My head pounds violently as I blink open my eyes and curse the dawn of yet another fucking day. The shit thing about life is no one gives a fuck when you’ve had enough. That motherfucker upstairs keeps you rising and grinding until the only thing that motivates you is revenge.
Rubbing my face, the coarse hairs prick my calloused hands and I try to remember the last time I shaved. Not really giving two fucks, I throw the sheets off my body and force myself to sit up. The blood rushes to my head and I close my eyes in agony. Flashes from the night before assault me, reminding me of my new neighbor and the tongue lashing she delivered on my front porch.
If I was half the man I used to be that shit never would have transpired. I would have dismissed her before she got a chance to utter a word or I would have thrown her over my shoulder and shut her the fuck up with my cock. Either way, she never would have gotten a chance to mouth off like she did.
Making my way into the kitchen, I glance around at the mess. Empty liquor bottles decorate the counter like a fucking frat house. Not in the mood to deal with them, I pull open the fridge and the findings are just as pathetic as the rest of the house. There isn’t so much as an egg in there and the realization gets me thinking. It makes me miss my wife even more and not because she was such a fantastic homemaker. In fact, Oksana wasn’t much of a housewife which suited me just fine. I didn’t need a hot meal waiting for me or someone to press my shorts. I just needed her.
After hours on the road it was nice to come home to my woman. She never asked questions or got on my case. There were times I’d come home covered in another man’s blood and she’d simply hand me clean clothes and ask me to take her out for breakfast. A hungry man special at the diner cured all.
Slamming the fridge closed, I shut the door on my memories too and head toward the bathroom. In a few hours I’ll be in the city, surrounded by the men I call my brothers and we’ll ride. We’ll ride deep and we’ll ride wide. Fully loaded, running on adrenaline and vengeance we’ll pull up to the gates of hell and let Satan guide us as we rip the life from the Bastards. My brothers will do it in the name of the club and I’ll do it for Oksana. I’ll lay it all on the line and sacrifice myself in the name of revenge and the vows I took. Then I’ll pray to whatever God will have me that he gives me one more glimpse of my lady before I’m sucked into the flames.
Stepping into the shower, I tip my head back and let the water rain over my face. By the time the water runs cold, I’ve sobered up some and when I’m finished rinsing the soap from my body, I dress in a pair of worn jeans. I throw a black thermal over my head and reach for my cut. The reaper I used to worship stares back at me and I wait for the sense of pride to wash over me. I fight to remind myself of the rules of brotherhood and that loyalty is the core of every biker. It’s the one thing that binds one brother to another. In a world gone soft, loyalty means a fuck of a lot. It’s the thing that takes years to build and only seconds to destroy.
For years I built that shit up, but in
Once the man who believed in the sanction of brotherhood, I am now a widower whose club got his wife killed.
I’m a man with a choice.
Will retribution on the Bastards be enough to get me by?
Do I pardon my club when they deserve death or do I leave it all behind?
Conceding time will tell, I slip my arms through the vest and run my hands over the worn leather covering my chest. My fingers glide over the patch labeling me the sergeant at arms and I fight the urge to rip it off knowing a man contemplating his religion doesn’t deserve the title.
After a moment, I tie the laces on my moto boots and head down the hall. I step around searching for the hollow floorboard then I get down on my hands and knees and pull it up. Hidden inside is an envelope and my very first gun. I fold the envelope and stuff it inside my back pocket before reaching for the Glock. Deciding it’s fitting that my first and last kills are made with the same weapon, I shove the gun into my holster and replace the board.
Then I head toward the door and pause when I see the shoes.
“This one’s for you, babe,” I rasp, pulling open the door.
It takes me two hours to get into the city and when I do, I make my way straight to my garage. I take a good look around and reminisce over the blood, sweat and tears I put into this place. There was a time when the idea of being legit laid the foundation of this joint. Now, it’s acting as a fucking clubhouse. Hell, Jack’s table sits under the lift for fuck’s sake.
A short while later, Blackie rounds up the boys. What’s left of the Brooklyn chapter and all of Smoke’s Bergen County charter straddle their bikes and load their weapons. I watch idly as Riggs carefully produces a crate full of bottles. Each of them has a rag shoved into the neck and he begins to carefully load them into our saddlebags. As he moves to put one into Blackie’s bag, the acting president grabs it. He turns his eyes to me and lifts the bottle before producing a permanent marker from his back pocket. Without a word, he scribbles something onto the glass and then turns it to face me.
For Oksana.
I tip my chin and he puts his right hand over his heart and nods slightly. It’s a silent promise we’ve made a thousand times.
I’ve got you.
It’s a nice gesture, but it’s too late.
It won’t bring her back.
And he knows it too.
Deep down, Blackie knows this is the final ride.
With the bottles securely tucked away and our guns loaded, we roll out. A sea of chrome spreads wide and we take to the streets. Once we hit the highway, our speed increases and the cars part like Moses parted the sea. Day turns to night and when the Corrupt Bastards’ clubhouse comes into view, Blackie lifts a hand into the air and his index finger circles in the wind.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Death, motherfucker.
Flashing our lights behind him, we ride tight through the gates. Stryker and Cobra rev their engines, steer with one hand and pull up alongside Blackie. They open fire with no regard and announce our arrival.
Blackie pulls in front of the clubhouse and drops his kickstand. It’s something I’ve watched Jack do a thousand times but witnessing Blackie do it is a poignant moment. It symbolizes the times have changed. Pulling a lighter from his pocket, he lights one end of the rag. The flame travels the length of the fabric and in a flash he rears his arm backward, tossing the bottle.
Glass shatters everywhere and as the fire spreads rapidly my adrenaline spikes.
This is the shit that used to get me hard.
The shit I lived for.
The shit she died for.
Pulling the Glock from my holster, I watch as Blackie pulls a machine gun over his shoulder. The headlights of all our bikes illuminate the path our boots pound as we fearlessly race toward the burning clubhouse. Three Bastards emerge from the shattered glass, guns blazing, but Riggs skids to a stop and sprays them with bullets. He waves us forward and together we shoot our way through the front door.
There in the center of the room is a woman screaming at the top of her lungs as the flames of hell dance up her body. The sight of her hits me hard and for a moment I become immobile. Luckily, Deuce steps in front of me and pumps her full of lead. Her body barely drops to the floor before we’re suddenly surrounded by whores and Bastards.
That oath I took rings loud in my ears and I forget what brought us here. I forget I buried my wife. I forget the fucking shoes. All I know is Satan and as a scream rushes past my lips, I convert into his soldier one final time.
The bodies drop quickly and it isn’t long before a thick fog of gunpowder fills the room.
“Pipe,” Blackie calls, forcing my attention toward him.
Standing over Charlie Teardrops, the man responsible for the bomb that left us in ruins and killed my wife, Blackie extends his knife to me. Without question, I step forward, closing the distance between us and stare at the squealing pig.
“He’s going to die, make it be from your hand,” Blackie says.
Peeling my gaze away from the piece of shit bleeding out, I lock eyes with Blackie.
Respect.
Loyalty.
Honor.
He’s still got it.
Taking the knife from his hand, I kneel before Charlie. His cries are a beautiful hymn, it’s the glory be to a broken hallelujah, and as I push the sharpened blade against his cheek those cries heal parts of my broken heart.
My eyes zero in on the teardrops tattooed beneath his eye.
They call to me and I picture all the faceless victims who lost their lives so he could earn that ink.
Then I see Oksana’s face.
“Your tears belong to me now,” I sneer, as the blade digs into his flesh, tracing the drops of ink. At my mercy, his body jerks in defeat as I carve the skin from his cheek. It’s an agonizingly slow and painful process.
It’s torture.
It’s not enough.
Flicking the pieces of skin off my fingers, I lift the knife. In one swift move, I bring the sharpened blade down and drag it across Charlie’s neck, slicing it wide open. His blood pools around me as I drop the knife and stare at the carnage.
Feeling numb, I learn a very important lesson.
Retribution isn’t always enough.
Decision made.
With a bloody knife burning a hole in my pocket, I leave my brothers behind and ride through the night alone. As my tires cross the Brooklyn Bridge, I make my way to the cemetery but it’s closed. With nowhere left to go and my revelation weighing heavily on me, I make my way to Jack’s and don’t pay any mind to the hour when I knock on the door. His wife lets me in and as I wait for the commander and chief, I brace my hands on his kitchen counter. Staring down at my hands, it dawns on me that I never had a wedding band. I had bought one for her days after we got hitched but when she asked me to wear one, I told her I didn’t need one. To me rings meant shit. It was the promise, the commitment that mattered, not some precious metal. Yet now, here I am staring at my barren finger wishing I had one.
It’s funny how things come to us at the most peculiar times and you can’t do shit about it. Fisting my left hand, I reach into my pocket and pull the knife from it. I lay it on top of the counter.
“Brother,” Jack calls, jolting my attention away from the knife. Turning around, I pin him with a gaze. Judging by the cocky expression on his face, it’s safe to say he knows we did what we set out to do.
“Mission accomplished,” I rasp.
At the sound of my deflated voice, his face changes immediately. Worry washes over his face as he closes the distance between us. Quickly, I turn my head away.
I don’t want his sympathy.
I don’t want anything from him.
“The insurance adjusters will assess the compound this week, if there isn’t enough to cover the rebuild you have plenty of equity in my garage, pull it out and rise up,” I explain, reaching behind me to pull the folded envelope from my pocket.
“You talkin’ like you’re going somewhere,” he accuses, crossing his arms against his chest.
Laying the envelope on the counter, I draw in a deep breath before braving a glimpse into the darkness that is Jack.
“I’m done,” I declare, shrugging off my cut. “Riggs would be good in my position, the kid is a whiz.”
“Pipe, brother, I know—”
“You don’t know,” I sneer. “Like I don’t know what it’s like to watch my kid die you don’t know what it’s like to find your wife with her neck slit.”
It’s the truth.
I’ll never understand his pain and I pray to God he never knows mine. I may be done with him and I’ll always harbor resentment toward him for the alliance our club took with the mob, but I don’t wish him ill. He’s suffered enough and his mind will keep tormenting him until he dies.
Turning my back to him, I don’t give him a chance to argue as I turn my cut over and lift the knife. With a steady hand, the blade cuts through the stitching of my patch.
“You're right, I don’t know what you’re feeling but I know whatever it is has made you raw and you need to heal,” he says as I steady my hand and touch the blade to threads of my patch. Ignoring his attempt, I cut through every stitch until it’s free from the leather it stood bound to for twenty odd years.
Pocketing the knife, I shrug the vest back on and close my fist over the worn patch.
“That patch is who you are,” he adds.
It was.
It’s the thing that saved a disgruntled delinquent and taught me some of the most valuable lessons a man will ever learn.
It also bled me dry.
“That’s not who I want to be anymore,” I growl, shoving the patch at him. “Take the fucking patch, Parrish,” I sneer.
He doesn’t make a move and I lose my patience.
“TAKE IT!”
Snatching it from me, he grabs a hold of my cut and levels me with a glare.
“I’m taking the fucking patch, Pipe, but you’re coming back for it. Clear your head, get your shit figured out but you get back on that bike and you come home. Your patch and your chair will be waiting for you.”
I shake my head.
“I will be waiting for you,” he adds.
He can wait until Satan calls him home and even then he won’t find me at his side.
Pulling out of his grasp, I turn my back on my club, on Jack Parrish, and the name I’ve answered to for nearly half my life. We had a good run while it lasted but now it was time to lay Pipe, the Satan’s Knight, to rest and welcome Lee Jameson back to the land of the living.
Too bad I didn’t feel much like living.