Chapter 1
Fuse
We rolled into the annual Pacific Alliance of Territory, Clubs, & Highways rally at dusk. Yeah, it was a mouthful and that’s why everyone just called it PATCH. I couldn’t believe I was here. This rally was legendary and I’d wanted to come for years. Bikers from all over talked about all the cool events and the sense of brotherhood there.
Once a year, every outlaw and independent motorcycle club in California converged on neutral ground. Every biker who rode in was equal, no matter their club or rank. Grudges were set aside and for one brief weekend we were all just brothers under the same dark sky.
After the long ride we were hot, dusty, and dying for an ice-cold beer. I got off my bike, pounded the dust off my clothes, and looked up at a huge banner draped across the airport terminal. The landing strip was decommissioned almost a decade ago. The Pacific Steel MC was hosting the event this year. I waited for Storm, Celt, Breaker, Thunder, and Renegade.
We walked into the terminal and got into line to sign in, pay our patch fee, and get our stamp. The line was moving along briskly, with three brothers from Pacific Steel running the table. One was shoving the seventy-five-dollar patch fee for each guest in a cash box. Another was stamping hands or necks as proof of payment. We’d already been warned that no weapons were allowed so the third PS brother was waving a metal detector over each guest.
I was dying to get something cold to drink but there was always one in every crowd. I leaned sideways to see a couple of prospects from a small one percent club acting like fools. One wanted his stamp on his fuckin’ forehead.
Storm growled, “Stamp the stupid fucker, so we can get the line moving. We’re burnin’ daylight here.”
I glanced over my shoulder at our club president. Storm might have left the military years ago, but he still did everything like he had the enemy on his heels.
The Pacific Steel brother cursed under his breath and slammed the stamp into the younger man’s forehead so hard it sent him reeling backwards. He just laughed as he steadied himself. Drunk bastard.
Meanwhile his partner in crime was hell bent on outdoing him and went for his zipper.
“I’ve got the perfect place to put the stamp.”
Thunder growled, “The whole point of wearing the mark is so the hosting club can tell who’s paid and who hasn’t. You plannin’ to run around all weekend with your dick hangin’ out?”
Celt shot him an annoyed look before asking in his thick Irish accent, “Where the feck is yer club president?”
That put a damper on his enthusiasm real fast. When he hesitated the man wielding the stamp reached out and stamped his neck so fast the guy didn’t know what hit him. When the two chuckleheads wandered off, the line started moving again.
We moved together. Storm in front with his cousin, Celt, shoulder to shoulder. Thunder and Renegade behind them. I brought up the rear, looking through the back window for the rock band I could hear playin’ in the background. The closer we got to the table, the louder the noise inside the terminal got. Music from some stage at the far end, shouting, bottles clinking, bikes rumbling as more riders pulled in outside.
One of the Pacific Steel guys held out his hand. “Club and chapter?”
Storm answered. “Dark Slayers MC, one and only.”
The brother nodded, holding out his palm for the patch fee. “I thought your club had affiliates.”
Storm dropped cash into his hand. “No. We have allies, not affiliates.”
He just grunted as his partner asked, “Hand or neck?”
“Hand,” Storm said. “We got enough ink every-fuckin’-where else.”
We all took turns shoving seventy-five bucks into their hands and getting our stamp. Their treasurer dropped bills in the cash box, counted fast, then the guy with the stamp jerked his chin for the next person in line.
We were finished in no time. The third brother swept the metal detector over Storm, then Thunder, then the rest of us. It beeped when it passed over Thunder’s belt buckle. They checked to make sure it was just his oversized belt buckle and waved him on.
Once we were cleared, we moved out through the back of the terminal. Pacific Steel’s club colors were everywhere I looked. I could finally get a clear view of the rock band and all the banners. There was one announcing a bare-knuckle boxing match scheduled for tomorrow evening. And best of all, there was a huge drinks cart with a sign that said, ‘Ice Cold Beer’. Which seemed fuckin’ redundant, because who’s gonna drink warm hot beer? I broke off from the pack and made a beeline for it. Handing them a tenner, I took the large beer and guzzled half of it in one mouthful.
Clubs who would normally have been at each other’s throats were lined up at the same food stalls and eating at the same long rows of folding tables. It was weird as fuck, buteveryone was walking around acting like it was totally normal, so I guess that’s just the way things rolled at PATCH.
Renegade walked up and unexpectedly slapped me on the back. “You got the right idea, brother. Beer first, enjoy the sights after.”
Thunder snorted. “Yeah, you forgot food though. Beer, then food, and then take in the sights. That’s the fuckin’ natural order of things.”
I held up my beer in his direction. “I’ll fuckin’ drink to that, brother.”
Storm shot us all a dark look. “Drink all you want. Just stay out of trouble. We aren’t here to gawk like we ain’t never seen a biker rally before. We’ve got important shit to do and only two days to get it done.”
