Prologue
Corey “Spawn” Dennison
My body tensed.
Anytime I met another man I didn’t know very well, regardless of the situation, I always prepared for a fight. It could have been a young kid looking to become a mechanic at our shop or a middle-aged man who just wanted to “talk business.” With my upbringing and the way I saw the world, a fight always seemed possible.
People called me crazy, but for those who avoided fighting, I just called them pussies at best, idiots at worst. Of course, not every encounter ended in a fight; the majority of encounters did not wind up in a fight. But show me a man who didn’t know how to kick ass and I’d tell you that before you was a pussy.
Unfortunately, in this particular instance, as I stood at the bar in downtown Phoenix—chosen for its visibility—the man approaching very much knew how to fight.
Better than anyone I had ever known.
Butch was not a name I would ever forget, but that went doubly true because I recognized the other two. Cole I just recognized from news reports—unlike Satan, I kept an eye out for club activity outside Phoenix: an assigned task. But Connor was someone I knew from long ago—and that was a problem.
A big fucking problem.
“Spawn,” Butch said, nodding his head—mostly so he could look down upon me.
I was a big man. At roughly six foot three and two hundred and twenty pounds, I had a background in football and wrestling in my school days. If not for some annoying injuries, I probably could have continued playing.
But if I was big as a linebacker in high school football, Butch would have been the one towering lineman that just used his size on everyone. I guessed he had at least three or four inches on me and probably another twenty or thirty pounds. The size difference wasn’t as dramatic as it was for someone like Cole, but fuck if I had any thoughts about any fight being potentially easy.
“Butch,” I said, “you come to deliver news?”
“Yes. Our club presidents and leaders have agreed to come and speak with Satan.”
“Good. When?”
“They are on their way now.”
I bit my lip to avoid showing any reaction. We all hated surprises. Probably why we were always so tense for a fight—we liked to show people in no uncertain terms just how little we appreciated things being dropped in our lap.
“How long until they get here?”
“It took us about five hours.”
OK, at least that wasn’t in fucking five minutes. But Jesus Christ.
“I will let Satan know. What are their names?”
“Lane and Brock.”
I froze.
Brock?
As in, Brock, Connor’s friend, from Santa Maria, New Mexico?
“Last names?”
Butch glared at me. We didn’t give out last names. Hell, ninety percent of the time, we didn’t give out first names.
“Fine, they come from Albuquerque?”
“Santa Maria.”
Fuck.
