Page 812 of The Tempted

Chapter Forty-Five

Three days later I got a call from Jones giving me a heads up that Brantley was sniffing around the clubhouse—whatever the fuck was left of it. Technically, it was a crime scene, and we weren’t allowed passed the compound gates but after a call to the club attorney I got us access. The nomads were living at the clubhouse before the explosion, everything they fucking owned was inside and if anything could be salvaged they needed to get to it. Poor bastards came to Brooklyn, got their shit blown to bits, and their asses thrown in some fleabag motel. Stryker got off easy doing a bid in prison, poor Linc needed six surgeries, a metal rod put in his back and fuck if I know how many screws, pins and bolts to keep his fucking spine intact.

Pulling my truck into the compound, I pass the glass enclosure, still splattered with Mack’s blood, and the gruesome reminder we’ll be burying him tomorrow. Disgusted, I throw it into park and climb out before stopping in my tracks and staring at the damage.

The yellow caution tape obnoxiously stares back at me, taunting me, reminding me how fucking hopeless this whole thing is. Jack’s out for the count, leaving this shit on my shoulders, and I don’t know where to begin. This attack differed from the others. This wasn’t anywhere close to the shootout at Pops’ gun range, or the sneak attack drive-by that pussy, Wu, played on us. The Bastards left us in ruins, without a home, half our club in the hospital, some in the morgue and all our bikes blown to smithereens.

Tearing down the tape, I climb over the rubble and debris and stand in the center of what used to be the Dog Pound. I bend down, pushing aside pieces of glass and Sheetrock and pull the corner of a tattered American flag to the surface.

“Yo, Blackie’s here,” Deuce calls out, forcing me to divert my eyes away from the flag in my hands to the three men walking toward me.

Stryker, Deuce and Cobra look similar to the way they did after the bomb exploded—sans the blood—covered in dust, dirt and soot. I watch as something flashes over Stryker as his eyes drift down to the flag I was holding.

“Think this belongs to you.” I offer the flag.

“Shit,” he mutters, taking the worn fabric from my hands, running his fingers over the stars and stripes. Lifting his head, he nods in appreciation. “This flag survived Afghanistan and now this. It’s indestructible,” he says thoughtfully, folding it expertly into a triangle, like they do at a soldier’s memorial. Tucking the final corner away he hands it back to me. “Fix this shit, Black and show every motherfucker from here to the West Coast the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn are just as resilient as that flag.”

“Deep shit, bro,” Deuce comments.

“And if that’s not enough incentive,” Cobra begins as he glances over his shoulder. “There’s a man hurtin’ over there that is desperate to make that message clear.”

I follow his eyes and spot Pipe sitting on top of what’s left of the bar. Without hesitation, I nod to the three men new to our charter, ready and willing to ride to their death, and it becomes clear, whatever it takes, however it can be done, I will make it right. With a tip of my chin, I leave them behind to continue recovering whatever they can and I make my way to Pipe.

Lifting a silver flask to his lips he notices me standing close but says nothing. He tips his head back and guzzles the alcohol unfazed by presence. I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror a thousand times. I know everything Pipe’s feeling, the regret, the anger, the loss, the ache ripping through his heart. The dire need for revenge pulsing through your veins. I felt all of that and more after Christine died and there are days I still feel it.

“Found her body right there,” he slurs, using the tip of the flask to point to the end of the bar. “Her head hanging on by a thread.”

Shoving one hand into my pocket, I step closer to him and bow my head to collect my thoughts. We’re supposed to say we’re sorry, it’s what society deems right when someone loses one they love, but that shit don’t work. It’s not what you want to hear. You want to hear the voice of the one that’s left you broken and alone.

“Pipe, I’ve been where you at,” I start. “Felt everything you’re feeling, brother, and I ain’t going to give you my apologies because it won’t bring her back. It won’t fix you.”

He takes another gulp from his flask, dangling it over his mouth to catch the last drops before he tosses it into the rubble.

“Finally a piece of truth,” he mutters, lifting his beady eyes to mine. “You people all thought my marriage was a joke.”

“That ain’t true,” I argue. “We busted your balls but only a man who knows love could see how much you loved Oksana. I saw it.”

He swipes a hand over his face and I think he’s probably debating on whether I’m being sincere.

“The men who did this will pay,” I vow. “We will torture them with our bare fucking hands, Pipe.”

With a groan he stands.

“The Bulldog ain’t got his ears, and it’s my understanding he won’t be riding,” he says, settling me with a stare. “You got Wolf in ICU, Linc in a goddamn full body cast and two dead prospects. No fucking clubhouse and the only one who still has a bike is Riggs. Don’t be making promises, Black. This shit is over. The Satan’s Knights are done.”

“So, that’s it?” I question, watching as he moves to walk past me. “We throw in our cuts and call it a day? Let the Bastards get away with murdering your wife? You disappoint me, Pipe.”

“Fuck you,” he hisses, grabbing the ends of my cut. “Don’t need the club to take care of what’s mine, Black.”

“You’re not doing anything without the club,” I warn.

“And who the fuck is going to stop me?”

“You really want me to answer that, brother?”

Stumbling backward, he releases my cut and narrows his eyes at me.

“You’re done, Black, accept that shit and move the fuck on. Be happy you got your life and your woman has hers,” he sneers, his boots crushing the debris as he stalks away from me.

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