Chapter Two
Ravage
A few days later...
Pulling up in front of the diner, a knot of dread tightened in my gut. The usual rumble of engines was absent, replaced by an unnerving quiet. Only a few bikes, looking forlorn and out of place, were scattered across the lot. Swinging my leg over my bike, the familiar weight a cold comfort, I stood and stretched my back. My eyes scanned the surrounding area, a practiced, almost instinctive move. But today, the landscape felt different, hostile. Every shadow seemed to harbor a threat, every parked car a potential ambush. This place, once a sanctuary, now felt like a cage.
Heading toward the diner, I forced my feet to move. The bell above the door chimed a mocking welcome. My eyes immediately locked with Frankie’s, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. He barely nodded, a gesture that felt more like a dismissal, before disappearing from my sight, swallowed by the dim interior. Finding a booth in the back, the darkest corner, I sank into the worn vinyl. I chose it with deliberation, my back to the wall, so I could see all who entered. It was a futile attempt at control, a familiar, worn-out ritual that did nothing to quell the churning unease in my gut.
I hated this paranoia, this constant vigilance.
It was a cage of my making, but a cage, nonetheless.
I didn’t have to wait long before Frankie walked out, his imposing frame casting a long shadow as he took a seat in front of me. Frankie was a big, burly man with a grizzled beard, a walking testament to a life he’d fought hard to leave behind. He knew how to throw down with the best of them, but had walked away from the life years ago when his wife and daughter were killed in a senseless head-on collision. The other driver, a drunk piece of shit, barely walked away without a scratch. The injustice of it still hung in the air.
“Brother, you shouldn’t be here,” Frankie said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated with a weariness I understood all too well. He leaned forward, his big meaty hands, calloused from years of hard work and, I suspected, harder living, resting on the table. “Everyone knows what you did.”
His words hit me like a physical blow, sharper than any blade. “Word’s gone out. There is a price on your head.” He paused, his gaze piercing, searching. “They’re calling for blood.”
I shrugged. “Not the first time.”
“This time it’s different, brother. You killed a Black Odessa.”
“Yuri was Bratva. Bratva doesn’t mix with the Mafia.”
“They do when both organizations are Russian. Word is, Maxim’s back is against the wall. He can’t protect you and stay true to his homeland. He’s stepping back from this one. You are on your own. And that’s only problem number one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the Death Dogs want your head. Yuri was their only contact with Black Odessa. Rumor is, they’ve lost access to their pipeline and are now scrambling to find a new distributor.”
Looking down at my hands, I muttered, “Who?”
“Disturbed runs guns and drugs up and down the West Coast. As they are closest, they would be the logical choice, but there ain’t nothing logical about the Death Dogs. Word is, there’s a new distributor on the market out of Coco Beach, Florida. Noone really knows much about them. Gator controls the Gulf Port and told them to go fuck themselves.”
“And Maxim controls the northeast ports,” I summarized.
“Yeah, so that leaves whoever the fuck is in Florida. But there’s more. The Death Dogs declared war against the Silver Shadows. Apparently, the Shadows have a woman who belongs to the Death Dogs, and they want her back really bad.”
“King won’t give up a woman.”
“He may not have a choice. Heard there is a meet today at the Tumbleweed for an exchange.”
“Bullshit.” I shook my head. “No fucking way.”
“Just relaying a message, brother, and it’s not just the Silver Shadows making a trade. The Brotherhood is too.”
I stiffened. “They don’t make deals with dead men.”
“They do when the Death Dogs have their woman.”
Carefully looking around the diner, I balled my fist tightly and asked, not really wanting to know the answer but needing it, “Whose woman?”
“Firestride,” Frankie carefully stated. “He claimed a woman a few weeks ago.” Frankie’s words hung heavy as the weight of old loyalties and fresh betrayals bore down like a suffocating fog.
I glanced at the clock above the counter, its hands crawling toward noon—a silent reminder that somewhere out there, everything was about to change. If the Death Dogs did in fact take Firestride’s woman and involved the Brotherhood, they were stupider than anyone truly believed. No one, not even Reaper, would go up against the Brotherhood. They were a true one percenter club with absolutely no fucks to give. Going up against them was instant death, and if Frankie was right, the Death Dogs had signed their own death warrant.
Still, I needed to be sure because if Firestride claimed a woman and the Death Dogs had her, there was no fucking wayin hell I would let my brother walk into a fucking trap alone. Not that he needed my help. Fucker was deadly in his own right.
