Page 6 of Tank
I sit on the edge of the sagging mattress, my boots planted on the stained carpet, and stare at the knife in my hand.
It’s a wicked thing—six inches of steel, the handle carved with a rose wrapped in barbed wire…
The Fury’s old emblem.
Myfather’semblem.
I turn it over, the blade catching the flicker of the neon sign outside the window. Red, blue, red, blue. It’s hypnotic, but it doesn’t dull the knot in my chest.
I’m Rocco, twenty-three, and I’m here to kill a man.
The Wolf Rider MC’s so-called enforcer.
Tank.
The bastard who broke my father’s body and spirit fifteen years ago in a turf war that left The Fury in ruins.
Dad’s told me the story a thousand times, his voice slurred with whiskey and pain.
Tank’s fists, his rage, the crack of bones under a desert moon. Dad was their sergeant-at-arms, a king among outlaws, until Tank left him crippled in the dirt.
Now Dad’s a ghost of himself, holed up in a trailer outside town, feeding me his vendetta like it’s my birthright.
I didn’t choose this life, but I’ll be damned if I don’t get vengeance for my old man.
I grip the knife tighter, my knuckles white. This is my job. Get close to Tank, earn his trust, then put this blade between his ribs.
Simple.
Clean.
Except it’s not...
Dad’s obsession is a chain around my neck, dragging me into a fight I don’t fully understand. I was eight when The Fury fell. All I know is the aftermath—Dad’s scars, his rants, the way he looks at me like I’m his last shot at revenge.
I owe him this, don’t I?
For the years he raised me alone, for the stories that shaped me. But the weight of it is crushing me. Sometimes the feeling is worse than others. But I know I can’t let my father down. That’s not who I am. It’s not who he raised me to be.
I stand, pacing the tiny room.
The clock on the wall says 3:00 a.m., but sleep’s a stranger tonight.
The Wolf Rider clubhouse is a mile away, a fortress of leather and steel where Tank is apparently holding court while some of the top dogs are away.
I’ve been watching it for days, learning the rhythms—when the bikes roll in, when the prospects slink out, when the lights dim.
Dawn’s my window, when the club’s quiet and the desert’s still.
I’ll leave the knife on their doorstep, a taunt to rattle them.
They need to know The Fury’s not dead.
Tank needs to feel the past creeping up on him with a blade, ready to kill.
I shove the knife into my jacket and grab my keys. My bike’s outside, a sleek black beast with red flames licking the sides.
I painted the Fury emblem on the tank myself, a middle finger to the Wolves.
