Through A Glass, Darkly (The Assassins of Youth MC #1)
Layla Wolfe
For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
–Corinthians 13:12
CHAPTER ONE
GIDEON
We arrived here by the vermilion cliffs in the dead of night. It wasn’t until I finally rolled out of bed the next morning after the long ride from Bullhead City that I saw how desolate it was there.
I stumbled out of the Motel 6 while buttoning my leathers around my thighs. No shower for me. I was going to get straight down to business and get the f*ck out of there.
Holy shit on a crucifix. There was a neat row of pine trees, obviously planted on the opposite side of the highway to blot out some unsavory view. If I looked toward the cinnamon mesas I was greeted by a giant, frisky bull on a tall pole. Dotted lines on his form showed me which cuts of steak I could look forward to.
Oh, and best of all. A weather-battered sign to my right—I suppose it had been neon before being bleached like dinosaur bones in the searing desert sun—told me I was right smack next door to the Sha-de-land Motor Home Park. I could also tell by the four dozen or so motor homes parked in the dust that this was not a shady land. At seven in the morning, it was already 63 degrees, according to the handy thermometer stuck to the wall sponsored by a lava rock quarry.
I wanted to kill Breakiron. He would have to get us sent to Cornucopia, Utah during August. This was all his f*cking fault. I’d done nothing serious to deserve this exile. Papa Ewey would only send club members in bad standing to a hellhole like this, and it was 99% Breakiron’s f*cking fault.
“What am I doing here?” I muttered, wandering to my scoot to get my cigs from my saddlebags. I’d been trying to quit for six months. Smoking had been banned from our clubhouse since Papa Ewey had had one of those lung cancer holes drilled in the pit of his throat three years ago, but there were still plenty of members smoking outside, so it wasn’t easy. I’d quit every night, flush them down the toilet, then thrash it first thing the next morning to the store to buy a fresh pack. I hadn’t flushed them last night. Too exhausted and pissed off at f*cking Breakiron for getting us into this mess.
What am I doing here? The dogs of hell must’ve been unleashed and chased me out of heaven. What did I do to deserve such a fate? I’m going to get this mission accomplished, get the f*ck out of here before I die. Die of heat, dust, dehydration, or plain old f*cking boredom.
I looked east toward the cliffs. That was all Zion National Park out there, named by Mormons after their promised land failed to pan out, I supposed. Suddenly the sun hit a cherry and wine colored rock formation, washing it in blazing righteousness, and a new feeling started to seep into my innards. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad run after all. We’d just be coordinating a shipment of high-grade military weapons with some yahoo fundamentalist leader nearby. I was his boots on the ground to get it all done. Once we set the place and date, we could go home.
Or so I thought.
“Whoo hoo! Bring ’em Young!”
I rolled my eyes. Tim Breakiron stood next to me, making a lame joke about Brigham Young. Breakiron had been nothing but a thorn in The Assassins of Youth’s side for quite awhile now. He was Veep, second in command to Papa Ewey, but it was like he’d been regressing to childhood the past couple of years. If he acted any more immature, he’d be a puddle of sperm and a wallet on the ground. I swear.
Not long ago, Breakiron was sent down to Gila Bend to work with a brother club, the Hellfire Nuts. Something had happened—to this day, no one had spilled exactly what—and Breakiron had been found wandering around the Mojave Desert severely tweaked, existing on berries or cactus flowers or whatever one ate out there. It was only through the help of some hippie “vision questers” chanting in some circle of life that Breakiron had even been brought back to civilization. Of course, in a motorcycle club, you didn’t exactly give people herbal tea and send them to bed, especially when they’d committed some kind of crime against the club.
So for his sins he’d been given this mission. And for my sins I’d been ordered along, like some god damned nursery school teacher.
“Bring ’em Young!” Breakiron made a fist and saluted the sky. “I say bring on these polygs!”
“They’re not all polygs, Breakiron,” I said, already weary. “Most of them aren’t, hate to tell you.” He was the sort of guy who probably thought the polygs just lay around humping all their wives all day. As if they had nothing better to do.
He elbowed me. I could already smell at this early time of day the sour odor of whiskey on his breath. “Can you picture it, Bigmouth?” He was the only one who called me Bigmouth. It was due to a six pack of Mickey’s Big Mouth I’d drunk once before eating out some lamb. No big deal, but it was the sort of thing that struck a guy like Breakiron with intense hilarity. “Banging six wives at once?”
“It’d actually be kind of hard, Breakiron, banging six gals at once.”
He slapped his own stomach. “Hoo, hard! Yeah, it sure would be hard, wouldn’t it?”
If I rolled my eyes any more strenuously they’d vanish into my skull. “Listen, Breakiron. I have to call this polyg. We still don’t have directions into their top secret compound, and I’d f*cking like to get back to Bullhead before sundown, if you know what I mean.”