There was a discernable shift in the energy of the crew as we near Exit 78 and the scene of the ambush. We’d decided to go down real easy, lull them into a false sense of security so they wouldn’t be hyper vigilant checkin’ their tails on the way back to Vancouver.
It went against the grain for us. In a sense, we were a pack of animals, loyal to our brothers, but vicious as hell when outsiders intruded on our territory. Only the least temperamental men rode with me––Axe-Man, Curtains, Nova, and Cyclops––because it took a special breed of man to take a hit and roll with it instead of fightin’ back.
Just before we hit the exit, I held up a fist and called out, “Live free, die hard!”
Our club motto was echoed back to me over the howl of the wind, and moments later, they were on us.
It was a dark night, the moon obscured by filmy clouds, the ocean refractin’ the anemic light like a dull mirror so that we could see the grainy outline of the sheer cliffs to our left and the drop to the water below on our right.
Perfect weather to stage an ambush.
They were suddenly in front of us, a dozen men appearin’ like demons out of the shadows, forcin’ us to come to sudden, grindin’ halts that sent our bikes careenin’ into the asphalt. The road tore up my right side, rippin’ through the denim like sharp teeth, scrapin’ up my side with burning claws. I gritted my teeth as I kicked free of my Harley before it could crush me and rolled with my momentum until I landed in a kneelin’ position.
The fightin’ at my back had already started, the dull thwack of fists against flesh and grunts of exertion as my brothers fought just hard enough to make it realistic.
I braced on my torn-up knee and pushed to my feet, hissin’ at the fiery burn of road rash down my side. The base of my spine tingled, and I spun around in a crouch, knife in hand, to face the two men who’d crept up on me.
One, of course, was Wrath.
He stared at me with the cold eyes of a killer, his face filled with savagery as if the taste of fighting in the air had infected him with rabid intent.
For a second, I thought he’d turn on me.
In the next, I shifted slightly so my left side was visible only to him, and I winked at him.
Even in the dark, even with adrenaline fuzzin’ the edges of my vision, I saw his lips twitch.
Yeah, Wrath Marsden was with me.
So I angled my body toward the other biker, readyin’ for anythin’ because the ’serkers were fuckin’ crazy.
Only, it wasn’t a Berserker wearin’ a leather cut and motorcycle boots, but the one man other than my father I could say had a hand in raisin’ me.
Lionel Danner.
I blinked, trying to right the palimpsest my vision made of him three years ago when I’d last locked eyes on the man, and he’d been as he always was, stern, decked out western Canadian style in denim on denim with aviators tucked forever in his shirt, to the guy wearin’ a leather cut and steel-toed motorcycle boots as if he was born in ’em.
He looked shell-shocked by the sight of me, and when Wrath stepped forward to attack me, Lion took a step too as if to stop him.
I watched him as Wrath swung and connected hard with my right cheek. Pain blasted through my eye and sinuses like explosive, bright and colourful bursts behind my closed lids. Eyes slatted open against the ache, I launched myself at Wrath, laughter in my chest as we grappled. It reminded me of bein’ a boy and wrestlin’ with Mute, tusslin’ and inflictin’ pain but only enough to score a point.
That was what Wrath and I did for a while, exchangin’ blows, aimin’ away from the tender places but givin’ it good when we landed a punch. Sometime in there, Lion moved away, and it was only us fightin’ at the edge of the fray.
“Quit fuckin’ smilin’ like a goon,” Wrath grumbled as I connected with his chin and sent him stumblin’ backward. “You wanna give us away?”
I swallowed the metallic taste of adrenaline off my tongue and bit the corner of my lip to halt the smile before it could form again.
“Now, you fuckin’ get down and stay down. Grease and Mutt’re leadin’ this pack, and they’re crazy ass motherfuckers.”
A gunshot sliced through the silent night, reverberatin’ off the cliffs and out over the ocean. My blood went hot, then cold with dread.
Who the hell had they shot?
If they’d kill one of my brothers, I’d shoot this plan dead in the water and murder every last one of those motherfuckers.