Nomad

By Aaron S Gallagher

Sometimes you've got it coming.

That's what the townspeople of Huachuca, Arizona said after the local chapter of the Reapers Motorcycle Club was massacred. More than thirty people- patched members, prospects, wives, and girlfriends- left to die in the summer sun of Arizona in 1966.

Joshua 'Nomad' Callaghan rolls into nearby Jericho five years later. A Reaper without a home, a man with a grim past and an uncertain future. Fiercely devoted to his club, Nomad longs for a permanent home, brothers to count on, and an end to his wandering.

As he digs into the Huachuca slaughter, the few clues he finds only deepen the puzzle. An entire chapter gone. No answers, no leads. Whether it was revenge, retribution, or simply bad luck, in Nomad's mind it's only one thing: unforgivable.

Sometimes you've got it coming.

And sometimes you are what's coming.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indies United Publishing House, LLC
• Release date: Jun 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644560419

Aaron S Gallagher

Aaron S Gallagher was born in Syracuse, New York and currently resides in Leander, Texas with his long-suffering wife, three rowdy teenagers, and a thoroughly indifferent cat. His writing career began at a young age after he annexed an old mechanical typewriter from his mother.His work has appeared in Analog Science Fiction & Fact, Ares Magazine, and Escape Pod. He has received both a semi-finalist and honorable mention in the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future contest. His previous novel, The Mercer Street Murder, won the Book Talk Radio Club Award for Best in Crime Fiction 2018. In between haranguing magazine editors he also wrote 17 books and refuses to stop. His genres include crime fiction, science fiction, and drama.He prefers to read deep stories populated with characters that develop and breathe on their own, and endeavors to write the same. His goal is to create new worlds, compelling characters, and to bring something unique into the world.

Book preview

PART ONE:

NOMAD

Chapter One

Before his wheel lurched sideways, he was admiring the sunset. One moment marveling at the burst of color from behind mesas and towering spires of rock, the next his front wheel sliding sideways. The Monster slid to the edge of the curve and off into the gravel and rock lining the highway, flipping him into the air like a dog shaking water from its back.

He catapulted sideways, his arms and legs flung wide. He heard with perfect clarity the sound of his bike nosing it and rolling. And then he impacted.

As far as wipes went it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. He was a city dweller, had been most of his life, and crashing down on the relative cushion of Arizona’s hard-packed sand was preferable to skidding along eighty feet of concrete. The impact drove the breath from his body and his head rocked as his helmet bounced off a rock. He rolled like a tumbleweed trying to keep his arms wrapped around his chest. As his velocity slowed, he flung them out and skidded to a halt flat on his back.

He thumped his chest to try and get his wind back. Finally, whatever frozen mechanism lay within him thawed and he took great gulping, gasping breaths. Then the pain settled in.

Instant aching everywhere, elbows and knees screaming. His neck felt torqued. He tasted blood from a bitten tongue. He clawed at the helmet strap, fingers clumsy in the gloves. He shoved at it with both hands, freeing his face to the gentle, warm Arizona winds. He lay panting as he took stock. Nothing seemed broken. He’d gotten lucky yet again. The leather that covered him from head to toe did another fine job of protecting his fragile person from the consequences of fucking up.

And that’s what it had happened. He’d fucked it up. Sand was worse than ice, twice as prevalent, and had killed more riders than he’d ever met in his life. One second’s all it takes. You let your concentration waver, and you’re gonna end up rolled, ratty, and wrecked.

He rolled over and heaved himself up on his elbows. The Monster still ran fitfully, but he could tell it was wounded. Cursing, he dragged himself to a staggering upright stance, and then bent at the waist, hands on his knees, and he threw up.

After wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket he staggered to the coughing, spitting heap of his bike. He didn’t want to kill it if he didn’t have to; it might not start again. He grabbed the handlebars and heaved, thrusting the heavy machine upright. The motor sputtered and gagged. The bike bucked and he clamped the brake. The engine died with a rattle. He looked up and down the stretch of highway. The early afternoon was clear and bright, but the gold edge to the sunlight told him that night was on its way and here he was still six or seven miles outside of town. He threw his weight against the bike, grunting as he shoved the now-dead bulk through the sand toward the paved road.

Joshua heaved the machine onto solid pavement. He dropped the stand and stood with his hands on his knees, panting. Eventually his head stopped spinning and he stood up. Time to assess the damage.

The Monster was unlovely, utilitarian and, in his mind at least, pure. No full dresser for him. He had bought it as a basket case, spending a month piecing it together and another month of frustrated, aborted rides tweaking and tuning it. It was a struggle keeping the Monster running, the way of it with all Harleys. They were good-looking, good-sounding, and had real bones in their build- but they were temperamental as five-year-olds, breaking down about as often.

He found a new scrape along the oversized gas tank, but the tank itself was intact and wasn’t leaking. The rubber on the right grip was rubbed clean to the bare metal of the grip, but that was an easy fix. He checked the basics: chain was still good. Rims didn’t seem bent. The fork was still true. There was no smell of gas. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the linkage or clutch.

He straddled the bike. He dropped the starter peg, which he’d extended by four inches with a piece of scavenged tungsten for better leverage. He had scarred the tungsten into a rough, toothy grip. His big black boot bit solidly and he heaved himself into the air, kicking hard with his right leg. The machine roared, sputtered, and died. Not a defeat, but neither was it a victory. He knew that sound.

Dismounting, he crouched and followed the wiring down. Sure enough. The spark plug wire was attached to the top of the plug, but the plug itself had snapped in half. He rummaged in the saddle bag for a pair of pliers, plucking the broken end from the wire cap. He managed to unscrew the plug and he bent over the bike to check the other side of his saddle bag, where he kept his spare parts. He checked and rechecked.

Shit, he muttered. A can of oil, several spools of wire, even a new set of points, but no spare plug.

He sat back on his heels and eyed the Monster. He was certain he’d packed the most common parts for the trip- wait. No, when he’d given the bike a tune-up last week he’d made a mental note to replace the supplies. He hadn’t. His own damned fault. He groped in the bag again, tugging the two spools of wire out. Too small a gauge. He walked along the edge of the road for almost half a mile before crossing back. He passed the bike and continued along the shoulder. A half mile and back. He almost reached the bike when he spied something in the dirt. He scraped the stiff sand away and retrieved a rusted coat hanger from the hard-pack along the roadside. He grinned and pulled it out of shape as he hurried back to the bike. As the sun began to duck toward the distant horizon, he used his pliers to snap the hook and twist from the coat hanger. He straightened the wire, measured off five or six inches, and gripped the wire in the teeth of the pliers, bending it back and forth rapidly until it snapped. He set about forcing the wire into the sparkplug seat. It wasn’t recommended and it wasn’t safe, but it might hold long enough for him to keep the bike running, at least until he got all the way into town. He had the wire solidly into place and slipped the rubber-capped clamp over the exposed end, crimping it into place on the wire with the pliers. He stowed the pliers, remounted the bike, and kicked it hard.

The engine roared and complained, and it ran rough as an unpaved road- but it ran. After donning his helmet, replete with fresh scratches along the sides and back, he pulled the bike upright. He folded the stand back and put it into low gear. He twisted the throttle.

The Monster’s engine sounded like a string of firecrackers inside a garbage can, but it stayed lit. He eased off the clutch and the bike lurched, alive again despite the long odds. He managed to coax thirty miles an hour out of the angry and bitterly resentful machine, but it got him all the way to the town he’d first seen when he came down out of the high country. It wasn’t the best way to finish, but he was riding again and that was important. It was all that ever mattered. Forty minutes later the desert ended and the town began.

Finally he had reached Jericho.

Chapter Two

The gas station at the edge of Jericho was flaked red paint and sun-scoured beige stucco shaped like a shoebox. The faded sign on its rust-pitted pole proclaimed it to be the 5top-N-Gas, Open 6AM to 8pM Everday. The pumps were the oldest pumps he’d ever seen, the kind with glass bulbs at the top where your gas was gravity-fed into your tank after being hand-cracked up from below the ground. He pulled the Monster up next to the garage and shut it down. He rested the bike on its stand and dismounted.

The ruckus he’d brought with him had roused the station owner, who came out of the darkness of the single-bay garage with a red rag in his hands and a skeptical look on his face. He was a type Joshua knew from a thousand stations across the country. The greasy blue-gray coveralls, the short messy hair, the smudge of black on his cheek. He was rail-thin and his eyes bulged a little. He had tanned skin, though, and his hands were horny with thick callous. He gave the bike a glance and seemed to know everything about it when he did. He turned that gaze to his new customer.

Six feet, or a shade under. Narrow but not skinny. Heavy black boots, faded blue jeans covered in road dust, spatters of paint and oil, a thick black belt, a sun-faded black leather riding jacket, a denim vest over that with a handful of fabric patches on it, a closed, wary face with fine features and a brutal brow, and long black hair. They stared at one another and the mechanic nodded. Aft’noon, he said.

You, too, Joshua agreed. The mechanic wasn’t wary, wasn’t worried. Joshua could tell he was familiar with bikers by his open, easy attitude, which made sense. Jericho had bikers aplenty.

Trouble, I guess, the mechanic said.

Some, Joshua agreed. Flipped it eight miles back. Nothing heavy, but I broke a plug. You got replacements?

The mechanic nodded amiably. Prolly fix you up. Got a brand?

Whatever’s on special’s my brand, Joshua said. Long as I don’t have to choose between parts and food.

The mechanic grinned. One of his front teeth was broken in a crooked diagonal. I bet I can fix you up without breaking the bank. How’d you get ‘er running?

Joshua beckoned. The mechanic ambled closer, and Joshua pointed. Found an old coat hanger and jumped it.

That’d do it, the mechanic agreed. Pretty clever. Ain’t seen that trick.

Do what you gotta, right? Joshua asked.

Damned right. Lemme see what I got in stock. Bathroom’s around the side there. Unlocked. And there’s Co’colas in the front room in the cooler. Make yourself at home, the mechanic offered.

Joshua eyed him. Thanks for the hospitality.

Anything for a Reaper, the mechanic said, disappearing into the blackness of the bay. Joshua brushed himself off and ambled around the corner. After the toilet he availed himself of the sink and mirror, using tepid, flat-tasting water to refresh himself and wash his hands and face. He ran his hands through his hair, and the road dust, oil, and grime of several days’ road caused it to stay plastered back. He came out of the bathroom and ducked into the office of the station, pulling the heavy door on the faded cooler open. He grabbed two long neck bottles of Coke and shut it. He found his way back to the bike, noting the spark plug boxes on the ground beside the bike, next to the tools he’d need. The mechanic stood beside the bike. He hadn’t touched it. He knew better. Joshua handed one of the Cokes to the man, who nodded his thanks. They twisted the tops off.

Joshua, Joshua introduced himself, extending a hand. The mechanic gripped it and shook with him.

Jerry, he said.

Nice to meet you, Jerry, Joshua said.

Likewise.

They touched the bottles together with a muted clink and each took a long pull. The icy drink burned as Joshua swallowed. He exhaled.

That’s good, he said.

Long ride? Jerry asked.

Five days. Last two sleeping wild. Down from the Dakotas, Joshua said.

That’s a lotta road, Jerry said.

It is.

They drank in companionable silence, and then Joshua squatted next to his bike. He swapped out the plugs. After starting the Monster and listening to the engine smooth, he nodded to himself and killed it. Wiping his hands on a rag, he asked, What do I owe you?

Jerry shrugged. I can stand you the cost of a couple’a plugs no problem, amigo.

Why?

Jerry pointed to his vest. Why d’ya think? You’re a Reaper. Reapers get discounts.

Joshua shook his head. I’m a Reaper, but this isn’t my home base. I’m between cities right now. Went nomad earlier this year.

I could tell, Jerry said, pointing to the patch on the left breast of Joshua’s denim cut-off vest. The flash read Nomad. Joshua didn’t correct him. On the right breast a small ribbon read Reapers and below that another read nomad, indicating his current chapter status. The left flash was a handle patch, what full members called him. His true name.

I’m not from here, you still wanna give me a discount? Joshua asked.

Jerry didn’t give it much thought. Ain’t worried about the partic’lars, he said. Reapers take care of those who watch out for ‘em.

Joshua dug a couple of bills out of his front pocket and held them out. I appreciate it. I pay my way.

Jerry grimaced but took the bills. Fair enough, he said. You need a fill-up too?

Might as well, Joshua said. I’m running pretty close to empty.

Not a lot of stations back the way you came, Jerry noted. I’m one of three in town. Other two ain’t so fair with the club as I am. Fair warnin’.

Joshua nodded and walked the Monster over to the pump. He hand-cranked the bulb at the top full of gasoline and pulled the cap from his tank. He pulled the trigger, listening to the chime of the ancient, rusted bell as it counted off. He finished and replaced the nozzle. Tightening the gas cap, he asked, What do I owe you for the gas?

Jerry examined the pump and said, Looks like… oh, call it four bucks even.

Joshua peeled off a five and handed it to the mechanic. Keep it.

Obliged, Jerry said.

Where can I find the clubhouse? Joshua asked.

Other side of town, Jerry told him. Follow Main all the way through, make a right on Olive Branch. Can’t miss it. It’s the one looks like a goddamned fortress.

’Olive Branch’, Joshua repeated. Thanks.

Sure. Won’t do no good, though, Jerry said.

Why not?

Ain’t there. It’s after five. No one’s gonna be there now, man, Jerry explained.

Joshua waited.

Jerry grinned. There’s a roadhouse on the other side’a town, about a mile past the last house on Main. Ruby’s. You can’t miss that’n either. You’ll see ‘em from way off.

Joshua nodded. All right. Straight through. Ruby’s.

That’ll getcha there, all right, Jerry said. He stuck out a hand and they shook.

Welcome to Jericho. Pleased to meetcha, Jerry said.

Likewise, Joshua said. He put his helmet on and kicked the bike to life. The rumble of the engine comforted him. The bubbling purr was much closer to the voice with which he was so familiar. He gave the Monster some throttle and rolled to the road. There was no traffic, and no street lights. He flicked on the headlight and roared onto the main street of Jericho.

The town was bigger than it looked, with businesses and signs lining Main Street for two miles. The long stretch of road ran west to east, and the sun disappeared behind him. The stoplights were flashing; it was after five o’clock. The huge square in the center of town forced all the traffic to cut around the ancient stone courthouse. He examined each business and storefront as he passed, rolling sedately through the bucolic town.

He rolled past three parked police cars that sat in front of a single-story police station across from the courthouse. Benches lined the sidewalks and there were a few pedestrians on their way to wherever it was normal people went at night. He didn’t know. He never had been normal.

Past the town square and beyond, the businesses began to thin, and the storefronts seemed shabbier. The side streets were long and seemed to stretch away into the distance. As he rolled through Jericho, he passed Olive Branch. It was almost a mile long, and he saw a cul-de-sac at the end and a large stone wall. He kept driving. He came out the other side of town and passed the town limit sign. Now leaving Jericho, it said. You’ll miss it before long, it promised.

He didn’t know about that, but he had liked the feel of the tiny, quaint town. Smaller than Oakland, and it gave him a pleasant vibe.

Lights ahead told him he’d found Ruby’s. Jerry had been right; even if he hadn’t known Jericho was a chapter home, the Armada would have clued him.

Ruby’s Roadhouse was a squat, square building painted dark blue with white trim. There were a couple of wide windows set into the front and none anywhere else along the length. The parking lot was gravel and seemed to be twice the size of the building itself. The face of the building and the side Joshua could see were lined with bikes. Twenty, maybe twenty-five bikes in all, in two groups. One section was tight-packed, even, and seemed precise. The club’s bikes. The second section was more haphazard. Friends, likely, or hangers-on. Maybe just a passing group of travelers. There were people standing out in front of the bar and they all turned to watch him as the sound of his bike came to them. Prospects, he thought. Guard duty.

He pulled off the road onto the gravel, taking care not to slide. He stopped a fair distance from the line of bikes, dropped his stand, and eased the Monster over. He shut down the engine and removed his helmet, hanging it on the throttle grip. He walked toward the entrance. The handful of men standing to either side of the double doors came upright and moved to intercept him.

Joshua read their cuts with a glance. His hunch had been correct. They were all prospects. As he read the ribbons he straightened, squaring his shoulders. Strangers or not, locals or not, prospects weren’t people. He didn’t slow down until they stepped between him and the door.

Ease down there, Speed Racer, one of them said. He was all of five feet tall, and he was thinner than a street dog. "Where do you think you’re going?"

Joshua gave him a level stare but didn’t say a thing. One of the prospects shifted to the right, angling behind Joshua.

He didn’t hesitate. That wasn’t his style. Joshua grabbed the vest in front of him and jerked him into a swiftly-raised knee. A sodden thump resounded and the prospect lost his air a burst of expressed breath.

Joshua dropped him, letting the prospect fall to the gravel. He grabbed a handful of the shirt of prospect two on his right. He jerked that one face-to-face and growled, Two choices, hopeful. Start licking the dirt or go get the Prez. Three seconds, dipshit.

Prospect two blinked and then threw a right. Joshua canted his head, ducking it down to his hunched shoulder. The punch bounced off the muscle of his shoulder and cracked against the side of Joshua’s skull. He straightened, drove his forehead into the prospect’s nose, and stepped back as the man dropped to his knees with a high-pitched wheeze, blood spurting from between his hands.

Wrong choice, Joshua muttered. He spun on a heel, confronting the last prospect. How about you, Howdy Doody? You know the difference between the president and boot up your ass?

The center prospect hesitated. What the fuck you want with him?

Nosebleed pulled a buck knife and snapped open the blade. The other prospect tugged a homemade set of brass knuckles from his vest pocket. Joshua didn’t speak. He waited.

Shit, Nosebleed said.

Oh, fuck, Knuckles breathed.

What? the prospect asked over Joshua’s shoulder. What’s your problem?

Nosebleed stepped backward. "Stash… he’s a patch."

The prospect, Stash, paled. Y-you’re a Reaper?

Joshua said nothing.

"Why the hell didn’t you just say that, man?" said Nosebleed

I don’t have to justify shit to you ‘Specs, Joshua said. Go get me the Prez. Or any officer. I don’t give a shit. Do it now.

Nosebleed tugged the groaning prospect to his feet. Come on, Van. Let’s get you cleaned up. Uh… wait here?

Joshua said with low menace. "You want ‘em to watch me? Maybe keep an eye on me? Make sure I don’t cause trouble? How’s that working out so far? Hurry up."

He folded his arms and glared at the prospects until they hurried into the bar. The music swelled and faded as the doors opened and shut.

I’m, uh, Stash, the prospect before Joshua said. This is Nando. Squints is the one you didn’t thump. The other two were-

‘You’re all just ‘specs, Joshua said. What makes you think I give a shit if you’ve got names?"

Stash swallowed. Yeah, well. Uh… where’d you ride in from?

Your mother’s house. She said to give you a message.

Stash’s face grew wary. Uh… okay. What’d she say?

Beats me. Her mouth was full, Joshua said.

Stash hung his head and sighed. The doors of the bar slammed open and a half-dozen men filed out. There were knives in some hands, a chain in one. Joshua read the patches and dropped his hands to his sides, raising his chin.

The leader stalked up to Joshua, moving like a panther. He had short black hair tied under a blue bandana, no shirt, just his leather cut, and blue jeans over black boots. There were tattoos up and down his arms and across his chest. His tags read Pres. and Loco.

Who the hell’re you? he asked, his voice full of gravel and menace. A ring of men surrounded Joshua. He didn’t look away from the leader’s icy green eyes.

Joshua Callahan. Out of Oakland, he said. I got papers.

The president sized him up, glancing at the tags on his cut. Nomad? he asked.

That’s what they call me, Joshua said.

Loco studied him some more, eyes burning into Joshua’s own sky-faded blue. Finally, he said, Gimme.

Joshua tugged a white envelope from inside his cut. It wasn’t sealed and the edge was brown and furry with repeated folding. He handed it to the president.

The president immediately handed it over his shoulder to the man partially hidden behind him. The envelope rustled open, and the second man scanned it. Says he’s from Oakland, the other man said. Four years in.

The president stared at Joshua. Finally he asked, Whatcha in town for?

Joshua smiled a little. Looking for a place to land, he said. Looking for a home.

The president said nothing. Joshua could feel the crowd’s tension around him, thick and stifling as Georgia heat. Finally, he said, You damaged some of our prospects.

Yeah, Joshua said. I’ll pay for repairs. You got change for a dollar?

Loco grinned as laughter rippled through the crowd. He held out his arms and Joshua gave him a rough hug. Loco patted him on the back with booming slaps. Come on in, brother, he said. "Mi casa es su casa."

Obliged, Joshua told him. He followed Loco into the bar, and they filed toward the back where half a dozen tables were pressed together, chairs in a rough circle. The juke blared Hank Williams and a dozen or so women were chatting and watching the door. Loco led Joshua to the tables and gestured. Have a seat.

Joshua slid into a chair and the club assembled around him. Joshua studied the faces and the tags. Beside Loco a muscular man with dark eyes and blond hair sat, picking up a beer. The club found seats and pulled close to the tables. The women started to sit, but Loco held up a hand.

Club biz, he said. Give us the table.

The women veered away, crossing to the bar. Most of them looked back, sizing up the newcomer. Joshua didn’t look at any of them. He studied the men around him.

Okay, Loco said. This is my VP, Tribbie. That’s Keeno, the club secretary. Bitch is off on a short run right now, he’s the treasurer. That sour-faced bastard over there is Duncan. He’s our Road Cap. Griff’s the sad-sack behind him. He’s the sergeant-at-arms. These three here are Alpha, Jimmy, and Barlow. That’s Freddie Fingers and No-Go over there. And you’ve met the prospects. You broke Van’s nose, man. And Weevil… he’d miss those balls if he ever used ‘em. That’s Stash, that’s Nando, and the little one back there’s Squints.

Joshua nodded to each man as Loco introduced them. He didn’t look at the prospects. Good to meet you, he said to the patches. The club members muttered pleasantries. Loco asked, You’re looking to jump charters, you said?

Joshua shook his head. It’s more complicated than that. I’m nomad-

Yeah, you said that already, the Road Captain, Duncan, pointed out. He had a round face, and his lip curled in a snarl from the scar on his right cheek. He seemed roguish and oddly piratical. His speech had a slurry, southern tang to it, faint but there.

No, I mean I’m a free agent. I’m listed as a nomad in the rolls. It’s a coincidence that’s my handle, too.

Why do they call you that? Tribbie asked. You like to wander around-around-around?

Joshua shook his head. My sponsor gimme the name. He said-

Who put you up? Loco asked.

Joshua fell silent. He asked, Can I get a beer?

Someone slid a longneck over to him and he took it. Thanks, he said.

Nada, Alpha said.

Joshua took a long pull from the bottle and smacked his lips. Setting it down he said, ’Shine. He was my sponsor.

A stillness settled over the table. Joshua looked at Loco, who stared back.

Say that again? Duncan asked, eyebrows high. "Who sponsored you?"

’Shine, Joshua repeated. Sunshine Berringer.

Bullshit, Tribbie stated. "’Shine never put up but four or five guys. Like, ever."

I’m one of them, Joshua said quietly.

Loco leaned to his left. He said to Tribbie without looking away from Joshua, Get on the phone.

I’m on it, boss, Tribbie said as he shoved his chair back.

He’s gonna go check you out, Loco said. But why don’t you tell us your story now?

Joshua nodded, took another swallow of beer, and said, I’ve been on the road for four months. Before this I was in South Dakota, checking out Alabaster’s setup, before that Georgia, checking out Mackie Brooks’ chapter. Before that, I was up in Wichita with Indian. Before that, Oakland.

That’s a lot of riding, Loco said.

It is, Joshua said.

Looking for a new home ain’t a job to rush, Keeno observed.

No, it’s not, Joshua said. I wanted to make sure I felt at home, connected. So far, no dice. I-

Why’d you jump off? Duncan asked him. Joshua turned to appraise the road captain. Duncan looked reedy, thin and tough. His hair was thin and wiry, black as coal. He had suspicious, intelligent eyes of a frigid gray Joshua had never seen. It reminded him of the sky in Kansas right before a tornado had touched down. He didn’t have any tattoos that Joshua could see. The scar on his cheek extended from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth. Knife, maybe. Bottle, more likely. His leather vest was adorned with the usual patches, as well as a couple of the MC specialty tags. He had a tiny red diamond 1% tag over his right shoulder and an enforcer flash on his left. Over his nametag a set of white wings with a crack through each told Joshua that Duncan had taken a pretty hard spill at some point, with serious injuries. Not a lot of riders kept it up after earning a set of broken wings. Perhaps that’s where the scar had come from.

That’s between me and ‘Shine, Joshua said.

Duncan froze. After a moment the blankness was replaced by a frown and furrowed brow. Answer the question, he said gruffly. Why’d you leave?

Joshua hesitated. Like I said-

Answer the question, Loco intoned.

Joshua raised his hands. Okay, okay. It’s not- I’m not trying to be an asshole. I… okay, look. ‘Shine exiled me.

Duncan blinked, taken aback. He composed himself and leaned back, a half-smile replacing the frown. He pulled your patch? You trying to weasel back in?

Joshua shook his head. "No. I earned my colors. You see me wearing ‘em, don’t you? I’ve got the same three-piece you do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. They’ll pry these patches off my body when I’m dead, man, and even then they better bring a crew to manage it. I’ll go to the grave for my patch. For this club. No, man. I got my patch. But I lost my California privileges. That’s why I need a new home."

Loco cocked his head. What’d you do?

Can’t say, Joshua said.

I asked you a fucking question, road-rat, Loco said.

"I didn’t say I wouldn’t say, Prez, Joshua said. I said ‘can’t’. You want to know the reason, you have to talk to ‘Shine. I took an oath to follow his orders. His orders were to not talk about it. I don’t. I can’t. You want details, you gotta ask him. It’s executive privilege. You know how it is."

Loco relaxed. "Yeah, yeah. Fine. Okay. He kicked you out of the state, but let you keep your patch?"

He did, Joshua confirmed.

Keeno said, What’d you do, screw his daughter?

The men chuckled as Joshua’s eyes came to rest on Keeno. He said calmly, Say anything you want about me. Ratpack me if you want. Mud-check me all the livelong day. I can take it. But you speak with disrespect about ‘Shine, I’m taking you outside.

Joshua’s voice had dropped to a deep growl as he finished. Loco grinned at the secretary. Keeno swallowed and nodded. You’re right. Outta line. Apologies.

Joshua nodded, the tension easing from his shoulders. No sweat.

Keeno pursed his lips and added, So, his dog then?

Laughter erupted from the table and Joshua joined in. Loco watched the newcomer, sizing him up. He held himself correctly, had just the right amount of attitude. His cut gave Loco details: his enforcer patch, the wrench, the 1% diamond. He had a TCB patch below his name. Below that was the number 22.

Loco studied Joshua’s face again. He had that tight look around the eyes long riders often got, staring at the horizon a long time. He didn’t have an opinion about the kid yet but the TCB patch went a long way, carried a lot of weight. It meant he’d taken care of business for his charter, which meant there was at least one body out there somewhere that this guy had personally made happen. And the 22. He’d done time for the club, hence the bb, or bye-bye. He had qualifications. But if ‘Shine had kicked him out of California, he had some damage somewhere. Loco puzzled over that. He couldn’t off-hand think of anything bad enough to get a member exiled but not kicked out of the club. The minor rules were all negotiable, depending on circumstance. The big rules were not, and carried but two punishments: death or losing the patch. And yet, here was an apparent third option.

What did you do? Duncan asked again. Joshua craned his neck and stared at the sergeant-at-arms.

"I told you. I can’t talk about it. ‘Shine knows. I know. That’s how it has to be. If it’s a deal-breaker, I’ll just head out-"

Curb that, Loco warned. Let’s hear what Tribbie turns up first. Dog, what’s your beef? He’s a brother, no matter his deal with ‘Shine, right?

Duncan snarled and Joshua understood the nickname. I just don’t like ‘im. Can’t say why.

Joshua shrugged. You don’t have to love me.

"No, but I do have to vote you in, road-rat. And that ain’t happening," Duncan said.

Don’t be hasty, Dog, Loco said. We don’t even-

I don’t like him, Duncan repeated. I gotta say it some more?

Joshua held up his hands. Look, I’m not forcing a vote. I’m just a visiting cousin looking for a permanent bunk. I understand it’s going to take some time to get to know me. I know you gotta dig in, get the background. I expect that. And you never know. I might not even end up liking you guys enough to stay. So can we just ease up? Duncan, was it?

Duncan nodded. Yeah.

So far I’m just another Reaper, dropping by for a party weekend, Joshua said. Is this how you welcome a nomad?

Loco eyed Duncan, who scowled. All right, all right, Duncan said. I’m cool.

Joshua smiled.

Loco tipped a shot glass back and swallowed a double whiskey. He grimaced and gestured at the road captain. Don’t mind him. He’s nasty to everyone. Just don’t let him bite you. He’s rabid.

Everyone chuckled. Joshua said, I roll in and hit the table, I don’t expect a hug right away. But you’re not gonna take my word for it. You’ll get the straight story when you run the flag up.

Yeah, we will, Duncan said. He watched Joshua with unreadable eyes.

Loco said, Where you from?

L.A. originally. Moved north with my folks in middle school. Got drafted at eighteen.

You did in-country time? Keeno interrupted. Joshua studied him. Keeno had some Army patches on his vest. Joshua told him, Twenty-nine months. Five into the second tour I got into a fight with my sergeant. Spent the next year in the stockade.

Keeno nodded. Unit?

1st Cav, support, Joshua said.

Keeno smiled. I might have packed your gear. Transport division. Where’d you go?

Training, mostly, and guard duty at Qui Nhon. But I was at La Drang in ’65, Joshua said and his face clouded. After that we spent the night in Huế, but we were out by five A.M. when the Tet began. They pushed us out to LZ Betty, and we were headed for Khe Sanh when I got into a fistfight with my sergeant. I put him on his prissy little ass for cheating in a poker game. Little bastard swore out a statement and the MPs dragged me off. Time in the stockade and then a boat home.

Keeno raised a bottle, and he and Joshua shared a look. Joshua wondered again why so many soldiers ended up in the MC. Perhaps it was the shared bond, something you couldn’t explain to someone who had never been there. Just like being in the MC, he thought.

You didn’t get a Bad Conduct for taking a poke at a sergeant? Griff asked.

Joshua gave him a smile. "Well, he tried. But I had a friend, a captain I saved from a tiger trap. Couldn’t get my stock time cut, but he arranged for an honorable after."

Griff snorted. Keeno held up a beer. At least you did something. I spent my two loading crates.

Joshua shrugged. "It’s better than nothing. That fucking sergeant… if I could, I’d take three or four brothers and ratpack that jerk. I heard he never made it home, though. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow."

Tribbie waved Loco over. The president went over to him. Joshua didn’t bother looking, but he could see Duncan’s demeanor change as he perked up. The road captain studied Loco and Tribbie with a puzzled frown as they rejoined the crowd.

Word from on high, Loco said. "Nomad’s a good egg. Couldn’t get ahold of Damascus, but according to Alabaster he’s solid. Got Harlen’s second up in Wichita. Swears the kid here saved his life twice during a dust-up with the Madcaps outside Lawrence. And… Tribbie got ‘Shine on the phone."

The attention focused like a spotlight on Loco’s seamed, careworn face. Joshua sipped his beer.

’Shine said he’s the real deal. And yeah, Loco said raising a hand even before Duncan could argue, "I asked about the exile. ‘Shine said it’s personal. Said it wasn’t club business, wasn’t rat business, and wasn’t my business. But he said if I ever find myself in a corner, I’m gonna want the kid here on my side."

Duncan scowled.

Loco raised a beer to Joshua. "Your bona fides don’t come higher than that. ‘Shine likes you, I could tell that. Beats the living shit outta me why he’d boot you if he likes you that much. But he vouched. They all vouched. Hell, Gomez up in Wichita said they wanted him, but he turned ‘em down. And Gomez, he didn’t even have any hard feelings."

Why’d you turn down a bunk? Duncan asked, suspicion evident in his voice.

Joshua shrugged. I didn’t feel it. They’re brothers. But it didn’t feel like family.

Loco nodded. This crew here’s better’n any family I ever had. But I feel you. If you don’t click, you don’t click. You got a place to crash yet?

Joshua shook his head. I hit town, stopped for gas, and came right here. Your fella out there, Jerry, gave me your 20.

Loco nodded. Jerry’s a good cat. He’s a friend of the club. We got some apartments back of the chapel. You can sack there until you find something better.

Duncan cleared his throat. Loco looked at him. Dog?

You sure you want to just give him the keys to the front door? Duncan asked. You don’t know him from-

Loco’s fist crashed to the table top. Duncan went silent. Loco growled, "What is your fucking problem, Duncan?"

"I told you I don’t like him. Why, I can’t say. Something about him just feels off to me," Duncan insisted.

Okay, Loco said. Give me a reason to kick him out.

Duncan sat back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. "I can’t. I can’t tell you why I don’t like him, but-"

I’ll get a motel if it’s that important to you, Joshua told Duncan. "Look… I’m not trying to start a beef or piss you off, Duncan. I’m just looking for a home. A chance, man. You know this is my last shot. I mean, sure, the Wichita crew wanted me to land there, but I friggin’ hate Kansas, man. This is my last chapter. I can’t hit up the Red Bluff chapter. I can’t hit up Eureka. The Chula Vista chapter’s out too. They’re all in Cali. I don’t want to go to Kansas. I’d rather stay nomad. But that ain’t no kind of life, not for long. You know what it’s like? Not having a guy on my right? I had family up there in Oakland. There’s eleven guys I’ll never see again unless they come outside. When ‘Shine kicked me out of the state, he made it clear. I set foot over the line, I’m a dead man. And I’m never going to cross ‘Shine. Never. This club’s my life. So… give me a chance, huh? You don’t like me? Fine. You will or you won’t. Nothing can change that. But if you don’t trust me, I can fix that. Give me a chance to prove that I’m a Reaper. That’s all I’m asking. Joshua raised his empty hands. Please."

Duncan scowled but he didn’t shake his head. He looked at Loco. "I’m telling you right now, I’m not voting him in. He can hang around. He can live at the clubhouse. But he’s a nomad. As far as I’m concerned he’s just drifting through."

Loco nodded. And that’s your choice. But he’s still a Reaper. He’s still a-

Yeah, yeah, Duncan cut in. I know. He’s still a brother.

Joshua smiled. Thanks. I won’t let you down.

Doesn’t matter, roadrat, Duncan said. You’re not gonna get that chance. But… like I said. You’re a brother. So welcome to Jericho. Now, he said, looking around and