Page 1 of Cutter

Chapter One

Garden City, Georgia

Cutter had timed the ride home to the minute. After spending most of the morning and afternoon in Dublin with Barron and Johnny Gun, his closest brothers, handling tedious MC business, he deserved a release.

Nothing was more exhilarating and magical than plowing into the wind as the sun was going down and the world around him turned gold. If he could, he’d bottle this feeling just to hold on to it a little longer.

As he rode through Garden City’s steel-and-cement landscape, the thrill stopped and the magic died.

He brought his chopper to a full stop in front of the MC’s preferred convenience store to pick up supplies for the clubhouse. But as he kicked down the bike’s stand, gunfire, angry shouts, and a woman’s desperate cries flew out of the store. He jumped down, swung the glass door open, and rushed inside without a thought for his safety. Johnny Gun and Barron ran after him.

“Who? Where?” he yelled at the woman half tucked behind the counter. She pointed a trembling finger to the refrigerated section in the rear. Cutter came around the partition, took in the grim scenario, and realized it was already too late. But he’d give it a shot anyway.

The back door was open. That’s how the shooter must’ve escaped. The victim, a young man somewhere in his twenties, lay on his back amid a sea of shattered glass. Wide-eyed, he gurgled and gasped for air while clutching his neck. Blood gushed through his fingers. Carefully, Cutter knelt at his side, assessing the situation. Time on earth was ending for this soul.

“Cutter, let’s go, man,” Johnny Gun urged from behind him. “Are you deaf? Sirens are coming. You can’t be here when the cops arrive. The bastards will try to pin this on you.”

“I can’t. He needs help,” Cutter barked, tearing at his sleeve. He turned to Johnny Gun. “See if you can find me some bandages or gauze, anything like that. Gotta stop the bleeding.” Working as quickly as the spurting blood would allow him, he managed to wrap his torn sleeve around the wound. Immediately, blood drenched the makeshift bandage.

“Jesus, Cutter. What’re you doing? You can’t stay.” Barron joined Johnny’s pleas.

“Johnny G!” Cutter exclaimed.

“There’s nothing good here,” Johnny called out from behind a shelf.

The wail of sirens grew louder.

“Hey, Cutter… Come on, man,” Barron insisted, shaking his shoulder. “We gotta go.”

Cutter ignored Barron and Johnny G. He focused on the dying victim’s panicked eyes. Clasping the young man’s hand, he bent closer. “Don’t listen to them. You’re not alone. I’m staying with you. Hold on. Help is coming.”

The guy blinked. His expression softened, and Cutter squeezed his hand harder. A faint smile crossed the victim’s lips, his breaths slowed, and he quietly slipped away.

Folding his bloodied hands, Cutter sat back on his haunches, staring at the carnage: the wasted life, the tragic outcome of violence. According to the dictionary, carnage signified the deaths of many, and most people would argue the definition of the word with him. But to Cutter, who’d seen and lived in violence for so long, one victim equated to hundreds. And he was growing progressively weary of the bloodletting.

A hard hand fell on his shoulder. “Get up. We already have your buddies.”

He glanced up to face the officer at his side. “We didn’t do this.” But even before he spoke, he knew his words would fall on deaf ears. The triangle patch on his cut with the number one and the percent symbol was enough reason for the authorities to bring him in. Explanations and exonerating statements could come later.

“Can I at least wash my hands?” he asked as the officer cuffed his wrists and pulled him toward the patrol car. “What about our bikes?”

“Sure, wash at the station. The bikes will be safe enough. Forensics is coming. This is a crime scene.” The officer jutted his chin toward his partner, who was setting up the Police Only yellow perimeter tape. An ambulance and an unmarked detective vehicle screeched to a halt outside the line. Two paramedics scrambled out with a stretcher, and three suits stepped out of the car. An officer met them, presumably to report his findings. Activity around the convenience store was growing.

Shit, the bikes are safer than uswas his thought as his head was pushed down and he sat in the back of the squad car.

“Fuck, Cutter. I warned you,” Johnny Gun grumbled next to him. “We should’ve left. But fuck no. Mr. Good Samaritan had to stay and help. And for what?”

“They’ll straighten it out,” he said. “We didn’t do shit, and the store owner will testify soon enough. Where’s Barron?”

“On his way,” Johnny replied. “A squad car stopped by, and they threw him in there. He’ll be waiting for us at the station, and he ain’t gonna be happy. Guaranteed.”

As the squad car sped along Main Street heading to the station, Cutter sat back, pushing the bad memories out of mind. This was fucking déjà vu for him. The last time he’d been rushed to the station in one of these, his situation had been pretty dire.

The shouting between rival club members, thuds of bats striking flesh, and gunfire still echoed in his mind. Many of his Devils’ Spawn brethren had been injured that night. Cutter had escaped unscathed, and so had Blade, the MC president and his best friend in life. But when the security guard of the warehouse where the fight took place was found unconscious with a nasty blow to the head, the cops arrested Blade.

Despite Blade’s protestations, Cutter had stepped in, claiming the warehouse had been dark, and, in the confusion, he’d struck the guard accidentally. Plus, Blade’s ol’ lady, Cel, had recently given birth to a baby boy. His wife and baby needed him, and Cutter couldn’t allow his friend, almost brother, to go away and ruin his record when he’d just become a father.

The guard recovered, but an ambitious DA had wanted to make a point, and Cutter ended up in county jail, despite a clean record. However, the truth has a funny way of coming out when least expected.

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