Prologue
LeCharles “Axle” Williamson
The scene was quite familiar.
I sat at an empty bar on an early Friday afternoon, sipping on a Yuengling. To my left was Patriot. And, just like we had been on the day that we first hung out outside of Springsville, we were now outside San Diego, having just visited Rosecrans National Cemetery.
It was an emotional moment for Patriot, visiting the grave of his fallen brothers. It was emotional for me, too, although I didn’t show it nearly as much as he did. I had nothing against Patriot and, in fact, liked him probably more than most people in the club, but I believed that showing excessive emotion was a sign of weakness.
“Cheers,” he said, holding out his Yuengling. “To never forgetting our fallen brothers by always living up to their legacy and standards.”
Bad emotion, at least. There’s a time and place for good emotion.
“Amen,” I said.
We clinked our glasses together and took a long sip. There was reason to cheers a lot lately—we’d managed to kill more of the Fallen Saints, we’d seemingly gotten Cole at least somewhat back in the picture, and we were tightening up the club ranks.
But unfortunately, regarding that last point, things were going to get worse before they got better. Much, much worse. And it was because of an issue that had plagued the club for over a year, one I had faced accusations of, one which I still did not understand well enough.
“Still gotta figure out who the rat is,” I said.
I said it to myself as much as I did to Patriot. I felt a certain responsibility as the club’s Vice President to figure it out. Lane was doing all that he could as President, but he was young and inexperienced, and as he grew more confident in being a part of the group, we learned that tact and subtlety weren’t exactly his strong suits. That was another reason why I think I preferred to be on the quiet side—people had trouble figuring you out when you didn’t give them much to go on.
“We will, I’m sure of it,” he said. “These things have a tendency to reveal themselves.”
I agreed with him. I just didn’t like that it would have to be so long. The longer we waited, the more we would have to mourn future Black Reaper deaths.
“Oh, and just in case it was clear, I’m not going to ask to become co-VP. Too much effort and responsibility.”
I laughed and smiled at that. To think, he’d actually thought I had believed him when he said he was going to try and become co-VP. People must have greatly underestimated my intelligence—
My phone buzzed. Thinking it was nothing more than Lane asking us to come home or check in, I casually pulled it from my pocket, expecting to put it right back away. I treated it as a welcome respite from the thoughts of the rat.
It had the opposite effect.
It was a number I did not have saved in my phone. And yet, as soon as I saw the area code, as soon as I saw the first words of the text, I knew who it was. I didn’t know why they had really messaged me, but knowing who—it was enough.
Worrisome, gut-wrenching, anxiety-provoking enough.
“You good?” Patriot said.
I heard his words, but I was concentrating so hard on the text message on my screen that they only registered after the fact. The words on the screen should have been nothing more than an old friend saying hello.
“Hey, LeCharles, I’m back in SoCal. Would be nice to catch up over drinks or coffee if you’d like.”
There would be nothing nice about doing any of that.
Not with you.
“You’re not the only one with a past that has caught up to him,” I said. “Mine is just alive. And she’s back in California.”
The words were not just an old friend saying hello. They were from an old ex saying hello.
An old enemy saying hello.
Rose Wright.
She might as well have been named Rose Wrong for all of the trouble that she had caused in my life. When we had first started dating about a decade ago, it had been an absolute delight. Great sex, great adventures—she genuinely made me smile more than anyone else ever did.
