Blaze:Satan's Fury MC_Memphis ChapterBy: L. Wilder
Memphis, Tennessee had never been your typical city. While the melody of jazz music played down on Beale Street, tourists visited Graceland, and society folks had a drink at the Peabody, deep within the city, there were infamous gangs and rival MCs fighting to take control. Countless conflicts often ended with death and destruction, but when it was all said and done, there was always one that stood above the rest—Satan’s Fury MC. With blood, sweat, and tears, they’d claimed the territory. In doing so, the club had made quite a name for itself and was considered the most notorious MC in the Southeast. The mere rumble of their motorcycles roaring by would bring a sense of fear to anyone who heard it, for there wasn’t a single soul who didn’t know the bedlam they could cause when they came toe to toe with an adversary. Over the years, these bloody confrontations had become legendary in the city where the King of Rock and Roll had once lived.
I’d been a member for almost ten years—patched in just after my twenty-first birthday. From day one, I learned that even though we’d won many battles, the war to keep our territory secure was far from over. Every day there was a certain amount of bullshit to deal with: a fight to be had or a trigger to be pulled. It was just our way of life. For us, the club wasn’t just a group of guys who put on second-rate cuts, pretending to be some kind of hotshot on a crotch-rocket. We were family through and through, and there wasn’t one of us who wouldn’t take a bullet for a brother. We believed what we had was worth dying for, and when someone put our family in jeopardy, we didn’t think twice about taking them down—just like the night when we’d discovered that one of our runners had been skimming from the top.
I’d been asleep for hours when Murphy, our sergeant-at-arms, called my burner. I quickly answered, “Yeah?”
“Need you to get over to the warehouse. Runt’s on his way to pick up Johnny and bring him over there so Gus can have a word with him.”
Gus was the kind of president who stayed on top of things, and when it came to his club, nothing got by him—nothing. “At this hour, I’m guessing he’s not wanting to talk about tonight’s Cubs game?”
“Fuck no. That asshole came up short on this week’s payout.”
“Just over three grand.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
Three grand wasn’t even a drop in the bucket where our drug distribution was concerned. In a week’s time, we pulled in ten times that amount, but that wasn’t the point. Under no circumstances did anyone ever steal from the club—period. As I pulled myself out of the bed, Murphy grumbled, “No joke, brother. Now, get your ass over to the warehouse. We’ll meet you there.”
“I’m on my way.”
It was one of those hot, sultry summer nights in July, and even though it was well after midnight, the air was thick with humidity. The wind could do little to keep the sweat from beading across my forehead as I parked behind the warehouse. I headed over to Runt’s SUV and watched as he hauled Johnny out of the back, dragging his feet across the gravel as he took him inside.
Runt motioned his head towards the truck as he ordered, “Get Terry out of the back.”
Finding the other man cowering down on the floorboard with a pillowcase on his head, I reached in and grabbed him, following Runt inside. We dumped them both in the center of the warehouse as we gathered around, watching Runt remove Johnny’s blindfold. When Johnny finally got a good look at the man who’d kidnapped him, his eyes grew wide with terror. Hell, I couldn’t blame him for being scared shitless. One look at Runt, and any man would be shaking in his fucking boots. He was our club’s enforcer, and at six foot seven and three hundred and forty pounds of muscle, he was the biggest, most intimidating brother in the club. He had a knack for turning a man, big or small, into a pathetic, groveling mass of flesh, and this poor bastard didn’t stand a chance—nor did his sidekick, Terry, who was sitting beside him.
When I yanked the pillowcase off of his head, Terry lost it. “Please, man. I didn’t have nothing to do with this shit!”
“Um-hmm,” I scoffed. We all knew he didn’t have anything to do with his buddy’s mishandling of funds, but we brought him along for the show, knowing he’d spread the word about everything that was about to take place. I wasn’t about to let him know that, so with a condescending tone, I told him, “Whatever you say, Terry.”
“I mean it, man. I got no idea what he did, but I give you my word. I’m clean, man. I wasn’t no part of his bullshit.” He looked over to Johnny and shouted, “Tell ‘em, J. Tell ‘em I didn’t have nothing to do with this shit.”
He didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. He knew he’d fucked up, and there were consequences to be had—deadly consequences. The second Johnny saw Gus walking in his direction, he nearly lost his shit. The blood drained from his face, and the vein in his neck started pulsing out of control. He knew what was coming. He was well aware that our president had a reputation for dishing out some pretty grim retributions, especially for those who tried to double-cross the club like he had done, so it came as no surprise when the motherfucker started to completely freak out. Like a wild animal, he used every ounce of strength he had to try and break free from Runt’s grasp, but it was no use. He was no match for our enforcer, and he ended up with his face planted on the hard, concrete floor. As Gus approached him, Johnny started to beg, “I’m sorry, man. I’ll get your money back. I promise. Just let me make a phone call and I promise I’ll get it back.”