Page 45 of Tick Tock, Boom!

After a few days of silence, we’d decided to take action into our own hands. There was no trusting anyone inside the Louisiana chapter. Not anymore. Not with Rancid calling shots that reeked of blood and secrets. And definitely not with Bulldog six feet under and no one asking a single fucking question.

That didn’t sit right with me.

So I got on my bike, threw on my cut, and rode ten hours straight to Kentucky. Didn’t stop. Didn’t eat. Didn’t think. Just let the road drown out the guilt and the rage and the weight of knowing I was about to unbury the only man who ever gave a damn about me.

We’d reached out to Hound quietly. The bastard hadn’t hesitated. Loyal as they came, and smart enough to keep this whole thing buried deep beneath Rancid’s radar. Everything had been planned down to the second. Bulldog’s body had been exhumed under cover of night. The casket replaced and reburied without a soul in the club knowing the truth. It was Brimstone who worked the paperwork through a shady clerk, and Hound who made the call to his contact, some backwoods coroner who used to owe us favors back in the day. A war buddy or something. Didn't matter as long as he kept his mouth shut.

By the time I pulled into Louisville, my hands were numb, my eyes bloodshot from windburn, and my heart felt like it was cracking in my chest. The crematorium was set back off the road, tucked behind an old funeral home with rotting shingles and a crooked sign. Hound was waiting for me out front, arms crossed, his jaw clenched tight.

"You ready for this?" he asked.

"If I'm not. I don’t get to have a choice."

We went inside. The place smelled like bleach and ash. Cold tile floors, low lights, and silence that sank into your skin.

He handed me the file.

"It’s bad," Hound said, voice low. "Whoever the fuck did this… they’ll pay."

I opened it and everything blurred.

Multiple broken ribs. Punctured lung. Shattered kneecaps. Skull fracture. Massive internal bleeding. Traces of brake fluid in his wounds like he’d been dragged. They’d beat him. Tortured him. Then straddled him on his own fucking bike and made it look like an accident.

"This wasn’t no crash," I muttered.

"He was breathing when they put him on that bike," Hound said, his voice shaking with fury. "Barely. But he was alive. They wanted it to look clean. Controlled."

I nodded slowly, rage boiling beneath my skin like a goddamn volcano ready to blow.

"You tell anyone about this," I warned, voice thick. "Anyone from Rancid’s crew shows up asking questions, you burn that fucking report and forget you ever saw me."

Hound’s stare didn’t waver. "You got my word. This… this is war, Tick. And I got your back. My whole club does."

I gripped his shoulder once, firmly, and turned for the door.

I didn’t stop the whole ride back.

Ten hours alone with my thoughts. Ten hours of gravel, and wind, and the sound of Bulldog’s laugh rattling around in my skull. I let myself cry for the first time. Deep, broken sobs that ripped through my chest as the miles slipped by. I didn’t wipe the tears away. I let them run down my face in blood and grief.

We’d announced Elrik’s presidency the night before. The kid had barely gotten through his first night as President. I’d told myself I’d be back in time to make sure it went smoothly.

But fate had other plans.

The second I stepped into the Louisiana clubhouse, I knew something was off. Rancid’s voice boomed through the common room, barking orders, filled with venom. Members surrounded him, riled up, half in a frenzy.

“Elrik murdered her! Willow’s dead because of him!”

Willow, that sweet girl he was seeing. I didn't know what the fuck was going on. I suddenly saw Knuckles. on his knees, a gun aimed at his head. Elrik stood nearby, arms bound, blood pouring down his face as he screamed in agony.

Saddle and Hart were backed into a corner, guns raised. And Rancid? That sick fuck was pressing a red-hot iron rod against Elrik’s bicep, burning off the Royal Bastards’ patch.

The kid screamed. Body bucking against the pain.

I lunged forward.

“ENOUGH!”

Barrel caught me mid-charge, tackling me back.

---