Page 3 of The Chase

But it wasn’t home anymore. This room, church, it wasn’t his table. These weren’t his brothers who sat around the table. He didn’t recognize any faces. They were younger. Meaner. They looked at him with curled lips and sneers.

The only face he recognized sat in his former seat, at the head of the table. Cleaver was his name. He’d been a tough, cold bastard back in the day. He’d just been an ordinary member of the club when Colt first showed up. Then he’d wormed his way in with the former President, Blue. Colt had never liked Cleaver, he’d often clip him round the ears when Colt had been a scrawny kid. Once Colt had begun to fill out, weight trained with the guys and ate three square meals a day, Cleaver stopped the physical harassing, but kept up the sneers and the jibes. Colt quickly learned to ignore him, especially once Colt overtook Cleaver in height and weight. He didn’t give a flying fuck about what the older guy had to say, and mainly stayed out of his way. But Blue had listened to Cleaver. And Cleaver had often taken Blue to one side and whispered in his ear. They’d planned together. In fact, they’d planned that fateful night, the night raid of the white hate group that had wanted to buy their guns, the Guardians of Purity. The Black Coyotes were going to sell them guns for fuck knows what purposes, but it had all gone wrong. Very wrong. The Feds had been lying in wait. Everyone started shooting. Blue disappeared. Other brothers got shot, arrested... it had been a shit show. Traumatic. Was Blue dead? No one knew. No body was ever found. Colt had been devastated.

After the dust settled, the club had called a vote, to vote in the new President. Colt won. Cleaver seethed about it but had accepted Colt’s Presidency. Colt had got on with leading, and Cleaver had done whatever the fuck Colt had told him to do. Until they planned a raid on the Guardians of Purity again. The retribution raid. To take back their guns, take back their dignity and teach those fuckers a lesson. Colt wanted revenge. But it had gone to shit again, and Colt had been incarcerated. Yes, Cleaver had always treated Colt with a cold shoulder and a snarky attitude but he’d never stepped out of line. Now Cleaver had, though. Way out of line.

Colt was dumped onto his knees on the left side of the room. The two prospects holding onto the young woman dragged her forward, dumping her on the right side of the room, opposite him. She was still hissing and spitting like a drowned kitten. What did he have to do with her? Why were they both being dragged into church?

As Colt approached the table, all of this flashed through his mind. How had he gotten to this? Cleaver had stepped so far out of line, he’d stepped right out of his place and into Colt’s. And filled the remaining seats with new blood, who clearly supported Cleaver. Well fuck, Colt had been usurped. He’d lost his club. Fuck, he’d lost his home, his family. He had nothing without the Black Coyotes. And he’d be damned if he ever accepted Cleaver as President. It felt like a bitter stab to the chest. A stab and a twist for the sheer hell of it.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Cleaver sneered. He had a pointed, rat-like face that Colt had often dreamed of punching. Now, more so than ever.

“Thanks for keeping my seat warm, you can fuck off now,” Colt said, keeping his tone firm, casual, confident. He did not in any way expect Cleaver to concede so easily, but he might as well make his position clear.

“Ha, Colt, as cock-sure as ever. There’s been a few changes while you were away.”

“I see that.”

“Spring cleaning, out with the old, in with the new. There’s no seat at the table for you any more, old man.” Cleaver barked a harsh laugh. A few of the others around the table sneered, too. They looked at him like dirt. They didn’t even fucking know him. They weren’t true members of the Black Coyotes.

There was a thud and a groan. Colt looked around. One of the men at the table had just slumped forward, his head knocking into the table. Colt blinked, the guy’s dark, scruffy brown hair fell forward onto his face.

Colt turned back to Cleaver, a question in his glare.

Cleaver waved his hand as if he was trying to swat a fly. “That’s just Skunk. He drinks. Ignore him. We call him that because he’s always drunk as a-”

“I get it.” Colt frowned. “He drinks? Like to the point of passing out at the table? Looks like a brother needs a brother, if he has a problem, you should help.”

Cleaver strode over to the guy, Skunk, and kicked the chair out from under him. The guy crumpled to the floor, completely out of it. A few of the other men around the table snickered.

Colt winced. “What the fuck? That’s no way to treat a brother. Take him to rehab, get it sorted out-”

“Fuck you, Colt, you don’t call the shots anymore,” Cleaver hissed.

It didn’t sit well with Colt, how that guy, Skunk, was being treated. None of it sat well with Colt. He rolled his shoulders back. “Looks like the founding principles of loyalty and respect have been fucking torn up and tossed in the trash in my absence, eh?” Colt parried. He wouldn’t just concede without a bit of lip, a bit of a fight. He could see he wouldn’t win this battle right here right now, and it stung to admit that to himself, but he knew the truth. And he simply didn’t have the manpower to take them all on. He had to back down, he had to give up. There wasn’t anything left to fight for. It hurt but he had to keep his wits about him. There was time for licking his wounds later. For now, he had to survive.

Cleaver pursed his lips. “You are the one who got yourself locked up, you are the one who let the others die on your watch, you made that mistake, you nearly ran this club into the ground.”

“I took the rap for you! I went down so that no one else had to,” Colt hissed back. “And don’t even get me started on why I was told everything was fine in prison. People gave me updates saying the Black Coyotes were doing fine…”

“Yes, I fed you false intel so you stayed quiet in there. You thought you would be welcomed back a hero, your President’s seat would be dusted off for you and you could just pick up where you left off?” Cleaver stood up now. Colt kept his gaze fixed on him, and pulled away from the two prospects who’d been holding his arms. They were easy to shrug off. The stuff Cleaver was telling him, however, was not.

“What the fuck-”

“Well the other brothers all met untimely ends. Unfortunately.”

“Fuck, all dead?” The guys he’d been looking forward to seeing, gone. His brothers. His heart howled inside his chest. Blue’s blood would be boiling, if he still had blood beating around his body, knowing this is what had happened to the club. He stamped down the swelling grief inside him. He wanted to ask how, when? He wanted to ask where they were buried, or where ashes had been scattered. He didn’t. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like any of the answers, he had a feeling foul play was involved, and Cleaver had orchestrated all of this. He sighed but he kept his chin up.

“Colt, don’t worry, I got the club back on track, less members now, about twenty strong, but we now have some fat fingers in some tasty pies.”

“Illegal pies? You know Blue wanted to go legit,” Colt tutted.

“Ah yes, Blue, the resident ghost of the Black Coyotes,” he said, commanding the attention of the others at the table. “Disappears without a trace, no body, no word. Yes, let’s talk about him.’’ Cleaver began, as if he were telling a bedtime story.

The woman across the room, on her knees, took a breath in. Then stopped herself.

“We’ll get to you in a minute, bitch!” Cleaver spat harshly. She immediately pursed her lips and looked down.

Cleaver continued his speech. “The mighty, untouchable Blue led this club, back in the day. Yes, yes, he’d done a good job and the club coffers had filled and everyone had been happy. But some of the outgoings were for Blue’s daughter. Her mother was a crack whore who died of an overdose, you know, she was just a flavor of the month to Blue and the kid had gone to live with her mother’s parents. But Blue still wanted to keep tabs, so had used club resources to do that. Man hours spent trailing after the spoiled little college brat. Oh yes, and not to mention that Blue’s daughter’s been receiving Blue’s cut of the takings for the last however many years. He’s not dead, you see? No body was found. So the money still goes to his account. And to this day, a cut goes out every month, did you know that?”