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Gate
Gate sat at the head of the table, his brothers flanking him down both sides. He hadn’t felt this much tension fill the room since Moose had put down the gavel and ridden into the unknown.
He studied them, checking their eyes, looking for any hint that a brother might go rogue during the coming battle.
And a battle it would be.
Talon, his best friend and V.P. looked ready for murder. Deuce, currently the club’s only Lieutenant, looked gutted that his brother, his counterpart, was gone.
Brick, Sergeant at Arms and the meanest motherfucker he’d ever run across, sat silent and still, waiting on the word to wreak havoc.
Ryder, the only brother who knew what really went down, the only one who’d survived the mayhem, stared at the table. He’d insisted he be the one to tell Steph since he was the one with Smoke when he went to the other side, so Gate had followed Ryder into one of the most hollow experiences of his life.
Now, they were here.
Gate, silent, waiting, studied further down the table.
Nine with his snake eyes, deadly and watching. Rooster and Stash, solemn for once.
Tex staring at his hands, Tank praying his rosary, and Hatchet checking his weapons.
Lucky, Gate’s son, stared back at him from the opposite end of the table, looking for leadership not only from his father but also from the president of his club.
“Retaliation, Gate,” Deuce finally broke the silence.
“No doubt, brother,” Gate agreed. “Got some business needs settling first.”
Deuce nodded and went quiet again.
Gate stowed his own emotion and then spoke, “We lost a brother tonight. We’re all angry and hurting over that, and God knows I want revenge as much as the rest of you, but not at the expense of another cut.”
Gate looked around the table, and saw grudging acceptance if not flat out agreement on every face. “So we’re gonna go about this smart and with our shit tight. We have too much at stake to fuck this up any more than it already is. First up, Rooster and Stash, tell us what you’ve got.”
Rooster slid folders around the table, and Stash started talking. “Blaine Freemont is a prime time loaded dealer who comes from Atlanta with some heavy hitters batting cleanup behind him.”
Gate opened the folder that stopped in front of him and flipped through the compilation of photos. Freemont had money and wore it well. Mid-fifties, fit, in three thousand dollar suits and Bolvaint wingtips. And Gate wanted to wipe the life from his eyes.
“Who’s this?” Ryder asked, holding up a photo of a younger looking man, still with the fancy clothes.
“Freemont’s son,” Stash said.
“He was there tonight,” Ryder went on. “I put a bullet in him.”
“Good,” Gate nodded. “He dead?”
“Head wound, but Spider’s guys took the body, so I’m not sure.”
Gate nodded and went on. “What’s Freemont’s angle here?” Gate asked, fighting the rage that washed through him every time he thought of Smoke’s body lying cold in the morgue. Drive by, they’d said. The load of bullshit necessary but still sitting heavy in his gut.
Rooster turned his way, “Just moving in on the Mancini’s turf. Don’t think he had any play against us until Spider sent him knocking.”
Gate nodded. “Where is he now?”
“Best we can tell,” Stash answered, “he’s headed back for the city, but nobody’s got eyes on him yet.”
“What about Spider?”
