Off to the side of the main meeting area was the room where we held church—the name for our club meetings. When Bishop and I ducked inside, we found the others already assembled. Our meeting table was a true throwback to the old cotton-mill days. Most of the business decisions by the former cotton barons had been made around it when it was in the boardroom. Now we used it for slightly less than honorable business dealings.
My still-sweat-soaked ass slid across the plush, leather-seated chair. My old man had insisted on spending a pretty penny on the chairs. “I ain’t scrimping on some piece of shit that breaks your back and pinches your nutsack. I don’t want anyone squirming around during church. Your attention should be fucking focused on the club and only the club,” he’d said. A smile tugged at my lips at the memory.
At the head of the table sat our grim-faced president, Caisson, or Case, for short. His shrapnel-scarred neck, arms, and legs told some of the story of how he’d gotten his road name. He’d done two tours in Vietnam as part of the Third Infantry Division. It was on his second tour that the caisson he was manning got hit and almost killed him. As army proud as he was, it was only fitting he take a name associated with his service.
He and Preacher Man had been part of the original charter members of the Georgia chapter of the Hells Raiders. They were barely twenty when they’d patched in. And even after Preach went AWOL on the MC lifestyle for many years, Case demanded that Preach take over the presidency of the Raiders when he returned. “Ain’t nobody better to lead than Preacher Man,” he had said.
He once again had to take over for his best friend when Preacher Man was killed. I loved my old man, but I also loved Case. At his right was the new vice president—Rev. Leaning forward in his chair, he rapped his fingers over the hardback cover of the latest book he was reading. Rev constantly battled the angel and devil on his shoulder. If he’d been born to another father, I’m sure he would have ended up a doctor or lawyer or in some fancy shit profession like that. He sure as hell had the brains. He’d even used the money from his service with Uncle Sam to get a two-year degree from the community college. In the end, the pull of our world was too much for him, especially for his loyalty. For Rev, his tender heart was both his salvation and his undoing. All the best of Mama Beth had gone into Rev, but it was often overshadowed by Preacher Man’s dominating DNA.
Barry “Boone” Michaels, our treasurer, sat across from me at the table, twirling a skull-and-crossbones cigarette lighter between his fingers. He was just a few years older than me, although his salt-and-pepper hair and beard made him appear even older. We’d both gone through our prospecting period together, and we’d been patched in the same night. He liked to give me shit that as the president’s son, I’d had it a lot easier. The truth was Preacher Man had them go twice as hard on me to prove my worth. He wasn’t going to let any son of his get by just on who he was.
Next to Boone sat our secretary, Steve “Mac” McDonald. His tattooed hand sat poised over a notepad, ready to document everything that happened. He was forty-five. He’d patched into the Raiders twenty years ago. He was a good bridge between the two distinct generations in the club.
A tense silence choked off the air in the room. Something heavier than we had faced in a long time had gone down or was about to go down. Unable to stand the quiet any longer, I demanded, “So what’s shaking, Prez?”
Case shifted in his seat like he was physically affected by the news he had. “Nordic Knights are stirring shit. Again.”
A low, united growl came from all my brothers. It was an unwritten rule that clubs would have beef with one another from time to time over territory disputes and business dealings. But there was no club we despised more than the Nordic Knights. Regardless of all the alliances we had made with other clubs, we would never have peace with the Knights. There was too much bad blood between us.
“What are those bastards up to now?” Boone asked.
“We heard this from one of our insiders in the Atlanta PD. It seems the Feds reopened a case on the Knights. There was a big drug shake-up four months ago. An informant had brought them lots of information about the inner workings of the Knights drug ring in trade for immunity.” Case paused to run a hand over his salt-and-pepper beard. I sucked in a harsh breath because it was one of the tics he had before unloading some really heavy shit on us. His gaze cut over to mine. “This informant had been playing as a courier for her boyfriend, Jamey Ericson, one of the Knights. Before she could testify in court, she and Jamey were murdered execution style in their apartment.”
As the pieces of the puzzle slowly fit together, all the breath left my body, and I momentarily wheezed before I could speak. “Lacey.”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, what was she thinking?” I murmured. Since the day Willow had been brought to my door, I’d been searching for information about who could have killed Lacey. I knew she had been involved in some deep shit, considering how no one connected to her would talk, regardless of the amount of money I offered them. The person closest to her, Willow, sure as hell wasn’t talking, and even if she could, she was too young to understand who the people were in her mother’s world. In the end, I’d been led to believe it was a drug deal gone bad—she or her boyfriend hadn’t coughed up the money they owed.
“Deacon, there’s more,” Case said.
“More than finding out the mother of my child took up with some Knights scum and then turned rat?”
Rev shook his head. “Maybe she needed immunity to stay out of jail for Willow’s sake.”
“Knowing Lacey, I have a hard time believing she was thinking of anyone but herself,” I argued. Feeling Case’s intense gaze on me, I glanced from Rev to him. “What?”
“He said there were a lot of mentions of a guy named ‘Seagal.’”
I bolted forward in my chair as Rev sucked in a harsh breath. “He just overheard all this shit, right? What if what he’s hearing as Seagal is really Sigel?” Rev asked.
Case grimaced. “Yeah, it is. He’s out. Been out for five months for copping a deal.”
“How the fuck are we just now hearing he’s out? I thought we had eyes and ears all over the jailhouse,” Bishop demanded.
A tense silence fell over the table. Just the mention of the name “Sigel” hit me, Rev, and Bishop especially hard. Frederich “Freddy” Spears, or Sigel, as he called himself now, was the president of the Nordic Knights. Sigel gave the Raiders far too many fucking reasons to want him six feet under. There was the racist bullshit he spewed about being the son of an actual former Nazi soldier, but there was also the fact he was once one of our own.