Page 32 of Raiden

I leave the lounge in silence, my head held high because I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m tired of being seen as the enemy. The outsider. The one who repeatedly doesn’t fit, no matter where I go. I’m tired of the righteousness of this place, the holier than thou rhetoric, the refusal of these men to get their hands dirty. What did they think it meant, becoming a biker?

My room isn’t far from the lounge. I shut the door behind me and breathe wildly into the small space. The calming shit isn’t working.

I know what will.

I throw off Raiden’s clothes and get back into my own. I feel better when I’m dressed in familiar garb. Less like a woman who gives herself to a man in the most intimate way and gets accused of selling her body and soul.

I kick the clothes under my bed.

I get my guns and my knives and spread them out over the bed, I should be grateful to my half-brother that I was allowed to keep my weapons. I methodically start arming myself. If anything goes down, I’ll be there and I’ll be ready. I’m a great shot and constantly underestimated. I might not be able to do much except put myself between those women and kids and the enemy, but maybe when I die trying to save their lives, they’ll finally realize that they were wrong about me.

There are worse ways to go, I suppose.

Not that I plan to.

I don’t believe it’ll be necessary, but I perch on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, four guns strapped in my holsters and tucked in the waistband of my jeans, knives strapped to my legs right above my boots.

I could use a little aggression right now, some place to vent all this pent-up shit twisting under my skin. It makes my chest tight and my stomach roil.

The club is silent. So fucking quiet.

Until a real threat emerges or I’m needed in some way or other, I just have to sit here, alone, and suck in bitter gulps of air that do nothing to make anything better.

Chapter 11

Raiden

It’s after midnight before anyone is back. Because there was more than one warehouse, groups trickle in separately. Gray is last, riding in with Bullet, Atlas, Reckless, and Gunner. He calls church immediately, as I expected he would do. It’s officers only, and we leave the rest of the club brothers to watch the men we still think of as intruders.

Widow hasn’t come out of her room. I wonder if it will bother Gray this time.

There isn’t a man here who doesn’t think that Zale is behind those fires.

Except… maybe me.

This room feels like a sacred place, so it’s apt that bikers call these meetings our church. It’s where the most important club decisions get made. The clubhouse was an old warehouse, and this room is large and open. Brick on the walls, wood beams above, duct work showing. It’s every bit as raw as the men assembled at the huge wooden table with the scarred surface.

Gray takes the head, sitting in the Prez’s chair. As VP, I sit beside him. We all have the same heavy, antique wood chairs that match the table. It came with the warehouse. No one had the heart to chop it up and throw it away. It serves us well.

There are far fewer men in here, but I’m not sure the emotion isn’t bubbling just as high. The tension in the room is strung so tight I can practically hear the vibrations.

I took Gunner’s position as VP, but he’s sitting in here, on Gray’s other side. I’m still also working as treasurer for the time being, so it only makes sense that the position is occupied by the both of us. I’m new at it, and I appreciate having Gunner here. He’s a surprising calming force, with his coldness and neutrality. No one would ever say so, but we all think he stays so calm because he has an inability to get worked up. He doesn’t feel the same shit that a normal human has to deal with.

Scythe is here, our sergeant-at-arms. Wizard is seated beside him. Normally, we need him on the cameras, but he’ll have arranged for someone else to be watching while he’s in here. Axe, the club’s road captain, Crow and Reaper, who do the club’s enforcing, and Reckless, the club’s old VP, take up the rest of the table.

It might not be how other clubs order their officers, but it’s how we do it and it works.

Gray looks ragged. He and the rest of the men are soot-covered and exhausted. Emotions might be riding high, but it’s clear that we’re getting stretched thin. He still takes the lead on the meeting, getting us immediately underway.

“I’ll come straight out and say that we all think this was Zale’s work. We’re supposed to be at peace, but no one was ever going to trust that fucker. We do have the problem that if we accuse him directly, he wouldn’t admit it and it would only cause trouble with the rest of his club. He doesn’t give a shit about peace, but if it wasn’t him, he’ll just toy with us. He would never admit it one way or the other. If it wasn’t him, he’d probably find out who did it and make an ally out of them.”

“If it wasn’t Zale,” Gunner says coolly, his dead, icy eyes sweeping across the table, “Someone knew about where we’ve been keeping our product.”

“They didn’t get to any of the underground storage units,” Axe points out. He sets his hands on the table, running them along the scarred surface. He’s his usual burly self, grizzled and road worn. The soot didn’t add to his gnarled appearance like it’s done to the rest of the men in here.

“The warehouses were any easy target,” Wizard admits. “We’re stretched thin for guards and men. We can only rely so far on my cameras.”

“What did they capture?” Scythe asks. “They wouldn’t have known where all of them were to avoid them.”

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