Maverick and a few of the brothers were out on a run that night. They found me before the train did, and pulled me back from insanity.
The PTSD still claws at me, but I’ve got purpose now. Being part of the Royal Bastards gave me that. My skills keep us sharp, keep us safe. And it was the first time I found a way to deal with my shit.
I pocket the phone, drag deep off the Black & Mild, and blow the smoke into the night air.
The whiskey, the smoke, the walking… they don’t fix anything. But they buy me enough time to lock it down and do my job. That’s the patch I wear, the weight I carry with me every single day.
Grinding the cigar out on the sidewalk, I head back toward the clubhouse. The street’s quiet, the sky just starting to pale with the first hint of daylight. There’s no reason to keep wandering around. If I’m gonna keep my head straight out here, it’ll be surrounded by my brothers.
By the time I get back to the clubhouse, a few of the guys are already outside, loading the SUV in silence. No jokes, no bullshit… today’s not the kind of run you laugh through. We’re moving weight, and using a mule instead of the train yard puts us in a tighter spot than usual. The warehouse we’re meeting at is supposed to be off the grid, but it’s not. Too exposed. Toomany moving parts. If someone’s hunting, we won’t be hard to track.
I never saw myself ending up in this world. But life doesn’t always ask… it just grabs your choices and drags you where it wants. The drug game wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was the club.
But the club found me. And the brotherhood? That’s real. That’s the only thing that’s ever felt solid since I got back to Atlanta.
Walking up the stairs, I yank the door open and step inside. The place hits me with its usual mix… leather, whiskey, motor oil, and a hint of last night’s smoke. Not rank. Just lived in and familiar.
A couple of brothers are crashed out on the couches, sleeping off whatever they drank last night, boots still on, bottles tipped over. One of the prospects, Renegade, is sweeping near the bar, trying to look busy. He throws me a nod, and I give him one back before moving past.
Heading toward the war room, adrenaline already kicking in. This is my space. The weapons locker sits in the corner, always stocked, always ready. Popping it open, I pull my Glock free, and lay it flat on the table. Slide racks smooth. Chamber clear. Lining up the mags, I check each one, and load them back with sharp, deliberate clicks.
Order and discipline. That’s what the military drilled into me, and it stuck. It’s the difference between walking out or getting zipped up in a bag.
“Sergeant at Arms. No fuckups tonight,” I say out loud to no one, giving myself a little pep talk to get my head right.
After that, it’s prep. I tighten my kutte across my shoulders, feeling the weight settle in. With my knife strapped in tight and gear squared away, I check the saddlebag I keep stashedfor runs… empty, just how I left it. There’s no excuse for being sloppy or unprepared.
It’s not the same high as combat, but this shit is close enough. The edge, the hum in your blood. One wrong move and it all goes to hell. If it does? Mav will roll heads. That motherfucker doesn’t yell… he just gets quiet, cold, deadly. And when he’s like that, people disappear.
One of the younger guys pokes his head in. “You good, Sarge?”
I glance up. “I’m breathing and that’s enough, kid.”
Chuckling, he nods, smart enough not to push, and backs out without another word.
By the time I finish, my head’s quieter. Not clear, but quiet enough to focus. The nightmares will come later. They always do. But right now? I’m where I need to be. At the clubhouse, locked in, loaded, and ready to roll.
I’m finishing up loading mags when the war room door creaks open. Maverick leans in the frame, arms crossed, eyes locked on me.
“You look like shit,” he says. He’s not judging, just spittin’ facts.
“Appreciate the pep talk, Prez,” I snort.
He steps in, drops into the chair across from me.
“Vandal’s done with the route. Mule rolls in just after midnight, so I need you on point tonight. You clear enough for that?”
I set the Glock down and meet his eyes.
“I’m clear, Prez,” I say, but my voice’s tighter than I want it to be. “Went through my gear twice. Glock’s clean, mags are loaded, knife’s where it should be. I won’t fuck this up.”
Maverick doesn’t blink. “That’s not the same as being ready.”
I grip the edge of the table. “I’m locked in. I know what this run means, and I know what happens if it goes sideways.”
He leans forward, eyes sharp. “You sure? Because if you’re even a little off, I need to pull you now.”
I meet his stare, jaw clenched. “I’m good. I’m not perfect, but I’m good enough to get this done clean.”
