They stare at me for a long time.
Then Saint says, “A club?”
Dog grunts, “A brotherhood.”
Bookie just laughs and mutters, “So long as I’m not the one doing the paperwork.”
And that’s how it begins.
No patch. No name.
Just a promise to stand between this town and the wolves at the door. To protect the people who’ve been forgotten. To become the saints and the outlaws this place never saw coming.
TWO
IRON AND ASH
TAMA, THE GENERAL KING
War doesn’t leave you. Not when guns go quiet. Not when the boots come off. It sticks to your skin like grease, seeps into your blood like rot. You carry it everywhere. Inside your bones, behind your eyes, and when you’ve seen too much, or lost too many, and come home to a town that forgot how to fight for itself, there’s only one thing left to do. Build something that can.
We meet in a rusted-out garage on the south end of town. Used to be Dog’s uncle’s shop before he died. The roof still leaks near the oil drum, and there's a pile of bald tires stacked in the corner like some kind of rubber graveyard. Smells like exhaust, sweat, and stubbornness.
Perfect.
Rico “Saint” Mendoza is the first to show. Still got that silver chain around his neck, the one with the cross his mother gave him before boot camp. His left hand trembles now, twitches when he’s not holding a bottle or a weapon. But he hides it well. Always did.
Next comes Dog, Curtis Malloy. Built like a brick wall and twice as angry. He’s dragging a busted carburetor with one hand and carrying a six-pack with the other.
Bookie slinks in with a split lip and ink-stained fingers, whistling something off-key. Last I heard, he was cooking books for a pawn shop and dodging collectors. But his mind is as sharp as a damn scalpel.
He nods toward Dog. “You owe me ten bucks, asshole. I said Tama would come crawling back eventually.”
Dog grunts without looking up. “Still ain't sure it’s not a ghost.”
Bookie raises the bottle in a mock salute. “Have you ever met a ghost with this much charm?”
Then come the mechanics, Danny and Smoke. Two grease-covered, ride-or-die bastards I knew back before war was the only language we spoke. They’re not vets, but they’ve patched up more bikes than most men ride in a lifetime. Loyal. Broke. Pissed off. My kind of people.
We sit in a half-circle, passing around lukewarm beer and worse ideas, and I lay it out plain.
“This town’s dying. Cops don’t care. Dealers run the corners. The church is scared to step outside the damn doors. So, what the hell are we gonna do? Sit around and wait for it to get worse?”
Saint spits on the ground. “I already did my waiting. We served, we bled. Now I come back and can’t even walk my niece home from school without some punk waving heat?”
Dog growls low, “We fix it ourselves.”
Bookie chuckles. “With what? Dreams and duct tape?”
I lean forward, hands gripping the chair like I’m back behind a barricade in Kabul. This isn’t war, not the kind with orders and targets. This is personal. A town full of ghosts and rot. And if I don't build something out of this ash, I’ll be one of them.
“No,” I say. “With loyalty. With rules. With brothers who’ve got each other’s backs. We build a club, not just any club. One with a code. We don't run dope. We don't pimp girls. We don’t touch innocents. But we protect our own. We protect this place.”
Danny nods. “Biker club?”
“Brotherhood,” I correct. “Built on service. We aren’t saints. But we aren’t letting this town burn, either.”
“You think I’ve got anything left to give?” Saint mutters, staring at his trembling hand.
