Page 26 of Cinder (MC Fables #2)

L ars

It’s a long ride to Jacksonville. But I don’t mind the long rides because there’s nothing like the wind whipping against your skin and a long open road ahead.

I could live a hundred years and never lose the thrill of pulling down on the throttle and letting my Harley fly down those vast stretches of highway.

It gives me a chance to think.

To quiet the noise in my head.

It’s when I let it all run free. All the chaos. All the doubt. All the fears. All the lingering pain and confusion that comes with being me. With the hope that by the end of the ride I can either make peace with it or know a way to destroy it .

Like the murders of Carina and Beth.

Like this obsession with Ella, and why I can’t get her out of my head.

Like not being able to let go of the past long enough to grab onto something for the future.

We’re a good crew. Me and Beast. Zac, Bear, Axe and Gambit. All battle-scarred bikers who can appreciate the medicine of a long ride.

Late into the evening, we stop at a motel somewhere in North Carolina where I fall into bed surrounded by the stale smell of old air freshener and bleach. But my body is too road-worn to care, and the moment my head hits the pillow, I crash into a deep sleep.

By the next morning, we’re gone by sunrise and end up making good time into Florida, arriving at the Rattlers’ clubhouse just before noon.

The clubhouse sits on the edge of an abandoned industrial park, surrounded by rusted chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire, and fringed by swamp and empty backroads no one dares to visit.

We nod to the guard as he opens the gate and lets us ride in.

It’s humid as hell. The kind of sticky, swampy air that clings to your skin and makes your clothes feel like you’ve been dipped in soup.

Hammer and his VP, Roach, are waiting for us at the entrance of the building .

We climb off our bikes and greet our hosts. Handshakes. Biker hugs. The usual shit.

Hammer is a foreboding presence. Wide as he is tall. His hair long, his beard longer.

“You boys have got perfect timing,” Hammer says, as we pass through the bar inside the clubhouse. “We’ve got a patch-over party tonight. A small club from the Keys are patching over. You boys should stick around. Taste some local cuisine.”

“You don’t need to ask me twice,” Axe says, already making eyes at one of the club girls hanging around the old jukebox.

Only Beast and I follow Hammer into his office. The others are here for backup. Not to take part in any conversations.

Not that they mind. They’d rather drink a cold beer after a long ride in the Florida heat.

“Thanks for meeting with us,” Beast says as we take a seat.

“You know how much I like a visit from our comrades from up north,” Hammer says, sitting behind his desk. Behind him on the wall is a massive black and red Devil’s Rattlers emblem, a coiled rattlesnake wrapped around a piston.

“Like I said on the phone, your information about the warehouse panned out,” Beast says. “But it ended up being an ambush. Someone knew we were coming.”

Hammer leans back in his chair. “I was sorry to hear the Knights ran into trouble from a tip-off I gave them.”

“Wanna bring me up to speed on how you knew about the warehouse?” I ask .

“An ATF agent I owe a favor to warned me of a shipment of contraband passing into Florida. Told me to steer clear. To let it pass. Said it was coming from a warehouse in Knights territory. Said the owners aren’t the kind to ask twice.”

“Did the agent say who the owners were?” Beast asks.

“I get a feeling it’s Bratva.”

“Why?”

“When I asked about it, he warned me not to piss off this Russian asshole.”

Bratva.

Fuck.

It means one thing.

“Oli-fucking-checkoff,” I mutter with disgust.

I sit back in my chair.

Viktor Olicheckoff.

Bratva pakhan.

Underworld kingpin.

Ruthless businessman.

And one giant asshole.

He has fingers in every underworld honeypot.

Gun running. Drugs. Women. He’s a racketeering fuck who tried to align himself with the Knights in the past. But Beast told him to go fuck himself.

We don’t need to be associated with an unpredictable asshole like him. He stands for all the things we don’t.

Beast opens his phone. “Bram, get me a location for Viktor Olicheckoff. Yeah, the Bratva asshole.”

When he hangs up, Beast and I share a look.

If the Olicheckoff Bratva are behind this, then we need to act fast.

“It was a matter of courtesy to let you know,” Hammer says. “I figured if the Olicheckoff were running contraband out of the counties surrounding St. Boniface, the Knights would want to know.”

“The Knights are grateful,” Beast says.

“But there’s more,” Hammer adds.

“You’re the gift that keeps on giving,” Beast replies, waiting for more bad news.

“Despite the warning from our friend at the ATF, we intercepted the truck anyway. Ain’t no ATF or Bratva asshole is gonna tell me what I can and can’t do in my goddamn town.”

“And?” Beast asks.

“Wall-to-wall guns. AKs. Russian military. Caches from ATF busts.”

I lean forward. “Olicheckoff has the ATF in his pocket?”

“One or two agents.”

Beast folds his arms across his broad chest. “The driver you got the information from, he got loose lips? ”

“Not unless you’re familiar with a Ouija board.”

“You killed him?” Beast asks.

“He tried to run. Couldn’t let him run back to whoever is behind this and bring heat to the Rattlers. As it stands, no one knows it was us who intercepted the shipment.”

“Did he give you anything before he died?”

“No. Just started shooting and running.”

“And the truck?”

“Bottom of Hangman’s Bayou.” Hammer rises from his chair. “But while you were enroute, we came across a second shipment. Another truck. Full of guns. Headed for Miami.”

“Did you speak to the driver or is he dead too?” Beast asks.

Hammer grins. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

Beast and I watch Hammer walk toward a side door leading out of his office.

“You mean he’s here?” I ask, Beast and I leaving our chairs to follow him.

Hammer swings open the door, and it opens into a poorly lit supply closet where a bloody and beaten man sits tied to a chair. His eyes are closed. His head slumped forward. His blood-stained shirt stretched across his belly.

“Merry Christmas, boys,” Hammer says.

“What happened to him?’ Beast asks.

“Razor can be very creative in retrieving information. ”

Razor is the Devil’s Rattlers enforcer.

I check the man’s pulse. “A little too creative.”

“Oh shit, he’s dead?” Hammer sounds surprised.

“As dead as can be,” I reply.

Hammer chuckles. “Razor can get a little enthusiastic.”

“He say anything?” I ask.

“A lot of no, stop, I don’t know anything .”

I run a hand across the back of my neck. I could’ve gotten information out of him. Before I killed him.

“Doesn’t change the fact though, boys,” Hammer says.

“Which is?” I ask.

“You’ve got a Bratva problem.”

The Rattlers’ clubhouse bar is busy when we leave Hammer’s office.

Bear, Axe, Zac and Gambit are already enjoying the beginnings of the patch-over party with the other bikers and a few club girls. Music seeps from the speakers. Beers are pulled. Whiskey spilled. Nicotine and weed thick in the already heavy air.

This is when business ends and the fun begins.

Hammer reappears with a girl under each arm, both very beautiful and very underdressed .

One of them sweeps her gaze up and down the length of my body, then gives me a big smile.

“What do you think, Enforcer?” Hammer says with a grin. “Time to party?”