Page 24 of Warrior

I meet his eyes, and I don’t feel the mistrust that Zane does. Glancing around, all I feel is the camaraderie and family that Tric was so adamant about. Maybe finding my next chapter isn’t as far off as I felt. Maybe finding a place to belong, something to feel good about isn’t where I had intended it to be. Sometimes the best surprises are where we least expect to find them.

Two years later…

Chapter 11

Colt, Present

My lungs are going to burst from the pressure, but my legs keep moving. I push the pain in my right kneecap from a training accident to the back of my brain and work on how I’m going to survive this. Bullets whistle past my head. I dodge and duck, looking for where my out is. All I see is sand. I hear footsteps trailing me, but I can’t look back to see who it is. Who made it out alive with me?

Whoever it is, is keeping up, and soon, we’re sprinting side by side. Out of the corner of my eye, I see camo the same color as mine. My heart relaxes a fraction, realizing it’s one of my guys. “Street! Street!” he yells, and my head snaps to the side.

“Tric, where is everyone?”

“They’re gone, man,” he yells. “It’s just us. We can stop running.”

I shake my head. Bombs are exploding. I can hear screaming echoing and the dull thud of bullets being released from the chamber. “I can’t leave him.”

“He’s gone already, Street. Listen to me.” Tric’s gaze stays focused on me. “You can stop now.”

This doesn’t feel right. Why would he say this to me? My brain loops, and suddenly, Tric is gone. I’m leaning over a casket, and when I turn around, my heart hammers louder. BANG.

My alarm screeches and I violently jerk awake, the noise cutting through the darkness of my room. I’m yanked back to reality, the visions from the nightmare slowly sliding away. Sitting up, I turn the alarm off and take a few deep breaths in and out. The sheets are sticking to my torso and all the pillows are on the ground. It looks like I was running a marathon in my sleep.

Sweaty and slightly disoriented, I manage to make it into the shower. The water washes away what was left of my nightmare, and by the time I’m done, I feel normal again. As normal as I can anyways. No matter how much time passes, there is still a gaping hole in my chest that once held light, peace, and love. Nights with dreams and memories haunt me frequently. A lasting imprint of the decisions and choices I made, along with the life I’ve lived. They haven’t become more or less frequent since being discharged two years ago or since I decided to stay in Braham and am now a proud member of Rebels of the Undead.

I quickly dress in jeans and a T-shirt before throwing the signature leather cut on, ready to head to the shop. On my way, I send a quick text to Zane, checking in to see if he’s awake. We planned to get breakfast and hit the gym before our shift, knowing we’re being sent on a run tomorrow.

ME: Heading out. Don’t forget your gloves.

Z-Thom: Yeah, Ma. Worry about yourself.

I snort at his response and shake my head. Knowing that idiot, he probably did forget them and would have used itas an excuse to get out of the new boxing regiment we’ve implemented.

It took zero convincing for either of us to make pledges to the club after meeting them and talking with Austin. I didn’t even mind the year of grunt work that we went through as prospects. Maybe it was from being hardened by military life or maybe it was knowing there was a purpose at the end of the line. Either way, those months flew by and soon we were taking our oaths, getting inked and patched as full-fledged members.

Being in the club was also not what I had expected it to be. When Prez said they lived in the gray areas, he meant as a moral code. We did illegal things mostly to bad people who deserved it. Guilt was not on my conscience when I learned about the people we built intelligence on for jobs that were handed to us. To outsiders, we looked like a usual club, dabbling in weapons and cleaning cash through the strip club and casino. On a deeper note, the majority of that money we made came at the price of a life. A life of gutter trash who harmed innocent people, top of the pyramid of individuals who we wouldn’t be able to take down without our specialty because of their public image. I learned quickly that the majority of the other club members had some sort of military or first responder background, and the information that they had made them dangerous. Tric’s obsession with coming back to the club made more sense.

We were essentially the Batman of motorcycle clubs. My cut may as well be a black cape. That's how it felt most of the time. Then there were times when my steady hand and rock-hard stomach came into use as the assassin I had become. Everything balances. I was fate. Destiny or consequence. I was yin and yang, depending on the day, or depending on who you were asking. The dead person. Or the life of the person who wouldn’t be touched by that person’s darkness. It was only fitting that my road name was Karma.

Slipping out the door of the clubhouse with my gym bag, I climb on my bike and head toward the industrial looking building in town. By the time I’m warmed up, Zane rolls in looking like he’s feeling the bottle of whiskey he drank last night.

“Rough morning?”

He flips me off as he sets his bag down. “I could use the day to recoup before heading out.”

“No time for that.” I shake my head at him. “Prez wants us to leave right away in the morning. You need to get it all out today so you’re fresh for the ride tomorrow.”

“I’m fresh.” He holds out his arms by his sides, but the unmistakable smell of stale liquor hits me. “Okay, so I will be, once we’re done here and I can grab a shower. Besides, Street, you know I sober up best with food. I thought we were getting breakfast first?”

“Stop whining,” I chuckle at him. “Let's get this over with.”

I waste no time going after him. Our sparring training often crosses over from friendly to drawing blood and today is no different. We’re competitive, and taking blows reminds me of what can really happen. After the gym, we grab breakfast at the local diner. I’ve learned now after a few years that Rebels of the Undead aren’t feared by the community. Wary, sure, but not feared. Although I do undergo more traffic stops with the police department than ever before in my life. Thankfully, I have a squeaky-clean record.

Zane and I part ways after breakfast. He plans to head back to the clubhouse and make sure everything is ready there while I head to the shop and go over the inventory I’ll be dropping off and picking up. It’s well into the evening and I’m just about ready to head back to the clubhouse when my cell rings.

“Hey, Prez. What's up?”

“I need everyone back at the clubhouse. Leave the shit you’re doin now.”

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