Empire of Savages (Savage Hunt MC #1)

3. Nick

Chapter 3

Nick

Freedom.

It was something I’d been chasing for the last five years.

Something I’d been dreaming about while I was caged behind these bars.

But it was in this last week that the drive to get out of these cursed walls had turned the fire in my belly into a raging inferno. Thoughts of revenge were my constant companion.

“Sobolev,” CO Styles called from the front of the pod.

Throwing my winning hand onto the stainless-steel table, the guys seated around it groaned. I rose from the metal seat and walked over to Styles.

“Pack your shit. It’s time to go.”

My revenge stretched out like a cat inside me, digging its claws into my muscles and skin as I walked back to my cell for the last time. My cellie was stretched out on his bunk, his nose buried in a book.

“Is it time?” he asked, lowering the paperback so I could see his eyes.

I’d been bunking with Oklahoma for the last two years. As far as cellies went, he was one of the better ones. When you had to spend twenty hours a day inside a six-by-eight-foot box with a guy, you didn’t need a talker, or an asshole. Luckily for me, Oklahoma was neither of those.

“It’s time.”

Placing his book down, he sat on the edge of his bunk, resting his elbows on his knees. Clasping his hands together, he said, “I hope the next guy isn’t a cunt like you.”

Normally, a statement like that would make me laugh, but since finding out D had been murdered, I’d lost the ability to find humor in any situation. And honestly, if it was anyone else who’d called me a cunt, I would’ve shanked them before I left, but Oklahoma was different. He had my back, just like I had his.

“What are you doing with all your shit?”

I glanced at the stash of food, toiletries, and other random stuff I’d collected along the way. “You keep it.”

Oklahoma got to his feet, holding out his hand to me. I clasped him by the forearm with my free arm and pulled him into my body, thumping him on the back twice.

When I pulled away, I said, “See you on the outside.”

Oklahoma bobbed his head. “Only two more years.”

Sliding my folded-up mattress from my bunk, I left my cell—then C-pod—without a backward glance. Styles was waiting outside the pod door, one hand hitched on his hip and the other jiggling a set of cuffs.

“Dump that shit on the ground there,” he told me, indicating a length of wall in the hall. I dropped the mattress unceremoniously and turned to him, holding my wrists out with a dark look. Styles eyed me warily, indicating for me to put my hands behind my back instead before clicking home the cuffs.

He turned me back around. “You aren’t thinking of doing something stupid, are you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play fucking dumb with me,” he snapped, tapping the solid metal door and shoving his face into the small window and in the sight line of the guard on the other side. The heavy metal bolt slid across, the echo of it rattling around in my brain and making my pulse jump. It was the sound of fucking freedom, and I was more than ready to breathe in air that didn’t stink of sweat, piss, and shit.

With his hand wrapped around my upper arm, he guided me through the door and into a long hall. A, B, D, and E pods fed off the same long stretch of painted concrete floor, and the shouts of those inmates rebounded off the walls.

“Remember our deal, Sobolev,” Styles said under his breath. “Get Rixon the message.”

“You want more compensation. I get it.” The greedy fuck. “I’ll tell him.”

Styles’s fingers tightened where he gripped my upper arm. “Don’t forget. If you and your club want the protection inside, you need to pay for it. Want to know how much I had to spend to get that shanking incident to go away? Or all the brawls you started in the chow hall. And don’t even get me started on the smuggling of contraband into the prison.”

I strained against the pull of the cuffs. It would be the last time I had them on, though. “I didn’t hear you complaining when we lined your pockets from our exploits.”

“And if they want to keep my loyalty, my silence , they will continue to reward me, but much, much better.” Styles hiked his pants up over his gut, feeling good about his sudden backbone.

I’d be telling Rixon all about Styles’s demands, but not in the way Styles assumed I would. There were plenty of other guards out there who would jump at the chance to earn extra cash.

When we reached the end of the hallway, I was led straight into processing where I was told to strip out of the orange jumpsuit that had been my life for the past five years, and I put back on the clothes I’d been processed in. The Henley was tighter across my chest than it had been before, the jeans snugger across my thighs. I was carrying all that time spent in the yard well.

After signing on the dotted line, I was escorted to the exit where I stepped out into the Michigan sun for the first time without the shadow of bars falling over my face. Inhaling deeply, all I could smell was fresh air.

“You going to stand there all day, or what?” a deep voice called from ten yards away.

Turning my head, I saw Gunnar standing beside his 1965 Shelby Mustang GT350 Tribute. That car was his pride and fucking joy, and I was relieved to see that not much had changed in that department.

As I approached my club brother, I saw movement from inside the Mustang. On instinct, I reached around to the small of my back, grasping nothing but air. Gunnar noticed.

“Good to see your instincts are still sharp.” With a nod, he opened the passenger door of the car and stood back. A large, muscular red-and-white dog leaped out, coming to heel at Gunnar’s side. My best friend reached down and scratched behind its ear.

“You got a dog?”

Gunnar looked down, then back to me. “No. He’s yours.”

“The fuck?”

“He was D’s. He got him a few weeks after you went inside. His name’s Lucifer.”

I let my gaze drift down to the mutt. He was stacked with muscles. His ears had been razored too, making him look mean as hell.

“I don’t want a goddamned dog,” I said.

Gunnar laughed. “It’s funny to think you have a fucking choice. Quit your bitching and get in.”

Ignoring Lucifer, I got into the passenger seat and slammed the door. With a shake of his head, Gunnar whistled for Lucifer to follow him around to the other side, where he let him into the back seat. Lucifer’s deep—and hot—breaths filled the space.

Jesus. It was like being back with Oklahoma in our cell.

“Don’t like the dog?” Gunnar asked, turning over the engine.

“I don’t need to like the dog.”

He grunted. “Maybe you’ll like the other surprise better then.”

I didn’t ask what other surprise he was talking about. I didn’t want to know. All I wanted was to start hunting down my brother’s murderer so I could put them into their own grave. It wasn’t going to be a slow death either. A simple gunshot wasn’t going to be enough pain and suffering for them. Oh, no. What I had planned was going to be dragged out. Agonizing. Torturous.

Clearing my throat, I asked the question I hadn’t wanted to consider while I was inside. There was simply too much pain attached to the answer. “How was the funeral?”

From my periphery, I saw Gunnar glance over at me. “It was nice, Nick. The whole club turned out for it. D’s med school buddies were there, too. His girlfriend was messed up though. Couldn’t stop wailing.”

Pressing my lips into a line, I kept my own howl of pain from escaping. I should’ve been there. I should’ve been the one to comfort Isla. Her and Dimitri had been together since their freshman year of college. Like I said, D was better in all ways—better than I could ever be. It didn’t stop him from loving me, though. The fuck up. The criminal. The motorcycle club member with a chip on his shoulder—that motherfucking thing had grown since I went inside and had become ever bigger since I was told of Dimitri’s death.

A large white paw landed on my forearm where it rested on the center console. I glared at the dog in the back seat before pulling my arm away.

“Why didn’t she take the mutt?” I muttered.

Gunnar’s brows rose. “She said D was always saying how much you’d like him. Having a dog of your own, that is. Said you always wanted one just like that when you were kids, but your mom was allergic.”

My eyes stung. Rubbing at them, I tried to erase any signs of the tears that had welled. D was dead. There was nothing I could do about it now. But I could bring him justice, and I would burn down the entire world to get that for him.

“I don’t want him,” I was finally able to say without sounding like my heart was being wrenched in two. Trust D to find a way to make my pain worse from beyond the grave. Keeping Lucifer would be that constant reminder that my brother was gone, and I wanted to forget that he was murdered. Pretense was far kinder than the agony of knowing I wouldn’t be able to see him anymore.

Instead of dwelling on the ache behind my ribcage, I watched Detroit pass by my window. Five years was a long time to be away, but it wasn’t the kind of city to change too much. That was especially true of the area the clubhouse inhabited. River Rouge was an industrial hub on the south-western side of the city. Small industrial buildings and supply stores lined the pavement. Some were a little more worn than others, but there weren’t any new buildings or businesses.

Gunnar took the turn onto Oakwood—the street that I’d been pulled over on that day five years ago. Regret and anger at being so fucking stupid breathed down my neck, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. If I hadn’t been caught carrying the firepower I was, I would’ve still been here. Maybe I could’ve saved D.

“Why are we taking the fucking scenic route?”

My best friend shrugged. “Thought you’d want to see what’s changed and what’s stayed the same since you went inside.”

I could tell him what had changed. Everything. My whole world had tilted on its goddamned axis when Dimitri died.

Gunnar navigated the streets easily, one hand on the wheel, the other stretched out the open window. Lucifer panted hard in the back, the sound grating on my nerves. I had to endure that for another fifteen minutes before Gunnar pulled up to the gate of the clubhouse.

There was a chain-link fence all the way around the perimeter of the property. A guy I didn’t recognize dragged open the gate, waiting for Gunnar to pull through. I stared at the stranger as we passed. Dark hair cropped close to his head. Dark eyes.

“Who the fuck are you?” I asked him.

He startled, then said, “Marco.”

My eyes narrowed. “Marco, what ?”

“De Luca.”

Gunnar rolled into a space in front of the clubhouse. “We got some new blood in while you were away. Marco is one of them. He might not look like he belongs here, but he does good work. Rixon is happy with how he’s progressing and assimilating into the club.”

Change always set off alarm bells for prisoners, and I was unhappy to say that I had become somewhat institutionalized while I was away. I didn’t like seeing new faces around the club. I wanted the comfort of familiarity. Too fucking bad for me. I’d told Rixon not to contact me for any reason while I was away. I didn’t want to know about things that were outside my control, including prospects, patching members, or any of our business dealings.

Gunnar got out of the car first, taking the mutt with him, but I took a moment to look up at the red-brick building. I’d missed this place. It was my home. I’d returned, but I wasn’t stupid enough to think that everything would be plain sailing. I’d have to adjust— again —to my new normal. At least I didn’t have to share my space with anyone anymore.

Exiting the car, I stretched out to my full height and slammed the door shut behind me. Gunnar was already inside, where I could hear music blaring. It was only ten in the morning, but somehow, that didn’t stop some people from partying. Walking inside was strange. The scents of stale beer and sex were still there, but something was different. A tension of some kind. Or maybe it was me. I was strung tight after always having to watch my back in prison.

Coming out of the short hall, I stepped into the main bar area of the clubhouse. Directly in front of me were two pool tables with worn green felt. The cues were stacked in their holders on the wall to my left, ashtrays and empty beer cans littering the railing that ran around the perimeter of the room. I moved deeper into the space, finding a couple of members sitting on the couches, watching one of the club girls dance for them. They both acknowledged me with a chin lift, then went back to eye fucking the woman.

Above the couch was the Dead Wall—the space we saved for any defectors or rival club members’ cuts once they were stripped of them. There were only three—all hanging upside down to show them the ultimate disrespect. One had belonged to a Hunt member called Harold Prince, who had been excommunicated from Church, then killed for talking to the cops about club business. The other two were the cuts from members of the Devil’s Chaos that had been taken over a decade before.

On the opposite side of the room was the bar, the shelves behind it stocked with premium liquor while the fridges beneath held beer. Gunnar was standing behind it, cracking open two beers and placing one onto the scarred countertop. He held up the other one and tilted it in my direction.

“The party will be later tonight, but a man should have a beer after getting out of prison.”

Giving the mutt a wide berth as I passed him, I took the bottle and emptied it in three gulps. Fuck, I’d missed alcohol. Gunnar smirked at me over the lip of his bottle as he took one sip, then placed it back onto the counter.

“Where’s Rixon?” I asked.

“In his office. Waiting for you.”

Through the door at the back of the room, I entered another long hallway. Going left would take me to my room, and all the other rooms of the single members of the MC. Going right, however, would take me to Rixon’s office and to Church.

I found my club’s president sitting behind his desk, round glasses perched on his nose. He’d gone a little grayer since I was away, making him look like he was in his mid-fifties rather than mid-forties.

“Son,” he said, standing and rounding the desk. Holding out his hand to me, he pulled me into his body and smacked me on the shoulder. The embrace lasted less than three seconds, but for me, it was a lifetime. Rixon had become a father figure to me since my own father had defected back to Russia when D and I were only ten.

“It’s good to have you back home again.”

“It’s good to be back.”

He held me at arm’s length by the shoulders, his chunky, gold rings filling all his fingers now. His wife, Molly, gave him a new one for each anniversary they shared. “Did Styles do right by you?”

“He did, but the motherfucker threatened to stop being so attentive in the future if he wasn’t paid more.”

“That motherfucking cunt,” Rixon muttered. “I’ll take care of that. Did he do anything to help get you out for your brother’s funeral?”

Had he? I didn’t know. I’d fucking blanked out after I was told.

“I am sorry about Dimitri, son,” Rixon said, taking my silence as all the answer he needed. “We all attended his funeral. Molly arranged everything. Made sure he was put to rest right.”

I nodded, any words I may have wanted to say suddenly getting locked in my throat like a vise.

“Gunnar wanted to have a party for you tonight, but tomorrow, we’re going to start chasing down who did this to him.”

His words made hope flare behind my sternum. “You have a lead?”

Rixon frowned. “Gunnar didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Prez sighed, and for the first time, I noticed how tired he sounded. “We haven’t been able to find anything. By all accounts, it looks like a random attack.”

If that were true, then D had been on the receiving end of some random fucking luck.

“You knew your brother better. Did he have any enemies?”

“No.” My voice sounded hollow. “He was a med school student. What kind of enemies could he possibly have?”

“He was targeted for a reason. At least, that’s what makes the most sense.” Rixon seemed to be deep in thought for a moment. “You were identical twins. Could it have been a case of mistaken identity?”

“The thought had entered my mind, but I hadn’t wanted to give it any credence.”

He sat back in his chair, his cut creaking with the movement. I stared at the “President” patch on the right side of his chest. Rixon had been president for the last decade. The role was starting to show. Under the previous president—when I was still a prospect—the Hunt had been involved in the manufacturing and distribution of heroin. Rixon had wanted the Hunt out of narcotics, and when the old president had been killed in a road accident, he took over, cleaning up the club’s image and getting out of the hardcore drug production and into more legal ventures like restaurants and construction.

“Gunnar has taken the lead on this. You two will work together.”

I nodded. Having Gunnar by my side was good. There was no other man or club brother I trusted more.

“We have Church in an hour. I suggest you get cleaned up.”