Page 58 of Diesel
Ravage stands in the middle of us, hands on his hips. His kutte is worn in a way that makes it look like he’s had it on his back forever.
“Crank ain’t going to go down easy. I ain’t sure what kind of support he has, so be careful. Watch each other’s backs. No one inside that building is loyal until it’s proven. Stay safe, don’t be a hero. We’ve all got families to get home to.” He pulls his gun from under his kutte before he says, “Let’s go.”
We split into groups, taking different directions to the clubhouse. I’m at the back entrance with Nic and a few ofthe London boys. I push Kenna out of my mind and keep my thoughts on one thing—spilling blood.
We pause at the perimeter fence while one of the guy’s cuts through the chain link. Snip. Snip. Snip. The noise pisses me off, but I focus on the clubhouse. There’re a few bikes, a handful of vehicles parked up, but I don’t see Crank’s ride among them. There’s no one smoking outside, no bass rumbling through the walls. Just… silence.
My skin prickles as I scan for movement.
“Something’s wrong,” I say in a low voice.
Nic nods once, sharp, as if he also feels it.
“We keep goin’?” Fury, one of the London boys, asks, as the last of the fence is cut.
He shifts in his crouch, and I notice the savage looking bowie knife in his hand.
The question hangs in the air while Nic stares at the clubhouse, as if he’s waiting for it to answer back. It doesn’t. Nothing stirs. Nothing happens.
“We keep going,” he says.
We melt out of our hiding places, slipping through the hole in the fence one at a time, the brother in front marking the one behind.
I keep low, my hand resting on my gun, the weight of the knives sheathed across my body heavy. I keep my breaths shallow, quiet, and we barely make a sound as we infiltrate the clubhouse through a side door.
It’s not locked, which isn’t unusual, but it feels ominous that it’s not. Fury opens it and Nic ducks in first. I follow him.
The stainless-steel cupboards reflect the light coming in from the window, and the fridge hums from the corner. Ismell it before I see the boot sticking out from behind the counter.
Death.
“Fuck,” Nic hisses, scrubbing a hand over his face.
I move to him, and my chest seizes. It’s Digger. I can only tell it’s him from the patches on the front of his kutte. Half his face is gone. The other is a mess of stringy sinewy flesh and blood. The smell hits the back of my throat, and I have to swallow down the retch.
Fury clamps a hand on Nic’s shoulder and gestures to keep moving. I step around the blood pooled and congealed on the tiles, breathing through the growing rage in my gut.
We don’t have to go far to find another body. Roan. He’s slumped against the wall, legs thrown in front of him like he crumpled where he fell. His chin is on his chest, his grey hair matted with blood, his shirt too. His kutte is half dragged down one shoulder, as if someone tried to take it off him, but even bleeding, and dying he kept it on his back.
Nic goes down to his haunches and presses two fingers to his neck. It’s clear he’s dead, but no one stops him. His shoulders square, his body tight like he’s gearing up to lose his fucking mind.
It feels like there’re barbs inside my lungs. These are men we knew, men we drank with and rode beside.
They’re Sons.
And they’re dead. Left to rot like they meant nothing.
“Fuck me,” the other brother mutters. I don’t know his name, but Fury cuts a look at him. “This was an execution.”
Nic straightens slowly, controlled. I watch himcarefully, waiting for the explosion, but it doesn’t come. When he turns, his eyes are blazing, but he’s calm. “Keep moving.”
There are more bodies. Too many. I stop seeing the blood, stop smelling it after the third. By the time we reach the bar area, Nic’s vibrating with barely repressed rage. The others are already there, checking the bodies scattered around the room.
I move slowly around. Riot is kneeling in front of a body. I don’t know who it is. I don’t look. I can’t. My ribs are too tight, my skin feels wrong. The smell is thick. I slip, grabbing the wall to keep my feet.
Blood is smeared under my boots, thick and shiny.
My face twists, the breath sharp in my throat. No one moves or speaks. Not Ravage, not Howler. Not Nic. Just silence and the stench of death. There are at least six bodies in this room alone. Men, gunned down like they were nothing. Like the patch meant nothing.
