The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition Read online

  I pulled my bike into the driveway, noticing every light in the house was on. My body has been trained to be on high alert at all times, I can sniff out a fucking threat from miles away and before I can kill my engine, I know that this won’t be like any other visit—this will be the final one.

  The last stand.

  I throw my shoulder into the front door three times before tearing it from the hinges and stalk through the house as quickly as my bum leg and my worn boots allow. I let her shrieks lead me to their bedroom and spot him towering over her in the corner of the room. He lifted a fork to her face, letting the teeth pierce her skin.

  I used to pause.

  I used to question before I fired.

  I used to doubt my instincts.

  But I wasn’t that person anymore. I wasn’t the boy too scared to step up and protect his mother. I was a United States Marine, and I ran toward the sound of chaos. In that moment I wasn’t only a soldier but also a Satan’s Knight and when I ran, I ran toward the sound of my mother’s cries. I let her plea for help drive my finger and pull the trigger.

  No hesitation.

  No doubt.

  Pure instinct.

  My bullet mimicked the fork as it struck my mother’s skin pushing through my father’s back with force. I kept my hand steady as I moved toward him, pulling him off of my mother as he howled in pain and the fork slipped from his hand.

  My mother’s eyes widened in shock as she stared up at me before averting her eyes to the smoking gun in my hand.

  “What did you do?” she whispers.

  I tuck my gun back into my jeans and hold out my hand.

  “It’s okay. You’re safe now,” I assure her, urging her to take my hand as my eyes pleaded with hers.

  “You shot your father,” she hisses, scrambling to her knees and brushing past me as she crawls to my father’s side. “Oh my God,” she cries, her hand trembling as she presses it against his wound.

  “Ma, let’s go, let him fucking bleed out like the fucking animal he is,” I shout, my hand reaching for my phone. I’d call Rush, have him send a couple of prospects here with a tarp and a container of bleach—clean this shit up. Then my father moaned—motherfucker was still breathing.

  My hand moved toward my gun instead of my phone when my mother turned her eyes to mine.

  “Get out of here!”

  “Get out of the way, Ma,” I ordered.

  “No,” she screams, throwing her body over his as she peers up at me. “No,” she repeats, staring at the barrel of my cocked gun. “You shoot him, you shoot me too!”

  She laid her life down for the man who tortured her time and time again—without hesitation, without doubt.

  She chose his life over hers.

  And I chose hers one last time.

  I lowered my gun, stared into her eyes, memorizing her face, the dullness of her eyes and the angry three lines that the fork left behind. I cemented them to my memory before I turned and walked out of the house.

  For the final time.

  There was no going back.

  Not this time.

  Not ever.

  If there was any justice in this world he’d bleed out and die in her arms. Maybe then she’d find her strength because I couldn’t give it to her.

  I couldn’t save her.

  The thing was, as long as I was here in this fucking town, I’d always go back for her. I’d always try to rescue her from him—from herself.

  I’d never succeed though, and I’d probably die trying or worse, I’d kill what little was left of her soul.

  I made my way back to the Satan’s Knights compound, parked my bike and slipped the cut from my back and draped it over the seat of my Harley. I reached behind me and pulled the utility knife from my pocket and stared at the patch that declared me part of the Albany chapter. I worked the edge of the blade under the seams that bound the patch to the leather and cut through the stitching until every thread severed from my cut and the patch rested in the palm of my hand.

  There was only one way out of this hell.

  I stalked into the clubhouse and found Rush cutting up coke on the bar, Ally nestled against his side, eagerly awaiting her fix.

  I slammed my fist against the bar, spreading my hand open and dropping my patch onto the distressed wood.

  Rush lifted his angry glare to me.

  “Boy, you better—”

  I cut him off, glaring back at him and spoke the words that freed me.

  “I’m going nomad.”

  -Two-

  Stryker

  Present Day, Rikers Island

  “Let’s go Kincaid,” the correction officer orders, escorting me to the Receive and Discharge Department to process me out of here and collect my shit. It isn’t much, just the balance in my commissary and the silver dog tags I haven’t removed from my neck since I planted my feet back on American soil. I left everything else in my room at the Dog Pound the morning I was picked up by Jones. Jones was an officer on the payroll of the Satan’s Knights and my three-month stint for a possession charge was all fucking staged. Little did I know three months would become eight because my ass kept getting thrown in the hole.

  I was the fucking messenger thrown in this shithole to deliver Blackie, our vice president, his orders. His ass landed in lock up after he nearly killed some douche bag who attacked his girl—his girl being Jack’s daughter. Even though Jack wanted to kill Blackie for claiming his daughter, with two wars on the fence, he sent me into Rikers to protect him and deliver a message. Jack had a fucking plan, and I was part of that fucking plan.

  The day after I arrived, Blackie and I staged a fight in the yard. He got his ass transferred to Otisville where the club had enough juice to get him released. And me, I got my fucking nose broken and found myself in fight after fight. Maybe I should’ve considered those anger classes the general recommended when he handed me my medal.

  Another officer hands me my street clothes—a pair of camouflage cargo pants, a black Henley, a New York Yankee fitted hat and my Timberland boots that had seen better days. After I’m dressed, he hands me an envelope containing my check. I shove it into my back pocket and pull out the dog tags, bend my head and drape the chain around my neck before flicking the envelope back at the CO.

  Fuck this place and fuck this jerk off too.

  He took his sweet time processing the paperwork before he handed me off to another schmuck with a badge who brought me down to the control building. I told them my name and my number for the last time before they sent me through a bunch of metal detectors and finally brought my ass to the front gate.

  See ya!

  No more bologna sandwiches for this guy.

  I walk past the barbed wire fences, each step I take brings me closer to the man who turned my fucking life upside down nine months ago—the big ass biker who goes by the name of Wolf.

  I left Albany, believing I was born to walk alone, there was no sense in torturing myself and pretending like I had a place in this world. I went nomad, sparing myself any attachment other than the one I had to the reaper on my back and freed myself from my past and the need to save people who didn’t want to be saved. Being a nomad meant I belonged to my bike and I could park it in any state I wanted and sleep in any clubhouse I chose. I went where I was needed, rode with some of the craziest motherfuckers to ever be patched into the Satan’s Knights MC—at least that’s what I told myself before I met Wolf.

  I had just finished a run up in New Hampshire when I first met the burly, crass, maniac. He was a patched member of the Satan’s Knights Brooklyn charter and on the hunt for new blood. I don’t know what it was about the man or his proposition but something made me straddle my bike and follow him to the clubhouse he and his brothers had dubbed the Dog Pound. I think it’s the fact that the man looked like he was at the end of his rope, pleading with me to help save something he was so desperate to salvage. I may not know where I belong but Wolf knew with every fiber of his being he belonged
in Brooklyn. A part of me envied the passion he had for his club and the brotherhood ingrained into his soul—reminding me of how I felt when I first became a Marine.

  The president of the Brooklyn charter was Jack Parrish, the man everyone knew as the Bulldog. The man had a shit ton of enemies all of whom decided to strike at the same time. The Bulldog had sent Wolf to scour the country looking for nomads like me to join their ranks and strengthen their club. I always rooted for the underdog, and these men, despite their reputations, were most definitely underdogs.

  I should’ve warned them how everything I touch finds mortality—that I lost every man I considered a brother when I was stationed in Afghanistan, but the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn had their own bad streak of luck. They were fucked in every sense of the word.

  Even I couldn’t fuck them any harder than they already were.

  Aside from me, Wolf brought three more lost souls to the Brooklyn chapel. Deuce, Linc and Cobra, all of which were nomads like myself. I had done a few runs with each of them but I knew Linc and Cobra best. The three of them were as much a mystery as I was and I couldn’t help but wonder if Wolf’s sob story was the same reason they found their way to the Bulldog’s table. We were patched in, traded our nomad patches for ones that kept our Harleys parked in Brooklyn.

  We really had no idea what the fuck we signed up for.

  Idiots.

  That was what our new patch should’ve read.

  Wolf was real vague when he pitched his club, leaving out the fact that their vice president, Blackie, had been abducted by a mobster and shot up with enough heroin to kill a small army. In order to get him and the president’s old lady back, the club robbed a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of drugs from the Red Dragons MC. He also left out there was a war on the rise with the Corrupt Bastards MC of Boston, but in his defense, none of them knew about that shit. Well, except for Blackie, he was the one behind that disaster.

  God only knows what kind of shit I was coming out to. I should probably turn around, confess to some more shit I didn’t do because being alone in a cell with nothing but my nightmares to keep me company is better than whatever shit storm I find myself in next.

  “Lookin’ sharp, soldier,” Wolf greets with a smirk, spitting out the toothpick he was rolling between his teeth. He stuck his arm through the open window of the passenger seat of the cage and pulls out a brown bag. “Compliments of the Bulldog,” he says, offering me the bag.

  I snatch it out of his hands and peer into it.

  “Oh fuck you all,” I grunt, staring at the bologna sub before shoving the bag against his chest. Wolf lets out a full belly laugh as he walks around the front of the truck before glancing over his shoulder and leveling me with a glare

  “Get in, boy,” he commands, pulling open his door and climbing behind the wheel. I blow out a ragged breath as I get into the truck and put myself at the mercy of Wolf—God fucking help me.

  He starts up the car, puts it in reverse and looks over his shoulder as he backs up, ignoring the back cameras that display on the dash when he shifts the truck. He slams on the brakes and my body lurches forward and into the dashboard.

  “I almost forgot,” he bellows, reaching over the console into the back seat—a struggle due to the beer belly he was packing.

  “Fucking hell,” I growl.

  “Put your fucking cut back on,” he says, dumping my leather vest into my lap. “We missed your sorry ass,” he adds as he shifts gears and peels out of the parking lot. “Got big plans for you, man. Starting with celebrating you getting sprung,” he tells me, taking both hands off the wheel to rub his palms together eagerly. “Pulled out all the stops for you, my boy.”

  My eyes widen as he leans back, brings his hands to rest behind his head and uses his knees to steer the truck. Man, who the fuck let this guy drive? I survived fucking war to lose my life in a car ride with this nut job.

  “Yo, Wolf, why don’t I drive?”

  “Nah, take a load off, you just got out of the can. Need time to regroup and all that shit. Get your bearings because tonight we’re going to get down like a bunch of pimps.”

  “Pimps,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I’m good, man. What I really want is a shower, a good meal and goddamn bed with more than just springs.”

  War taught me to appreciate the little things in life—like hot water, a mattress and a steak as big as Wolf’s head. Even when I was back in Albany, the clubhouse parties were never my thing. Rush would throw a party any chance he got, making sure the pussy was rampant and drugs were flowing. I’d show my face, have a drink and sneak out. Sometimes I’d grab one of the girls, but most times I would take to my bike and the open road. Sure, I liked to kick back, get fucked up and fuck until the sun came up, but I didn’t need to do that shit with an audience. I was fine keeping my shit private and finding a woman who wasn’t shared amongst everyone with a reaper on their back.

  “It’s not every day you get released from jail and that shit deserves a celebration, and motherfucker we will celebrate. You did a good thing, proved your worth to the club, that don’t go unnoticed. Maybe where you’ve been they don’t show their gratitude to their brothers, but you’re in Brooklyn now and we take our loyalty and appreciation as serious as a crooked cop takes a handout.” He pauses, glancing over at me. “You’re one of us now.”

  I opened my mouth to argue the cause for a celebration, but the words die on my tongue. I wanted to tell him I was just doing my job; following orders was part of my oath to the club. For these guys their club wasn’t based on law but on heart. And no matter how hard I fought against Wolf, he’d always remind me the patch on my cut said I belonged somewhere—I wasn’t a drifter anymore.

  “We’re going to go out to Smith and Wolensky’s and have ourselves a grand ol’ time. Have a nice meal and some straight whiskey, none of that non-alcoholic shit Jack’s been shoving down our throats either. Contrary to what you’ve seen, we used to know how to get down,” he said with a grunt. “Before everyone became a bunch of pussy whipped idiots.”

  I raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Compared to other clubhouses the Satan’s Knights of Brooklyn kept things, well, they kept things cleaner than most. They weren’t about drugs, they passed a blunt here and there, but that hard shit, they swore off it. Maybe because Blackie was an addict—I don’t know. And with most of the guys being wifed up there weren’t whores parading around the Dog Pound. Nah, if you wanted to get your dick sucked you needed to work for that shit.

  “Besides, it’ll be good for everyone to get out together, especially with all the tension between Jack and Blackie.”

  “Yeah, I imagine the Bulldog didn’t take it too well when he found out Blackie’s been banging his daughter,” I comment, reaching for the pack of smokes he had in the cup holder between the seats.

  “That’s putting it mildly, but he’s adjusting. I think after Blackie got released and he and Jack charged into the Bastard’s clubhouse, guns blazing, Jack realized how much Black loves his daughter. He don’t like that Lacey moved in with him but he’s got to get over that shit too. Man’s got bigger problems; his old lady is knocked up. Imagine that shit, having a kid in your forties. I’d fucking blow my dick off.”

  I blew out a ring of smoke and glanced over at Wolf.

  “You got something against kids? Don’t you have a fucking football team or something?”

  “Three boys,” he boasts, pointing his thumbs toward his chest. “Real men only make boys but that don’t mean I’d fucking start over at this age. Hell no, I did my time. Time for this guy to sew his oats and all that.”

  Most men do that before they do the kid thing, but Wolf wasn’t like most people—he was a special breed. So special that when we pulled up to an intersection, and the light changed, he got out of the car and carried the old lady and her walker across the crosswalk. He jumped back in the car and before he could put the car into drive, the man behind him swerved around him, cutting him off.

 
Wolf lost his fucking shit, pulled a baseball bat from under his seat and waved it out of his window as he told the driver to go fuck his mother in every hole.

  So much for being the Good Samaritan.

  “Like I was saying, we’re going to have ourselves a grand ol’ time tonight,” he declares, throwing the baseball bat into the back seat. “I even wore my eating pants for the occasion.”

  If I wasn’t already second guessing my decision to follow this fuck to Brooklyn, I would be now. I’d ask God to help me, but me and the big guy never got along too well. In fact, if I was a gambling man like Linc, I’d bet the man upstairs saddled me with this crew purposely.

  Fuck you, Stryker.

  Yeah, fuck me.

  -Three-

  Gina

  It was only supposed to be one drink. The plan was to meet my client at Smith and Wolensky’s Steak House, dazzle him with my confidence and promise to make his millions turn to billions. Six martinis later and a porterhouse for two, the deal still wasn’t closed.

  The closing bell rang on the trading floor of Wall Street twenty minutes ago and I already had received a text message from Matt, the vice president of our firm, asking if I had closed the deal. The bastard’s waiting for me to fail—anxious to steal my thunder and prove this is a man’s world and I have no place in it.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  I flash a smile toward the suit I’m trying to convince to sign on the dotted line as I break and take my shot, sinking two striped balls into the corner pockets of the pool table. This game depends on his signature; it pisses me off because if I was a man he wouldn’t be playing games with me. He would’ve signed after I picked up the check for lunch, but this guy, like most men I work with, has high hopes that the deal will close and I will wind up in his bed.

  He wants to play—let’s play.

  I hustle pool as hard as I hustle stocks and tonight when he wraps his hand around his cock, wishing it was my mouth—I will be home in my bed figuring my commission check from this deal.