Zack
Even for someone that had a more “normal” life than the rest of the Black Reapers, driving at five in the morning never felt right.
Granted, we hadn’t woken up for it early so much as we had just chosen to stay up all night, but this was the hour when we should have gone to bed or at least stayed in for alcohol, not planned a twelve-hour bike ride.
But here Steele and I were.
“Fucking Butch not answering his phone,” Steele muttered under his breath.
Neither of us was in a talkative mood. Who could blame the other? If we didn’t know better, it almost seemed like the California Reapers were tryingnotto be available, as if they felt us unworthy of attention and aid. I didn’t want to believe that, given that Cole was still in a coma, but what else made any bit of sense?
If I had to guess, I would say the California Reapers had never quite seen us as “real” members. Even Cole had admitted that he had given us the chapter of Black Reapers a bit fast for his own liking. Butch was probably a loyal and dutiful member of the club, so it was doubtful he would have expressed any hesitation.
But now that we were reaching out to the big guns for help, it was a different ball game.
“Let’s just ride and get there,” I said. “Sooner we get there, the sooner we get answers.”
“And when we get no?”
I chuckled, somewhat resigned to that fate.
“We can say we exhausted that option.”
The night still pitch black above us, we revved our engines, drove out to Freedom Alley, and went through Albuquerque and into the open space.
Although some of the other guys swore up and down that they loved driving their bikes at night, I actually preferred it by day. For one, you could see if the police were nearby a hell of a lot easier with the sun above you than not. For another, roadkill became less of an issue when you could see something moving in the corner of your eye. But when it was darker than an unlit room? When not even the stars above could provide guidance?
Well, it wasn’t like I drove like a grandfather. I just had my preference.
But fortunately, as we drove across the nothingness of New Mexico, crossed into Arizona, and hit Flagstaff, dawn had come. We stopped for gas in Flagstaff, neither of us in a particularly talkative mood. A few people looked at us with curiosity—they’d probably only heard of MCs but never seen people in one—but they were wise enough to ignore us.
Just as well. I only wanted to speak to other Black Reapers, not other people.
We continued on our drive, ignoring the sunburn that our necks and arms would surely suffer. We hit California, drove into Los Angeles, weaved through the highway traffic—now this was something I had never done before, and it was a true thrill—and finally got to the more suburban areas.
And then, after about another half hour of driving, I saw it.
“Welcome to Springsville.”
I was surprised to feel nervous; not much made me nervous, maybe because I could rationalize why most things weren’t as scary as others might have thought them to be. But this wasn’t a test, nor was it a potential attack by the Bandits, nor was it even the worst case coming to fruition.
These were the guys that had supplied us with weapons. These were the guys that knew Cole well, the ones who had given him the OK to work with us. These were the founders of the Black Reapers.
If that didn’t make a person nervous, nothing did.
Steele and I drove down a bit, knowing that we were looking for a shop named Carter Auto Repair. But past that, we were flying blind. We’d heard names tossed out—Lane, Axle, Patriot—but aside from Butch, none of them meant anything to us. For all we knew, Lane could be ten years older than Cole or he could be ten months older. Axle could be a huge, muscular man, or he could be shaped like a twig.
And then we saw it.
There, just about a mile past the welcome sign, was a sign for Carter’s Auto Repair. I looked over at Steele. We were exhausted and would have welcomed a chance to nap more than anything else. Being on a bike for an hour was a thrill; being on the bike for twelve hours was mentally and physically draining.
But the war with the Bandits rested on if we could get help. We could not sit back out of some silly issue with fatigue.
I pulled up to the garage. A younger looking guy with the Black Reapers vest—but no patch, suggesting he was a prospect—emerged.
“The hell you guys doing wearing those?” he said.
“We’re the New Mexico chapter,” Steele said. “We need to speak with Lane. The club president.”
