Page 42 of Embracing the Consequences

Larry Buckley’s head on a spike.

Maybe not so literally, but he would be dead. And by the sounds of the bikes revving up outside, he would be dead soon.

Kara rolled out of bed, stood up, pulled a random T-shirt over her head, and headed for the bedroom window that overlooked the driveway and garage. The spotlights and coach lights on the garage lit up the group of bikers who were gearing up and getting ready to depart. She found her three men, four if she included her brother, standing in the well-lit garage.

As if sensing her at the window, all four of them looked up at her.

She pressed two fingers to her lips, kissed them, then slowly pulled them away, less like she was blowing a kiss and more like a salute. “Abrazos de la Muerte,” she muttered, almost as a prayer.

Death’s embrace.

It was something Marcos and Kara had learned growing up in Creekton, a saying they had heard in passing and made their own. Death came for all, and it was only a matter of time before he came for you too.

Kara watched Marcos lift two fingers and press them to his lips. He saluted her back, and she watched his lips form the words. “Abrazos de la Muerte.”

After a quick discussion, her three large and deadly men—her boys—each met her gaze and lifted their fingers to their lips. As one they kissed their fingers and saluted her before each one of them repeated the phrase.

It was a promise. An acknowledgment to be careful. A show of love.

She nodded to them, then turned away from the window and climbed back into bed, shrugging off the T-shirt and tossing it to the floor.

The ride to the Devil’s Psychos clubhouse wasn’t long. The night air whipped around Johnny as the roar of the pack of motorcycles screamed down the highway.

Marcos rode at his side, Rockstar and Stone behind them.

This was one of the pivotal moments in life, one when you knew life would be forever changed afterward. The path he was heading on was a dark one, but there was a light at the end of the tunnel that would hopefully lead to a peaceful union.

They headed south on Route 45 for another ten minutes before they passed the Seratelli casino: Stella’s. It was on the left side of the road, on the border between Creekton and Mourningside. A riverboat casino right on the Evermore River, it was lit up as bright as the sun in the twilight. Across the street from it was a large ongoing high-rise project—the Seratellis’ new hotel—and around it, a bustling lineup of businesses, all owned by the Seratellis, had cropped up on an otherwise vacant road.

A moment later, they passed the sign welcoming visitors to Creekton. The main street heading into the city was hopping—even in the early hours of the morning—with the patrons of gentleman’s clubs and bars, all in line with what the Seratellis were building just outside the city limits.

They turned off the main drag a moment later and followed a winding road along the river. They eventually turned back toward Main Street, and Johnny could see the club’s old motel and restaurant, set a couple buildings in from the main drag, on Drauden. It was set far enough away from the central road that its location was probably what killed it back in its heyday. Now itwas the perfect place for an outlaw gang of bikers to hide in plain sight.

Johnny followed Marcos into the parking lot, and they quickly lined up the bikes. He didn’t plan on staying long; he really didn’t see the point. He was here for retribution: kill Buckley and end the war. Besides, he had a sexy blond at home in his bed.

Marcos didn’t waste any time. He gave Johnny a nod and headed for the clubhouse doors. Johnny followed, with Rockstar and Stone behind him. They would keep formation until they reached their destination.

Marcos headed straight through the clubhouse, ignoring everyone. There was a small gathering of people hanging around. “Out,” Marcos ordered and headed for a door in the back.

Johnny glanced back over his shoulder to see his own club filing inside the clubhouse with the rest of the Psychos. The group of people hanging around quickly trooped out the door, past the club members.

Once everything was locked down and closed up, Marcos opened a steel door and headed down a set of stairs behind it. Johnny followed him into the basement. The smell of damp earth rose up to greet them. Damp earth and piss.

The basement was dimly lit. A single bulb hung from the center of the room. Several small jail cells were built against one cinder-block wall.

A lump of a man lay propped against the cinder blocks. His long white hair was stringy about his face; his white shirt was sweat stained. His beer gut rose and fell with the effort it took to bring air into his lungs as he panted shallowly.

Johnny thought he’d heard a rumor about Buckley’s needing oxygen.

In short, President Larry “The Butcher” Buckley, of the Devil’s Psychos Motorcycle Club, looked like utter shit.

A cruel smirk twisted at Johnny’s lips as he took in the utter disgrace of the man sprawled out before him.

Buckley laughed low as both clubs formed a semicircle around the cell. “Well, well, well,” Buckley wheezed. “If it ain’t the band of pussies and their fearless leader, Mayhem,” Buckley taunted.

Johnny growled low in his throat. “The fuck you say to me?”

Buckley laughed softly again, but it turned into a wheezing cough as he struggled to catch his breath.

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