I preferred the subdued manner of the Reapers. Granted, I wasn’t above a little indulgence—the women and the alcohol of both clubs appealed to me. But when it wasn’t a Friday or Saturday night? It wasn’t even close to which lifestyle I preferred.
“We were young, we were stupid. Hell, we are still stupid, but at least we’re a little less stupid now.”
I chuckled a bit. Yes, we were quite stupid ten years ago. And the fact we were meeting at a house in a quiet neighborhood versus a strip club or nightclub was light years better.
“We were so focused on looking like the shit, we didn’t think about what it meant to be the shit, you know what I’m saying? Now, we know what matters, and it ain’t the cars or the girls. It’s brotherhood. It’s what we do, man.”
I heard Jerome, and I believed it. But...
“Look, man, you don’t belong over there,” Jerome said. “Let’s call it for what it is. You are the only black man over there. Alright? I’m not sayin’ you’re dealing with a bunch of Klansmen over there, but you know they ain’t your crew. They’re not who you belong with.”
I wasn’t anywhere close to admitting this out loud, but Jerome wasn’t exactly wrong. The only person that I really connected with to any degree was Patriot, and even that was as more of a big brother. It wasn’t like I could say I had any true friends. I had people I’d kill for and die for, but in a weird way, because of how I felt about them, I didn’t feel like I could be friends with them.
But if I was going to make any such decision, it wasn’t going to be something that happened tonight.
“I appreciate the love, Jerome, but it’s all good,” I said. “I’m happy with the Reapers.”
“Fair enough, brother,” he said. “But the offer is there, and I promise we would welcome you with open arms.”
He rose from his chair.
“For now, let’s go kill some fucking Saints, shall we?”
* * *
There was one thing that Jerome had said that was absolutely true.
The Hovas were no longer interested in the glamour, the glitz, the excessive bling that had defined them when I had been a part of the club way back when.
Gone was all of that. Gone was the jewelry, the chromed-out bikes, or anything else excessive. In their place was just, well, normalcy. If not for the symbol of the Hovas—two hands held up, with the thumbs and the first two fingers touching each other—it would have looked an awful lot like the Black Reapers coming in.
And with any luck, we would inflict the same kind of damage that my current club was so good at.
The ride was much further than the one I was used to, but that was probably for the better. It gave us a greater chance to escape any retaliation, and it gave us more time to account for any unexpected developments along the way. The strategy we had outlined was simple enough—we were literally to do nothing more than take shots at the Saints’ HQ as we drove by. We were going to make at least one pass, maybe two if the Saints were confused, but it was meant to be the kind of signal that would say “the Hovas know you’re behind this, and this shit is going to stop.”
We reached their base without any trouble. Jerome, at the front, cut off his bike when we made the turn in. There was one Saint outside smoking a cigarette, who peered into the darkness, trying to see what was going on.
“Light these fuckers up!” Jerome yelled, loud enough that anyone who was within earshot could have heard him.
A stream of bullets landed onto the Saint smoking and the building outside. The man fell dead instantly as we emptied our clip. It was impossible to say if we were killing anyone else within, but any other deaths were nice, not necessary. The Saints were clearly not expecting an assault because we didn’t even have a need for a second pass. We used up all the ammo we had brought before we drove off in a triumphant roar.
Granted, on the way back home, we were very cautious about making sure that we were not being followed. We kept a tight circle, with me and Ty dropping to the rear frequently to keep an eye out, but the Saints didn’t follow us. I think we had struck them so viciously and so unexpectedly that they were more concerned with regrouping.
Retaliation would come. It always did. But it was nice to land a blow that the Saints didn’t have prior intel on. Perhaps next round, I could let Lane inform one of the members and see if anything got leaked.
When we returned, the Hovas there broke out bottles of vodka to celebrate. But I used that as an excuse to slip out in a way that I thought was undetected. I got to my bike before Jerome stopped me.
“Hey, man, hey,” he said. “We appreciate your presence tonight. You need any help, you got it.”
I nodded and clasped his hand with a tight grip.
“Ditto,” I said.
“You think about what I said.”
I didn’t say a word as I drove off.
Which Jerome knew well enough meant that I wasn’t saying no to his offer. Not yet, at least.
