Viper (Hell's Handlers MC 9)

But none of that would happen if he couldn’t even make a sound.

The experience wasn’t anything like he’d expected dying would be. The pain faded to a dull, nearly insignificant ache.

He wasn’t afraid either.

Nor did his entire life flash before his eyes.

One face did dominate his thoughts, though.

His brave, beautiful, sassy, warrior of a wife.

The most caring woman to walk the face of the earth.

His Cassie.

She’d be pissed he went out this way, yet so proud of him for saving Jazmine. He’d done a good thing, and Cassie would see it that way.

Though she’d probably cuss him up and down again when she found him in the afterlife.

As the rest of the world faded away to darkness, Cassie’s face remained.

They’d been through so much, and he hated to go out on her this way. She’d grieve, she’d hurt, and if anyone deserved some time away from mental anguish, it was Cassie. She’d had to be far too strong recently as it was.

I’m sorry, baby. Please forgive me. I’ll be waiting for you.

He had full faith his MC family would see her through the dark time. His woman was the strongest he knew, and one day when he held her again, he’d be sure to tell her that.

And just how much he loved her.

How much he’d loved her from the very first day they met.

The day a feisty redhead changed his entire world…

CHAPTER ONE

1982 - BURIEN, WASHINGTON

They called him a legacy.

The roots of the Devil’s Tribe Motorcycle Club coursed through his blood. Started by his great grandpop back in nineteen thirty-one, every man in his bloodline had had their chance to lead the club. Right now, his pops ran the show. The old man had been president for the past ten years, give or take—vice president before that when Viper’s grandfather sat on the throne.

As long as he didn’t fuck up and land his ass behind bars or six feet under, Viper’s time as top dog would come. One day, he’d head up the rough and raw group of men he’d idolized since the first time his diapered ass rode on a motorcycle. Rumor had it his old man had made a trip into town with a ten-month-old baby Viper strapped to his back, ignoring the blue streak his mother had cussed from the porch as they’d torn down the block. Young Viper had laughed and squealed the entire ride, solidifying his place in the pack.

Or so the story went.

Being heir to the throne might mean he’d assume the role of president one day, but as a prospect, it meant shit. No one cared who or what he was until he’d officially proved himself. Some clubs didn’t make descendants of original members prospect. He should have been so lucky. He’d suffered like all prospects before him. Night and day, he’d had to prove himself and his loyalty alongside the other grunts if he’d wanted to receive that patch.

And he’d wanted it more than anything.

Finally, last night, he’d earned it. After twelve longs months of busting his ass, eating shit, and biting his tongue, he’d patched in. Fuck, it had been the best moment of his life. Proudest for his pops too. One they’d both remember for the rest of their days. He’d been flying high on booze, ego, adrenalin, and pussy—good fucking times.

But, right now? Well, now he wanted to take his rifle and mow down each and every man he’d considered family up until five minutes ago.

Shit could change in a fucking instant.

The men he’d idolized since childhood were not who or what he’d thought. The very brothers who’d taught Viper what it was to be a man, who’d given him his core values, had him seconds from puking.

“Is this really fucking happening?” Sarge, the other brand spanking new patched member, muttered under his breath.

“Christ, I think so.” Viper blinked slowly as though the scene before him would change when his eyes reopened. It didn’t.

“Well then, we got a problem, brother. Cuz I sure as fuck didn’t sign on for this shit.”

Sarge had suffered through a year of abuse and scut work right alongside Viper, and last night, they’d received their official patches together. At twenty-eight, Sarge had a few years on Viper’s twenty-one. The guy served time in the army, discharging at the rank of Sergeant, hence the nickname. As they’d prospected together, they’d forged a bond, toughing out the torture their brothers reveled in dishing out. Though sometimes erratic and difficult to control, Viper considered Sarge his best friend as well as his brother.

“Shut the fuck up,” Viper whispered from the corner of his mouth. He kept his gaze locked on the rusted-out van rumbling up the long dirt road that led to the shack owned by his club. His entire life, even as a prospect, he’d been told the rundown two-room abode was a safe house of sorts. Used by guys looking to lay low for a while. Usually, until the law lost interest in pursuing them.