Page 38

Montana

Reaper hadn’t uttered a single word since the crusty old judge released us from jail. I didn’t know if his silence was a good thing or bad, but I fucking knew he was making me nervous. I could clearly see him simmering with rage, blaming me for our impromptu time behind bars, and the longer he sat there stone quiet, the more I felt the tension in the vehicle rise.

This entire road trip had been one disaster after another, from the constant bickering to Barney Fife throwing us behind bars. There were moments where we did get along, but our stubborn natures soon took over, and then the bickering would begin again. Nothing would ever be easy where Reaper and I were concerned. The both of us were too stubborn and hotheaded to get along.

Gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles turned white as I navigated the endless stretch of road.

The landscape of the Midwest blurred past as baren fields of corn and wheat sat plowed and ready for spring planting, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing inside the vehicle. The silence between our last heated exchange weighed heavy, only broken by the occasional growl of Reaper’s frustration or my bitter scoff of derision.

Time seemed to stretch as we drove, the miles dragging on in a never-ending monotonous grey.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” I asked when I saw the road had no end in sight.

“It’s your fucking club. Don’t you know?”

Groaning, I muttered, “Never seen the place.”

Reaper slowly turned toward me. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? What the hell do you mean, you’ve never seen your Nebraska club?”

“I haven’t. Was always busy with other shit.”

“It’s your damn club, fucknuts. You are the goddammed president.”

He was right. It was my responsibility to check in with each and every chapter of the Soulless Sinners. When I took over the club, I planned on doing just that, but with chapters all over the world and dealing with matters at home, I never got the chance.

That was on me.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape. I saw the faint outline of the clubhouse off in the distance. Yet, as I pulled into the compound, I frowned when I saw the building abandoned and decaying. Weeds had overtaken the yard, and the paint was peeling off the weather-beaten walls.

Parking the SUV, I stepped out and stared in disbelief at the desolate scene before me. But what captured my attention was the moniker on the side of the building. Instead of a Soulless Sinner emblem declaring who lived here, I clearly saw the mighty Golden Skull moniker staring back at me.

“What the hell is going on here?” Reaper asked as he too surveyed the area. The silence of the place was deafening, broken only by the whisper of the wind rustling through the overgrown grass.

Wanting answers, I made my way inside, my footsteps echoing in the empty hallways. The place was a time capsule of memories, the walls adorned with pictures of the club’s glory days. Images of camaraderie, laughter, and wild rides, now frozen in time. It spoke of a brotherhood that had once thrived here. The Golden Skull banner still hung over the bar, a reminder of the loyalty and unity that had once been the lifeblood of this place.

As Reaper and I walked through the empty rooms, each corner revealed more of the club’s abandoned state. The bar, where endless nights of revelry had taken place, was now covered in dust, the bottles dry and empty. The kitchen, once bustling with activity, now stood silent, the appliances rusted and unused. Church, where plans had been hatched and decisions made, was now just an empty space that echoed with the ghosts of the past.

As I stood in the main hall, the weight of what I was seeing hit me hard. Reaper slammed his fist on the bar, the sound reverberating through the empty room. “This isn’t right,” he muttered, his voice thick with frustration. “What the hell is going on here? The Golden Skulls have never had an active club in this state.”

I shook my head and scanned the room, noticing an old black-and-white photograph prominently displayed in the center of the wall. I approached it and removed it from the wall for a closer inspection. After wiping away years of accumulated dust and dirt from the glass, I observed five faces smiling back at me. Without the gold plaque affixed to the frame, I would not have identified these individuals.

“Reaper, come look at this.”

Walking over, Reaper stood beside me and stared at the photograph in my hands.

“So, it’s true then?” he said moments later, scanning the wall and all the photos. “The clubs are connected.”

“I think it’s more than that,” I added, as my eyes took in what my brain had yet to assimilate. I whispered, “Reaper, I think this is the original chapter.

He said nothing as he moved closer to the wall, his eyes focused on a singular photo. Stepping beside him, I saw what had captured his attention when my eyes landed on the unthinkable. There in the photo was the man who raised Reaper, James Doherty, standing next to a man I knew very fucking well, Popeye. Both men were smiling, sitting astride their bikes, happy.

“We need to find Sypher and Pippen, fast,” I whispered.

“For once, I agree with you.”