PART 1: WELL, HELLO THERE
BRONCO PARRISH
Before the Executioners took over Elko, the town was run by the Marks family for going on three generations. Freddy was a mean sonovabitch. His son Tod was a weak moron. By the time I came along, the family was mostly run by three siblings—John, Steph, and Craig, who were soft, lazy, and stupid. Everything was handed to them by their daddy, just as he inherited it all from his father. They earned nothing in their entire lives.
I didn’t even inherit my father’s name. Ernie Fleck bullied his longtime common law wife into giving their three kids her maiden name. The Parrish family was trash going back generations, and Ernie believed the name suited his children.
Back then, I suffered from a hunger nothing could satisfy. Young and pissed at the world, I wanted to burn it down. Without that as an option, I decided to make a part of it bow to me. A lot of men suffer the same hunger, but they rarely feed it.
I did, though. With a five-man team, I violently stole Elko. For a time in town, funerals became common. None of my guys ended up in the ground back then.
Drugs and weapons run easily through this Ohio town, just off a major highway through the state. The Marks got rich doing nearly nothing. I’ve made more money by bleeding and killing to stake my claim. I’ll never hand the town over to anyone who doesn’t wear an Elko Executioners’ patch.
These days, I often think about nineteen-year-old me. Mean and stupid, I had nothing to lose. That made me powerful. No longer as dumb or cruel, I have a lot to lose. My greatest fear is someone like nineteen-year-old me coming along and stealing what I stole from the Marks.
Maybe that’s why I agreed to drive down to Shasta, Kentucky, to meet with the local motorcycle club’s president. When his girl Friday—Shelby Campbell—called our trucking company’s office, she refused to explain to Barbie why I ought to ride down. If anyone could wrangle info out of a person, it was my older sister. But Barbie only ended up in a screaming match with the Shasta woman. As much fun as watching my sister threaten people could be, I stepped in and agreed to the visit. Better to be cordial rather than have Barbie drive to Shasta herself and get in a catfight with Campbell.
“This feels like a mistake,” my VP said that day.
Lowell says the same thing as we get ready to ride down to Shasta. He was one of the five men to help me turn Elko’s streets red. But we’re no longer young men.
Back when I killed my way into ownership of this part of Ohio, I never imagined a future where I wouldn’t love standing at the top. Young and sporting a chip on my shoulder and not a gray hair in sight, I thought I had shit figured out. Life was more manageable when I had nothing to lose. Hasn’t been as easy in a long fucking time.
That’s why I don’t complain about the trip down to Kentucky. I’m ready to put my daily problems behind me and enjoy a ride on my hog.
The president of the Reapers Motorcycle Club in Shasta isn’t my buddy. I don’t share beers with him or talk sports. We’ve met a handful of times since he took over the town, always about business. Last summer, I came to Shasta to discuss the uptick in federal interest in both our clubs. We met at a family chicken place. I think River Majors wanted to freak out the locals in the nearby town with the sight of a dozen bikers showing up at once. The guy loves to play his games.
Nothing much came out of that meeting. I suspect he was feeling me up again. River Majors is quite the fucking flirt.
This latest invitation feels different. Shelby Campbell insisted I meet at their blue grandma mansion in the nice part of Shasta. This sure seems like an ambush situation.
“They’re going to kill you and come up here and take over Elko,” Barbie growled in her cigarette-roughened voice this morning. “I bet they’ve already bought off a few locals. The Reapers preparing for war.”
My sister’s gift is paranoia. She assumes everyone is out to get us at all times. I sometimes worry about that habit of hers. Paranoia is what killed our mother. The last thing I want is for the same shit to infect Barbie. If crazy is hereditary, there’s no dodging it, though.
That’s probably the biggest reason why I agreed to meet River at his house. Declining will feed Barbie’s paranoia. If I go to Shasta and survive, I hope she’ll back away from the fevered pitch of batshit insanity she’s been leaning toward lately.
Shasta is a raunchy little town that stinks of death from the nearby rendering plant. For decades, I’ve wanted control of this town. That dream died when the Reapers bulldozed over the former club that ran Shasta.
River Majors is a second-generation tough guy. His dad owns a solid reputation for making people disappear. Long-haired and blond, River comes off as a dumb hippie, but it’s a con. Just like how he and his friends live in this grandma house in the fancy part of town. They put on a show to throw off people’s perceptions.
After a two-hour ride, I pull my hog down the property’s long driveway, followed by Lowell and the Executioners’ Sergeant at Arms, Anders. On the old-fashioned house’s front porch, River stops swaying on a swing and stands at the sight of us. I don’t get off my ride immediately. Instead, I scan the area for threats. This neighborhood is pretty fucking posh for a small town. However, it’s no Woodlands at Dry Creek—the gated community my club calls home.
The blond, pretty boy club president doesn’t strut his ass over to meet us. Instead, he waits for me to climb off my hog and walk to him. Behind me, Lowell and Anders keep watch.
“Are you done with the secrets, Majors?” I ask when River chooses to wear his fake-friendly, hippie face.
“I need you to come inside to talk,” he says before leaning to the side to add for my men’s benefit, “Alone.”
“Why?” I ask, dubious of this entire fucking thing.
“Look, man, if I wanted to kill you, I’d strap on my rifle and drive to Elko. Then I’d get comfy somewhere near your favorite hot spots and wait for a chance to put a bullet in your head. Easy-fucking-peasy. What I wouldn’t do is have you come to my house and murder you with my wife and kid down the hall.”
“No, I suspect you wouldn’t,” I say and glance back at my VP. Lowell scratches at his tidy black beard and nods as if he’s good. Next to him, Anders uses all the self-control in his seven-foot-tall body not to jump on River. “Relax,” I tell the giant.
Following the younger man inside his grandma house, I’m struck by the sweet scent of cooking from the kitchen. I recall how River’s woman owns a restaurant. Whatever she’s baking makes my stomach growl. I really should have eaten before the ride, but I got distracted by my youngest daughter’s dramatics. Sidonie’s getting as paranoid as her aunt.
River opens up the double doors to another overly fussy room. I’m ready to ask him what the fuck this is about until I see Lana Lee sitting in a chair. Her expression tells half the story while the baby she holds explains the other part.
Last summer, during my visit to Shasta, I stopped by a nearby strip club. I don’t know what came over me when I saw Lana. The sexy blonde sucked the air out of that strip club. The other girls bounced and giggled and made duck faces. Lana existed in a bubble, untouchable. I hadn’t met a woman that gorgeous—or obviously trouble—in a long time.