Circle of Death (6 page)

“Fuck yes,” I grin, savoring a deep gulp of ice cold beer. “We’re unstoppable these days, my friend.”

“Thanks to you,” he says, pride shining through his gruff voice.

These days, Packer is just shy of six feet tall and strong as an ox. He’s got shaggy sandy hair and a couple dozen tattoos etched all over his body. But when I first met him, he was nothing but a scrawny, eager kid from Vermont with a knack for fixing motorcycles. That must have been a decade ago, by now.

We met when we were both still prospects for the Circle of Death—trial recruits, trying to prove ourselves worthy of becoming patched members. Needless to say, we proved ourselves all right. In ten years, Packer and I have gone from prospects to the VP and President of the MC, respectively. We’ve built up the East Coast charter of the Circle of Death and made it greater than it’s ever been. Packer likes to heap the credit on me, and I’m more than happy to take most of it, but he and the other brothers have pulled their weight and then some.

I glance around the clubhouse bar, taking stock of my fellow members. There’s Packer, of course, my best friend and VP. Then there’s Lobo, our Sergeant at Arms, and Leon, our Road Captain—cousins who have been around even longer than we have. Lobo is tall and lean while Leon is shorter and barrel chested. You’d never guess they were related except that they’re thick as the thieves they once were. Those two are workhorses and fierce taskmasters, making sure the rest of the guys stay in line and on track. They’re playing each other at pool, each with a sweet butt hanging on his arm.

Our Treasurer and Secretary came into the Circle of Death fold after I’d already been patched for a few years. Chip, the Treasurer, is a straight up computer genius with a mop of black hair and a maniacal glint in his eye. Dean, the Secretary, is the quietest of the bunch, an Iraq War vet with a blonde crew cut and bright blue eyes. They’re only in their mid-twenties, but I’ve seen them ride, fight, and party hard with the best of us. Chip and Dean are sprawled across the black leather sofa in the corner, jamming to some hard rock pouring out of our rejiggered juke box.

Leaning up against the wall with his thick arms crossed is Brutus, our longtime Enforcer. He’s built like a fucking tank, and is by far the meanest of our lot. Brutus is our muscle, the attack dog we sic on people who dare to cross us. I’d feel bad about making him do all the dirty work, except that he seems to like it so much.

Down the bar from me are Xan, our resident model-looking motherfucker, and Otis, the oldest of our group and the only original member left. The Circle of Death MC started up right after the Vietnam War, when a group of New England guys came back to the states and realized that they wanted nothing to do with the lives they left behind. That’s the great thing about the outlaw life—it’s always there for those who need it most.

These seven men are my family, closer than flesh and blood. I’d die for any one of them and I know they’d do the same for me. Our clubhouse, built onto an old fishing pier and reinforced over the years, is a fortress of sorts. Our home. It’s got a bar, where we entertain our friends—and of course the girls who come looking for shelter and strong arms to hold them. It’s got a “chapel” in the back, a closed room where the brothers can convene and shape the club’s future. It’s even got a couple of boats tied along the dock, for fishing trips and quick getaways from the cops, depending on the day.

All in all, it’s a pretty kickass place to hang your hat.

Just as I’m turning back to finish off my well-deserved beer, I feel a gust of cool, salty wind at my back. My sharpened senses pick up the shift in the room as the bar door swings open, casting a long rectangle of early evening light across the sawdust-covered floorboards. I’m on my feet in an instant, hackles raised. The music and conversation cut out as two strangers step across the threshold of our home.

We don’t get a lot of strangers here at the clubhouse. The occasional fisherman or drifter, sure, but no one like the two men who stroll into our midst now. They’re decked out in sport coats and pressed slacks, and I can practically smell the money on them. They reek of it. Their hair is carefully combed, and their faces are tanned and clean-shaven. They look like the kind of snobs who used to look down on me when I was just a poor kid from Western Massachusetts with a freewheeling single mom. I may be far from poor these days, but I’ll never forget how it felt to be treated like dirt by guys like these.

“Looks to be the place, eh Jim?” says the fairer of the men to the other. His coiffed blonde hair gleams, even in the dim light of the bar.

“I’d say so, Mike,” replies his partner, fixing me with a toothpaste ad grin.

“This doesn’t look to be
any
place for the two of you,” I tell the men, taking a menacing step forward. “I suggest you head back to the yacht club if you’re looking for a drink. We’re not big champagne swillers around here.”

My brothers laugh roughly and rise to their feet, nodding for the assembled girls to head into the back rooms. The two strangers—Jim and Mike—look around the bar with faint, amused smiles plastered on their lips. They’re not the least bit afraid of us, a mistake that no one makes for long.

“You must be Devlin Vile,” says the blonde one, Mike, extending a hand to me.

“Fucking right I am,” I say, ignoring his outstretched hand and crossing my arms instead. “And who the hell are you assholes?”

“My name’s Mike Jacobs, this is Jim Paulson,” he goes on, nonplussed by my rebuff. “We’ve come with a business proposition for you, Mr. Vile. The corporation we represent is in the market for a group of your...specific expertise. And we’ve been told that you’re quite the savvy dealmaker.”

“Uh huh,” I growl, cocking an eyebrow at the insufferable man. “And what corporation might it be that you represent, Mikey?”

“Perhaps we could discuss the details in private?” he suggests, looking around at my grimacing brothers.

“No dice,” I tell him with a curt shake of the head. “Anything you want to pitch, you can pitch it to all of us. We’re a unit. We don’t do secrets.”

“How very admirable,” the other guy, Jim, puts in.

“Very well, very well,” Mike says amiably, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Jim and I represent the Leviathan Corporation. I’m sure you’ve heard of us. We’re a multinational conglomerate with many varied, integrated interests and resources.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Leon grumbles to Lobo.

“Basically, it means that there are many, many components to our business,” Jim says, looking down his nose at our grizzled Road Captain.

“We’re looking to contract a group like yours for some distribution work,” Mike goes on. “Your organization has a reputation for success and, more importantly, unorthodox business practices. Leviathan is specifically interested in your club as a potential partner.”

I shove a hand through my jet black hair, taking a moment to consider. I’m not about to turn away what sounds like an insanely lucrative gig, even if these two jackasses make me want to punch them both in the face, just on principle. I’ve got to look out for my club, even if that means associating with rich scum bags once in a while.

“What kind of goods are you distributing, exactly?” I ask, leaning back against the bar.

“We can get into those specifics later,” Jim says lightly, brushing my question aside. “We’d rather talk about what Leviathan could do for your—”

“And I’d rather talk about what the fuck you’d be expecting us to haul around the country for you,” I spit.

Mike and Jim exchange a quick glance before going on. Oh, this oughta be good.

“You’re right,” Jim says. “We’re looking to have some rather delicate goods distributed from our main site in Miami to our clientele all along the East Coast, and up across the Canadian border. We truly believe that you’re the perfect organization for this work. The only—”

“The goods, Jimmy,” I spit. “What are these
delicate goods
?”

“Narcotics, mostly,” Mike says lightly.

“And what else?” I press. No way they’d be so cagey if it was just drugs they were looking to move.

“We also provide some of our clients with...companionship,” Jim allows.

The edges of my vision go white as a searing surge of anger runs through my body, bringing me to my feet once more. I pull all six feet and change of myself up, feeling my entire core swell with vicious, dangerous outrage. “You’re talking about human trafficking,” I say, my voice a deadly growl.

“To put it bluntly,” Jim says, his megawatt smile wavering just slightly. “There’s quite a market, these days.”

“A market for a bunch of kidnapped under aged girls forced to fuck whatever man pays for them, you mean?” I snarl, advancing toward the men.

The two slickers glance around as the Circle of Death closes ranks around them. Finally, their confidence starts to crack. They’re starting to realize what a dangerous spot their corporate scumbag bosses have put them in.

“You come into my house,” I go on, glaring down at them with rage boiling in my heart, “And ask me to drag my club through the dirt for your fucking bottom line? We may be outlaws, but we’d never stoop to your level, you pathetic pieces of shit.”

“At least take some time and consider—” Jim starts to say.

“Get the fuck out of my sight,” I roar. I shove Jim roughly into Mike, sending them both sprawling across the dusty floor. “Get out on your own two feet, or we’ll drag you out in body bags. Your choice, fuckers.”

That does it. In a heartbeat, the two men have scrambled to their feet and start to scamper away. Not to be robbed of his due, Brutus grabs each by the scruff of the neck and tosses them unceremoniously through the front door. My brothers cheer, taunting the men as they beat a hasty retreat. But as satisfied as I am to see the fear in their eyes, I’m still too disgusted by their proposal to laugh. The day I let my MC get mixed up in running drugs and young girls for asshole millionaires is the day I hand over my President’s patch.

“Come on, Dev,” Packer says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Forget those assholes.”

“Yeah,” I grumble, running a hand along my scruffy jaw. “Might need to switch to whiskey if I’m gonna wash the taste of that conversation out of my mouth.”

“I’ve got you, Dev,” Xan says from down the bar, brushing his ponytail over his shoulder. He hops up on the length of rough wood and swings his legs over, snatching up a whiskey bottle and lining up a dozen shot glasses. “We could all use a shot, I think.”

“Make mine a double,” Otis says, banging the bar with his fists. “Don’t know what the world is coming to, with men like that showing their faces here.”

My brothers gather around the bar as the handful of sweet butts reappear. They’ve been hiding in the bedrooms we keep in the back of the clubhouse for...recreational purposes. Xan tucks a lock of loose ash blonde hair behind his ear, his pretty boy lips pursed in concentration as he pours out a dozen perfect shots.

“To the Circle of Death,” he says, as we all snatch up a glass, “The most honorable criminals on the East Coast!”

A roar of agreement goes up around the group as we drain our shots as one. Despite my simmering anger, it does my heart good to share a drink with my men. I’ve worked hard to make us bulletproof against the law, and each one of them is as committed to this life as I am. However shitty the world gets, I’m never without backup.

Across the bar, someone brings the jukebox back to life with a swift kick. I turn to see a slender, gorgeous woman leaning over the dusty machine, a brand new case of beer at her feet. She sweeps her curtain of silky black hair over her shoulder, revealing the words stitched across the back of her black leather cut:
Property of Packer
.

“Who killed the tunes?” she calls out across the bar, turning her strikingly beautiful face toward the group.

“Hey babe,” Packer calls, crossing the room to his old lady. “We’ve just been dealing with a rat problem, here. Glad you missed it.”

“I nearly ran over a couple of vermin-looking motherfuckers on my way in,” the woman remarks, planting a hand on her hip. “Should I have finished the job for you boys?”

“Always a team player,” Packer laughs, “That’s why I love you, babe.”

He scoops her up into a firm embrace, planting a searing kiss on her mouth. I shake my head, smiling at the pair. Ever since Jules started hanging around with us in Boston a few years ago, she and Packer have been inseparable. She first came around as a sweet butt, seventeen and looking to rebel a little against her uptight folks. But Packer fell head over heels for her in no time, and made her his old lady the second she turned eighteen—every sweet butt’s dream. She skipped town with us when we returned to our headquarters here in Maine and hasn’t looked back since.

“Now that Jules has decided to grace us with her presence,” I grin, wrangling the group’s attention once more, “I have a proposition of my own that I’d like to run by you all.”

“Not another job already,” Chip groans, “We just got back from the road, Dev!”

“Shut up, Chip,” Dean mutters, elbowing his buddy in the ribs. “Show some respect.”

“It’s not another job I have in mind,” I go on. “Just the opposite. Given how well our last run went, I was wondering what you all might think of a little...vacation.”

A dozen jaws drop all around me at the very mention of the “v” word.

“Dev...we’ve never taken
any
time off,” Lobo points out.

“My point exactly,” I smile, “I’ve been thinking it might be a good idea to get away. Recharge, unwind. Party our fucking faces off.”