Page 29 of Merging Factions

“Damn, Mera. How’d I get so lucky with you?”

“Who knows? Maybe I’m Irish,” she jokes, lifting up on her feet and planting a chaste kiss to my jaw. “You’re my four-leaf clover, Luca.”

“Alright.” Shamus claps his hands together, “enough of that sappy shit. We’ve got kids to rescue, nuns to de-cross, and a monastery to tear down.”

“De-cross?” Star asks, snickering. “So loquacious, babe.” Shamus winks at her, causing her cheeks to pinken.

“Oohrah,” Master storms out his Marine war whoop, and it’s echoed by everyone surrounding us, even the women toss their heads back and ululate the battle cry. The acceptance of the brotherhood swims through me, so I tilt my head back, my neck touching my shoulder blades, and magnify their preening howl. Damn, that feels good.

“Ride safe brothers and sisters,” Gunner announces, as the women get into their groups and crawl inside one of the four vans we have lined up, and the men all walk to their bikes and straddle them.

Seeing as I don’t own a bike of my own, I begin walking toward one of the vans until Julius grabs my arm and steers me to the bay. “Got you something the second I knew you were being inducted. It was delivered this morning.”

I’ve always admired Harley Davidson’s steel and chrome machines. They’re beautifully built and designed. I’ve even contemplated purchasing one for myself as a way to hit the pavement on the weekends and let the week's stress melt away. I even had my top pick’s edge folded and marked in the magazine that’s been sitting on my nightstand for the last four months.

“Julius! Is that for me? It’s a Harley Davidson FXDWG Wide Glide. It’s exactly like the one I’ve been thinking about getting.” And it is, the paint job is whack, it’s blacked out on the top half, and the engine as well as the lower half is steel plated, the tank is painted black with red and orange flames flowing from the seat and outstretched toward the base of the motorcycle, with a group of skulls floating through the blaze, embedded and obscured in the background—vapor shadowing each one. It looks as if smaller ones are being exhaled in rings of smoke through the biggest one’s mouth.

Julius smiles at me, and answers, “It is. We’ve decided that all new patched members, from here moving forward, will be getting a bike gifted to them from the club. I knew you had been admiring this one for a while now, so I called the dealership and ordered this one for you. It was delivered late last night.”

“Here’s your helmet. Texas, by law, doesn’t require you to wear one in order to ride, but it’s a rule for all of my men.” Gunner tosses it through the air to me and I catch it like it’s made of glass. One rule of the MC world, you don’t let your shit touch the ground—it’s disrespectful to the things that protect you, this includes a biker's cut. And if you do, may God have mercy on your soul and may your brothers never witness the affront, or your ass will be grass. “Protect your skull, uncle.”

I place it on my head and strap it on. The men look at me with pride—affirmation that I’m now one of theirs on a level that I’ve never experienced. Julius and I are close, as siblings should be. My men and I have a great work and personal relationship too, but this feels different somehow.

It’s deeper.

It’s brotherhood.

The women grow impatient and horns begin to blare throughout the courtyard. Gunner lifts his arm and aims his finger toward his old lady and sister, silently mouthing the words, “Cool it.”

An uproarious and amusing chuckle escapes several of us when Charlee flips him off, then Cameron follows that up by tossing him a puckered air kiss in response to his order. My eyes automatically zone in on Mera, she’s laughing but shoots me a wink when she realizes that I’m watching her. Pounding my fist twice to my chest over my heart, I shoot it outward, holding it out to her.

“Mine,” I mouth.

“Yours,” she responds.

“Round ‘em up. Keep the skies above your head and the pavement beneath your feet,” Gunner requests as we unanimously swing our legs over our machines as a cohesive unit and mount our motorcycles.

My balls are cushioned by the leather on my seat as I settle in, my eyes close in pleasure as my hands automatically and instinctually settle themselves on the handlebars as if I’ve done this a million times before.

It feels natural, as if I were born for this branch of organized crime—because let’s face it, that’s what I am… a lawbreaking criminal mastermind. I was born into this world and I’ll die still living it. It’s who I am.

The garage and driveway rumbles, the tarmac vibrates in droves as we rev our engines and throttle our bikes. Before I get a chance to enjoy the moment, our wheels begin to roll and I’m lost in the leisure of the way my bike rumbles on the asphalt and the feeling of brotherly comradeship. I don’t notice nor pay attention to the way I’m corralled toward the front of the unified brigade, because that’s inconsequential to me. I know that being in the front line is important as far as your ranking goes, but I don’t have one, so I presume it’s their way of keeping an eye on me since this is my first time traveling with them.

It’s not until later—much later, that I notice the Freestone division patch that tags me as the VP of that correlating branch. It escapes me that even though the DreamCatcher logo, designed by Ma, is stitched on my back, the bottom rocker is different from that of the boys. Only slightly, still similar, but nevertheless, it’s not anexactmatch to theirs.

* * *

A menacing smirk spreads across my face when we roll into the convent. We don’t go in incognito—we aren’t in disguise—we want them and the town to know who’s laying down the law and dismantling this loathsome syndicate operation. It may be veiled by those who claim they work through the hand of God, but it’s a ruse, and they’re going to pay and be unmasked.Today.

They won’t be able to mimic themselves as being good people. They won’t be able to hide behind the cloak of the Midwest’s bible belt congregation. They may conceal their evildoings by masquerading as a charity, under the guise of doing good things for the community, but they’re vile and sinister—nothing good ever comes from that mind frame and disposition.

After we’re through, they will be publicly crucified, we’ll remove their camouflage and wave away the smokescreen they’ve shrouded themselves inside of.

They are done.

Lifting my lid from my head, I hang it on my handlebars by the straps, and stretch my limbs.

“I got something for you that I forgot to give you since I was already in the van when Gunner handed you your helmet,” Mera tells me as she comes up next to me.

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