Page 9 of Tank
I’m doing it for me, to see if I can face the man who haunts my dreams—both the nightmares and the ones I’d never admit to.
I ride back into the dark, the Fury emblem on my bike a shadow trailing behind me.
Whatever happens next, I’m ready.
Or at least, I tell myself I am.
Either way, I know one thing is true...
Tank is going down, and it’ll be me to plunges the knife into his heart.
Chapter 3
Tank
The sun’s barely up, and the clubhouse is already buzzing with rumors as the young guns arrive early for their chores.
But these rumors are more than the usual bullshit…
Another bike with a Fury emblem spotted in town, this time near the old gas station on Route 9.
My head’s still fuzzy from last night’s whiskey, but Twitch’s nervous chatter about a “ghost from the past” and that damn rose-and-barbed-wire emblem on the bike across the street have me on edge.
The Fury are gone, scattered to the wind after we crushed them fifteen years ago.
But two bikes with their mark in as many days? That’s no coincidence.
Someone’s playing games, and I’m done waiting for them to make the next move...
“Twitch, you’re in charge of the morning chores,” I bark. “Don’t let me down. Everyone else, fall in line. Or face the consequences.”
The young guns nod in unison and I know that my word alone is enough to ensure that they get the club house looking how it should ahead of later when the place will be full of members.
In the meantime, I’ve got things to do.
Clay’s still in Nevada with Jace and Raze, so it’s on me to handle this. I grab my keys and head out, the morning air sharp against my face.
The lot’s quiet, just the hum of the desert and the glint of chrome from our bikes. That Fury bike from last night is gone—someone must have moved it before dawn, which only makes my gut twist tighter. I swing onto my Harley, the engine roaring to life, and head into town.
Whoever’s behind this, I’m gonna find them.
The day drags, and I spend it riding the streets, eyes peeled for anything out of place.
I check the gas station, the diner, every back alley where a bike might hide.
Nothing.
By evening, my patience is fraying like an old rope. I’m about to call it quits when Arch texts me…
ARCH: Heard from a prospect. Another so-called Fury bike at Rusty’s Bar. Be careful.
The bar is a dive on the edge of town, a place where bikers and lowlifes mix like oil and water. If someone’s bold enough to park a Fury bike there, they’re either stupid or looking for a fight.
I roll up to the bar as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky blood-red. The bar’s a shithole—neon sign half-broken, windows grimy, the lot littered with cigarette butts.
Sure enough, there’s a bike parked out front, black with red flames, the Fury’s rose-and-barbed-wire emblem gleaming on the tank. It’s not the same one from last night—this one’s newer, sleeker, but the mark’s unmistakable.
My jaw clenches.
