I set it down and scan over the coroner’s report, trying to make sense of it. It’s lengthy and includes the autopsy and the investigative report. It mentions the angle of the bullet, entry and exit, and time of death.
I pause and back up at the part that says the bullet entered his right temple, exited above his left ear and continued, causing a hole through the driver’s window.
It says there was gunpowder residue on my father’s right glove.
I look at the picture of the gloves they had in evidence.
I move to the next pictures: one shows the damaged window, the other, where they’d pulled the slug out of a support beam under the stairs.
Thankfully, they didn’t include any pictures of my father’s body.
With shaking hands, I shove it all back in the envelope, then I put my head down and cry.
Seven
Sly—
I’m leaning back against the seat of my parked bike with my legs crossed at the boots and an elbow resting on the gas tank. I take a drag off my smoke and exhale into the starry night sky. There’s a nip in the air, and I’m glad I’ve got a flannel shirt on under my cut.
It’s quiet while we wait to pick up this gun delivery. The drop is in the middle of nowhere, down some dirt road that leads to a landfill. Luckily, the breeze is in our favor tonight, and we can’t smell it.
I look over at North as I flick my ashes. “How’re things going down at Centerfolds? That new chick workin’ out?”
He folds his arms, his legs spread in a wide stance. “Not bad. She needs a little more experience.”
“Practice makes perfect.” I grin.
“How much did you lose on the O’Conner fight?” Bash asks me.
“Five hundred. I’ll make it up next week on Ramirez.”
“You notice Mooney’s is back open?” Jinx asks, glancing over at me.
I nod. “Yup. Did some checkin’. Looks like the liquor license has been transferred to a Michael A. Mooney. So, I guess the widow’s not sellin’.”
Bash frowns. “I thought the son was just a teenager. Cullen have a brother we don’t know about?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Think I’ll drop in on the way back to the clubhouse tonight. Guess I’ll find out.”
“You want company, I could use a beer?” Bouncer asks.
“Nah, I’ll just slip in discreetly and check things out. Less obvious if it’s only me.”
North chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You, tryin’ to be inconspicuous. You won’t last five minutes before some chick’s hittin’ on you, pretty boy.”
“Look who’s talkin’, Magic Mike.”
He flips me the bird.
The distant sound of tires on gravel carries to us, and I drop my cigarette, grinding it under my boot.
“Look alive, boys,” Chaos growls.
As I stand, my hand slides under my cut to close around the grip of my Berretta, ready to pull it if need be. We expect this to be an unmarked black panel van carrying two Vine City Vipers and four cases of semi-automatic Glocks. It should all go smoothly, but experience has taught us to be ready for the unexpected.
My brothers beside me, North, Jinx, Bash, Bouncer, and Chaos all come to attention.
The vehicle drives around the bend and appears through the trees. It is indeed a black panel van, but I won’t rest easy until this deal is done. Judging by their darting eyes as they step from the van, the Vipers are just as anxious as we are to be done with this.
Ten minutes later, the product is divided up among our saddlebags. Eight per bag loads each rider down a little over twenty pounds, a barely noticeable difference, but at about six hundred bucks a pop, retail, the haul is worth sixty grand. Of course we don’t pay anywhere near that, so this’ll net us a nice little profit once we unload them, plus, it’s not a cash deal but rather a drugs-for-guns exchange.
As soon as the van pulls out, we mount up, eager to get the fuck out of here. My brothers and I roll down the gravel, then hit the blacktop and, two by two, fall into formation with Chaos, our president, and Jinx, our road captain, leading us out. Next is Bash, our VP, and North, our enforcer. Pulling up the rear are Bouncer and myself. He’s one of the MC’s nomads, and as such, he’s not tied to any one chapter but rides freely among them. I envy his freedom in that regard, but I love my brothers and the security of knowing exactly who’s got my back.
Trust and loyalty are complicated things. Anyone who says they’re easy is full of shit. That’s why we put our prospective members through such a rigorous probationary phase. We’ve got to know, and I mean unequivocally know we can trust them with our lives and that they’ve got our backs before we give them our loyalty for life and that patch we value with the utmost respect.
It’s the reason the six of us are so tight. We know beyond a shadow of a doubt and with absolute certainty that we’d go to any lengths necessary for this club and each other. Brothers before all others—we don’t take that shit lightly.
We ride through the countryside, cruising down empty back roads. Ain’t nothin’ better than a late-night ride like this with just the rolling hills, tall southern pines, and stars in the sky above—not to mention, good brothers at my side.
Before long, we hit Uprising, Georgia’s city limits, population 2002. I chuckle to myself every time I see that sign. I think the prison block I was in had more inmates than that.
I downshift as we take a curve and roll over a set of train tracks. The breeze ruffling my flannel sleeves lessens as we slow down. Highway 42 leads us down the main drag through town, and I see Mooney’s Pub approaching. I lift my gloved hand and wave two fingers at Bouncer, signaling I’m pulling off. He gives it back as I slow up and drop out of the line. I hear his pipes as he hits his throttle, speeding off with my brothers.
Rolling slowly to a stop, I drop it into neutral and use my boots to back the bike into a spot in front of the bar, my tire up against the curb. Lowering my kickstand, I dismount and stare up at the place as I unbuckle my helmet. It’s past midnight and they’ll be closing soon. Even on a Friday, no bars stay open past one a.m. around here.
I hang my helmet on one of the handlebars and step up on the sidewalk. Through the window and beyond the neon beer signs, people are visible at the pool tables. Music drifts to me and increases in volume as I pull open the door and enter.
Unsnapping my cut, I take a stool at the end of the bar near the entrance and swivel slightly to watch a tricky pool shot. The guy sinks the cue ball and curses.
One of the bartenders approaches. His eyes drop to my cut for a split second. “What can I get for you?”
Either North or myself have been picking up protection payments from Cullen every Monday night since we took over the Kings of Carnage. But we always came after closing, so this guy has no clue who I am.
I order a bottle of beer, and he reaches in the tub of ice under the bar, yanks one out, and sets it before me.
“Want a glass?”
The corner of my mouth pulls up and I shake my head. He moves off to wait on another customer, and I scan the room, remembering back to the last time I was in here.
Cullen was alone when I walked in. He was setting a tall ladder up under one of the antique light fixtures that hung twelve feet up. He glanced over at me.