates into the back of the van Silas had volunteered to drive, we’d started back to Michigan. Despite our road captain planning for every contingency, our convoy split up when there was a report of cops on the lookout for our patch. I followed Silas through West Virginia, staying off the highways as much as possible. We were about to cross the border into Ohio when Eli, the Columbus chapter president, had insisted we rest for the night at their clubhouse. Even told us they were throwing a party in our honor. Staying away from Alexfor another night simply wasn’t a fucking option, so I’d made up an excuse and left.
By the time I rolled to a stop outside the clubhouse, my legs and hips felt stiffer than usual—something I could only blame on my lack of club runs over the past five years. I hadn’t taken a break at all on the way back, and my body was yelling at me now for ignoring the need to stretch.
Maverick appeared in the clubhouse doorway, his chunky platinum ring flashing as he ran his hand through his disheveled brown hair. He was shirtless, a pair of sweats hanging low on his hips.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone back until tomorrow,” he said, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the jamb. “Kaash said you were all staying an extra day at the Ohio chapter house to party with Eli.”
Swinging my leg over my bike, I felt the blood rush back into muscle groups that had been deprived and pulled my pouch of tobacco from inside my jacket pocket. Lighting up a hand-rolled, I inhaled deeply, then let it out. “I rode ahead.”
“I can see that. Any reason why?”
“Just some personal shit I have to take care of,” I replied, unwilling to say more. I flicked the ashes off the end of my cigarette with my thumb. “How’s Rixon doing?”
Maverick had stayed behind to look after our president when it was clear that he wasn’t in the right headspace. The meet with Markov should’ve been handled by him, but he wasn’t in any state to navigate deals.
Maverick blew out a breath and scrubbed his unshaven jaw. “No change. He refuses to leave his office. He’s written and rewritten the eulogy about fifteen times, always saying it’s never good enough to honor her life.”
“Fuck.” Undoing one of my saddle bags, I pulled out the small duffel I’d taken on the ride. “It’s still planned for Sunday?”
He nodded. “Three o’clock. We’ve got Savage Hunt members from the Florida and Kentucky chapters arriving over the next twenty-four hours. Some of the Cobras are coming too, to pay their respects. Fuck, even Arturo Arcaro is coming with some of his associates.”
“I assume you’ve already got a handle on the Detroit PD?” White smoke drifted from my mouth in another deep exhale, the nicotine soothing some of my nerves.
“It’s all taken care of.”
“Good.” Stubbing out my cigarette, I said, “Is Rixon still awake?”
“I don’t think he’s slept since Mol died.”
With a nod, I went inside. I knew what sleep deprivation did to someone. I’d seen it with the new fish in prison. Some refused to shut their eyes for a moment for fear of violence against them. Eventually, it drove them mad. This wasn’t what the club needed.
I found Rixon locked behind the desk in his office. My gaze flickered to the clock above his head. It was nearing midnight.
“How are you doing, Prez?” I asked, taking a seat opposite him.
His tired eyes found my face, but it had seemed like an effort for him. “You’re back. Did you get the guns?”
“Silas has them. I rode ahead. Wanted to check in on you.”
He stared at me, his brown eyes bloodshot behind his reading glasses. I could’ve sworn his hair had more gray in it than before, too. “My Heart is dead. How do you think I’m doing?”
“About as well as I was when Gunnar told me about Dimitri’s death,” I replied. I knew this heartache. This heartsickness—like a disease that ate at the muscle until there was nothing left in your chest cavity. I’d managed to fill mine with plans for revenge, but Rixon wasn’t like me. More thoughtful. Moreemotionally intelligent. He saw Molly’s death for what it was. An inevitability. The reality was that loving a woman was seen as a weakness. It was a weakness Rixon wore proudly, but losing the woman you loved was also the start of a man’s downfall. He was at a crossroads. He could let his grief swallow him and drag him down, or he could fill that hole in his chest like I had.
“We’ll make them pay, Rixon.”
“I know we will. Maverick told me that Kaash stepped up and took over the plans.”
I nodded, sitting back in my chair. “As soon as the funeral is done, the first phase will start. Gunnar and some others are going to spread out in the Devils’ territory and start picking off associates and allies of the Devils as they’re moving around the city. We’ll weaken La Croix before we strike the club at full force.”
Rixon sank farther into his seat, the weight of the coming war settling on his shoulders. “It won’t bring Mol back,” he said more to himself than to me.
“No, it won’t,” I replied. “But it’ll feel pretty damned good.”
