When Griffin arrived at the Lost Disciples’ clubhouse, he was not surprised to see it packed to the gills. Ever since Emanuel had died, there was a spirit of rebellion in the air, a desire to finally get those Los Diablos once and for all. Griffin had noticed this for the past few days, and although he hated to admit it, there seemed to be a measure of relief among the men. For too long this uneasy truce had been just that, a truce, but now that the Los Diablos had drawn first blood, they were allowed to do whatever they wanted. The floodgates had opened.

 

Inside the clubhouse was a beat-up old pool table that one of the guys had picked up at some dive bar that was closing down thanks to the recession. Already a game had been racked, and several guys were standing around, drinking beer and preparing to dive into a game. They all went momentarily quiet at Griffin’s entrance, mostly out of respect for the new vice president. It struck Griffin as odd—although he should have been expecting it. He had been gaining respect in the Disciples for quite some time, and yet, there was something about this that was different. It was respect for his title and not his deeds.

 

The title came from the deeds, he reminded himself, as he crossed over to the cooler and picked up a bottle of beer. There was not any point in not drinking, but he hoped that the alcohol wouldn’t lead to any fool hardy decisions.

 

There was a sort of office in the back where Damon was holed up, talking seriously to some of the closer members of the inner circle before he came out to talk to the rest of them. Looking around, Griffin noticed that a lot of representatives from the four chapters were there, and he thought that was good. It was a good thing to present a united front in the face of adversity.

 

The occasional biker floozy hung around, and Griffin really hoped that they would get kicked out before the real discussion began. Occasionally, one would try to catch his eye, and he wondered if he had ever slept with her before, not like it mattered now. Natasha was not like these girls. She was more, so why would some girl in a tank top stretched across someone else’s bike turn his head?

 

Of course, the Griffin from the week before would be shocked to see the Griffin of today hung up on some girl, but then again, the Griffin from the week before had never met Natasha.

 

God, why did she have to be Emanuel’s daughter? What kind of luck was that? he thought.

 

While he was waiting for Damon to be free enough for him to slip in, Griffin hung around and watched the guys shoot pool. Every so often someone could come up and give him condolences over the death of Emanuel. He accepted them gracefully, knowing that he had to accept them, given the fact that he had pretty much kept to himself at the funeral before all hell broke loose. He just gave a tight smile, nodded, and sipped at his beer. Each condolence only served to remind him that Emanuel was gone.

 

He could only imagine how Natasha felt about it, considering the fact that Emanuel was her father. As far as he knew, she had not been particularly close to him, but still. If Griffin could remember his father, he wondered if it would bother him to hear that he had died. Who knew? Maybe his father was already dead.

 

“Hey Griffin, want to play a round?” one of the guys asked, as he chalked up his pool cue. Bombay was his name. He was a skinny sort of dude, quick on the trigger, but decent enough to have around in a fight, and Griffin had had his fair share of fights with Bombay at his back. Griffin glanced over at the office and saw that it was empty enough for him to slip in and finish his beer.

 

“Can’t yet. Gotta talk to the boss.”

 

Bombay nodded and went back to his game, as Griffin walked over to the office. Damon Stokes, the new president of the Disciples, sat in the chair that Emanuel used to sit in. It was still a bit of a jarring sight to Griffin, which he expected, given the fact that it had only been a few days since Emanuel was put in the ground. Damon was a relatively clean cut man who stuck out around the bearded and tattooed members of the club, but he did well enough. Emanuel had at least trusted him enough to put him in such a high position.

 

The office had changed slightly since Damon had taken power. When Emanuel had been the president of the Lost Disciples, the office had been controlled chaos, full of papers and photographs, full of vests and guns. It was like some sort of demented grandfather’s workshop, a place an old guy could go in his dotage, just with more weaponry.

 

If Griffin admitted it to himself, he knew that Emanuel was getting a little old for his job. The fact that he had a twenty-year-old daughter was relatively surprising to him, given his age, but he remembered the age of the women that Emanuel favored, so it was safe to say that Natasha’s mom had probably been relatively young when Natasha was born.

 

Damon moved to stand as Griffin walked in, and Griffin shook his head to indicate that it was not necessary. Damon seated himself and leaned back, waiting for what Griffin had to say.

 

It was awkward for a moment. Griffin had assumed that he should have been there from the very start, given his position, so it was not as though he had any business to discuss with him at this second.

 

“So, you have a plan set up?” Griffin asked.

 

Damon looked startled at the direct question before it was quickly replaced by a face he could have used while playing poker.

 

“We’re going to talk about it first,” Damon said. “I think everyone deserves to be heard.”

 

It was not a terrible idea, but it was a little more touchy feely than Griffin would have liked. What, the Disciples were going to go around and talk about their feelings? It was war; there was no point in discussing anything but a well-planned attack against their rivals.

 

Personally, Griffin was thinking about picking off the enemy one by one during more sensitive drops. The Los Diablos also ran narcotics and guns across the border, and the middle of drop was when they were most vulnerable. It would take patience, but it would hit the Los Diablos where it hurt…in their money. The more dangerous the runs became, the less chumps would be willing to run them, and pretty soon the Los Diablos would start starving.

 

It was a pretty damn good idea, if Griffin said so himself, and he hoped the guys agreed.

 

After a couple of minutes, Damon stood up and made his way into the main area of the clubhouse. Putting on his best “vice president” face, Griffin joined him, walking a couple of steps behind in order to look as though he was backing him up. It was mostly for appearances, but a united front was better than nothing.

 

The game of pool stopped, and all eyes turned to them. Damon put his hands in the pocket of his leather jacket and looked around at everyone.

 

“I guess we all know why we’re here, eh?” he said with a jocular sort of dark humor.

 

Griffin took a step forward, shook his head, and whispered in the ear of his president, “Make the girls go.”

 

Damon raised an eyebrow and turned to look at Griffin with an “Are you kidding?” look on his face. “Girls are always allowed at these kind of meetings.”

 

“This is too sensitive. We can’t trust them…just trust me on this, man.”

 

With a shrug, Damon turned back to the crowd. “Sorry, guys. We’re going to have to ask the ladies to leave for now.”

 

The girls traded offended look as they stood from the laps of the men that they were there with. After exchanging “I’ll-call-yous” and brief kisses good-bye, the only people left were Disciples in truth. Already Griffin felt a lot better about what they were about to discuss.

 

Damon drew himself up and began to pace, already comfortable under the scrutiny of the various members of the club. It was as though he had been expecting this for quite some time, and Griffin supposed that it made the most sense, given the fact that the vice president usually took over for the president, and it was not as though they were playing the safest of games.

 

“Listen up, guys. We were hit hard this week. I think we all know that. Some of the guys who were hit at Manny’s funeral are here.” Damon nodded at the corner where a man with an arm wrapped in gauze stood. The man nodded back. Griffin thought about the other guys who had it worse, the ones who were still in the hospital.

 

“We have been disrespected, and I am here to tell you not to worry, because it won’t stand.”

 

A murmur of assent rose throughout the crowd, and Griffin tried to suppress a smile. It was going to happen; they were going to finally get their revenge.

 

“So, I have a plan,” Damon said. “I think we hit them where it hurts; we hit them hard; and we don’t show a bit of mercy.”

 

The murmurs grew more fervent, although something turned Griffin’s stomach as he thought about the situation. In the office, Damon said that he was planning on talking everything out first, and now—all of a sudden—he had a plan? It was likely that he just did not want to hash it all out to Griffin right before the meeting, but he could at least have hinted that this was what he was going to do. He kept his cool—lest the others realize that something was up—and hung back to listen to what Damon had to say.

 

“Okay, so…hitting them where it hurts. We know that the Los Diablos’ clubhouse is only about twenty minutes from here, so I was thinking that we go in, crush them inside of their own home, and get out before they realize what even hit them.”

 

There was a silence as everyone processed it, and Griffin desperately hoped that they would all come to the same conclusion that he had: It was stupid. Sure, it was a bold plan, definitely one that would strike fear in the hearts of the Los Diablos, but it was also completely reckless, and it seemed like it was a little too rash. Perhaps Damon was not thinking as clearly as Griffin had assumed he was.

 

“I don’t know about that,” Griffin said, breaking the silence. “I mean, there are a bunch of other ways we can go about it where we won’t end up losing guys.”

 

A voice spoke up from the back, one of the Disciples from Marfa. Griffin recognized him as Dex, a skinny little biker with a high-pitched voice. They had run jobs together back in the day, back before Griffin became a “big shot” when he rose in the ranks of the Disciples. It was not as though Dex and he weren’t friends anymore, it was merely that they were often too busy doing their own respective things to be able to catch up. “No matter what we do, we’re going to lose guys anyway. That’s pretty much how this works,” Dex said and then laughed.

 

A chuckle moved through the crowd in an attempt at bravery, but Griffin knew that every single guy in the room was probably looking around to see who the most likely one to die would be. All Griffin knew was that it was not going to be him, and he did not really want it to be anyone else if he could help it.

 

“Yeah, there is a risk.” Griffin said. “But also I’d rather not tempt fate, wouldn’t you?”

 

“We need to prove that we need to be respected,” Damon said sternly. “We need to prove that we’re not afraid, and we definitely need to prove that we’re not going to be fucked with.”

 

A cheer went up through the crowd.

 

Typical. Say anything with enough passion and you’ll have everyone eating out of your hand and riding into war, thought Griffin. Then he said, “Listen, I’ll do whatever you think we need to do in order to get back at those assholes. I am just wondering if anyone else had any ideas.”

 

No one said anything for a minute, until one guy near the front sat up a little straighter to speak. “I think that hitting them in their clubhouse is a smart idea. Yeah, it is reckless, but it is where they live and where they relax, and what’s scarier than that?”

 

“Scary?”

 

“You know, imagine your own home not being safe.”

 

I can imagine, Griffin thought bitterly, his mind drifting to Natasha. None of them really had any idea about what she was going through, and why would they? They were outlaws; they had specifically committed to this sort of thing. Natasha was an innocent bystander who had been dragged into something horrible, and now she could not even go home lest the assholes that belonged in the Los Diablos tried to kill her. Now she was holed up in some crappy motel room because literally anywhere else was dangerous. Griffin did not need to imagine it, he just knew.

 

Another man spoke up and said, “Yeah, no kidding. They got us at Manny’s funeral. I think we need to hit them harder, and where it hurts.”

 

Damon smiled. “Great, should we put it to a vote?”

 

There was a murmur of more assent throughout the room.

 

“Anyone against the plan?”

 

Griffin raised his hand, as did a few others, and he could already tell that it was not enough.

 

“Anyone for?”

 

The rest of the men raised their hand, and already Griffin knew that it was pointless, they were going to go through with it. Of course, he’d follow the club into the bowels of hell if need be, but the idea annoyed him a lot more than he’d thought that it would. Did not they realize that his idea was superior? Of course not, they had immediately put the first idea to a vote. Next time he’d have to be more assertive, that was all. Griffin was still getting used to leading, not following. Luckily for him, right now was a time to follow; it was more straightforward there.

 

With the decision made, it seemed as though everyone was going back to hanging out, drinking beer, and playing pool. Griffin knew that he should stay. These were his guys, and he had at least some sort of responsibility to stick around and talk to them. However, his heart was not into it, and he kept thinking about Natasha and how she was somewhere else right now.

 

What would she think of this plan? Should he even tell her? He thought of the look on her face as he told her he had to leave. Did he really want her to worry?

 

Did he really want to not do something solely because a girl he was fucking did not want him to? He never thought that he would see the day, but this felt different. He made a decision to tell her as soon as he could. She said she wanted to help, and she definitely needed to see exactly what that meant.

 

Damon walked up to Griffin and clapped him on the shoulder. “I want you front and center in this,” he said with a smile.

 

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” Griffin replied.

 

“Good man,” Damon said absently, already moving on to the next man who wanted to talk to him. Griffin watched him as he went, knowing that if he was ever in the position that Damon was in, he was probably going to do it a lot differently.

 

Of course, the only way he would get in that position was if Damon died, so he would rather not think about it. Instead, he took another beer, turned to one of his buddies, and asked if he could join the next game. Griffin was paired up with Julian, an old friend of his who went way back.

 

Julian was a big guy, not fat, but solid, with blonde hair and blue eyes that occasionally gave him a vulnerable look. If Griffin had a best friend in the family that was the Disciples, Julian would definitely be it. They racked the balls, and Griffin went first, splitting them and landing with stripes.

 

“So, how have you been holding up?” Julian asked in his small, shy way. Griffin appreciated the thought—although he knew that Julian had been around for almost as long as Griffin had and also viewed Emanuel like a brother. It was kind of Julian to acknowledge how close Emanuel and Griffin had been, pushing aside his own sadness in order to support his friend.

 

“I’ve been doing alright,” Griffin admitted. “Especially now that we have a plan.”

 

“Emanuel was a great guy,” Julian said as he sunk the thirteen in the corner pocket. “Really top notch, we definitely have to do something for him.”

 

“I know,” Griffin said, still trying to shake the awkward feeling he had about the plan that had been presented. It still didn’t sit right with him, but the idea was what they had to go with, so complaining about it would only make less of a united front. Julian looked up at him, obviously picking up on Griffin’s ambivalence, but he knew better than to say anything out loud in the middle of the clubhouse. Griffin thanked him for that, and he leaned over to sink another ball.

 

“So,” Julian said, obviously willing to change the subject from something so heavy. “Any chicks in your life?”

 

Griffin didn’t know if he wanted to bring up Natasha. It was complicated enough to see a girl who refused to become a part of the Lost Disciples, but the additional fact that she was also Emanuel’s daughter would just seem baffling. He knew that she was going to have to accept it sooner or later, her existence was going to come out somehow, but it wasn’t his place to do it for her. So instead of that, he shrugged.

 

“Just the usual, I guess,” he replied safely. “You know me, never like to be alone but never like to make them stay.”

 

“Yeah,” Julian said, his face hard to read. He knew that Julian didn’t have the best luck with girls, mostly because he was too quiet. Girls were initially drawn to him, thinking that he was mysterious, but would usually leave as soon as his shyness came through and they assumed that he was just not interested. Griffin kept meaning to take the poor guy under his wing, but Griffin was a terrible wingman. Griffin would rather not go out at all instead of accidentally sleeping with a girl that Julian might be interested in. It had worked out pretty well already, although he couldn’t help but feel sorry for his unfortunate friend.

 

“Actually,” he said, giving a look around to make sure no one was overhearing. “I’m supposed to be heading to the Tumbleweed tonight to meet a girl.”

 

“A girl?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What is her name?”

 

“That is not important, but I need to have an extra set of eyes out for me there—just in case the Los Diablos want to bring trouble.”

 

“To the Tumbleweed?” Julian raised his eyebrow in an ironic way, clearly not buying the idea that the dusty, western-themed bar on the other side of town was going to carry some sort of hazard.

 

“Yeah, I’d just feel so much better if someone else had my back.”

 

“Fine,” Julian said, completely not convinced. “I’ll join you, but I’m really not sure why you’re so worried. Ain’t no biker who really goes to the Tumbleweed.”

 

“Yeah, but no biker had ever attacked someone at a funeral either.”

 

Both of Julian’s blond eyebrows shot up. “I gotta say, you are right on that one, Griffin.”

 

“I have some pretty damn good instincts.”

 

“And who is the girl?”

 

“Just some girl, you know me.”

 

Julian gave a little smile.

 

“Fine, I’ll have your back.”

 

Griffin grinned at him. “I know you always will.”

 

“Of course, we ride for life, right?”

 

Griffin nodded and leaned over to sink an eight ball in the corner pocket.

 

“I win,” Griffin said.

 

“You always do,” Julian replied.