Page 87 of Colt
We met the others at a truck stop twelve miles south of the Death’s Head compound. Engines cold, bikes scattered acrossthe lot like we’d each come in from different directions. Because we had.
I knew the layout—I’d spent years at that clubhouse before I’d patched over to Venom. The arrogant bastards hadn’t changed a thing. Same security protocols, same schedules, same weaknesses. That arrogance was going to get them killed.
Graham had filled in the rest. Names of the officers who’d orchestrated the cover-up. Details about that night—who’d given the orders, who’d helped dispose of the bodies, who’d forged Lilac’s signature on the divorce papers. Seven years of guilt had given him a perfect memory for their sins.
“You sure about this?” Dutch had asked, standing in that parking lot in the dark. “Once we cross this line, there’s no going back.”
“They stole seven years from my wife and my boys. Let me believe—” I’d had to stop, the rage choking me. “There’s nothing to think about, brother. They die tonight.”
Dutch nodded once, his expression settling into something hard and final. “Then let’s go to war.”
The Death’s Head compound was quiet when we arrived. A few lights on in the main building, bikes parked in rows, a single prospect dozing at the gate. Easy pickings.
Handful and two others peeled off to handle the perimeter guards. I heard a muffled thud, then silence. A moment later, Handful’s voice crackled through the comm: “Gate’s clear. Perimeter’s clear. You’re good to go.”
We rolled through the open gate like ghosts, killing our engines and coasting the last hundred yards. By the time the first Death’s Head brother realized something was wrong, we were already inside.
The guard at the door went down before he could shout a warning. Holden’s knife was quick and clean—one slash acrossthe throat, and the man crumpled without a sound. I stepped over his body without hesitation.
We’d agreed anyone wearing a Death’s Head cut was fair game. They’d all known what happened to Lilac. They’d all helped cover it up. Not one of them had spoken up in seven years.
They’d made their choice. Now they’d live—and die—with the consequences.
The main room was exactly how I remembered it. A dozen men drinking, playing cards, a few club girls draped over laps. Just a normal night at the clubhouse.
Until we kicked in the doors.
Chaos erupted. Men scrambling for weapons, women screaming, chairs crashing to the floor. But we had the advantage—surprise, position, and a rage that had been building for seven years.
The first Death’s Head brother to reach for his piece took a bullet between the eyes. Glitch’s shot was precise, almost clinical. The body dropped, and suddenly everyone else froze.
“That’s better.” Dutch stepped into the room, scanning faces. “We’re looking for your officers. President, VP, Secretary, and a doctor named French. Where are they?”
Silence. Then a grizzled biker near the bar spat on the floor. “Fuck you, Venom. You think you can ride into our house and—”
I shot him in the kneecap. The boom echoed through the room, followed by his screaming.
“Wrong answer.” I walked toward him, gun still raised. “Let me be clear. Every one of you is going to die tonight. The only question is how much you suffer first. Now. Where. Are. Your. Officers?”
A younger guy near the back—barely old enough to have a patch—broke first. “Upstairs! Church! They’re in church!”
“Thank you.” I turned to Dutch. “Keep the rest of them contained. I’m going up.”
“Take Holden and Handful. We’ll handle this lot.”
I was already moving toward the stairs.
The door to church was reinforced steel—they’d learned that much from other clubs. But they hadn’t learned enough. Graham had told us about the service entrance, the one they used for bringing in supplies.
Four men sat around a table covered in papers and cash. The president who was responsible for Lilac’s amnesia, his VP, secretary, and Doc French—the bastard who’d examined my pregnant wife and then helped cover up her apparent murder.
They looked up as we entered, shock registering on their faces before they could reach for weapons.
“Don’t bother.” I leveled my gun at my former president’s head. “You’re all going to die. The only question is whether you want to do it with some dignity or begging like the cowards you are.”
The old man—heavyset, gray beard, cold eyes—actually laughed. “Colt. Should’ve known you’d come eventually. Once a lovesick fool, always a lovesick fool.”
“You nearly killed my wife.”
