Prologue
Michael “Patriot” Giordano
After two weeks, my battle wounds in my shoulder and upper chest still hurt, but they did not leave as strong a mark as two very distinct thoughts.
One was positive—the feeling of having defeated the Fallen Saints in battle. It took a little bit of unexpected outside help, but in battle, one could never deny Lady Luck.
The other, though, was much less positive—the feeling of having been ambushed brought back a lot of sickeningly familiar feelings from the days in Iraq, specifically Ramadi.
The degree to which I experienced one or the other really depended upon the type of mood I was in. If I was feeling good, man, the euphoria of knowing we had an ally led by an old face that could help us fight the Fallen Saints was better than any drug or whiskey. But if I was feeling down, there was nothing in the world that could help—not weed, not sex, not a cigar, not friends.
For right now, though, being back in the first church meeting with my best friend and the club President, Lane, had me feeling much happier than anything else. It was never a bad day seeing our leader present, injuries be damned.
“Good afternoon everyone,” Lane said as he took his seat. “It’s good to be back.”
“Amen,” Axle, the club’s Vice President, and Butch, its Sergeant-in-Arms, said simultaneously.
My buddy had come a long way from being the coward who was too scared to lead the club, let alone fight in battle, to becoming the actual hero of the club. Axle and Butch were two mean motherfuckers who didn’t reveal much and didn’t say much, making it all the more valuable when they voiced their support, however pithy it was.
Lane, though, had some surprising news that I had kept on the tip of my tongue for several days now.
“So,” he said. “You won’t believe who rescued my ass when I went to fight Lucius.”
I already knew the answer to this statement. I’d faked my own death in the last battle with the Fallen Saints so I could ambush them if necessary. It wasn’t, but it had enabled me to hear who Lane had spoken to following the surprise ambush.
“Cole Carter.”
“What?” Axle said.
“Impossible,” Red Raven said—and he almost never said anything. Him speaking in shock was far more surprising than anything Butch or Axle could say.
“Are you sure battle did not make you go crazy?” Butch said.
“I am positive,” Lane said. “I know the face of my own brother when I see it, and I can assure you that the face that I saw and the voice that I heard was that of my brother.”
I leaned back in the chair and folded my arms. I’d gotten so used to leaning forward and trying to send messages to my best friend that I had to deliberately force this action of sitting back and relaxing. It was a nice feeling, one I could really get used to.
“So... does that mean he is an ally of ours now?” Axle said. “I still... he came to you? You, his brother? How did he know about everything?”
“Someone got his number and called him in,” Lane explained. This, I did not know. “Apparently, he popped up on the radar just south of here. So... your guess is as good as mine. but as far as being an ally? I don’t think that’s the case yet. He said he did this as a favor before riding off.”
I didn’t speak up then, but Lane knew what he had to do. Apologize for all the things you said. Reach out and be a brother, not a fighter. Heal the Carter family if you want to get strong enough to attack the Fallen Saints.
“I sure am glad he did this as a favor, though. We were dead out there without his help.”
Dead out there without his help...
I wasn’t someone who just randomly flashed back and zoned out. I generally controlled where my thoughts went, even the dark ones. But sometimes, as if I had a masochistic streak, after a tough battle, I liked to think about what had happened to me during the Iraq war. Maybe it was as if I was trying to atone for what went down while I was there, or maybe I felt the need to punish myself for having survived.
But all I know is that before I was “Patriot” in the Black Reapers... before I was a guy who had the appearance of a chill, happy individual who spoke the unfiltered truth… I was Michael Giordano, enlisted private in the U.S. Army, and a man who was damn proud of that.
More than just a man who was committed to protecting his country, though, I was committed to something else.
Or rather, someone else.
My wife at the time, Jennifer.
And I threw it all away after what happened in Ramadi.
