Warlord (Anathema Book 1) Read Online Free

driver
honked, but the rumbling horn cut off as the driver got a clear view of the lettering
on my vest. I checked my mirrors. The Coup didn’t care about a truck. They
flanked his sides, and I studied the asshole following me.
    Priest.
    I once trusted
him as our Enforcer, and I used to love him as a brother. That didn’t mean I’d
turn my back on him when he sat at our bar. Damned if I would give him the jump
on me now. Priest earned his handle. Too many men got their last rites in his
presence.
    It wasn’t a
death-wish if I could see the fire at the end of the tunnel. I braced for the
impact of the road or a metal slug and accelerated, heading deeper into the
depots and stock yards. A double-axle truck belched a black cloud of exhaust as
it pulled out from a parking lot. I took my chance. The bike roared, and I burst
forward, cutting off the truck and dodging Priest and whichever prospect he forced
to tail me.
    I didn’t have
much time. Disappearing from their immediate view was like tossing down a
checkered flag. Or patching a bulls-eye over my back.
    I pushed the
bike fast, splitting the lane between the depot trucks and the white-pickups of
the gas and oil companies setting up shop outside the city limits. Half a dozen
crumbling streets and alleys tied the industrial sector together. Priest knew
the area as well as I did, but Thorne Radek didn’t cower in oil-slicked
alleyways like a whore waiting for the slap of a pissed off pimp.
    I was better
than a bullet to the head or eviscerated on a hooked knife.
    I had a clear lane
to the highway, but so did Priest. The intersection light blinked red before I blasted
through the crossing, but my bike gained the edge on a turning truck. Priest
lost momentum avoiding the collision. I cut up the on-ramp as my side mirrors seizured
with red and blue flashes.
    I grunted.
    “Not my day.”
    The cop cruiser
zeroed in on Priest and his prospect. My fist curled over the throttle. Better
them than me. I didn’t want to end up on the fucking news.
    Or with my
brains splattered on Interstate 9.
    The on-ramp turned
into an impromptu launching pad. My bike growled along the road, bursting onto
the highway and through traffic like I ditched the Harley for the bullet aimed
for my head. I gripped the bike and hauled ass into the passing lane. The
stretch of road always moved slow. Tractor trailers limping up to speed from
the on-ramp, delivery trucks missing exits and jamming on breaks. It was a
commuter nightmare, but Anathema ran the route so often the choke points didn’t
surprise me.
    But my guts
still bled ice when I gunned it through the closing gap of two semis. I bit
back my breath. Didn’t help. My vest whipped against the steel of the trailer,
and I fought the turbulent under-draft swirling beneath the trucks. The
truckers blared their horns, but I skirted the screaming engines and dodged an
oblivious Chevy to come out a quarter mile ahead of the wailing sirens and
Priest’s pursuit turned get-away.
    And that’s how
we did it.
    That’s how we
survived.
    That’s how we
owned the fucking city.
    We didn’t accept
men into Anathema. We wanted gods. Warriors on bikes who rode like the demons
they’d eventually face in Hell. The club was life, and riding the blood pouring
through our veins. Nothing nobler existed than spilling crimson for our
brothers.
    The club tested
every man who joined Anathema. Judged their efficiency. Their speed. Their
bravery on the road and their skill on the bike. Our business didn’t welcome
pussies unless we meant to sell them for cash, and guns and drugs were in more
demand than worn-out women with fresher tits than breath.
    I didn’t bother checking
my gauges. The dusty crust of the drought-cracked ground blurred into the haze
of dead-on-impact speed. Running out of town wasn’t an option, especially when
riding alone. More dangers existed outside the territory than one pissed-off
splinter club, and I wasn’t about to square off in another