Page 6

TICK TOCK

L ouisiana changed everything.

Back when we were based in Washington, things were cleaner. The club was tighter. Runs had a meaning, brothers had loyalty, and Bulldog ran the club with Saddle riding shotgun and the rest of us watching each other's backs without question. But this place... this swamp-choked hellhole with all its voodoo charm and bad blood, turned everything sideways. This city came with teeth. Its air was thick, the streets meaner, and even the good deals feel like they come with a body count.

And ever since Rancid started weaseling his way into the spotlight, it’s only gotten worse.

Tonight’s run was given to Powetrain, the club’s Treasurer. Money had gone missing and somehow Rancid had found out. He had Powertrain run numbers across the board and was livid when he was told that people weren't paying their dues. While Powertrain went to deal with one shitshow, we were sent out to this hell hole. Saddle, Barrel, and me, all because one of the small-time operators who pays us for protection decided to get cute. Skimmed his dues, thought we’d be too busy cleaning up other messes to notice. As if Rancid wouldn't notice, he was all about getting his payment. Payment that wasn't even his. Rancid was the one who ordered we go collect, and Powertrain got stuck juggling loyalty and survival, had to follow through .

Now we were out here in the dead of night, parked outside an abandoned mechanic’s shop in the Lower Ninth, waiting for a grease monkey named Frankie who thought he was slick.

Saddle crouched beside his bike, adjusting the strap on his holster. Cowboy through and through, leather boots, wide stance, hat low over his eyes, but there wasn’t a more loyal son of a bitch to Bulldog in the entire state. He didn’t smoke, didn’t drink on runs. Said it dulled the edge. Said in a place like this, the edge was all that kept you breathing.

Barrel leaned against the side of the building, eyes darting more than usual, arms folded too tight across his chest. He looked stressed.

“You good?” I asked him, squinting through the dark.

He nodded once. Too fast. "Just don’t like running errands for Rancid," he muttered.

Saddle stood straight, calm as ever. "We’re not here for Rancid. We’re here for the Royal Bastards. Let’s not get it twisted."

“Still,” Barrel grunted. “Feels like we’re playing by his rules now. That ain’t what we signed up for.”

I didn’t respond right away. Just listened to the sound of the wind whistling through broken windows and the faint clink of chains inside the garage. I checked the mag in my Glock and slid it back into my cut.

“He’s testing us,” I said. “Seeing how far he can push before someone bites back.”

Barrel gave me a look. He wasn’t one to show his emotions, but I saw something different in that look. Something quieter. Calculated. Like he was already thinking three steps ahead.

“We bite back and we better be ready to bleed,” he said. “You take out a man like Rancid and I don’t think Bulldog will just hand out wrist slaps. I bet you he’ll strip our cuts and put bullets in our skulls. Loyalty only matters when it’s convenient to him.”

Saddle narrowed his eyes. “Watch what you say, Nomad. Bulldog is a fair man.”

“He hasn’t shown it,” Barrel muttered.

Saddle grunted. “You saying we roll over?”

Barrel looked away. “I’m saying, I got no intention of dying for a man I don’t respect. And I ain’t looking to die for the one trying to take his place either.”

It was a quiet admission, but it landed hard. Barrel wasn’t with Rancid, but he wasn’t ready to stand against him either. Not unless the odds were in his favor.

“Either way,” I said, my voice like gravel, “this son of a bitchinside owes us cash. And the Royal Bastards don’t let shit slide. Not ever.”

Right then, the garage door creaked open. Frankie, the mechanic in question, stumbled out, wiping his hands on a rag that used to be white, now black with grease. He looked around, eyes wide, trying to put on that fake confidence all cowards wear.

“Took you long enough,” I growled.

“Had a customer…”

“You had an order,” Saddle cut in, stepping forward. “Powertrain said you were light last month. Time to settle up.”

Frankie nodded, backing toward his office like he was going to fetch the cash, but I didn’t trust it. My gut said he was either stalling or reaching.

I followed him, close enough to see his shoulders tense. “You thinking about pulling something, Frankie?” I asked.

“N-no, no, I got it right here,” he said, and to his credit, he did pull out a wad of cash. It was light. A few grand short.

“This is short,” I said, voice low. “Again.”

He stammered something about tough times, inflation, bullshit. I stepped forward, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and slammed him back into the wall.

“You pay the Royal Bastards to keep the Bloody Scorpions off your ass. You think they’ll take a cut and a sob story?”

Barrel stayed back, arms crossed, but he didn’t move to stop me. Saddle watched it all unfold, eyes like a hawk.

“I…I’ll get the rest,” Frankie wheezed.

“You’ll get it now.”

He nodded furiously, stumbled over to a drawer, and pulled out a lockbox. When he handed it over, it was stacked full of cash. Enough to cover it all.

“You try to short us again,” I said, getting close, “I come back alone. And I won’t be talkin’.”

Frankie swallowed hard and nodded. I took the box, tossed it to Saddle. “Let’s ride.”

Back outside, as the three of us got back on our bikes, I caught Barrel looking over his shoulder, scanning the back streets. I kept my eye on him. He was acting way too weird tonight.

The engines roared to life, and we tore out of there, heading back to the clubhouse. I glanced at Saddle, and he gave me a small nod, steady as ever.

We were still loyal, still riding for Bulldog, but things were shifting. We could feel it among the new members. Some had already taken sides. Barrel was holding something close to the chest. And sooner or later, he was also gonna have to pick a side. Because men like Rancid? They didn’t stop until they were either crowned or buried.

And if it was up to me? I was ready to dig the fuckin’ hole myself if it meant protecting our name and that of our President’s.