Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (3 page)

“Here I thought
Suzy was the only hooker here. Had no idea Rose was a cocksucker too.”

I screamed as
Keep launched himself over the counter, grabbed Steve by the throat, and tossed
him to Brew. Both my brothers dropped Steve to the floor, but I couldn’t see
how many times they kicked him. I rushed to their side and tugged on Keep’s arm.
He shrugged me off and shouted at the elderly couple rushing to the door.

“Get your asses in
that booth!” He kicked Steve again. “You ain’t running out on this bill.”

Brew seized
Steve by what little hair remained on his head and slammed him against the
counter. His nose broke, and I turned away as the blood gushed over the sticky
pie plates.

“You calling my
little sister a whore?” Brew gritted his teeth. The dark hair framing his face shadowed
his expression into what should have been unrecognizable rage. But I remembered
it. I expected it. “I should cut your fucking balls off.”

“God, no!” Steve
choked on his blood. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know she was your sister.”

“Oh.” Keep snickered.
“He didn’t
know
she was our sister.”

“Of course,”
Brew shrugged. “It’s just a goddamned misunderstanding.”

“Please, Brew! Keep!”

They ignored me.
I twisted my fingers in my apron. Three of the regulars pulled their phones. I darted
to their table, my voice a panicked whisper.

“Don’t call the
police. They won’t hurt you, I promise. You don’t want to get the police
involved.”

“I’m sorry!”
Steve groaned. I think he lost a tooth, but I didn’t get any closer. “Sorry!”

“You’re fucking
lucky I’m in a good mood,” Keep said. “Saw my little sister for the first time
in a while. Makes me pretty happy, you know? Means I won’t tear out your
fucking tongue.”

Brew kicked him
again. “But if this shitlord paid Rose a decent wage, she wouldn’t need to come
to us for money.”

Keep laughed.
“That’s true. Hear that? You better give that nice young woman a raise.”

Steve blubbered
over his promises. “I swear, I swear, I swear.”

“Good man.” Brew
pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the blood from his knuckles.
“Sober up and apologize to Rose tomorrow. Someone asks you why you’re all
bloody, you tell them you learned a lesson and that now you value your
employees. You go to the cops, and I guaren-fucking-tee you’re gonna have an
entirely new set of problems. You understand?”

“Yes, yes, I
understand. I’m sorry.”

Keep winked at
me. As if his sweet smile and shrug would have me forgive him. The roll of
money in my pocket weighed me down. I wondered if they stuffed rocks in my
apron instead of twenties.

“You call us,
and tell us how the audition went,” Keep said. “Promise?”

I didn’t answer.
My brothers stepped over Steve’s limp body and strode out the door as if they hadn’t
just pummeled my boss nearly to death for an idiotic insult spoken in the
moments before he blacked out drunk. Suzy rushed from the kitchen with clean
towels, and Dominic peeked out from behind the stove, chef knife in hand. The
Harleys revved outside, tearing up the gravel as they pulled into the street.

The jukebox finally
kicked on. Even Led Zeppelin couldn’t distract me.

I sunk into a
booth as the patrons split from the diner. Suzy and Dominic fluttered over
Steve, though he panicked and ran as soon as they sat him up.

“What the hell
happened?” Suzy wailed.

Good question.

My brothers
happened.

Anathema
happened.

Violence and
anarchy happened.

The same thing
always
happened. No matter how far I tried to run, and no matter how much time elapsed
between visits, nothing I did, nothing I said, would free me from the club. The
specter of Anathema shackled me just like the handcuffs that so often shackled
my family.

Except this time
it was my fault.

I invited them
back. I asked for their help.

No amount of
money was worth this life.

But no amount of
money existed that could hide me from Anathema.

One of Anathema’s
brothers was a traitor.

I didn’t know
who. That bought them some time.

But it wouldn’t
be long until I figured it out. Then they’d know how bad they fucked up.

No one betrayed
Anathema.

No one betrayed
me.

The ride to the
clubhouse should’ve been easy. Times changed, but even in the worst battles, no
one harassed Anathema in broad daylight. But the traitor tipped off members of
The Coup.

They didn’t need
to make their presence known, not when every breath they took was an affront to
the scarred demon on their vests. But they decided to ride today.

To fuck with me.

I didn’t have
the patience. The gun holstered against my back weighed two bullets too heavy.

I rolled through
a stop sign. The two bikes behind me didn’t slow. They cut off a car and swerved
to avoid an oncoming truck. A horn blared, but they didn’t care if it gave them
away.

I doubted they
had any shame. What little honor they had washed away with our brothers’ blood,
diluted by rain and gasoline in the street after our last war. First they
forged an alliance outside Anathema’s charter. Then they started their own club.
Now they didn’t even hide.

And why would
they?  They stole Anathema’s colors, the black and red that declared the city
ours for generations. They followed us through the streets. Even thought they
had rights to our territory.

They thought
they had a right to fucking live after their betrayal.

And sending
their enforcer after me? It didn’t matter if a Coup prospect followed me or
they sent their best damn shot in the club, the city was still mine. And as
long as they wore Anathema’s rockers on their vest, they belonged to me.

Following me through
the city was some bullshit intimidation. The Coup didn’t have the balls to
attack, and I had the brains to know my former brothers couldn’t touch me. If
they wanted to fight, wanted to piss me off so I’d knife them in broad daylight
and get my ass thrown in jail, they’d learned nothing serving under me.

I didn’t become
president because I fucked around with vendettas.

I was in charge
because no one dared to tempt my wrath.

Two in the
afternoon wasn’t a great time for a street fight. It also didn’t make sense for
a hit. They crossed the bridge. It was a half-assed line of delineation, but it
stopped the bloodshed. Two months without a funeral was worth chopping the
territory in half for a momentary peace. The Coup understood that. Their
usurper president, Exorcist, tried to destroy the club, but after five of his
men died, even he extended a truce.

But Exorcist
knew how the feud would ultimately end. I’d fight until they flayed the tattoo
off my back and tossed my corpse in the river.

The city wasn’t
big enough for two clubs. Both sides of the river shrunk as the days passed,
and money pinched tighter than fingers on triggers. But Anathema never rolled
over when cornered.

I pulled up to a
red light. Thursdays meant the Cherrywood Valley farmer’s market spilled into the
street. A quaint pain in the ass. Every kid with face paint and every grandmother
looking to score a discounted peach loitered in the road. Wasn’t like I meant
to lure The Coup through the middle of the civilian festival, but the
constraints on our territory gave me no other option. They didn’t belong here
anyway.

I’d make sure it
was the last time they lost themselves on our side of town.

The light turned
green just as a polka band harrumph’ed their first melody. My bike roared. A group
of teenage girls shrieked as I rode past. The cop on the corner shifted,
recognized the cut, and focused his attention on directing traffic away from me.

I surged forward.
Steady. Not speeding or recklessly driving through the cluster of innocents
darting between booths selling freshly picked vegetables and fried chicken. We
didn’t need a confrontation. Not after the last massacre drew the Feds and cost
me a road captain and fifty grand to cover up.

The Coup gained
on me, encroaching into a sloppy formation. I grimaced. First they tried to
intimidate me. Then they started a war. Destroyed our alliances and crippled
our business. Now they insulted the colors they stole.

Hell if I let those
amateur bastards kill me.

I squeezed the
throttle and braced myself for the sudden turn. The left wasn’t legal, but it
was quick, and The Coup hadn’t expected I’d break from the safety of the
farmer’s market and circle into the city. Within a block the pedestrians
cleared, but trucks cluttered the road. The industrial district haunted
Cherrywood Valley like an ignored addiction. No matter how many banks or
Starbucks or pretty little opera houses they built, the city existed on a
rail-yard. It lived, breathed, and bled distribution of both the honest and
unsavory type.

I sped and
ducked in front of a flatbed. It wasn’t the protection I needed. The driver
honked, but the rumbling horn cut off as the driver got a clear view of the lettering
on my vest. I checked my mirrors. The Coup didn’t care about a truck. They
flanked his sides, and I studied the asshole following me.

Priest.

I once trusted
him as our Enforcer, and I used to love him as a brother. That didn’t mean I’d
turn my back on him when he sat at our bar. Damned if I would give him the jump
on me now. Priest earned his handle. Too many men got their last rites in his
presence.

It wasn’t a
death-wish if I could see the fire at the end of the tunnel. I braced for the
impact of the road or a metal slug and accelerated, heading deeper into the
depots and stock yards. A double-axle truck belched a black cloud of exhaust as
it pulled out from a parking lot. I took my chance. The bike roared, and I burst
forward, cutting off the truck and dodging Priest and whichever prospect he forced
to tail me.

I didn’t have
much time. Disappearing from their immediate view was like tossing down a
checkered flag. Or patching a bulls-eye over my back.

I pushed the
bike fast, splitting the lane between the depot trucks and the white-pickups of
the gas and oil companies setting up shop outside the city limits. Half a dozen
crumbling streets and alleys tied the industrial sector together. Priest knew
the area as well as I did, but Thorne Radek didn’t cower in oil-slicked
alleyways like a whore waiting for the slap of a pissed off pimp.

I was better
than a bullet to the head or eviscerated on a hooked knife.

I had a clear lane
to the highway, but so did Priest. The intersection light blinked red before I blasted
through the crossing, but my bike gained the edge on a turning truck. Priest
lost momentum avoiding the collision. I cut up the on-ramp as my side mirrors seizured
with red and blue flashes.

I grunted.

“Not my day.”

The cop cruiser
zeroed in on Priest and his prospect. My fist curled over the throttle. Better
them than me. I didn’t want to end up on the fucking news.

Or with my
brains splattered on Interstate 9.

The on-ramp turned
into an impromptu launching pad. My bike growled along the road, bursting onto
the highway and through traffic like I ditched the Harley for the bullet aimed
for my head. I gripped the bike and hauled ass into the passing lane. The
stretch of road always moved slow. Tractor trailers limping up to speed from
the on-ramp, delivery trucks missing exits and jamming on breaks. It was a
commuter nightmare, but Anathema ran the route so often the choke points didn’t
surprise me.

But my guts
still bled ice when I gunned it through the closing gap of two semis. I bit
back my breath. Didn’t help. My vest whipped against the steel of the trailer,
and I fought the turbulent under-draft swirling beneath the trucks. The
truckers blared their horns, but I skirted the screaming engines and dodged an
oblivious Chevy to come out a quarter mile ahead of the wailing sirens and
Priest’s pursuit turned get-away.