Page 2 of Tank
Blood in the streets, brothers lost, and me in the middle of it, my knuckles raw from smashing faces. We won, but at a cost. I don’t talk about it, don’t think about it if I can help it. But some nights, the ghosts creep in, whispering names I’ve tried to forget. Marco. Their sergeant-at-arms. I can still see his face, twisted in pain as I left him broken in the dirt.
I didn’t kill Marco, but I might as well have.
The Fury scattered after that, their club a shadow of what it was.
But shadows have a way of coming back.
“Tank?” Kash’s voice pulls me out of the memory. He’s staring at me, his brow furrowed. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say, shaking it off. “Meeting is…done. Get your shit together for the run. I want everyone ready by dawn.”
The boys grumble but start to clear out, their boots scuffing the floor. I stay seated, watching them go. The prospects linger, waiting for a nod from me before they scatter. I give it, but my gut’s still churning.
Something is wrong, and it’s not just Arch’s bad feeling about the buyer.
As the room empties, one of the prospects, a scrawny kid named Twitch, hangs back. He’s got that nervous energy, like a dog waiting to be kicked. “Tank, uh, can I talk to you?”
I raise an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Spit it out, kid.”
Twitch glances around, like he’s afraid the walls are listening. “I heard something. From a guy at the bar in town last night. Said there’s a ghost from the past sniffing around. Someone with a grudge against the club. Against…you.”
My blood runs cold, but I keep my face stone.
“A ghost, huh?” I laugh. “You been drinking too much of that cheap whiskey, Twitch?”
Twitch shakes his head, eyes wide. “No, sir. He was serious. Said it’s someone tied to the old days. Didn’t say who, but he knew your name.”
I lean back, my fingers drumming on the table.
A ghost from the past.
Could be anyone—cops we’ve pissed off, rivals we buried, or some nobody looking to make a name. But the way Twitch says it, the way it lands in my gut, tells me it’s more.
“Keep your ears open,” I tell him. “You hear anything more, you come to me. No one else.”
Twitch nods and bolts, leaving me alone with the hum of the fluorescent lights.
I stand, my knees creaking, and head for the door.
The clubhouse is quiet now, just the faint thump of music from the bar across the lot. Outside, the night air hits me, sharp and cool. The desert stretches out beyond the chain-link fence, all shadows and secrets.
Arch is waiting by the bikes, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’s my oldest friend in the club, one of the few who’s been around as long as me.
“You look like you’re chewing on glass,” Arch says, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “What’s up?”
“Twitch says someone’s got a hard-on for me,” I mutter, scanning the lot. “Some ghost from the past.”
Arch snorts, but his eyes narrow.
“Ghosts don’t ride Harleys,” Arch deadpans. “You think it’s serious?”
“Don’t know yet.” I cross my arms, my gaze catching on something across the street.
A motorcycle, parked under a flickering streetlight. It’s not one of ours.
Too sleek, too new, with a custom paint job that screams trouble. No Wolf Rider would ride something that flashy.
“You see that bike before?” I ask, distracted.
