Chapter 16

I rolled into NYC with the city’s skyline looming over me like a colossus made of steel and glass. The Big Apple, a place I’d heard a thousand stories about but had never laid eyes on. It was a sight to behold, no doubt, but the weight of my mission pressed down on me, a leaden shroud that smothered any wonder I might have felt. Razor’s face, etched with lines of pain and fear, haunted my thoughts. I couldn’t afford to be awestruck—not when one of our own was in the clutches of the Iron Serpents.

I found a spot to park my bike, the engine’s growl subsiding to a low purr as I killed the ignition. The city was alive with the hum of traffic, the chatter of pedestrians, the din of a metropolis that never slept. I took a moment to rest, my muscles aching from the relentless ride. The adrenaline that had fueled me was beginning to ebb, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.

My stomach rumbled, a reminder that I hadn’t eaten since leaving a gas station yesterday. I spotted a food stand a stone’s throw away, the scent of grilled meat and fried onions wafting through the air. I strolled over, my body protesting every step. The vendor, a middle-aged man with a grizzled beard and a stained apron, gave me a once-over as I approached. I must’ve looked like hell—unshaven, bloodshot eyes, clothes rumpled from the road.

I pointed at a sandwich that was as big as my forearm, and the man set to work, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. I paid him, the coins feeling heavy in my palm, and took the food with a curt nod of thanks. The first bite was heaven—warm, savory, the perfect antidote to my hunger. I wolfed it down, not realizing how ravenous I was until the last morsel was gone.

Thirst hit me like a freight train, my mouth dry as the desert. I gulped down the soda I’d bought alongside the sandwich, the sweet, fizzy liquid doing little to quench my thirst. I needed water, and fast. I bought a bottle from the vendor, who was eyeing me with a mixture of curiosity and concern. I twisted the cap off and poured some of the water over my head, the coolness shocking my system awake. The rest of the bottle was drained in seconds, the water a lifeline to my parched body.

I bought juice for some sugar, and the vendor’s eyebrows were shooting up as I placed my last order. I downed the juice in a few gulps, the tart sweetness reviving me. I could feel the vendor’s gaze on me as I hopped back on my bike, his expression a mix of puzzlement and wariness. I didn’t blame him; I probably looked like a madman, drenched in water and guzzling juice like it was the elixir of life.

With my body somewhat sated, I navigated through the city’s maze of streets, heading towards the NYC Vulture chapter. The familiar sight of our insignia—a snarling vulture perched atop a motorcycle wheel—was a beacon in the urban wilderness. I pulled into the chapter’s parking lot, the rumble of my bike announcing my arrival.

The gravel crunched under my boots as I made my way to the entrance. The familiar rumble of bikes and the scent of motor oil and leather greeted me like an old friend. I pushed open the door, the sound of loud music and raucous laughter spilled out into the night.

The room fell silent as all eyes turned to me. I could feel their stares, assessing, questioning. The chapter president, a burly man with a salt-and-pepper beard named Torch, broke away from the group and walked towards me. His steps were measured, his expression unreadable.

“Doc,” he said, extending a hand. His grip was firm, his eyes searching mine. “We heard about Razor. The whole club’s behind you.”

I nodded, the tension in the room palpable. “I appreciate it, Torch. I need everything you’ve got on the Iron Serpents—safe houses, hangouts, anything that might lead me to Razor.”

Torch gestured to a table laden with maps and photos. “We’ve been keeping tabs on those snakes. They’ve got a fortified warehouse down by the docks. It’s their main base of operations.”

I leaned over the table, my gaze scanning the images and diagrams. “They’ll be expecting a direct attack. I need to get in and out without raising the alarm.”

A chorus of agreement sounded around the room, the club members nodding their heads in approval. A younger member, his patch reading ‘Rook,’ stepped forward, a defiant look on his face.

“I’ll go with you, Doc. You’re gonna need backup,” he declared, his voice tinged with bravado.

I shook my head, my decision final. “This is a one-man job, Rook. I work best alone.”

The room erupted into heated debate, the air thick with testosterone and alpha posturing. Some argued for a full-scale assault, others for stealth and cunning. I let them hash it out, their voices a distant hum as I mulled over the intel.

Finally, I raised a hand, silencing the room. “Here’s how we’re gonna do it,” I said, my voice steady and commanding. I outlined my plan, taking into account their suggestions but ultimately sticking to my instincts. The room was quiet, their eyes locked onto mine as I spoke.

When I finished, Torch clapped me on the back, a grudging respect in his eyes. “You’ve got balls, Doc. We’ll get you set up with a safe house and whatever firepower you need.”

I spent the next few hours poring over maps with Torch and a select few members, their local knowledge invaluable. We pinpointed the Iron Serpents’ hideout, tracing possible routes and escape plans. The club’s armory was opened to me, and I selected a few choice weapons—a silenced pistol, a combat knife, and a sleek, black tactical shotgun.

As the night wore on, the club members shared stories of past skirmishes and run-ins with the Iron Serpents. The tales were a mix of triumph and tragedy, each one a testament to the club’s tumultuous history. I listened, absorbing their experiences and using them to shape my strategy.

Eventually, the crowd thinned, leaving only Torch and me. He poured us each a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the dim light.

“You know, your old man would’ve been proud,” he said, his voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia. “Blade was a good man, a great leader. You’ve got his grit, his determination.”

I took a sip of the whiskey, the burn of the alcohol a welcome distraction. “I just hope I can live up to his legacy,” I confessed, the weight of my father’s constant presence.

Torch gave me a knowing look, his eyes reflecting a shared understanding. “You already are, Doc. You already are.”

With a newfound resolve, I left the chapter house, the roar of my bike echoing through the night as I rode to the safe house. The reconnaissance had been successful, and the plan was set. Now, all that remained was a quick rest before the execution.