Chapter 14

After Dad’s funeral, the air in the clubhouse felt different. The laughter was a little too loud, the backslaps a little too hard. I saw the looks they gave me, a mix of pity and discomfort, as if I were a wild card that might go off at any moment. I get it; they were grieving too, but their grief didn’t have a name or a face like mine did—Blade, their fallen brother, my old man.

I watched as the club’s hierarchy shifted, like a pack of wolves realigning after the alpha’s fall. Hawk, Dad’s right-hand man, stepped into the power vacuum, but it wasn’t long before the vultures started circling. Promises were made in hushed voices, deals struck in the shadows. I heard whispers of alliances, of favors traded like currency, and of loyalties that were as solid as smoke.

There was this one time, we were all at the table, supposedly to discuss the future of the club. But it quickly turned into a show of strength, a pissing contest where no one was willing to back down. I saw Hawk’s eyes, the way they darted from face to face, gauging the room. He was trying to hold onto the threads of power that were slipping through his fingers like sand.

Then there was Ripper, a sly bastard who’d always coveted Dad’s position. He had a way of smiling without it ever reaching his eyes. He’d lean back in his chair, his leather cut creaking under the strain, and he’d spin his tales, weaving a web of half-truths and outright lies. He was a snake, and everyone knew it, but he was our snake, and that counted for something in this world.

The final straw came when I found out about the deal that went south, a deal that Hawk had brokered behind closed doors. It was supposed to be a simple exchange: our guns for their cash. But the cash never materialized, and the guns were long gone. Accusations flew, and the blame game began. Hawk pointed fingers at the Steel Nightmares, but I knew better. I’d heard the rumors, seen the guilty looks exchanged when they thought no one was watching. It was an inside job, betrayal dressed up in the club’s colors.

My father’s death had left a hole in the club, and it seemed like everyone was scrambling to fill it with their own ambitions. The brotherhood that Dad had believed in, that I had believed in, was crumbling before my eyes, replaced by a game of power and deceit.

I felt the weight of my father’s patch in my jacket, a constant reminder of the man he was and the values he stood for. Loyalty. Honor. Respect. These weren’t just words to him; they were a way of life. And yet, here I was, questioning everything I thought I knew about the Vultures.

The resentment bubbled up inside me, hot and acidic. How could they not see the rot that was spreading through the club? How could they sit back and let it happen? I wanted to scream, to shake them until they understood the betrayal that was unfolding right before their eyes.

But despite it all, I couldn’t bring myself to walk away. The Vultures were my family, my blood. I had grown up wearing this cut, and had learned to ride a bike with this emblem on my back. The club was a part of me, as much a part of me as the wolf tattoo that snaked down my arm.

So, I held my tongue, bided my time, and watched. I watched, and I waited for the moment when I could do something, anything, to honor my father’s memory and bring back the club he had loved so much. The club that I still, despite everything, loved too.

I could feel the walls of the clubhouse closing in on me, the air thick with the stench of betrayal and broken promises. The longer I stayed, the more I felt like a stranger in my own skin, trapped in a life that was suffocating me. The Vultures were my family, my legacy, but the club I grew up in, the one my dad had poured his heart and soul into, was becoming a shadow of its former self. I needed to breathe, to clear my head, to find some semblance of the brotherhood I had always believed in.

The decision to become a nomad didn’t come overnight. It was a slow burn, a gradual realization that I couldn’t change the course of the club from the inside. I needed distance, a fresh perspective. So, I packed my bags, strapped them to my bike, and looked at the clubhouse one last time. The worn-out sign, the cracked windows, the memories that hung in the air like a ghost—it was a part of me, but it wasn’t who I was anymore.

I remember the looks on their faces as I revved the engine, a mix of respect and regret. Hawk clapped me on the shoulder, his grip firm but his eyes uncertain. “You do what you gotta do, Axel,” he said, and I could hear the unspoken words, the fear that I might not come back. Ripper watched from a distance, his arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. He thought I was running away, but he couldn’t have been more wrong.

The road stretched out before me, a ribbon of freedom that beckoned with the promise of new horizons. I felt the wind on my face, the rumble of the bike beneath me, and for the first time in a long time, I felt alive. I was a nomad now, a lone wolf riding under the banner of the Vultures, searching for the remnants of the brotherhood that had shaped me.

As I traveled from chapter to chapter, I found what I was looking for. In the dusty roads of Texas, the rolling hills of California, the dense forests of the Pacific Northwest—there were chapters that still upheld my dad’s teachings. Chapters where loyalty wasn’t just a word, but a way of life. Where respect was earned, not demanded, and where the brotherhood was as strong as steel.

It reaffirmed my loyalty to the Vultures, not as a club that had lost its way, but as a family that was more than the sum of its parts. I met nomads like me, riders who had seen the dark side of the club but chose to believe in its potential for redemption. We shared stories, traded wisdom, and forged bonds that transcended the politics and power struggles that had tainted my home chapter.

The road became my home, my bike my sanctuary. I carried my dad’s patch with me, a tangible reminder of the man he was and the values he instilled in me. I was no longer just Axel Knight, son of Blade. I was Doc, the nomad who believed in the true spirit of the Vultures, who rode alone but never truly felt alone, because the club—the real club—was with me in every mile I traveled.

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and purple, I knew I had made the right choice. The road ahead was uncertain, fraught with challenges and trials, but it was mine. I was a nomad, a wanderer, a keeper of the flame that my father had lit so many years ago. And wherever I went, whatever I faced, I carried that flame with me, a beacon of hope in a world that was all too often shrouded in darkness.