Dex was surprised this was news to the kid. Then again, he’d been a prospect back then, so not privy to chapel discussions about it—or, apparently, gossip. Also, the idea that these fools were now trying to establish an MC on the back of that misguided career pathwaspretty surprising.
“Let’s be clear,” Maverick said. “It’s stupid as fuck, and they need to be made to understand that. If it’s bikers, it should be us, regardless of whether we still owe the Hounds for Jay.”
“We’re not the patron saints of bikers,” Gunner said. “We’re not responsible for every douche who buys a kutte from the Harley shop.”
“I don’t know …” Jazz entered the conversation. “I mean, we stop for a biker in trouble. We form up with other bikers on the road. It’s the code, right? There’s supposed to be a brotherhood among us all, right?” Most of the men at the table nodded. “So shouldn’t that mean we gather the fuckheads and put them straight?”
“I don’t know if I want to play daddy to every asshole on a Kawasaki,” Zach said, “but if these assholes, this new ‘MC,’ are connected to the assholes who nearly killed Jake? I’m down for putting them straight. And I fucking hope there will be blood when we do.”
“Anybody else got something to say?” Eight asked. When no one piped up, he said, “Then let’s vote it. All those in favor of helping the Hounds out and figuring out what these assholes are up to, say aye. Aye.”
“Aye,” Maverick said, as did every patch around the table. Dex was the last to vote. He wasn’t sure what he really thought about the situation. He didn’t like getting assignments from another crew, but the alliance with the Hounds kept Tulsa quiet and gave them a lot of cover for the work they did. He didn’t relish starting a fight while he was still recovering from the last one, either, but if things went right, he wouldn’t be getting hit back.
“Aye.”
“Okay. Good. Let’s talk strategy.”
“Does this new MC have a name?” Simon asked. “I mean, are they actually wearing colors?”
Apollo grinned. “Hade’s Army.” He opened his tablet, swiped around on it, and the projector in their ceiling turned on. After a few seconds a light shone on the white space on the far wall. Another second later, a Facebook page filled that white space. The cover photo was a terrible shot, so pixelated it was impossible to make out faces, but it was a line of seven men, dressed all in black, standing behind a long blue banner with black letters spelling out HADE’S ARMY. Apostrophe before the ‘S’. The profile photo was apparently of their patch—a skull with a tower of blue flame on top. The club name there also had the apostrophe in the wrong place.
If that was supposed to be Hades, they’d gone with the Disney version for inspiration. What fucking scrubs.
“Is that … is that … the guy fromHercules?” Jazz asked. “The Disney movie Theo has to watch five times a day?”
“Sure the fuck looks like it,” Fitz answered. Just about everyone at the table laughed.
“And is it Hades?” Gargoyle asked. “Or is there some guy named Hade who’s got an army?”
Still chuckling, Gunner leaned in. “I say we send Chris out on his own. The kid’ll wipe the floor with these pussies and still be clean enough to go home and hug his mama.”
Chris—Christian—was their prospect. A good kid, if a little naïve. And a mama’s boy, yes. Gunner’s joke, which they all thought was funny enough for a laugh, was that it wouldn’t be much to put these fools in their place.
“Y’all are missing the most important thing,” Eight said. “Take a look at that patch again. Look real close.”
Everybody looked very closely. Dex didn’t know if he was the first one to see it, but he was the first to say it out loud. “Jesus. They’re sporting a rocker.”
Eight nodded. “Indeed they are. Oklahoma, right there under their stupid fucking patch.”
There were some MCers, like one-percenters, who’d tell you there was nothing more important on a man’s kutte than the bottom rocker. Not even the club name. The bottom rocker declared an MC’s territory. It was the MC version of wolves pissing on trees and rocks.
The entire state of Oklahoma was the Bulls’ fucking rock.
Other crews worked Oklahoma. They were allied, or at least at peace with several different outlaw groups, from the Hounds, to a couple Native-centered crews, to a Chicano gang that called itself the Kendall Independents and basically acted like the security force for their small Tulsa neighborhood and a support crew for both the Bulls and the Hounds. But none of those crews were bikers.
The Bulls were the only MC in Oklahoma. Full fucking stop.
“Motherfuckers,” Gunner muttered, still grinning, though it had developed serrated edges and looked more like a snarl. “We gotta make them eat those fucking rockers.”
“The guys who nearly did Jay were with these assholes,” Zach pointed out.
“I am really fucking sick of that shit getting brought up,” JJ groused.
Gunner’s grin had evolved into a full-on snarl. “Suck it up, princess. You played, you pay. As long as we say.”
Eight rolled his eyes. “Shit, Gun’s spewing poetry now. Let’s get back on track before he pulls out a beret and a pack of clove cigarettes.” When the table settled again, he continued, “The rockers will be dealt with, but it doesn’t change this job. Like I said, first thing’s just recon. We need to get eyeballs on their clubhouse, if they have one, their business, their habits. I want the full scope of the shit they’re pulling so we know where and when to hit ‘em and with what.”
He turned to Maverick, and then to Dex. The sly smirk that emerged on his face made Dex’s spine twitch. “Mav, Dex, I’m thinking you two go see what’s what. Seems like you’d appreciate a chance to work together.”