Page 34 of Total Carnage
"You know," I said, breaking the silence, "your old man's gonna shit a brick when he sees me walking and breathing."
Raven let out a sharp laugh. "God, I almost wish I could see his face. The great Stansfield, realizing his perfect little plan went to hell."
I grinned a wolfish expression that probably looked more feral than friendly. "Oh, he'll see my face alright. Up close and personal."
We made our way back to the bike, the leather of my jacket creaking as I swung my leg over the seat. Raven climbed on behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist in a grip that was both possessive and comforting.
As I kicked the engine to life, the familiar rumble vibrating through us both, I felt a surge of something I hadn't experienced in years—hope, mixed with a healthy dose of vengeance.
"Where to?" Raven shouted over the roar of the bike.
I twisted the throttle. “Where ever the fuck we want.”
Vin
The air in the clubhouse was thick with the stench of the unknown and the tension of impending war. We were holed up at the scarred wooden table that had been brought in overnight by a couple of Prospects, strategizing like generals on the eve of battle. Moab, Canon, Shivs, and I were brothers now, our camaraderie an unspoken oath that bound us tighter than the leather on our backs. Amazingly enough, our new kuttes had arrived only hours earlier, the smell of new leather second only to the smell of the open road on a sunny day.
"Stansfield won't back down easy," Shivs grumbled, his words heavy with the knowledge of blood yet to spill. It helped that we all had a common enemy. It brought us closer together. That’s what men like us needed, it’s what made us whole. A woman walked from Moab’s room, waved, and then left the club.
Moab winked at the woman and then turned to us. "Then we hit first, hit hard." Moab's solution was simple, his massive arms crossed, as if ready to take on the devil himself.
"Security cams, patrols... we're gonna need it all dialed up," Canon added, his eyes scanning the room like he could already see the shadows of our enemies creeping in.
"Damn right," I affirmed with a nod, every line in my face etched by the life I'd chosen. “It’s not going to be like last night. That was much too easy. It’s almost as if Stansfield expected us and left the doors wide open. The little tussle we had was weak at best.” The clubhouse door swung open then, and a figure silhouetted against the fading light outside, casting a long shadow across the room. Heads turned, hands hovered over hidden pieces, but the man who walked in wasn't packing heat—he was packing confidence.
"Vin Reed, I presume?" His voice cut across the silent tension, smooth and sure. I hated when a man knew me before I knew him. It gave him an advantage I didn’t have.
"Who's asking?" I got to my feet, eyeing him like a new patch on a rival's cut.
"Name's Arch Carter. But folks call me Bump." He stepped into the light, and fuck, the man had a presence about him. Tall, built like he could handle his own in a scrap, with a smirk playing on his lips that told you he was no stranger to trouble. The kind of trouble that fit in just fine with what we had planned.
"Got an interesting way of introducing yourself, Bump," I said, sizing him up as my crew watched on. "What brings you to our doorstep?"
"Looking for a home," he stated like the concept was as simple as choosing a bar stool. "Heard you might be recruiting."
"Recruiting's one word for it," I replied, the corner of my mouth ticking up despite myself. "Surviving's another."
"Good at both," he shot back, holding my gaze. "And I'm not just some hang-around looking to wear your patch. I've got skills you'll want when Stansfield comes knocking."
Something about the way he said it—no bravado, just cold fact—made me take a second look. I could feel the curiosity stirring among my brothers, the same question on all our minds: Could this Bump be the wildcard we needed?
"Take a seat, Carter. Let's see what you're made of." I motioned to the chair beside me, the rest of the club watching the newcomer like hawks eyeing fresh prey. This was going to get interesting.
Bump took a seat, his eyes scanning the room like he'd been here a hundred times before. I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, watching him with the same cautious intensity that Moab, Canon, and Shivs were giving off. We were a tight-knit crew, bound by blood spilled on asphalt and secrets buried deep under the roar of our engines. This guy had to be more than just talk.
"Skills, huh?" I said, skepticism heavy in my voice. I glanced at the others. “I think we can safely say we’ve seen it all.”
"Seen anything like this?" Bump asked, a glint of challenge lighting up his eyes. Without another word, he reached out towards the solid oak table that had weathered countless biker brawls and spilled whiskey. I watched, ready to call bullshit, but then his hand... it just passed through the damn table. Like it was nothing but smoke. My jaw clenched tight enough to grind teeth to dust, and I caught the looks of shock painted across the faces of my brothers.
"Son of a bitch," Moab muttered, leaning forward as if expecting some magician's mirror or trap door.
"Did you just—" Canon began, his words trailing off into a stunned silence.
Shivs, ever the skeptic, got up and tried it himself, slamming his fist onto the wood, proving its solidity. "Damn, Bump. That's one hell of a party trick."
"More than a trick," Bump said, pulling his hand back and grinning at our dumbfounded expressions. "Comes in handy when you're not keen on being caged."
"Or needin' a ghost on recon missions," I mused, the gears in my mind already turning. Maybe this was exactly the kind of edge we needed. “You’re the same as us.” I looked around the table and realized our coming together was no accident. This shit had been predetermined.
