Page 3 of Tank
Arch follows my gaze, his cigarette pausing halfway to his mouth.
“Nope. Ain’t one of the prospects’ either. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yeah.” My jaw tightens. “Someone’s watching us.”
I start toward the bike, my boots crunching on the gravel. Arch falls in step beside me, his hand slipping under his jacket where his piece is holstered.
The street’s quiet, too quiet, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
I’ve been in enough fights to know when trouble’s close.
This feels like it’s already here.
The bike’s a beauty, I’ll give it that. Black with red flames licking up the sides, polished to a mirror shine.
But it’s the emblem on the gas tank that stops me cold—it’s startlingly similar to The Fury’s old emblem, a rose wrapped in barbed wire. My heart kicks hard in my chest. The Fury are gone, have been for years.
But that emblem, it’s a fucking taunt, a middle finger from the past.
“Son of a bitch,” Arch mutters, his hand on his gun. “You think it’sthem?”
“They’re long gone,” I say, my voice low. “But whoever left this here wants us to see it.”
I circle the bike, looking for anything—a note, a trap, something to tell me who’s playing games.
Nothing.
Just the Fury emblem, mocking me.
I think of Marco again, his screams, the blood. I shake it off, but it sticks, like oil on my skin.
Whoever this is, they know me. They know what I did.
“We need to find this bastard,” Arch says, his voice hard. “Before they bring trouble to our door.”
“Yeah.” I straighten, my fists clenching. “Tell the boys to keep their eyes open. No one rides alone until we know what we’re dealing with.”
“We could trash the bike right now,” Arch smiles. “But I’m guessing the play here is to leave it. Let whoever it is know that we don’t give a single fuck about their games.”
“Got it in one,” I laugh, trying to shake off a feeling of dread rising up inside me. “Now, back inside.”
Arch nods and heads back to the clubhouse, already pulling out his phone.
I stay for a moment, staring at the bike.
My reflection in the chrome is warped, older than I feel, but the fire in my eyes hasn’t dimmed.
I’ve fought for this club, bled for it, and I’ll be damned if some ghost from the past thinks they can take me down.
I turn back to the clubhouse, but the weight of that Fury emblem follows me. It’s not just a bike. It’s a warning. And I’ve got a feeling this ghost is closer than I think.
I’m back in the clubhouse now, the door slamming shut behind me.
The silence is heavy, the kind that presses on your chest.
The boys are gone—off to their bunks, their bikes, or the bar across the lot.
Arch is probably still on the phone, barking orders to the prospects about that damn Fury bike.
