Page 1 of Raze

WELCOME TO LONG BEACH. I pull up on my bike and stare at the sign in front of me. It’s worn and faded, some fucker’s graffitied their gang’s symbol over the state flag in the corner, and I gotta question myself on what the hell I’m doing back here. I made a promise to myself ten years ago that I’d never see this place again. That all the memories and guilt I had would stay here with it, and yet here I am ready to dig up old bones and split open healed wounds.

Most men would be honored that the founder of my club, Jimmer Carson, asked me to come here and take over the shit show that Cliff Adams had been running, but my first response was to tell him to screw himself. I may still call myself a Dirty Soul but I learned a long time ago that the nomad’s life is the only one for me. I’m no fuckin’ leader. For a start, I don’t like people all too much, and I sure as hell don’t want no one relying on me.

It ain’t just my loyalty to Jimmer that’s the reason for me sitting here doubting myself. The phone call I got from an ATF agent named Kathrine Consuela, last week changed everything. It gave me a whole new purpose and a chance to right all the things that I got wrong. I’m just not sure how I’m gonna go about it just yet.

I kick-start my bike and drive on, passing the sign, and inhaling that salty Long Beach air that brings an unexpected comfort with it. The sun warms my skin as I ride familiar streets, and take in all that's new surrounding them.

I’ve been on the road for eight hours straight and I’m not too sure about the reception I'm gonna get when I step into the Long Beach clubhouse. I know from what Jimmer told me that there's a lot to repair here. Cliff somehow managed to sever every decent connection the club had. The Long Beach brothers are either untrustworthy or downbeat and I’m fully aware that I’m stepping onto a sinking ship. It’s why I refused to come back here without the man who is equally as determined to see Cliff Adams fall as I am.

Wrath may not be very old but the hate he has for his father is as deep-rooted and unhinged as mine is. He grew up right here in Long Beach and left the same day he passed his prospect probation. Like myself, he chose to go nomad, and if I’m gonna take this club and turn it into what it’s supposed to be, he’s the man who should be at my side.

I pull into a diner that’s just over a mile from the clubhouse. I used to be a regular here when I lived in town but there ain’t nobody gonna know me here now. I like that, it enables me to think straight. Something tells me that I’m in over my head, but I’ve come too far now to start having regrets.

I nod the waitress a thank you when she’s finished pouring me a black coffee, then pulling out my cell I scroll straight to Wrath's number and wait for him to pick up.

“ Raze?” he answers, sounding like he’s in the middle of something.

“Where ya at?” I question him.

“I’m on my way, just had to take a little detour.” I hear what sounds like a kick, followed by a loud groan of pain, and I smile to myself.

Wrath has the same kinda hunger for violence that I do. His comes from anger and what he’s suffered over the years. Mine was bred into me. My father, Vex, was the club’s original enforcer, and to be an enforcer you have to have something in your brain that either switches off or comes alive when you take care of business. My father has trained many men to switch it off. His training methods were brutal, but to do what’s required of an enforcer needs that level of brutality. For me, I never had to switch off a damn thing. I know right from wrong and I know bad from good. The men I’ve hurt have deserved what was dealt to them. So I can live with it on my conscience.

“You really gonna make me walk into that lion’s den by myself?” I question him. I still haven’t told him about the information Agent Consuela gave me yet. I’m not entirely sure how he'll react to it. And right now I need his head screwed on. We have no idea how many of the Long Beach Charter’s men are loyal to the club, and despite what me and Wrath have been through in the past, he is the one man whose loyalty I know I can rely on.

I drain my coffee and look at the ring that’s on my finger. The original Dirty Dozen all had one when the club first came together and my father passed his down to me through Jimmer. I guess he figured for himself that he'd never see me again after our last conversation. And it’s not outta hate that I haven’t been up to that mountain to visit him again, not outta hate for him, anyway. The only hate I got, is for myself.

“You want a top-up sweetheart?” The waitress bats her lashes at me and I shake my head before slamming a couple of bills on the table and heading out the door. I keep the phone pressed to my ear waiting for Wrath to finish whatever he’s workin’ on.

“Look Raze, you got this, I’ve spoken to Ruckus a lot over the past few weeks. Your presence is gonna be welcomed. The club is a mess. It needs leadership and whether you believe it or not you’re the man for the job.”

“Shit. Oh fuck!” I hear a girl cursing on the other side of the parking lot and notice how she hops nervously from foot to foot. Then I notice my bike, flat on the ground.

“Wrath, I gotta go. Just hurry up and fuckin’ get here.” I hang up the phone and rush over to her.

“What the fuck?” I look down at my bike, then to the bumper of the heap-of-junk car that must have reversed into it.

“Is this… Is it yours?” The girl looks up at me, biting her lip nervously.

“Damn straight it’s mine. How the fuck did you miss it?” I lift it upright and start assessing it for damage, though I find myself getting far too distracted by the fact that the girl who crashed into it is as stunning as she is flustered.

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I was checking my mirrors and then I heard a crunch. Is it bad?” She awkwardly starts looking over my bike herself. There’s a few scratches, nothing major, and the duffle bag I got tied up on the back carrying my clothes still seems intact.

“I’m so sor?—”

“Save it.” I hold my hand out to silence her when I notice a Jeep skid up close to the diner door. Three kids, no older than eighteen, hop out yet keep the engine running, and I notice the gun that the driver’s got tucked in his pants when his shirt slightly lifts up.

“Excuse me.” The girl sounds offended, but I’m too busy watching the three boys lift up their hoods and raise bandanas over their faces to respond. It’s obvious what’s about to go down here. I’m not officially the charter’s president yet, so technically these ain’t my streets. But they will be, and things around here will change. I figure now is as good a time as any for folk to start realizing that.

“Get in your car and get outta here,” I tell the girl, reaching down into my duffle bag and taking out my cut. I watch her eyes widen as I shrug it onto my shoulders.

“Oh shit, you're a… I’m so sorry. I...”

“Are you still here?” I stare at her blankly as I reach back into my duffle bag and grab my gun, checking the slide is loaded before clicking it back into place.

“It was an accident. I’m?—”

“Seriously.” I walk around my bike and open her driver’s seat door for her. “Get in your car and get outta here,” I repeat, starting to lose my patience.

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