Page 8 of Trip (Sons of Hell MC #11)

Trip

The flight to New Orleans felt longer than it should have, even though the skies were clear and the aircraft steady.

I stared out the window, the ground below a patchwork quilt of cities and wilderness, each mile bringing me closer to the ghosts I had tried for years to outrun.

My fingers tapped against the armrest, the motion a poor substitute for the rev of an engine or the grip of a steering wheel.

New Orleans greeted me like an old rival, with the humid air and the cacophony of life in the streets wrapping around me.

I had always felt that the city had an uncanny ability to magnify whatever weighed on my soul.

Stepping into a waiting cab, I directed the driver to a place I hadn’t dared to visit in years: the old racetrack where my career had started.

The sight of the track, now a shadow of its former glory, stirred memories I had locked away—the crowd roaring, the blur of competitors, my father’s gruff encouragement.

Ansel had been there too, with his smooth talk and promises, the man who had offered me everything and taken so much more in return.

I adjusted my leather jacket, my resolve hardening.

I wasn’t here for nostalgia; I was here to make sure the deals Ansel brokered this time wouldn’t destroy another driver’s future.

As I walked the perimeter of the track, I felt a pull toward the garage where I had spent countless hours fine-tuning engines and chasing perfection.

The smell of oil was gone, replaced by dust and decay, but the ghosts lingered.

My eyes landed on an old car, its body rusted but unmistakable.

It was my first ride; the one that had been my ticket to the big leagues.

I hadn’t expected the sight to hit me as hard as it did.

For a moment, the world fell away, and I was back in that seat, young and reckless, with the track stretching endlessly before me.

But memories weren’t why I was here. The sound of footsteps dragged me back to the present. I turned to find a familiar face smiling at me. “Had to see this shit for myself.”

Grinning, I walked over to the man and gave him a big hug.

“How ya been, Mitch?”

“Better than I deserve.” My father’s best friend and my former crew chief smiled at me, cupping my face. “God, kid, am I glad to see you. Heard about what happened in Virginia. You scared the crap out of me.”

I smirked. “Just keeping you on your toes, old man.”

Letting me go, Mitch took a step back and looked around my dad’s old garage. “So, you’re really going to do it, aren’t you?”

“Can’t let Ansel screw over another driver, Mitch,” I said, running my hands along the hood of my old stock car.

“C.C. is something else, that’s for sure.” Mitch chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Girl scared me so bad she gave me ulcers.”

Turning to look at Mitch, I asked, “Ansel’s driver is a woman?”

Mitch shook his head. “Been women driving the circuit for a few years now, kid. Best get that stick out of your ass fast.”

“Got no problem with a female driver, Mitch,” I said, then grinned. “As long as she can drive.”

Mitch laughed. “C.C. can do that and more. Girl’s got the gift.”

“She better than me?”

“She’s close. Ain’t seen a driver handle the track so well since you.”

“But?”

“But she doesn’t listen. She’s stubborn and makes mistakes. Mistakes that could get her killed if she’s not careful.”

“Like an engine seizing up while rounding the turn?”

Mitch slowly nodded. Taking a step forward, he spoke, “Look, Trip. Shit’s different now. All these new regulations and requirements. Ain’t like it was when you drove. Ansel’s hands are tied, and he knows it. I don’t know why he brought you back in, but watch your back.”

The tension in Mitch’s voice was palpable, and his caution danced on the edge of a warning.

I could feel the weight of his words as they settled in the air between us.

Racing had always been about more than just speed; it was a battlefield, demanding precision and respect for the machine and the track.

I glanced toward the empty pit, envisioning the roaring engines and the precarious balance between control and chaos, when I heard bikes pull up.

“I swear to fucking God, Gator, you better keep Donut away from my wife!” I heard Scribe threaten. “I’ve got a knife and I’m not afraid to use it.”

“Since when do you believe in God?” Enigma asked.

“I believe!”

“And I’m Fabio,” Gator groaned. “Not my fault if ya don’ keep my sister happy.”

“She’s not your sister!” Scribe yelled as all three bickering men walked into the garage.

Grinning, I stood with my arms crossed over my chest and said, “Looks like all of you are getting along.”

“Asshole better keep that annoying puff-pastry eating boy-toy away from Henley, or I’m calling Athena to come visit.”

“Ya need a phone?” Gator scoffed. “Would have thought ya had yer own broom to fuck around on? How about ya just send her a telepathic message, or better yet, wave a magic wand?”

“Keep it up, Gator.” Scribe grinned wickedly. “Cameron’s gonna be here tomorrow. Would hate to have my little buddy learn that some Cajun is trying to horn in on his princess. Cameron’s real particular with who belongs to him. Hate to have him cook up something to teach you boys a lesson.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Jumping in between the two, Enigma looked at Scribe and glared, before turning to Gator, the president of the Bourbon Kings, and whispering, “What Gator means is he will do his best to keep Donut away from Henley. Isn’t that right, Wade? ’Cause if you don’t, I’ll bring the moms in.”

“Ain’t scared of dat kid,” Gator huffed.

“Scared of who?” Romeo asked, walking in late to the party.

“Cameron,” Enigma and Scribe both said at once.

“The place is just as you left it,” Mitch said as I walked around the living room, looking at all the photos, trophies, and awards from a life I left behind.

It was like walking into a time capsule.

From my first stock car race to me holding the checkered flag at Daytona.

It was all there, every drop of blood, sweat, and tears I put into a life that was taken away from me.

“You should have thrown all this shit out.”

“You want it trashed, boy, then you do it,” Mitch stated.

“Is this when you took the lead from Walter Smitz at Talladega?” Scribe asked, looking at one of the many photos.

“Nah, that’s when shithead rammed his car into Andy Cruze because the fucker clipped his ass on the last lap at the Indianapolis Speedway.” Mitch chuckled. “Could have taken the flag, but good ol’ Trip refused to let it go.”

“Trip’s temper was legendary,” Romeo remarked as he picked up a framed photo showing a younger me and Mitch hoisting a trophy together. “They still talk about that mess at Indy, you know.”

“Legendary is one way to put it,” Scribe said with a chuckle, tracing his finger over a dusty plaque. “But I’d call it stubborn as hell.”

“I heard Walter Smitz never got over losing that race at Talladega,” Enigma chimed in, pulling up a chair. “Said Trip’s the only guy who could outmaneuver him on a rain-slick track.”

“Walter’s still salty about it, too,” Mitch grunted. “No surprise there. He’s always been a sore loser.”

“True,” Gator muttered. “But the old days were something, weren’t they? Back when it wasn’t just about skill but guts.”

“Are we just gonna sit around and reminisce or are we going to talk about the real reason I’m here?” I asked, looking at a photo of me and my dad before turning to look at Mitch. “’Cause my gut’s telling me it’s more than a few bad engines and a reckless driver.”

All eyes turned to Mitch, who slowly shook his head. “Never could put one past you, boy.”

“What has Ansel gotten himself into?” I asked flatly, standing my ground.

“Ansel wants to consolidate everything. He wants to move to Formula One, but he can’t do that with both feet in the circuit.”

“Why not have two teams?” I asked. “It’s not unheard of.”

“He can’t afford it.”

“And the engines?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Mitch sighed.

“That’s the part I can’t figure out. You designed that engine.

Ansel fronted the green to have it built.

He’s made bank on that design. The crew knows that engine inside and out.

Yet, something ain’t right. The last two practice runs have blown the engine. ”

“Who are the mechanics?” I asked.

“Just Crane. Ansel refused to let anyone else work on it.”

“My dad’s old crew?”

“Left the day after you,” Mitch informed then asked, “What are you thinking, boy?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Well, when you come up with something, let me know ’cause tomorrow you’re back in the game. In the meantime, I need to head out. If I’m late for dinner, Anna will have my ass.”

After walking Mitch to the door, I turned to find my brothers, Scribe and Enigma, standing arms crossed over their chest as Romeo and Gator leaned against the fireplace, all looking at me.

Gator shook his head. “Now, I don’ claim to have the gift, but I know when a brother is blowin’ smoke up my ass. And, brother, Mitch is blowin’ real hard.”

“I agree,” Romeo added. “I know for a fact that Mitch has had his hands in that damn engine. Why would he lie about it?”

“You’re right.” I smirked. “He was lying, and I want to know why. We need to locate my dad’s former pit crew.”

“Best way to do that is to put Ansel on it,” Scribe suggested, and as much as I hated it, I knew he was right.

As I glanced at each of them, reading the quiet determination etched into their faces, Scribe’s suggestion hung in the air, almost daring me to dismiss it.

But dismissing it would be foolish, and I knew it.

Ansel might not be the easiest ally, but he was sharp, resourceful, and had a knack for finding people who didn’t want to be found.

“Fine,” I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair. “We put Ansel on it, but someone’s gonna need to keep tabs on him. He’s not exactly a team player.”

“No arguments there,” Scribe replied, his tone even but his eyes sharp. “I’ll handle him.”

“Good,” I said, nodding. “Gator, Romeo, start digging into Mitch’s story. I want every piece of dirt on him and anyone else who might be involved. If he’s got something to hide, we’re going to uncover it.”

“And what about Crane?” Enigma asked, his voice calm but edged with curiosity. “You think he’s still clean?”

I paused, considering Enigma’s question.

Crane had always been a straight shooter, but loyalty could shift if the stakes were high enough.

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” I said finally.

“If Mitch’s got secrets, Crane might know more than he’s letting on.

In the meantime, I’m gonna ride over to the track and check things out. ”

A plan began to solidify as we divided up the tasks, each brother stepping into their role. Shadows cast across the room, and for a moment, the weight of what lay ahead pressed against my chest.

But it wasn’t fear—it was purpose.