Page 1 of Tank
Chapter 1
Tank
“Fucking order!” I bellow, slamming my hefty fist down onto the table.
The clubhouse smells like it always does—motor oil, stale beer, and the faint tang of sweat baked into the walls. And the noise is as boisterous as ever, that’s for sure.
It’s home, more than any apartment I’ve ever crashed in.
The Wolf Rider MC’s banner hangs crooked above the bar, its snarling wolf faded but fierce, like us. I lean back in the chair at the head of the table, my boots propped on the scarred wood, and scan the room.
“I said order!” I roar once more, making it very clear to new members and old that I’m in charge tonight.
The boys are restless, their voices sharp as they argue over the next gun run.
Clay, our president, should be here, his gravelly voice cutting through the bullshit like a blade. But he’s off in Nevada—along with some of the other senior members—dealing with some supplier who thinks he can short us.
So it’s on me to keep this pack of wolves from tearing each other apart…
I’m Tank, the enforcer. Forty-five years of scars, bad decisions, and loyalty to this club etched into my bones. My kutte weighs heavy on my shoulders, the leather creaking as I shift. The boys look to me, waiting for me to shut down the squabbling.
I don’t mind the weight, or the conflict.
Never have.
It’s what keeps this club together, keeps us alive.
But tonight, something’s off. The air’s too thick, like the calm before a storm rips through the desert.
“Enough,” I growl, slamming my fist on the table but my voice cold now rather than angry.
The room suddenly goes quiet, all eyes on me.
My voice carries the kind of authority you earn after breaking enough jaws to prove you mean it.
“We’re not kids fighting over candy,” I say. “Kash, you got the route mapped for the run?”
Kash, our road captain, nods, his shaved head catching the dim light. “Yeah, Tank. Got a clean path through the backroads to the border. Cops won’t be a problem.”
“Good. And the buyer?” I ask, my gaze flicking to Arch. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his red hair tied back in a messy bun. Arch is sharp, but he’s got a temper that flares like gasoline.
“Paid half up front,” Arch says, his voice clipped. “Says he’ll have the rest when we deliver. I don’t trust him, though. Feels like he’s jerking us around.”
I grunt, rubbing the stubble on my jaw.
“Then we go in heavy,” I say. “No chances. Prospects, you’re on lookout. Anyone smells trouble, you signal. Clear?”
The prospects nod, their faces pale under the weight of my stare. They’re green, barely patched, but they’ll learn. Or they’ll bleed.
That’s how it works in the Wolf Rider MC.
I’ve been here since I was younger than them, back when the club was just a ragtag crew of outcasts with bikes and dreams bigger than our brains. Twenty-five years later, I’m still here, still breathing, still wearing the patch.
Not everyone can say that. Far from it, in fact.
My mind drifts to the turf war, fifteen years back.
The Wolf Riders versus The Fury...
