Viking—Secretary, mid-thirties, red hair, pale skin, long red beard, f**kin’ giant of a man—nodded his head. “We’re good. Pay good coin to cross their turf. No beef with ’em.”
“Irish?” Ky asked.
“Laying low after the drug bust. Tommy O’Keefe shipped back to the Emerald Isle. Six brothers doing time,” drawled Tank—Treasurer, ex-white power, built, thirty-one, inked to all hell. He ran his hand along the prison shank scar on his closely shaved head.
I blew a long, drawn-out breath, took one huge swig of my liquor, and signed, Any idea who’ll want the guns? Ky shared my question.
AK—Sergeant-at-Arms, high-tower, long brown hair, goatee, late twenties, could hit any mark perfect, ex-marine sniper—lifted his chin.
“Got a contact within the Chechens. They may be interested. They’re at war with the Reds. Could be perfect revenge. We tell ’em what the Russians are packing. They’ll wanna match it. We supply it, sends a message to the red f**kers never to undercut us again.”
I nodded, a sliver of relief settling in my bones.
Set it up, I ordered in ASL, and the brothers all around the table seemed to relax.
Flame—crazy faux-hawked motherfucker, twenty-five, orange flame tattoos up his neck, with scars and piercings covering half his body—got to his feet, snarling, pacing the room, slapping his arms one after the other. He’d spent most of his life in and out of the nut house, total anger issues, then got out and went killing scum for kicks. Some real messed-up shit. Couple’a years later, he found us. We recruited him. He helped us in the Mexican war, proved a hundred percent club loyalty. We patched him in. Now we let him loose on those who deserve a completely f**ked-up way to die. Crazy bastard gets real inventive.
Flame grabbed my knife from the wall, lifted it to cut a slice on the underside of his arm, then groaned like some slut was sucking on his dick. Blood ran to the floor. He hissed in pleasure, wired eyes closing. Shit, the dude was built. He’d be pretty damn good-looking if he didn’t have death permanently in his eyes. Bitches were right to stay the f**k away from the psycho. If any of them touched him, he’d f**kin’ rip out their hearts with one hand.
Ky rolled his eyes at me. I got what he was saying. Flame needed a release. He’d get one soon enough. We all would. War was coming. I could f**kin’ feel it in my bones.
“You good, brother?” Ky asked Flame. We all just stared at him, f**kin’ bloodletting, his hard dick straining in his leathers.
Flame walked toward me, presenting me with my bloodied knife. His black eyes blazed. “Need blood spilt. Snitch needs teaching a lesson. I got revenge burning in me, Styx. Got venom stirring my veins.”
“Brother, when we get a lead, you’re up,” Ky assured Flame as I nodded in agreement.
Flame smiled, his white teeth shining, his black, tattooed scripted gums reading Pain silhouetted against pink flesh. “Fuck yeah!”
Facing the rest of the brothers, I scanned for twitches or signs of fear.
Still nothing.
Not one. Fuckin’. Thing.
As I shifted in my chair, I signed. My VP read out loud, “Any other business?”
A wave of shaking heads answered the question. I grabbed the gavel, slamming it down on the hard wood.
Turning to the brothers, Ky flashed his winning smile. “Now, don’t know ’bout y’all, but I’m getting me some pu**y.”
I rose from my chair and the brothers fled to pick their slut-for-the-night, each one silent and clearly pissed. Ky stayed behind.
Fuckin’ Kyler Willis; twenty-seven, model-perfect looks, tall, lean, straight blond hair that had bitch pu**y creamin’. My oldest friend. His old man was VP to my old man. After they both met the boatman in the Mexican war last year, I was voted Prez, Ky VP—only the best for the mother chapter Hangmen. We lived, breathed, and bled for Hades. When our old men died, I tried to shake the vote. Who the hell wanted a stammering, f**kin’ mute as a leader? But the brothers voted unanimous. Hades Hangmen would stay with the rightful historic line. At the age of twenty-six, I found myself Prez of the most notoriously lethal MC in all the States.
No f**kin’ pressure.
Yeah f**kin’ right!
Ky put his hand on my shoulder. “We’ll get ’em. No one crosses us, Styx. Everyone knows how we run things ’round Texas. Fuckers just signed their own death warrant.”
I huffed a laugh and ran my hand over my unshaven cheeks. “M-me and y-you gonna sort this quick. R-right?” I winced as my stutter came into full effect, the liquor only able to give me a f**kin’ few moments before the python’s vise took back its hold. I’d grown to f**kin’ hate signing, but for some messed-up reason, I could only talk to Ky. Now my old man had gone to Hades, I could only talk to one person.