“We’re going to have to do something. You know that, right? There has to be some sort of retaliation.” Griffin slammed down an empty glass that once contained whiskey. It burned in his stomach, which felt pretty good to him. It fueled the anger that had been burning inside of him since he first heard the news about Emanuel.

 

He was seated in a rather neglected kitchen, completely clean but not used very often. The occasional empty can of beer lay on the yellow tiles of the countertop. The kitchen table was clearly an old wood one, but still comfortable. A faded yellow tablecloth that must have been some sort of plaid at one point covered the scarred wood of the table. It was homey, a lot homier than Griffin’s apartment, but that wasn’t saying much.

 

The owner of the kitchen was quiet for a while, clearly unsure about saying anything. Finally, after a moment, he said, “I’m not so sure about that, Griffin.”

 

“What are you talking about? They’re clearly provoking us!”

 

Brazos was a town in West Texas, perched on the edge of a desert. Growing up there, Griffin had been convinced that this place had been like the wild and exciting days where cowboys and outlaws roamed the lawless desert. It made what turned out to be a rather isolated and strange childhood seem almost magical, or at least adventurous.

 

As he grew, he began to realize that his original assessment was true, and nothing compounded that more than when he joined the Lost Disciples.

 

He started out in the lower ranks of the Lost Disciples’ Mesa charter. He was just a kid, barely eighteen, but what he found there was far more adventuresome than any Western film he had ever seen.

 

The Disciples trafficked guns and narcotics across the border into Mexico, something that probably should have carried moral objections if Griffin didn’t figure that they would have gone over anyway. Starting small, he usually served as a lookout during these transactions, but once he started to work out and build muscles, he began working as more than a simple lookout boy. It wasn’t too much longer after that that he started doing some runs himself, and it was all thanks to Emanuel, who had seen something in the young upstart that no one else had.

 

For a long time, Griffin thought he was just going to be some drifting loner with no real direction—until Emanuel brought him into the fold and taught him how to be a man. He had been a father to Griffin; they had forged a family…until Emanuel had gone and gotten himself killed.

 

Now Griffin sat in the kitchen of the newly minted president of the Disciples—Damon Stokes—making plans to bury the best man Griffin had ever known.

 

And Damon was being a goddamned coward.

 

Emanuel had been—without a doubt—one of the best leaders that anyone could ask for. He was fair, no nonsense, brave, and a genius—if Griffin had anything to say about it. He kept watching the back door to see if Emanuel would show up, wearing the same bandanna he always wore and his beloved denim vest with all the patches. Griffin half expected him to walk right in, pour himself a shot, and make fun of them all for buying into such a terrible joke. Emanuel had been the glue that held the Lost Disciples together.

 

And now he was dead.

 

“That’s exactly what the Los Diablos want,” Damon replied, with the serious and straight-forward voice of a tax attorney.

 

Damon Stokes had stepped up as the new president immediately after hearing the news in order to keep the motorcycle club going. This was something that Griffin had grudgingly respected, especially because he hadn’t had the guts to stand up himself.

 

Damon was younger than Emanuel had been, closer to thirty-five than fifty, and he kept his reddish-brown hair cut close to his skull and was clean shaven. He didn’t look like the president of any other motorcycle club that Griffin had seen, the others with their long ponytails and beards. This, of course, wasn’t any sort of indication about Damon’ leadership skills; it wasn’t as though Griffin looked much like the others did either.

 

The new president wasn’t bad, but he hadn’t fully earned Griffin’s trust yet.

 

“We should give it to them,” Griffin snarled.

 

“I think we should focus on the funeral first, okay, Griffin?” Damon answered.

 

Griffin wasn’t too thrilled by the tone, but he calmed the hackles in his heart for long enough to agree. There wasn’t any point in fighting right now when Emanuel was on a slab in the morgue.

 

They turned back to the funeral arrangements, something that both of them had wanted to do out of respect for their former friend and boss. This wasn’t the first funeral either of them had planned, even when business was good it was still dangerous. Yet, this one carried so much more weight. When Griffin would usually opt for a standard coffin and a respectful service, followed by a wild night of drinking in respect for the dead at the Bootheel, he found himself faltering this time. Nothing seemed to be enough.

 

He lingered over wood finishes and satin lining, knowing that bikers from each of the charters—Mesa, Marfa, Goliad, and Vallejo would be attending. Griffin wouldn’t be surprised if some members from other, friendlier gangs would show up, too.

 

And, of course, he would be ready if the Los Diablos decided to show their faces there, as well.

 

Yes, it seemed as though everyone was going to come from all of West Texas in order to send Emanuel Morrison off.

 

“We should maybe rent out one of the VFWs for after,” Damon said, continuing smoothly, as though Griffin’s original outburst had never happened. “Lots of people will be coming, and we’ll fit more guys, right?”

 

Griffin’s mouth twitched in distaste.

 

“Right,” he said slowly. “But Manny would have wanted something at the Bootheel; that’s where we all go, especially when someone dies. Not having that seems disrespectful.”

 

Damon frowned, more out of annoyance at being disagreed with now that he was a newly appointed authority figure than anything else. This didn’t bother Griffin, the president was going to have to learn to take some challenges. Griffin had no intention of backing down about anything in his entire life, and what was the point of a vice president if he just agreed with everything?

 

Plus, he hadn’t shut up from before he was vice president, so why stop now?

 

“Alright,” Damon conceded. “We’ll meet at the Bootheel after.”

 

Griffin was relieved, but he kept his face stony and didn’t show it. He knew that he was going to have to ask an important and awkward question next. It was something he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.

 

“Was the family notified?” he asked.

 

He had been part of the Disciples for years at this point, and yet had never heard much about Emanuel’s family. He knew that there was one. He had caught a glimpse of a blurry picture of a child held by a smiling, blonde woman, and he knew the score. Emanuel just didn’t like to mix everything up like that, and plus, it was dangerous for the family.

 

Damon shrugged and nodded.

 

“Yeah. We’ll see if anyone shows up though.”

 

***

 

It had felt like years since Natasha Morrison had been home to Brazos, Texas. When she had decided to go to the University of Texas in Austin, it hadn’t felt as though she was moving so far, but the bright, cheery world of Austin seemed like another world away from the rough and tumble town that she grew up in.

 

She could still remember the crackle of static on the other line as she gripped the phone in her hand, first not understanding why one of her father’s men would be contacting her of all people. Sure, she was the daughter of one of the most respected motorcycle gangs in West Texas, but it wasn’t as though she was a member. Her father’s business was her father’s business.

 

Her mouth went dry when the news was broken to her. The idea of her father being anything but alive seemed impossible to Natasha—even though she knew that her father’s work had always come with some added risk. It had never really bothered her, her father being the president of some motorcycle club. What else was there to do in West Texas? Plus, he had fostered a sense of family between himself and his fellow bikers that Natasha knew he could have never found with her and her mother.

 

Still, she had been as close to her father as possible, and the news of his death broke her heart.

 

Natasha looked at the carefully controlled mess that was the bedroom of her off-campus apartment. With only a few credits left for her Sociology major, she thought that she had everything figured out, but now it all seemed so uncertain. She knew that she was going to have to go to the funeral. Of course she was, but the idea of being there as Emanuel Morrison’s daughter held a lot more weight than she liked.

 

She would figure that out when the time came, but first she had to pack. With a deep, heavy sigh, she began to go through her clothing, looking for something appropriate for the funeral.

 

It was time to head back to Brazos.