Cottage Grove, Minnesota
Cane, the president of the Blood Angels, pounded the gavel against the table, frustrated with the twelve club members seated before him.
Silence filled the room.
He lit up a cigarette while they waited for him to speak. The guys had been arguing about what to do with the newly patched-over Gold Vipers of St. Paul, formerly Steel Bandits. Cane knew they weren’t going to like what he was about to say. But, there was a reason why he was president and they weren’t—they all acted on emotions, and that’s why they were in their current position. “This is what we’re going to do, brothers. Ab-so-fucking-lutely nothing.”
They all stared at him in confusion.
“What do you mean, nothing?” grumbled Dice, staring at Cane in disbelief.
“They’re looking for a fight,” said Cane. “And as much as I’d like to meet those douchebags head-on, they’ve got the backing of the Gold Vipers. It would be suicide to have a face-off right now.”
“Those fuckers killed Charlie and ruined my bachelor party,” mumbled Jet, the V.P.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the police showed up and he’d ended up in jail because of some shitty, outstanding parking tickets. Luckily, they’d been able to hide Charlie’s body, preferring to avenge his death without the law. As for Charlie, he was at the bottom of the St. Croix River, near a place dubbed “Beer-Can Island.” It had been his favorite place to party during the summer. It only seemed right that it would be his final resting place.
“Yeah, and we retaliated by killing their president and his old lady,” reminded Cane. “Obviously, we have a lot of people pissed off at us right now, so we need to be careful.”
“Fuck everyone else. I want Phoenix’s blood,” replied Jet, cracking his knuckles. “If I have to, I’ll even make it look like an accident.”
“You’ll get your chance,” said Cane. “First things first, though. We need to get the word out on the streets that we’ve moved our clubhouse somewhere out of town. That will give us a little breathing room.”
Currently, they were using an old farmhouse in Cottage Grove, ironically less than thirty minutes away from the Gold Vipers’ clubhouse. It was Cane’s Aunt Beatrice’s place, and she was currently in a nursing home. They’d donated most of her furniture, using her living room for their meeting place. As for the rest of the house, some of the members were living there, while others were staying with friends and family. Since they’d assassinated Tom and his wife, none of them could show their faces without risking retaliation. It was a frustrating time for everyone.
“And then?” asked Jet, tapping his fingers on the table and looking annoyed.
Cane smiled slowly. “We rip them apart. From the inside.”
“What do you mean?” Dice asked, perking up.
“We frame the new VP, Tarot, and cause a lot of fucking chaos. That’s what we do,” he replied. “Not only will it affect the club, but Tank’s going to regret patching the Steel Bandits over by the time we’re done with them. From what I hear, he and Tarot are pretty close. He’ll stand by his side, even when the shit hits the fan.”
Tank was the president of the Gold Vipers, Iowa Chapter. They weren’t anyone to mess around with.
“Tarot?” said Dice. “I thought his name was Dom?”
“It is. Tarot is his road name,” smirked Cane. “Apparently, he’s psychic. In other words, he’s a fruit-loop and won’t be much of a threat.”
Most of the others laughed.
“I heard he really does know things,” said Boomer, looking around. “Things he shouldn’t.”
“I bet if he read your palm, he’d tell you that you were gullible as shit,” joked Dice, lighting a cigarette.
“Mock me all you want. I’ve read books about psychics and have watched television shows,” said Boomer. “You guys see that Long Island Medium series?”
Dice snorted. “Shit on television isn’t real.”
“It’s reality TV,” replied Boomer.
“Oh, then it must be real,” mocked one of the other members.
Boomer flipped him off.
“Boomer, if Tarot really knew what we have in store for those fuckers, he wouldn’t be with them,” said Jet.
Boomer was about to reply when Cane cut him off. “Enough about this psychic mumbo-jumbo. These guys are going down, and believe me—”he looked around the table—
“nobody is going to know what the fuck is going on. Especially Tarot.”
Dice blew out a cloud of smoke. “How are you going to frame him?”
“I’m glad you asked.” With a twinkle in his eyes, Cane pulled out his cell phone and sent out a text. A few seconds later, the door opened and a man entered the room.
“No… fucking… way,” said Dice, doing a double-take.
The stranger could have been Tarot’s twin brother, only a little taller and with sharper features. Other than that, the resemblance was remarkable.
“Brothers, this is Blade. A nomad from Florida. He’s going to help us in our little endeavor,” said Cane with a satisfied grin.