And that was when I realized why the Sisters were here. In a club, every person has a job, and that job benefits the club. During the war, the Sisters of the Cross had been at a rally in Omaha and had entered the fighting late in the game. A week after the first MamaBots landed, they had armed up and headed west, where they rescued the inhabitants of two towns under attack from a Mama-Bot and took the citizens under their wing until they could all reach safety. After that, or maybe because of that, since they had saved an entire hospital of medical staff, they had become excellent medics and tattoo artists of the highest skill.
The Prez of the Sisters was reputed to be the best tattoo artist east of the Mississippi, riding an HD Street Glide, slightly chopped, with hardbody lockable storage full of portable gear and inks. Tomika Alverez wore a huge cross with a dead Jesus on it, blood at hands and feet and head and on his side. To her left and her right were her VP and her Enforcer, both said to have her skill, or nearly so. A large contingent of the club had come, and . . . McQuestion had asked me about my ink.
I said, “I was made a made-man in the middle of the war. The inker for the OMW, Weylon McClelland, had been hit, and his gear destroyed. There was no time to find ink or an artist. No time to do anything but fight. I never had a tat.”
“No made-man who leaves the club for any reason, leaves without a sacrifice, without shedding blood. Our plan today wasto brand off your tat and have the Sisters re-ink you. That will not change. Where do you want your brand?”
My mouth went dry. “Under my left shoulder blade.”
“National Enforcer. Start the fire.”
Holy bleeding hell. Jagger was going to have to brand me.
His mouth was hard, his movements steady, Jagger set his jiffy stand, the proper term for a Harley’s side-stand, and he stood, eyes holding mine. He had already been informed. This was part of his own sacrifice. Jagger was still an Enforcer. Retirement was still on the board. But this was a test of loyalty and honor.Prove yourself. Brand your girlfriend.
He walked to the back of the seated riders and returned carrying a brazier, a bag of charcoal, a small can of lighter fluid, and an iron stick with an iron plate welded to the end. Nearly eight by eight centimeters, each side about as long as my index finger.
“Holy shit,” Cupcake said, the words broken, horror in her voice.
It hit me why. If they brandedhertats, all her remaining HA ink and the MSA tats, she’d be a solid burn. My nanobots would heal her. But the pain until then would be . . . there were no words for what Cupcake would feel. She was part of my nest. My nanobots wouldn’t let her be hurt like that. I wasn’t sure I could control myself and not tear the person who was burning her apart with my bare hands.
I forced down my reactions and breathed deeply. I put a hand on Cupcake’s shoulder.
Feeling my reactions, or maybe smelling my fear sweat on the air, Spy wandered leisurely out of the shadows and across the porch. She stopped at my feet and sat. Lifted a front paw. Licked it once.
Charles Whip’s gaze rose from the cat, who he recognized as one of the cats from the last battle, to me. I didn’t let myexpression change, but it was clear he’d offer me a challenge soon. Probably today. Whip had pride to restore. He gave me a faint smile, dropped his eyes, and pulled a half-smoked cigar. Lit it, puffing slowly.
Smoke from an old cigar mixed with the stench of lighter fluid.
“Do you claim Red’s Old Lady, Little Girl?” Whip asked around the cigar. “She left the club. No one leaves the Hell’s Angels.”
Sodding bastard. He was trying to take back Cupcake. I’d claim him in a heartbeat and make him my thrall. Him and his entire MC.
And then it hit me. What he’d just said. But before I could reply, he went on.
“If I decided to take her back, would you fight to stop me?”
Choosing my words carefully, into the silence I said, “She didn’tleavethe club. Unlike you, your former president didn’t have the balls, the strategy, the tactics, or the skill, to defeat the Mara Salvatrucha. Cupcake suffered because the HA didn’t fight and didn’t win. They lost. Twenty-five chapter houses, if I recall.” I raised my voice. “The former prez left entire chapter houses to enslavement by Clarisse Warhammer. I went to battle with you to kill her so you could take back your chapter houses and your people.Idid that. AndIkilledyourenemy with my own hands.”
I dropped my hand from Cupcake and walked off the porch, across the bare dirt to Whip. My boots ground with each step. I could feel Jagger warning me to stop, our attachment still strong, despite the slight mutation to my own nanos. I ignored him and halted at Whip’s front wheel.
Softly, to carry no further than Whip’s ears, I said, “I. Killed.Your. Enemy. I gave you back twenty-five chapterhouses, and freed your people from the poisons in their blood. You and the entireclub,” I took a breath, “oweme.”
Whip’s eyes narrowed. Telling a prez his club owed a blood debt was a killing offence.
Even softer, I continued, “That’s why you, of all the presidents, agreed to the roadhouse. Pushed the idea of the roadhouse, so I’d be out of your hair and not able to influence your club. So, understand this. Cupcake is part of the deal. She will not be tortured so your one-percenters can get their rocks off watching a woman scream in pain. Fix this.”
Whip’s eyes went to slits, but I could feel him measuring me. I had to make him listen and agree, without letting him lose face. That was what this was all about. Him not losing face. He’d won the war against Clarisse Warhammer, his most hated enemy, because of me, and his club knew it. But Cupcake had been the HA’s communication and records specialist for years before the MSA’s takeover. She was a valuable commodity. He had to take something back.Got it.
Louder I said, “She will be my VP and my Treasurer. She will guard any secrets she may have for the Hell’s Angels. Even from me. We can agree on the boilerplate and add that to the club’s charter.” Softer I said, “But I won’t let you torture her.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s mine,” I stated flatly. And that hadn’t been the question I had had been expecting.
Whip grinned around the cigar, the smoke swirling into his left eye, which he blinked closed in a squinted wink. He looked at Cupcake. Loud enough to be heard around the entire parking lot, Whip said, “Deal.” As if we had made one beyond my demand that Cupcake not be branded or flayed. “Red’s Old Lady,” he shouted. “Come here. Let’s see your colors.”
Not knowing what had happened, but feeling my cautious relief through our bond, Cupcake walked closer and droppedher sweater. She turned around, so they all could see her over-inking. The hated MSA colors.
