Chapter Text
Mandy Mercer woke up afraid, her baby-blue eyes scanning the surrounding room for any indication as to where she was. When her thoughts became less muddy, she realized that she was lying on top of Tommy Springfield, the President of the Sons of Plunder MC, Nomad charter. That much was normal, they'd been together since their Freshman year of high school. The tattered navy blue couch they were on was unfamiliar, as was the tiny living room.
"Mornin' sweetheart." he said, voice plagued with exhaustion.
"Good morning baby. You look like hell. What happened last night?" she asked as she popped the joints in her neck.
"You really don't remember? Shit. We were hit last night, the Nomad clubhouse, our clubhouse, was burned down. Arson. Fire got to the propane tanks and bikes. Shit lit up like the Fourth of July. And..."
"And what? What else happened?" she asked, trying the fight the tears welling in her eyes. The clubhouse. The last four years of their lives. Gone.
"Before we were hit, they grabbed Squid. Clubbed him with a pipe or somethin'. Tied him to their tow-truck and took off. Sick sons of bitches put one of those helmet cameras on him, filmed him being dragged around until he died. I found the tape on the clubhouse bar right before the fire started."
She was sobbing by the time his words softened into silence, the tears running from her eyes like tiny rivers. She sat upright, across his legs, and put her face into her hands in an effort to stop the crying. It was futile, and it only got worse by the minute. Tommy sat up, putting his hand across her back. He started rubbing small circles on her shoulder blades, trying to get her to calm down.
"Who killed our Vice President?" she asked.
" Not sure, hon. My guess would be the Lost MC. We have a treaty with the Angels of Death, at least we do back in Alderny. I have to reach out to our East coast charters, see if they've been hit too. Gotta call the Celtic Bastards too, make sure our sister club is okay. After that, I'll call in the Horsemen, see if we can buy some protection while we're in the Bay."
"Jesus." she echoed, "You've got a busy day. Look, last night, Tuesday said we could stay here as long as we need to. We're off the grid out here. There's a motel nearby that the guys can stay in, too."
"Yeah, okay. Tell her that the Nomads owe her big time. We'll pay her back sometime soon. Call the guys, get them up here. I want Bo, Royal, and the Prospect on their bikes, Dax and Brooke in a cage so they can pick Gwen up from school." he said as he got off the couch and started buttoning his discarded flannel, then shrugged into his kutte.
Before she could tell him yes or no, he left Tuesday's tiny apartment and made his way into the streets of Paleto Bay. There were no MC's for miles that he knew of, so the territory was safe. The Bay air was chilly, but the amount of green vegetation was a beautiful, welcoming sight. He exited the local apartment complex, South Seas Apartments, and took a good look around. His bike had been caught in the explosion, as had some of the guys' secondary rides. Before crashing last night, he had tracked down a man about half a mile from the bay selling an ancient Western Wolfsbane. The poor thing was rusted out, leaving the entire body a nice shade a patina brown, and it looked like it hadn't been started since the seventies.
The ad said he was selling it for five-grand, but he only had three in his wallet. Christ, between figuring out the next move for the Nomads and negotiating with an old codger about an antique bike, it was going to be a long day. While lost in his own thoughts, Tommy didn't notice the older man he just mowed down in his haste. After a mumbled shit, he helped the man to his feet.
"Fucking Hell, kid. Watch wear you're going. I don't rent a six-figure cabin three months a year in Paleto Bay of all places, only to be trampled by some mindless biker prick." he said.
Great, a fucking tourist. That explains the tacky Hawaiian shirt, Tommy thought.
"Sorry, man. I got a lot of shit going, got lost in my own head. Didn't even see you."
"I've been there before. You new to the Bay? Haven't seen you or your patch before."
"Yeah, kind of. San Andreas local, mainly East Los Santos. Tommy Springfield." he said, extending his right hand.
"I'm from Vice City myself. Helluva name you got, kid. Tommy Vercetti." the older man said, gripping Springfield's hand firmly. "Look, I gotta get moving. But, I like the look of you. You ever need any advice, or uh, extra work, you just come up to the cream colored house over there. It's mine."
And with that, the man identified as Tommy Vercetti walked off, gaining surprising speed for the slight limp of his left leg. The shit just kept piling up. Any more sudden surprises and he'd have to call the Mother Charter, see if they could spare any guys in this entire shit-show. He may even need to make a call to Ireland, get some of the Bastards out to the Bay. Goddamn it.
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Royal leaned back against his ragged couch, trying to mellow in the smoke-filled living room of his shitty apartment in Del Perro. The hands of an A.o.D sweetbutt caressed his kutte, trailing her slender, knobby fingers over the faded shamrock patch embroidered beneath his SA flash. He needed some escape from the fucked reality that was his life.
"You gonna get that, baby? Or do you wanna party some more?" she asked, hands twisting in his ponytail.
He swatted her hand away as he checked the caller ID. "Hey, sweetheart. How you holdin' up?" he asked.
"Not good, love. Shit's all upside down. Look, I can't chat too long, but I gotta catch you up. You, Bo, and the Prospect are supposed to head up on your bikes as soon as you can. Dax is getting Brooke and Gwen."
"Fuck me. Okay, gimme an hour to sober up a little. Me and some East Coast tart just smoked a little herb. I'll call the Prospect and the redneck. Look, tell Springfield that I think Bo is smoking crystal again. He's been going to Blaine County a lot, usually mentions something about his cousin and a farm. Gotta be the O'Neil place."
"Christ, okay. We're in South Seas Apartments. Ride safe, love."
He clicked the end call button and slipped his phone back into his kutte, left hand finding the backside of the woman next him. She shot him a grin that was anything but innocent as his slid her faded A.o.D shirt off her torso and drank in the club ink painted across her body. Life was a nut-punch right now, but at least he could settle some tension before the ride to the Bay.
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"Buckle up, sweetie. Gotta make it to the Bay safe or your mommy and daddy will kill me." Dax said to the seven year old girl in the backseat of his Vigero.
She responded with a 'kay as she clicked the belt into place. He looked to see if Mandy's kid sister, Brooklyn, was buckled in. When she gave him an annoyed huff of breath, he cast his crooked smile at her and gunned it out of the school parking lot. He laughed a little as he reached for the radio dial, and pulled his hand back like he'd been burned when his fingers brushed against Brooke's. She looked up with a small, shy smile as he told her to pick a station. Instantly, the Pet Shop Boys' 'West End Girls' started playing, the song coming in halfway through the first verse.
"Ain't classic rock, but it'll work," he said in his natural, confident tone, "there's an interesting story behind this song."
"Well, we have a long drive ahead of us. Let's hear it." Brooke said, killing the volume a little. She looked behind her to find Gwen staring lazily out the car window.
"Back in the day, before your sister owned Club Pinup, she worked at the Unicorn downtown. 'Course, we all drank there because of her. Well, one day Tom decides to finally propose to her, see if she'll get his club ink. Squid's trying to talk him down, make it more special than a strip joint. Then, like it was on cue or somethin', this song comes on. Tom says 'I gotta do it now' and storms off like it's destiny or somethin'. Face is solid as stone the whole time. Looked like a total ass." he said, finding a little melancholy in his mention of Squid.
Brooke patted his hand, soft, sad smile barely gracing her subtle features. Dax, Squid, Royal, and Tommy had all gone to school together their whole lives in Del Perro, been friends since the day they were born. With the exception of Royal (due to his military enlistment) they all Prospected together for the Mother Charter in Blaine County. Tommy had been the one to first gain interest in the club, and had easily gotten them all to hang out at the gas station-turned clubhouse. And now, without Ryan "Squid" Calvin, he had no clue how he and his brothers would make it.
After making it through the Vinewood Hills, as to not draw attention because he was wearing his kutte proudly, Dax took the car left, guiding it through the country with ease as he kept an eye on his rear-view. The same shitty, rusted out Rebel had been following them since they passed Tequi-La-La. Either some redneck was making his way back home to the county, or they had business with the club. His eyes landed on a gas station on his right and he coasted into the parking lot, taking the car around the left side of the building. Just as he figured, the truck had followed them and was parked in front of the store.
"Brooke, you been seein' that truck behind us since uptown LS?" he asked, killing the radio.
"Yeah, I thought maybe they were going back to the Shores or something. Why? What's up?"
"I'm thinkin' they're here for me. Tom taught you how to drive stick, right?"
"Yeah, why? What're you-oh no! We aren't leaving you behind!"
"Yeah, kid, you are. You're gonna drive to the bay with Gwen, obey all the laws unless some other shithead fucks with you. I'm gonna jack that red 801, pop off a few rounds at them. Hopefully they'll follow me up into the county. If they don't, you call Royal and keep him on speaker. Make sure he comes after you." Dax said, shutting the door to the car.
He cast one final look at Brooke, then to the Nomad President's daughter. Her hair, the same shade of wheat-brown as Dax's, was tangled in her hands, her blue eyes shut tightly as she slept soundly. Brooklyn slid into the driver's seat, started the engine, and eased the car from its parked position. Dax sat on the red crotch-rocket, which was so different from his Zombie Bobber, and tried to fire it up. Just as he had prayed, it purred to life as he drew his fifty-cal. pistol from his kutte and fired four rounds into the hood of the truck trying to follow Brooke.
"Come get me you incestuous, desert-humping, rat fucks!" he hollered, natural confidence still strong as he went full throttle towards Blaine County.