Page 5 of Butcher's Honor

I park my Harley between Hellfire's custom chopper and Ruthless's black Road King. Inside, cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air, mingling with the smell of leather and stale beer.

The regular patrons clear out of my way as I head toward the back room. They know what's coming. Everyone does.

"About fucking time," Hellfire growls when I push through the door.

Our president sits at the head of the table, his scarred face twisted in barely contained rage. At forty-eight, he's seen more blood and violence than most war veterans.

"Had to handle something at Mom's," I reply, taking my seat at his right hand.

Around the table, our core members watch with varying degrees of impatience.

Ruthless is cleaning his favorite knife with methodical precision. Crow is chain-smoking as he studies a map spread before him. Wrath and Maverick are checking their weapons with practiced ease.

"Mickey woke up," Hellfire announces. "Doc says he'll keep the eye, barely. Outlaws worked him over good."

My jaw clenches. Mickey's just nineteen, a prospect who joined us seeking family more than trouble.

"They attacked the clubhouse just a week ago, but hitting one of ours in broad daylight? They’re getting bolder."

"Too bold," Crow adds, tapping ash from his cigarette. "My sources say they're planning something big. That new weapons cache we've been tracking? It's just the beginning."

Hellfire slams his fist on the table. "They want a real war? We'll fucking give them one. Tonight."

A current of anticipation runs through the room. We've been waiting for this, planning for it since they attacked our weapon stash… Since they killed Mark. Since they attacked our clubhouse.

"What's the play?" Ruthless asks, his knife catching the light.

Crow points to the map. "One of their new stashes is here, old warehouse on the east side. Guards change at midnight. Usually six men, but after Mickey, they've doubled it."

"Twelve men guarding one cache?" Maverick scoffs. "They're scared."

"They should be," Wrath says with a grim smile.

Hellfire looks at me. "Plan?"

I study the map, pushing thoughts of frightened eyes and gentle smiles far away. This is who I really am—not a protector of single mothers but a dealer in violence and revenge.

"Three teams," I say. "Crow and Wrath take the back. Maverick and Ruthless, side entrance. Boss and I go through the front. Hard and fast, no survivors."

"They'll have a backup on speed dial," Crow warns.

I nod. "That's why we need to be in and out in ten minutes. Burn the weapons we can't take, leave nothing for them to salvage."

"And send a message," Hellfire adds, his voice rough with promise.

We spend the following hour planning details, checking weapons, and synchronizing watches. This isn't our first raid, but it needs to be perfect. The Outlaws have upped their drug dealing and are getting more violent. They’ve been testing our borders and recruiting in our neighborhoods.

After Mickey, they'll expect retaliation—they just won't expect it so soon.

At eleven-thirty, we mount up. The rumble of six Harleys shatters the night's quiet as we head east, taking back roads to avoid attention. The warehouse district is deserted this time of night, perfect for what we're about to do.

We park two blocks away, going the rest of the distance on foot. My Kevlar vest feels heavy under my cut, the familiar weight of my Glock at my hip both comforting and damning. This is what I am, what I've always been - Violence waiting to happen.

For a moment, I think of Tommy's innocent question. Are you a superhero? No, kid. I'm the monster other monsters fear.

"In position," Wrath's voice crackles through our earpieces.

"Same here," Maverick confirms.

---