Page 16 of The Devil's Ice

Taking his time, moving deliberately, he opened the car door – this was the first car that he’d bought since joining The Road Devils, and it was a second-hand piece of shit, and he was already missing his motorcycle like he’d miss air – and stepped into the parking lot. He looked around, noted the MC businesses (a tattoo studio and a bar, somehow both compulsory when talking about biker clubs), and just the sight of them made him long for Blue Dragon and Satan’s so badly, he thought he might crack in two.

He grabbed his duffel from the back seat, slung it over his shoulder. His whole life was packed in this bag – Wolf had learned to travel light as a kid, back when he’d kept a packed backpack in his closet – and he knew that it was more than enough for him to function. All he needed now was to confirm that Viper expected him to live in the clubhouse, though Wolf was positive that’d be the way things shook out. After all, ifhehad an enemy inhishouse, he’d for goddamnsurekeep him under scrutiny and security.

And Iamthe enemy.

Wolf caught a glimpse of himself in the driver-side mirror, and paused. He looked smaller than he actually was, diminished somehow, and that freaked him out: he needed to look strong in this moment. He studied his face and upper body in the glass, puzzling what the issue was, and then it hit him…

It’s because I ain’t wearin’ my cut.

At about three o’clock that morning, he’d placed his beloved club vest, with its badges and colors, in the meeting room. It had been fucking brutal. Wolf wasn’t a sentimental man, and he sure as hell never cried, but it had torn his heart out to walk away from the leather cut that was like his own skin. It had truly felt like he’d left behind a piece of his body. Of course he fully expected to return to Denver and his Presidency at some point –who the fuck knows when, though– and reclaim it. But even just eight hours not wearing it, not having it near him, not being able toseeit, was weighing on him. The face in the mirror told him so.

Mentally giving himself a shake, Wolf turned smartly on his heel and strode into the clubhouse. He paused in the doorway of the massive bar – shades of Satan’s yetagain– and glared around, clocking every face in the room. He knew most of them, naturally, seeing as there had been a time not so long ago that The Highway Hellions and The Road Devils had been close allies in carrying out Kirk Jensen’s dirty contracts. He’d never liked Crusher Alcott, but he’d worked very well with his fellow MC President out of sheer necessity, and he supposed that he’d take the same approach with Viper Grant.

And speaking of:

“Well, well. Fucking Wolf Connor.”

Wolf slid his gaze over to the dark-haired man standing by the pool tables. They stared grimly at each other for a full ten seconds, not moving, not even blinking. Then Viper smirked and flicked his black eyes over to the man standing closest to Wolf.

“Preacher, you want to do the honors?”

“You know it,” the man with the giant crucifix tattooed on his shaved head growled. Wolf knew that Preacher Hughes was the new Hellions VP, and he also knew that the man had a ridiculously annoying habit of quoting scripture to someone just before utterly fucking them up. He was a religious zealot, and Wolf thought that he was totally unstable, even considering that he existed in the MC world, where lunatics often ran the asylum. “Spread ‘em, Connor.”

Wolf obliged silently, still locked in a stare-off with Viper. Preacher patted him down roughly, then looked over at his President.

“No weapons.”

“Well.” Viper sounded surprised about that. “So you did as you were told. I guessed you’re good and pussy whipped for me already, huh?”

Wolf’s eyes flashed, but he still said nothing. Viper tilted his head at Wolf, appraising him, then he gave a slow smile. Everything about it made Wolf freeze up inside, his blood pure ice in his veins: that smile meantdanger, and although Wolf had been totally expecting something like this to happen, he hadn’t thought it would rear its ugly head so soon.

Before he could do more than take a single breath, Viper spoke again:

“Preacher.”

The blow came out of nowhere, and smashed Wolf in the back of his head. He was out cold before he even hit the ground.

**

Denver, Colorado

At the exact same time that Wolf was lying unconscious on a filthy bar floor in Utah, Scars was standing at the front of the Road Devils conference room, facing all of his MC brothers. The mood was sombre and tense, and Scars had to fight to stay calm and focused. He was President now – though he had zero long-term plans to hold the position – and it was down to him to lead. That meant by example, so he’d better start doing that right from the beginning.

Oh, he knew the boys were on his side, and had his back, and would die for him as quick as they’d die for Wolf… he had no worries aboutthat. But healsodidn’t want his brothers to be put in the position of having to die for him – and so that meant making some good, smart decisions.

Somethingelsethat I'd better start doing right from the beginning.

He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of every man there. Most of them he’d known for almost twenty years, and time had created bonds and relationships that were his life breath, his blood and his bones. He wasn’t Wolf, and he couldn’t copy Wolf’s leadership style that he’d grown into over the past five-plus years… and so Scars had to do right by them in his own way. He and Zoe had talked about it the night before, and they’d hit on the fact that in many ways, Scars was kind of the anti-Wolf.

Here goes nothing.

“I want to tell you guys the plan that me and Wolf came up with,” Scars said.

Thatcaught them by surprise, he saw. There was a bit of murmuring, some exchanged glances. Wolf always played things close to the vest, doling out information on a need-to-know basis, and compartmentalizing what he did share. In pretty much every case, the only people one hundred percent in the know were Wolf, Scars, and Ice.

“We’re in uncharted waters here, guys.” Scars sighed, running a large hand through his hair, his one sure sign of agitation. “I don’t mind telling you that I need your help. Wolf did everything that he could to protect us and himself before he left, but it only goes so far. We don’t know first-hand what’s happening over in Utah, and we don’t know when Wolf will be back.”

He paused, then glanced down at the chair on his right side, at the top of the table. Wolf’s cut was draped on it, and Scars was mindful of his presence, even if the man himself was absent. Scars had very carefully avoided saying ‘ifWolf will be back’, but he knew that everyone had that thought racing around their minds, on an unrelenting loop.

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