Page 9 of The Devil's Viking

I will make my Master proud of me, I will earn his trust and love. His want is my servitude; his will is my duty; his desire is mine own heart.

Chapter Four

Viking pulled into the Road Devil’s parking lot and let out a sigh of mixed happiness and exhaustion. It was just past eleven o’clock in the morning, and he was going on almost two full days of zero sleep. He hoped that the guys at the Garage had the coffee on, but in a pinch, he’d meander over to Satan’s Bar and see if Rebel would maybe open the kitchen an hour early. He needed to get that order of french fries soon anyway, or he’d pass out where he stood.

He was just stretching out his back when the guys started appearing from the various Road Devils businesses: his fellow Blue Dragon Ink workers, Arrow and Saint, were coming out of the tattoo parlour as Dux and Drake, the twins, walked out from the Garage. By the time he’d greeted them all, Wolf, Scars and Ice had joined the group, wearing matching grim expressions.

Viking exchanged looks with the three of them, loaded and meaningful looks. After all, he’d hauled ass out to Utah with a dead body on the say-so of the motorcycle club’s President, Wolf Connor, and with the full knowledge of the Vice-President, Scars Innis. And of course, Ice Johansson had been there at Jolene’s house in his role as ex-Enforcer and -Cleaner (well,exuntil two nights ago), handling the god-awful mess left all over Jo’s bedroom floor, walls and ceiling. Although everyone in the MC knew that Jo’s ex-husband had shown up and hurt her, and they also knew that Jo had killed the fucker, they didn’t have a clue where Viking had been the past couple of days.

They knew what he’d beendoing, naturally, but they didn’t have any details. They’d never had any, and Viking wasn’t about to go all kumbaya and start sharing now, not even with Wolf. The law was clear on the matter of murder: no body, no crime, and so Viking would go to his grave as the one and only MC member who knew whereallthe bodies from the last twelve years of the club’s history had been buried.

That was all his burden and his alone – it was a heavy one and he’d just added one more secret to his very-full closet of Road Devils skeletons. The damn thing was overflowing now, threatening to burst wide open all over the room, and Viking had to really put his back into keeping those doors closed tight and safe.

Most days he felt up to the containment job – but he’d had enough now. Brian Fielding was the last name that he’d have to forget.

I hope so, anyway.

“Hey, man,” Wolf said in that voice that made the ladies squirm and the men look for a defensive weapon. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks, Prez,” Viking replied. “Glad to be here.”

“You had a good couple of days away from here? Happy travellin’?”

“Sure did.” Viking stretched again, feeling the pull and ache in his lower back start to unravel. “Got some fresh air, saw some sights, gave myself a back injury driving this damn van.”

Wolf nodded, his grey eyes sharp with understanding. The man had close to zero education if you thought of formal schooling, but his street smarts were off the damn charts, and nobody with an ounce of brain-power ever forgot that. Not friends or foes.

“OK, then,” Wolf said in a tone that clearly indicated that the matter of Viking’s whereabouts and activities was closed. “You look like you need a coffee, huh?”

“That’s a fact.” Viking unlocked the back door, swung it wide. “We just have a few things here to put back in the Garage.”

“We got all that,” Dux said and his brother nodded his identical dark head, liberally sprinkled with grey. “Go relax. Rebel got the grill going at seven o’clock this morning, said he wanted to be ready whatever time you got here. Told us to let you know that he’ll make you a full breakfast as soon as you hit Satan’s.”

“The man is a bonafide saint,” Viking said, already dreaming of a mushroom and cheese omelette, a towering stack of toast, and Rebel’s wicked coffee. “Just make sure that steel drum in the back there goes through the power-wash ASAP, OK?”

“Got it,” Scars said, already in the van and handing boxes of tools out to the waiting men on the ground. “You’ve done your bit, Viking, so go and kick back now. It’s done.”

“Done,” Viking echoed and gave his MC brothers a grin. “Coffee time.”

Scars gave Arrow the last box of tools and reached for the foul-smelling drum – he knew nowhowViking had disposed of the evidence even if he had no cluewherethis had taken place – when suddenly he paused. Without a word, he turned and hopped out of the van.

“Ummm, what’s up?” Saint said. “That big old steel barrel too heavy for you to roll on over to us? Need a hand, old man?”

Wolf knew, though – his Veep hadthat lookon his scarred face. The one that made the hairs on Wolf’s neck stand up; the one that said ‘we got trouble’, as clear as if Scars had said the words out loud. Whatever the hell had made Scars haul his ass out of that van double-time had nothing to do with the steel drum.

It had to do withsomething elsein the van.

“Scars.” Wolf spoke flatly, a dozen questions being asked in just the one word, and the men heard every single one of them loud and clear. They tensed, ready for whatever the hell was happening.

“Someone’s in there,” Scars said in a low voice. “Between the drum and the back wall.”

The men all spun around and stared into the van, squinting at the spot Scars had mentioned. Sure enough, they saw what looked like a pile of blankets – and the pile was breathing. Quiet and shallow, to be sure, but still sucking in air.

“Shit,” Wolf muttered, wondering if he should send one of the guys to his office to get his gun locked in the wall safe. “What the hell?”

“No idea.” Viking was utterly astonished. “Wolf – I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone back there at all.”

Ice reached behind and under his cut, pulled a gun from the holder on his lower back. Nobody was even slightly surprised at that: Ice might not be club Enforcer anymore, but that meant nothing to him and he’d clearly not received the memo to step down. Enforcers were born, not made, and just because the title no longer actively applied to Ice’s role, nothing had really changed in his core. He remained as cold as his name, implacable, lethal, emotionless, loyal to his President and the club and nobody and nothing else.

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