Page 31 of Massacre
The crowd quieted, the tension crackling between us like a live wire. King stepped forward, arms folded, lips twitching with equal parts amusement and warning. Cash lingered at the edge of the circle, ready to jump in if things went sideways.
Amber, for her part, didn’t back down. She shoved Casanova’s hand away when he reached for her, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t need saving from anyone. Especially not from you.”
Romeo groaned. “Come on, babe. You know I’m right.”
“No!” my woman shouted. “All I know is that the both of you are black and blue.” As she spoke, her accusing stare landed on Jingles, Tank and then Big Ben, who quickly hid his hands behind his back. “All of you should be ashamed of yourselves! All Massacre has done is protect me, and you beat his ass for it. Well, no more. I mean it!” She eyed every brother in the yard before adding, “Don’t make me choose between him and my family.”
Walking over, King stepped up beside me and whispered, “Whatever Reaper sent you here to do, I suggest you go do it.”
“Not leaving her like this.”
“I will take care of it.”
“Like you did last night?” I challenged.
“Go,” King growled. “Before I change my mind.”
Walking over to my woman, I kissed the top of her head and said, “I’ll be back later, babe. Got an errand to run.”
Waving me away as if I were some annoying gnat, I shrugged my shoulders and headed for my bike. While I wanted to stay and watch that Casanova fucker get his ass handed to him, King was right.
I was here for a reason.
Chapter Eleven
Massacre
The sun had set, and the night air was thick with the scent of oil and burned rubber, tinged with the uneasy quiet that settled when danger was only a door away. I had scouted the area long enough. Now it was time to interact. I ran my thumb along the worn patch on my jacket’s shoulder—a silent reminder of rides gone wrong, trust betrayed, and the fine line between loyalty and survival. Every instinct screamed caution as I approached the clubhouse. Headlights flickered across the gravel lot, and shadows stretched long and predatory beneath the skeletal limbs of dying streetlights.
The Death Dogs’ lair was a battered squat of corrugated metal and busted neon, all faded bravado and iron teeth. The roar of laughter and the heavy thump of bass spilled out from half-shuttered windows, punctuated by the occasional bark of a gruff voice or the clatter of a pool cue. I paused at the threshold, my boots crunching on broken glass, and caught my reflection in the smudged pane—a stranger among wolves, a nomad with questions no one wanted asked.
Inside, the air was warmer, thick with sweat, cheap whiskey, and the acrid tang of cigarettes. Eyes flicked my way: some curious, others cold and measuring. A couple of patched veterans leaned against the bar, arms crossed, their colors stitched into sun-bleached denim. In the corner, a cluster of prospects nursed beers and watched the old timers for cues. It was the kind of place where silence spoke loudest, and every story was written in scars.
I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped further in, my presence deliberate but humble. Reaper’s warning echoed in my mind—find out what you can, but don’t get caught looking.I headed for the bar, where the bartender’s stare was equal parts suspicion and challenge.
“Name?” he grunted, not looking up from the glass he polished with a rag that had seen better days.
“Nomad,” I replied, letting the word linger. It was club code, an introduction and a warning. I wasn’t looking to claim territory—just passing through, or so I hoped they’d believe.
He nodded, slow and wary, then jerked his chin toward an empty stool in the corner. “Sit. Don’t start trouble you can’t finish.”
I slid onto the seat, my eyes adjusting to the rhythms of the room, the subtle shifts in posture and tone, the secret language of a family forged by asphalt and blood. Somewhere, beneath the bravado and the rumors, lay the heart of the Death Dogs—a secret I’d come to uncover, even if it meant walking straight into the lion’s mouth.
Outside, engines rumbled to life and died with each arrival and departure, a constant pulse beneath the surface of chaos. Inside, I waited, watched, and listened, knowing the answers I sought would come not from questions, but from the stories unspoken—the glances, the grudges, the quiet alliances that ruled the night.
I was in. For now.
The bartender slid me a beer, then walked off, leaving me to drink alone. Making myself comfortable, I took a drink of my beer and watched as brothers shot pool, talked, drank, and screwed club sluts as if it were a typical Tuesday night. Reaper wasn’t specific about what he was looking for. All he said was to scout the place out and learn what I could. Simple enough, but the second I walked into this clubhouse, I knew it wasn’t going tobe that easy. There was something in the air, something sinister that was familiar, that had the hairs on my neck standing up.
This club was trouble.
From the jukebox in the corner came a gravelly blues riff, barely audible over the drone of laughter and clinking glasses. I caught snippets of talk—gripes about turf, whispers of a run gone sideways, laughter that never reached eyes. A tall man with salt-and-pepper stubble and a faded patch reading “Sergeant at Arms” glared in my direction, then muttered something to the bartender as he passed. Every move in here was clocked, weighed, and filed away for future reckoning.
My gaze swept the walls: yellowed photographs, a battered Death Dogs flag, a shelf lined with trophies and empty bottles. And tucked behind the pool table, a door marked “Private.” That, I guessed, was where the real business happened—the kind you didn’t ask about unless invited.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Refusing to look at the man, I said, “Just passing through. Needed to wet my whistle.”
