“Yes sir,” Cupcake said. “Inputting that info to the bar’s system.”
“Thaw sandwich meat,” I said to Jolene.
“Okay,” I said to the rest of the crew. “Let’s do this.” I pulled on gloves and tugged my JYR T-shirt straight. “Jolene, you and Mateo try not to kill anybody, okay?”
“Only if it’s necessary,” Jolene said, a bare hint of Southern in her words.
It wasn’t worth an argument.
I threw open the roadhouse doors and stalked into the winter sunshine of the desert of West Virginia, stopping on the covered porch. The sound of war bikes on the swirling wind came from everywhere. I stepped from the covered porch to meet my visitors in the parking area. Despite my conviction, adrenaline was still shooting through me as the bikes appeared on the street out front, a street that was now a lot shorter, closer to the buildings. The drive no longer had a wide curve hiding the junkyard. We’d built forward.
Cats raced along the edges of the clear area and took up hiding spots, dozens of cats. Tuffs’ Destruction. That was thename they’d given themselves when the lesser queen was killed and the two nests merged into one. And they were all present, if out of sight, to see a spectacle.
The clubs turned in from two directions at the same time, formations changing as the presidents and heads of the nation’s most formidable motorcycle clubs rode side by side. They passed Jolene’s best defenses without incident and roared slowly toward the front doors of Junkyard Roadhouse. Dust flew. The stink of exhaust swirled on the cold air.
It was like standing in front of an avalanche of mayhem and chaos and crazy. If they decided to open fire, I’d be minced cat food. Quite literally.
The first bikes came to a halt, the presidents and VPs dropping their feet to the dusty gravel. The one percenters—the top made-men of the club—spread out around them and stopped. The lesser riders fanned out behind them. The Sisters of the Cross maneuvered to one side and halted, one woman in front. The last of the riders put two feet down to stabilize.
As if they had planned it, all the bikes died. Silence . . .
This was new. This was . . . different. I hadn’t prepared a welcoming speech, just a few thoughts. A few descriptions. A few things I knew I needed to be able to say, butbloody hell, not to a crowd like this.
McQuestion, AKA Roy Gamble himself, pulled off his helmet. The others all followed suit. I nodded to Bengal. He’d already been easily identifiable even behind the bug splattered faceplate, because he had a cyborg arm, and he’d had some fine artwork put on the outer metal parts. He grinned back. J’Ron Walker, AKA Mama-Killer, of the Black Sabbath, was watching me like a cat. He had grown out his beard and wore it in short stiff braids. He was augmented, but all his work was under his skin, wartime improvements. Charles Whip was parked byMarconi, both taking in the roadhouse, neither letting me out of their field of vision.
I hadn’t met the Sisters of the Cross. Their president was a dark skinned woman, her eyes steely. I’d seen meaner.
Letting my eyes slide away to meet Jagger’s for a half second, that hot something inside me clenched hard before I moved on. Asshole had been offered retirement, twice now, the first time after he survived the Battle of Mobile, and then after the battle of Warhammer’s Nest. According to the charter papers amended after the Battle of Mobile, retirement—not leaving the club but leaving active duty—following a major battle was offered and returning to the fold and active duty was up to the member. Jagger had agreed, signed the papers, but for reasons I didn’t know, his retirement and joining me here had been put off.
To Jagger’s side was Jacopo. Enrique’s bike was behind their father’s. I had known one of mine was nearby, had known it was him. Wished it wasn’t. Though he was a thrall, infected by my nanos, Enrique could live on his own if he stayed far away from me. The less contact the better, but he was unwilling or unable to stay away if there was opportunity to be near me. And here he was, his bike accoutered for war, but bearing no weapons.
I met the gazes of warriors I had fought beside at the last battle when we killed Clarisse Warhammer, nodding to each as I went, letting the silence build. I remembered how Pops had done it when he was addressing riders and needed to make an impression.
When the silence had built long enough to crackle on the thin air, I said, “Presidents. VPs. Gentlemen. Ladies. Distinguished warriors and visitors. You have entered neutral ground, created for the betterment of all and for business for everyone. A place to drink and talk in safety. Get a meal. Backrooms of the roadhouse are a trading post and a central clearing house, carrying goods and equipment. There are a few rooms to let, first come first served. There’s a wand laundry and, if you pay enough, a washing machine. There are PTCs with actual hot water showers to augment the body wands.”
That part caught the interest of the Sisters of the Cross’s president. And no one had shot me. Yet. So that was promising.
“The showers are pricy,” I added. I let my mouth relax, and one side pulled into a grin I couldn’t hide. “This territory is autonomous and self-supporting, dealing equally with all the clubs and all of them having access to the amenities so long as they follow the rules and regs, set forth.” I indicated the Rules of Entry on the door to my side.
“By fiat of the presidents of the Outlaw Militia Warriors, the Hell’s Angels, the Black Sabbath, and the Boozefighters, all in agreement . . .” I spread my arms and turned in a small circle, “. . . I present to you, the Junkyard Roadhouse.”
No one moved. No one spoke. Letting their own silence ride the air, a specter of impending violence. I let my arms fall like a dancer, and waited. Now came the hard part.
“Little Girl of the OMW,” McQuestion said. “Where is your kutte?”
The door behind me opened, and Cupcake walked out to stand to my left. Amos stood to my right. Cupcake held up my kutte on its hanger.
I said, “To save the people I loved from the poisons in my blood, I left the place of my heart and soul, left my brothers in arms, and went into hiding, to keep from infecting them. I outgrew my kutte, but never my brothers, never my colors, never my vows of loyalty.”
“Until this day,” McQuestion said.
Those words cut deep, but I kept my face neutral. “Until this day. And today, for the betterment of all, I ask to be released from my vows.”
“Show me your skin.”
I pulled off the cheap black jacket and dropped it to the porch floor. The cold air hit my skin and chill bumps rose. Again, I held out my arms and turned in a slow circle.
“Where is your ink?”
