Page 57 of Diesel
EIGHTEEN
DIESEL
I glance backat the house. I can still taste my wife on my lips, feel the ghost of her in my arms. It’s not goodbye, but it fucking feels like it.
I promised her that I’m coming back, but I can’t help thinking if this goes sideways, that was the last time I’ll ever see Makenna again.
My kutte is heavier than usual, weighed down by the gravity of what we’re about to do.
One more look, that’s all I allow myself before I climb into the van. It’s already crowded in the back. Riot is sitting with Mace, but he doesn’t look at me when I sink down next to Nic.
I don’t need his trust, just his steady aim and cover, and I’m not sure I have that. I hate going into battle without knowing if anyone has my back.
My mind is both quiet and racing at the same time. It’s too loud. Too claustrophobic. The van starts moving and the motion has my skin itching. I want to peel it away,escape my own body, but I chew the side of my nail until it bleeds.
Fuck.
I can’t even think about the lines I might have to cross to protect my wife, my club. My brothers don’t even want me at their side.
Fuck them. You’re not doing this for them.
Every mile between me and Makenna is too fucking far. I rub my hands together, flexing my fingers, unable to calm the motion in my body.
“You okay?” Nic asks.
“Fine,” I mutter.
Don’t unravel. Not here. Not when you need a clear head.
When the van eventually stops, my lungs are so tight I can’t breathe. That pressure eases when the doors open at the back.
I squint against the light and push up from the floor quickly, moving around the others. I don’t unclench until my boots hit the gravel hard enough to rattle my bones. We’re on a side street across from the clubhouse. I can’t see it from here. There are too many buildings in the way, which means we’ll have the element of surprise when we attack.
There are two other vans, a couple of cars, but no bikes. There doesn’t need to be. There are brothers gathered from London and Manchester. Too many faces to process, so I don’t try. I force my mind to slow.
Focus.
Breathe.
Calm.
Then I see him. He’s standing with Blackjack, Manchester’s VP.
Trick…
A man carved from vengeance and pain. He found a second chance with his old lady, but he still carries the weight of what he lost with his first wife. There’s a hollowness in him that only comes from watching your whole life bleed out in front of you. He lost Mara because of Crank, but it was his own pain that finished him.
Some brothers still whisper about the shit he did in her name, say he nearly buried the club in the same pit as her, but I get it.
I fucking get it.
They killed the mother of his child and while she took her last breaths they pulled their daughter out of her.
I wouldn’t have stopped at burning, cutting, flaying. I would have razed the world to ash, rebuilt it, just to burn it again.
He senses me staring and our eyes lock across the distance. I give him a lift of my chin. An unspoken understanding, and he returns it before saying something to Blackjack.
This life… it’s dangerous when club isn’t united.
