Page 50 of Slaughter
The sound of motorcycles outside shattered the moment.
I went still, my hand tightening reflexively around Hope’s. The rumble was unmistakable. Two bikes, maybe three, pulling into the gravel lot. The engines cut off one by one, and I heard the crunch of boots on gravel.
Hope frowned, glancing toward the window. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice flat and controlled. But I didn’t take my eyes off the door.
Two men walked in a moment later. Big. Rough. Leather cuts over their shoulders, the kind of swagger that came from years of violence and getting away with it.
I didn’t recognize their faces, but I didn’t need to.
They scanned the room with the practiced ease of men who had walked into a hundred bars just like this one, looking for trouble or opportunity, or both. Their eyes swept over the old-timers at the bar, dismissed them, then landed on me and stopped.
One of them, a thick-necked bastard with a shaved head and a scar running down his jaw, tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharpening. The other one, leaner but no less dangerous, said something under his breath. They both turned toward the window, looking out at the parking lot. At my bike.
“Do you know them?” Hope asked, her voice quiet but edged with concern.
“No,” I said, never taking my eyes off the two men.
They walked to the bar and took seats, their backs to us. But I could see the patch on their cuts now, clear as day under the dim lights.
Satan’s Angels.
My blood went cold.
Satan’s Angels were a one-percenter club. The kind of club that didn’t give a fuck about rules or respect or anything except their own twisted desires. They were evil. Dangerous. Deadly. They had attacked the Tennessee clubhouse last year. Kidnapped and raped Karlyn, Ink’s sister, before leaving her for dead. They damn near killed Sunny by running her off the road, before chasing her and Sandman across the country, terrorizing them until Sunny miscarried their child. They had set fire to cabins at the Sons of Hell compound in Rosewood, Virginia. And most recently, they had attacked the Diamondback compound trying to get their hands on Remi, Reaper’s wife.
Everywhere they went, they left destruction in their wake, and now they were here.
In this shitty little burger shack. With Hope sitting across from me.
Abby appeared at our table, balancing two plates loaded with burgers and fries. She set them down with a cheerful smile, completely oblivious to the tension coiling in my gut.
“Here you go! Can I get you anything else?”
I reached for my wallet, pulling out a few twenties and placing them on the table. Abby’s smile faltered slightly, confusion flickering across her face as I leaned forward and kept my voice low and calm. “Baby,” I said, looking at Hope. “I want you to get up, pretend you got a call, and head for the exit. Act like everything is normal. Can you do that for me?”
Hope’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t panic. Didn’t ask questions. She just nodded, her hand already reaching for her purse. She pulled out her phone, glanced at the screen, and stood. “I need to take this,” she said, her voice steady and convincing. She walked toward the door, her steps unhurried, her posture relaxed.
I watched her go, my heart pounding in my chest, and didn’t breathe until she was outside and out of sight. Abby was still standing there, holding her notepad, looking between me and the door with growing alarm.
“Darlin’,” I said quietly, meeting her eyes. “I need you to go find a place to hide until the dust settles.”
Her face went pale. “What?”
“Now.”
She didn’t argue. Just turned and rushed behind the bar, her phone already pressed to her ear. The old-timers at the bar had gone quiet, their instincts sharp enough to feel the shift in the air as they slid off their stools and moved toward the back of the room, disappearing through a door markedEmployees Only.
I stood slowly, never taking my eyes off the two Satan’s Angels. They were smirking now, turning on their stools to face me. The bald one cracked his knuckles. The lean one rolled his shoulders, his grin widening. “Well, well,” the bald one said, his voice rough and mocking. “Look what we got here. A Golden Skull, all by his lonesome.”
“Not so tough without your brothers, are you?” the lean one added.
I didn’t respond. Just stood there, my hands loose at my sides, my breathing steady.
They stood too, moving toward me with the kind of confidence that came from years of winning fights. From hurting people. From getting away with it.
I let them come.
