Dorian is the king. Not just of the Underground Mafia, but of every organized crime gang in the States. Everybody answers to him. But Sinner’s Creed and Death Mob are the two biggest affiliates and produce the most revenue. If he’s calling a meet with us, something big is about to go down.
“I suspect that Death Mob is going to present their case. They’re gonna want you, Shady, just like they wanted Dirk.” For the first time, he looks at me. His eyes are dull and lifeless.
This is a part of his job that we all hate. But I’m a soldier. So I ease my leader’s mind by telling him, “I’m ready.” And I am.
“Rookie,” Jimbo calls, and Rookie appears from the back corner of the patio. “I need to know where you stand.”
“I stand with Sinner’s Creed.” The words are hard for him to say. He’s just admitted that he won’t take the fall. That even if I go down, he will stand and say nothing. Because the club needs him alive. It proves his loyalty to the club, and to me. I would expect no less of him. This is one of those trying moments I trained him for.
“Good. Meet’s tomorrow. Stay the fuck outta sight.”
* * *
Rookie and I ride to Dirk’s house. I still haven’t had the courage to go inside, but now I have no choice. Pushing open the door, the scent of citrus surrounds me, and one step over the threshold, I stop and take it all in. Covers still litter the floor from our last night in this house together. It was a sleepover that sounds absolutely ridiculous, but was exactly what Saylor wanted, so it’s what we did.
I walk through the living room, glancing into the kitchen and small dining area before walking down the hall. Their room is untouched. Fuck, I miss him. The pain seemed to dissipate somewhat when I was with Diem. She filled the void in my life when Dirk left. Now she was gone too. Soon, so would I. There was no need to dwell on the ache in my chest from Dirk leaving. Because tomorrow, I’d be joining him.
* * *
Silence—it’s deafening.
And I feel like I’m the only one that hears it. It’s like someone has hit the pause button on my life, and I’m having an out-of-body experience, watching the scene unfold before me. Eight black, steel horses ride six inches apart in two straight lines down an open highway. Their riders are dressed in black. Full face helmets hide their identities. There is no way of knowing who we are, until the dark blur of our posse passes. Then the colors of Sinner’s Creed patches that cover our backs are shown proudly.
We are earth’s hell. If there are those that don’t fear us, they damn well should. We’re the outcasts. The forgotten. The bad guys. The one percent of those who don’t give a fuck. We are evil. We appear to stand still, while everyone else rushes away from us, out of fear, praying that we’ll hurry and pass them by. That’s how much power Sinner’s Creed exudes.
This is why we do this. This is why we chose this life. We are superior. We feel immortal. And we are lethal. Everybody wants to feel important, and we’re the motherfuckers that you have to prove something to.
And on what could be my final ride, I look at myself as I ride free and open down the highway surrounded by my brothers, and ask one question. Was it worth it? And behind my helmet, I nod. And I tell myself, “You damn right it was.”
* * *
In the small town of Taylor, Nebraska, just off the North Loup River, is a warehouse. It belongs to the Underground Mafia and is used for storage of products until they’re ready for distribution. Dorian pays well for the piece of private property that can’t be located on any map. Few people know about its location, and they won’t say anything in fear of dying or not getting paid.
Two unmarked, black SUVs sit at the gate when we arrive. A man who could give Tank a run for his money steps out and waves us through. When we pull inside the warehouse, I take full count of all the guns including the men standing guard on the second level.
The sound of our pipes reverberates off the metal walls of the large, empty building. We’re directed to the right and straight across from us, within spitting distance, stands ten very proud Death Mob members. Front and center is Cyrus, the very soon to be dead killer of my brother.
Silence descends as one by one we shut off our bikes. My fingers twitch to put a bullet between the eyes of Cyrus, but I refrain. If I don’t, I’ll have to watch as my brothers die too. I’ll have my chance very soon. I might die today, but that motherfucker is going with me.
We stand in front of our bikes, glaring at our enemies across from us. Everyone wears the same pissed-off look—all but Cyrus, who smiles like he knows some fucking secret the rest of us don’t.