There was a time when Steel Saint and I would’ve gutted each other in the middle of a burning street.
We were young, violent, and carrying too many ghosts. Him fresh out of the South. Hard-eyed and hungry to carve his name into the asphalt. Me, holding down the edge of Michigan’s coastline like a soldier who never came home from war. The only reason we didn’t kill each other was because we realized something most men don’t. We were built from the same goddamn fire.
It was seventeen years ago when Steel and I stood eye to eye on a cold bar off Route Thirty. Snow hadn’t even started falling yet, but winter was in the air, coiled and mean. We’d been at odds for a long time, two wolves circling the same kill, different philosophies, same need for control. I respected him, even when we were drawing blood.
Steel pulled out a bottle of Old Forester, broke the ice off the cap with his teeth, and said, “We both want the same thing, Tama. Order. Territory our boys can bleed for without some jumped-up cartel or crooked badge deciding otherwise.”
I didn’t answer right away. Just took the bottle, drank long, and stared him down.
“You here to offer peace or a leash?”
“Neither,” he said. “I’m offering you a flag. One with fire on the back and blood in its roots. You start a chapter in Central Michigan, you lead it. Your rules, your riders. But you carry this patch with weight.” Then he tossed down his lighter with the original Saints Outlaws insignia burned into the metal.
But what I never forgot was the way he looked me in the eye, handed me that Saints Outlaws patch, and said, “Make the North yours. But you wear this cut with respect, or don’t wear it at all.”
“This isn’t charity,” I muttered.
“And it isn’t weakness,” he said. “It’s trust. Just don’t make me regret it.”
That was the only time Steel Saint ever bowed without kneeling. That was the start of the Central Michigan Chapter.
I haven’t let it go since.
Now, all these years later, I can feel the old warhorse in me stirring again. Trouble’s coming back, this time with a new name, Las Estrellas Negras. A cartel out of Baja is trying to cut the Midwest like it’s meat on a table. They’ve already pushed out the Ghosts in Monroe, and word is they’ve got soldiers as young as fifteen running dope and fear through the county lines.
This club protects our turf. We don’t run poison. Never have. Some lines don’t get blurred, even in war. When you draw a line in the sand, sooner or later, someone steps over it.
They're not creeping anymore, they’re storming. First, it was a port town two hours north. Then, a warehouse fire down the shore. Now they’re taking bodies and sending messages withmachetes, not words. One of our runners got grabbed last week. They mailed back his ring finger and half of his cut.
Whoever these bastards are, they don’t care about legacy. They want blood and real estate. They want a piece of every deal that crosses state lines. And they’re not asking nicely.
I sit in church with Dog, my SAA. He’s still got shrapnel in his shoulder from Fallujah and eyes that don’t blink when things go sideways. I trust him with my life. We’ve called in a one-time alliance with a club out of Bay City, Iron Believers. They’re rough, ride hard, and don’t ask many questions. It’s risky as hell, but we’re outgunned, and I won’t have bodies piling up on my watch.
“You sure about them?” I ask Dog, sipping bitter coffee from a Saints mug.
“They hate cartels more than they hate cops. That’s enough for me.”
It’s not enough for me, but I nod anyway. This war’s coming whether we’re ready or not.
I make the call.
The meet is supposed to be clean. Swap intel, hit a known cartel drop spot, get out fast. It goes sideways before the second engine cuts. Somebody tipped the cartel off.
What was supposed to be a two-club hammer strike turns into a bloodbath in a grain silo. Bullets ping off steel. Smoke, screams, someone yelling for backup, then my bike goes down, and I catch one in the gut.
I don’t remember the ride back. Just flashes, siren blur, voices far away, the sting of blood in my mouth. I come to in a too-white room, lights burning overhead, smell of antiseptic sharp enough to make me gag.
Then a shadow leans in.
Isaiah.
Still got that university hoodie on, sleeves pushed up, dark rings under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days. He looks like a boy forced into a man’s war.
“I came as soon as I got the call,” he says, gripping the bed rail. His jaw’s locked tight. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit your spine.”
I grin through blood in my teeth. “Lucky? Kid, I aimed for the bullet. Didn’t want the docs poking around my heart, might find it’s still black.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink. “Don’t do that,” he says.
