Page 77 of Running from Drac
Taking another swig from my beer, I set the bottle down and meet Cipher’s gaze head-on. His eyes are sharp and unwavering, like he’s measuring every inch of my soul. The man looks to be in his late thirties, with a lean build and skin weathered by sun and time. His cut sits snug against his faded black tee, the leather worn and creased in places like it’s been through hell and back.
“You think that diamond patch makes you bulletproof?” Cipher asks, his voice low and steady. “That wearing it will make you somebody special?”
“It’s not about that,” I reply, even though I’m not sure if it’s true. “It’s about building something real. Something that lasts.”
Cipher leans forward, folding his arms on the granite countertop. The veins in his forearms raise like roots beneath his skin. “Let me tell you something, Eddie. That patch doesn’t make you real. Pain and loss does. Having to bury a friend who got clipped just because he had the wrong ink on his back… that shit makes you real.”
“Damn,” is the only word my brain can come up with to say.
“So,” he says, fixing those steel-blue eyes on me, “tell me, why you want to start a one percent club?”
“The brotherhood,” I answer without hesitation.
He raises a brow. “You can have brotherhood without the patch and stigma.” His voice is calm, but you can tell he’s against the one percent lifestyle. Maybe it’s because he’s acop, or maybe it’s because he’s seen some shit. Either way, his words have me wondering if I’m in way over my head? He’s the second man to argue against it since the idea came into fruition.
Taking a swig from my beer, I lean back on the stool, the cold bottle sweating in my palm. “I don’t know how to explain it. It just feels like it means something more on the road.”
Cipher huffs, then sets his own bottle down with a heavy clink. “It does mean something. Just not what you think.”
Rich stays quiet, his elbows resting on the granite countertop. The silence stretches between us like the quiet before a storm.
Cipher glances out the open window. A rusted swing creaks in the breeze a few feet from the door. There are a few forgotten toys scattered in the sun-bleached grass. Beyond it, you can see the road, and I have a feeling that’s why he suddenly looks so sad.
“I rode with a one percent club once,” Cipher finally says. “A real one. Not these boys playing pretend with their weekend patches and weak colors. I earned mine, well sort of.” His voice is thick with remorse. “I left it and haven’t looked back.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What made you leave?”
He turns, slowly, and locks eyes with me. “Well, for one, they would’ve fucking killed me had I stayed any longer.”
I blink. “What?”
Cipher nods, his face calm and controlled. “Those kinds of clubs don’t necessarily welcome cops with open arms. I was undercover, deep in the heart of it all. The Devil’s Armada MC were under investigation for a sex trafficking ring and gun running, and they needed someone who could fit into that lifestyle and go undercover. When I found out it was the same club my father was in, I laid on the sword willingly. Those menrocked the one percent patch you desire so much, and besides a handful of them, most weren’t looking to clean up their act, quite the opposite. They only wanted to dig deeper into it.”
A cold shiver slithers down my spine.
Rich looks like he’s swallowed a nail.
Cipher leans in. “You think brotherhood is patch-deep? That patch will get you killed quicker than it’ll get you respect. And don’t even get me started on how it will break up your family. Iris’s mom died because of how deep she got with the wrong person.”
“I didn’t know,” I mutter. “I’m sorry.”
He nods. “Of course you didn’t. No one talks about the burnouts, the paranoia, the way your life gets eaten up by someone else’s war. You start a one percent club; you’re declaring open season for you, your club, and your family. It’s like you’re saying,“come for me and prove I don’t deserve this patch”.And they will. Every one percent club within a hundred-mile radius will have you in their radar before you set a single tire on the road.”
He takes another sip, then gestures out the window where the sun dips lower, lighting the bikes out front in a fiery glow. Four Harleys parked like sleeping dragons, gleam and glow in the twilight. One of them has ape hangers and skull mirrors. Another is a low-slung Dyna with matte black paint and red pin striping. They look fast, loud, and angry. The kind of machines you fall in love with before they break your heart. “I’m asking ten grand for the pair,” Cipher says before adding, “But if you buy them, buy them because you love to ride, not as a gateway to something you can’t walk away from.”
I glance at the bikes, then back at him. “What made you walk away, and turn to a different patch?” I ask, gesturing to the Old English letters on his cut.
Cipher exhales before speaking with more sadness than pride in his voice. “The LEMC lettering stands for, Law Enforcement Motorcycle Club. When I fled here, I started my own club, one that people can respect and admire for all the good they do. I just didn’t realize how hard we’d be hit for it, or the target these simple letters created. You would think the other clubs would’ve left us alone, especially when we do nothing but toy drives, memorial rides, and community runs. If I had known that wearing this patch, along with the badge we carry, would create such a target for my club and my family, I would’ve never created it. We ride hard, and stay clean, while still forming a brotherhood. We bleed loyalty, not create bloodshed.”
Rich finally speaks up. “And people disrespected you for it?”
“Most respect us, but others don’t. Especially those rocking that diamond one percent patch. When I rode for the Devil’s Armada, I never knew what was lurking in the shadows, or who was waiting for me around the corner. I was on constant alert, and always looking over my shoulder. Iris’s mom got hooked on drugs and sold her body for money. She got branded by the wrong person, one that made it his mission to destroy her. And that’s what that kind of club can do… destroy and demolish everything in its path. I don’t have the heart to tell Iris, what her mother was truly about. At least not yet. Not until she’s older and can full understand everything. But I will say, riding for the Hands of Justice LEMC allows me to sleep better at night. I go to bed knowing my daughter sleeps safer, and I don’t constantly jump when the phone rings.”
I take another drink, slower this time. Cipher’s words dig deep, like gravel embedded in your skin after a crash.
“I just want to build something,” I say, quieter. “Something that feels like mine.”
“Then build it,” Cipher replies. “But build it smart. A club is what you make it. You don’t need the one percent to feel like a king. But if you wear that patch, you’d better be ready to bleed for it.”
