Page 83 of Red's Peril: Part 1

Brick. President of the Satan’s Devils MC, Vegas Chapter.

There’s an exhaled breath, a few open mouths, but Fox waves them down. My lips curve knowing he hasn’t quite finished.

P.S. And if you do nothing else after this meeting, patch the poor fucker Sarge in. He’s done his time.

There are snorts all around. No one could disagree, and as our only prospect for a while, Sarge has had a hard go of it. But he’s proved himself time after time.

Fox still hasn’t finished. He holds up his hand. “P.P.S. Take my advice. Give up the fags.”

Cobra snorts and laughs, Hammer chuckles, but others briefly close their eyes as expressions of pain cross their faces. Silence descends at the sombre reminder of what took our prez’s life. I reach into my pocket, take out the packet of cigarettes, crush them, then throw it down. Indian does likewise.

“I’ll try,” Twister states. “Don’t know if I can. But I’ll give it a shot or at least cut down.”

As VP, I’ve got some power here. “I propose to help us all out, we no longer smoke at the table.”

“I can cope with that,” Keys states, seeming happy to be able to do something even if he can’t promise to totally give up.

His sentiment is echoed around.

I spare a thought for our missing brother, hoping that whether he’s looking up or down, he’ll be happy with how things have turned out. Then, knowing they’ve other business to discuss, I push my hands against the table and start to stand. “Guess I’ll leave you to have your discussion.”

“Sit your ass down, Red,” Twister snarls. “I don’t see there’s anything we need to talk about. Anyone disagree?”

Crash shrugs. “Not me. Seems quite clear cut.”

“We going to rubber stamp Brick’s wishes?” Fox calls out. “’Cos Red’s got my vote.”

“Mine as well,” Hammer says just as Cobra says, “No shit.”

“Show of hands for Red?” Twister asks.

I’ll be fucked, but every hand shoots up.

“Any against?” he asks for the record.

This time, all hands stay down.

Crash grins at me. “Then get your ass moved, Red. Er, Prez.”

Snorting at the audacity from the sergeant-at-arms, overwhelmed by the support from the rest of the table, this time I do make it to my feet, but only to take one step to the right before sitting my ass back down.

Faces which moments ago were sombre and down, now look optimistic, showing me Brick was right. The club needs direction. Sure, we’ll mourn, but me taking this seat shows the future is still in our hands. Safe hands if I’ve got anything to do with it.

I pick up the gavel and bang it. “Right. I want to make a proposal. I want Crash as my VP, and Indian to move up as sergeant-at-arms.”

We vote, and Fox records it, but no one objects or puts forward counter proposals. I have my top team, and I think it’s a fucking strong one.

There’s only one thing I can do now. I bang the gavel again.

“Church dismissed. Get out of here and go remember Brick.”

There’s a scramble to get out of the room, but Crash, Indian and Twister stay behind. For a moment, we stand just looking at each other.

“We got this, Prez.” Crash breaks the silence and uses my new title for the first time.

“Sure fuckin’ have.” Twister loops his arm over Indian’s shoulder. “Good calls you made there. Crash for VP, and Indian as sergeant-at-arms.”

Indian looks shellshocked. “I won’t let you down.”

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