Page 3 of Riding the Edge

“Jack, there’s something I need to say,” I demanded, hanging my head.

The room went quiet as I slowly lifted my head and met Jack’s weary gaze. Since we were kids, we’ve weathered every fucking storm together. I’ve spared him from cruelty and did my best to always be the brother who made sense of his darkest days. That being said, I never wanted to be the man who delivered him to his maker and yet, in the end, that’s exactly what I would do.

“We’ve got company,” Stryker announced, pulling his gun from the waistband of his pants. Aiming the barrel toward the lot, he glanced over his shoulder. “You all might want to do the same,” he ground out.

Turning around, I noticed the three sleek town cars and watched as they came to a screeching halt in front of the garage. Thinking quick, we all pushed back our chairs and drew our weapons, preparing for yet another ambush.

“We need God,” Jack rasped.

Before anyone else could say a word, a body was thrown from the back of one of the cars and the Chicago mobster Bianci linked us up with came into view. Artie D’Onofrio’s Italian loafers clicked against the pavement as he lifted Anthony’s battered body from the ground. Struggling against the gangster, Anthony did his best to stand tall. Lifting his chin, blood seeped from the gashes on his face and his blue eyes met Jack’s.

“What the fuck is this?” Jack roared, pointing his gun at Artie.

Surrounded by ten men, Artie lifted the barrel of his own gun to Bianci’s temple.

“You motherfuckers played the wrong man,” Artie sneered.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Jack fired back.

“You got ten seconds to tell me why you were using my organization as a pawn in this game you’re playing with Yankovich or I’m going to splatter this motherfucker’s brains across your garage.”

Immediately, I knew Artie knew the same truth as I did and instead of letting it fester he demanded it be told.

“We told you what Yankovich did, how he’s been fucking with us and you agreed to be the mule,” Blackie hollered.

“You left out your involvement in his organization and I want to know why!”

“What the fuck is this clown talking about?” Riggs hissed, keeping his gun trained on Artie.

“Stop playing me,” Artie demanded. “I know you’ve been partnering with Yankovich for over twenty years! All those crimes you told me he committed, your fucking club had a hand in and I want to know why you were trying to set me up with that sick fuck. Were you after my kids? Did you think you could take my daughters and sell them on the black market like you sold all the others you mentioned?! Answer me Parrish!”

Silently, Jack stared at Artie before lowering his gun.

Snapping out of my trance, I stepped forward and shook my head. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end for us. We were destined to go out with our guns blazing, defending everything Jack sacrificed his sanity to build. A cunt like Yankovich didn’t get to decide when we were over and a deceitful motherfucker like Cain didn’t get a pardon just because he was a pussy who took his own life.

They don’t get to fucking win.

“Jack, what the fuck are you doing?” Blackie growled.

“Maybe he’s confusing us with Rush and the Albany charter,” Stryker suggested, taunting one of Artie’s men with the barrel of his gun.

“Artie,” Jack advanced, lowering his gun to the floor. Kicking it toward him, he raised his hands in mock surrender. “I swear to you, on my dead son’s soul, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Whatever it is you think you know, I don’t, so the best way for either of us to get answers is talk without guns pointed in one another’s face. Me and you. Man to man. Now, Stryker is right. It came to light that a Satan’s Knights charter up in Albany was involved with Yankovich.”

“Fuck that,” Bas argued. “Not the whole charter was involved, just fucking Rush.”

“Stand down,” Blackie commanded Bas.

“Rush took Cobra’s sister. He bought her from Yankovich. That’s the girl we rescued.”

“I’m no fool, Parrish,” Artie argued. “I’m not talking about Rush. I’m talking about this charter. I’m talking about Cain.”

“Parrish,” I called desperately.

“Not now, Wolf,” Jack snapped.

At my wit's end, I moved to stand between Jack and Artie’s gun. Lifting my head, I locked eyes with my president and watched him stare at me in bewilderment.

“What’re you doing?”

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