Chapter 1
Bear
Me and Rick are out for an early morning ride to the clubhouse. Rick’s got prospect duties waiting, and I’ve been tasked with inventorying the armory. The weekends and most evenings are reserved for the club. We took the long way today because there is no better way to start the day than ridin’ the open road. The badlands stretch out around the eastern edge of Las Salinas. Along this stretch of interstate, we’re surrounded by scrub, dirt, and the occasional abandoned warehouse.
The wind whipping through my clothing is the only thing that ever centers me. I’m free to think what I want and feel what I fuckin’ feel without people staring, measuring, or expecting more from the man who’s too big in all the worst ways. Out here, on two wheels, I not only fit, I own the goddamn road.
Suddenly, I smell smoke. Glancing around, I see it’s coming from what looks like a campfire off to the right. I slow down when the thought occurs to me that it could also be from a wildfire. They can eat up acres of what little vegetation manages to survive out this way and wreak havoc. If that’s the case and it’s small, I might be able to put it out before it causes any damage.
Rick slows down to match my speed. He drifts closer than he should, same as always, instead of respecting the edge. I have to move over a bit to stay out of his way. Making a swift gesture with one hand, I let him know to pull off so we can investigate. Even as I do, I tell myself that it’s probably nothing. Siege, our Prez, has drilled into us that it’s always better to be safe than sorry.
As we get closer, my nose picks up a different scent. It’s faint at first but gets stronger the closer we get to the plume of smoke. I recognize that fuckin’ scent. I wish I didn’t because it means we have a big problem on our hands.
Meth has a thick chemical scent with an undertone that smells like spoiled mayonnaise. That’s the closest thing I can liken it to in my mind. It’s a sour, rotten, garbage scent that turns my stomach. I can tell by the expression on Rick’s face that he recognizes the scent as well.
I cut my engine off and let the bike roll the last stretch, with my best friend close behind me. I lift my visor and breathe again just to be sure it’s what I think it is. Meth really assaults the nostrils. I quickly pull my bandana up from around my neck to cover my nose and mouth, though I doubt it’s gonna help much.
Rick leans close, his voice low. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yeah, someone’s been cookin’.”
We leave the bikes about a hundred yards from the road and move forward on foot. The ground is uneven, scrub brushes against our legs and thorns catch at my jeans. I’m aware of my size, of how easily I could make noise if I tromp around carelessly. Rick is light of foot but he’s vibrating with barely contained energy.
When we climb a small ridgeline, I pull the small pair of binoculars off a case on my belt. I like seeing what I’m walking into, so I always carry them.
I gaze through the lenses, taking in their operation.
They’ve got a couple of vans parked outside a ramshackle building. That smoke we saw is coming out of a metal pipe sticking through the roof. I can also see a beat-up generator near the front door.
“They’re cooking meth, right?” Rick asks almost gleefully.
“Yeah. It looks like it might be their first cook. They’re sloppy and still putting their camp together.”
“Siege is gonna be happy that we caught this drug operation when they first set up. You know he always says, find ‘em fast and close them the fuck down before they’re fully operational.”
I don’t respond, but that’s sure the hell what our club president has to say about keeping the drug dealers out of our small town.
“This is almost too easy,” he whispers. “These idiots are rank amateurs.”
“If we’re not careful, easy can still get us killed,” I say, keeping my eyes on the men moving around down below.
I do a headcount as they move around their encampment. I can see three men, if that’s all there is, then we can take ‘em. A man with black hair and a long shaggy beard steps out of the shed and lights a cigarette like he’s not standing right next to a fucking powder keg.
The two vans are parked side by side. I zoom in on the license plates. They’re Arizona plates, I pull out my cell phone and make a note of the numbers.
Rick shifts beside me, inching forward for a better look. I catch his jacket and pull him back before he can give away our position.
“Don’t spook them,” I murmur. “I’m gonna alert Siege. We need to wait for him to give the go-ahead. He’ll probably want to send reinforcements.”
He nods, clearly disappointed. My friend likes to rush in, relying on the element of surprise, thinking it’s an opportunity for an easy win. Maybe it is, but it’s not our call to make. The Savage Legion has a chain of command, and as a fully patched-in brother, I’m expected to follow it.
I text Siege the location and a quick rundown of what we’re seeing. It’s not long before I get a text back telling me that he’s gonna send in more men.
We spread out the way Rider taught us and start doing recon, careful to be quiet and keep ourselves out of their line of sight. Now that we’re closer, the stench is almost unbearable, but we can pick up more critical details. They’re packing weapons, cheap ones but deadly, nonetheless. I now see two inside the shed and another asleep in the back of one of the vans. That brings my original count up to five. It’s a good thing we didn’t go barreling up in there like Rick wanted to do.
We separate to get a better look. Rick settles a few yards to my left. As the minutes pass, I can almost feel his restless energy. After half an hour, Rick shifts a little too quickly, and a rock skitters under his boot, clinking against an old rusted-out metal gas canister. The sound is sharp enough to cut through the generator’s drone.
I curse under my breath when the voices inside the shed cut off mid-sentence. I can hear footsteps running, followed by the scrape of things being shoved around inside the shed.
