Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 130761 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 654(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130761 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 654(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Club Slut: A woman who comes to the clubhouse to engage in casual sexual acts with the club members.
Bitch: Woman in Biker culture. Term of endearment.
Gone/Going to Hades: Slang. Referring to the dying/dead.
Meeting/Gone/Going to the Boatman: Slang. Dying/dead. Referring to ‘Charon’ in Greek mythology. Charon was the ferryman of the dead, an underworld daimon (Spirit). Transported departed souls to Hades. The fee for the crossing over the rivers Styx and Acheron to Hades were coins placed on either the dead’s eyes or mouth at burial. Those who did not pay the fee were left to wander the shores of Styx for one hundred years.
Snow: Cocaine.
Ice: Crystal Meth.
Smack: Heroin
The Organizational Structure of Hades Hangmen
President (Prez): Leader of the club. Holder of the Gavel, which is symbolic of the absolute power that the President wields. The Gavel is used to keep order in Church. The word of the President is law within the club. He takes advice from senior club members. No one challenges the decisions of the President.
Vice President (VP): Second-in-Command. Executes the orders of the President. Principal communicator with other chapters of the club. Assumes all responsibilities and duties of the President in his absence.
Road Captain: Responsible for all club runs. Researches, plans and organizes club runs and ride outs. Ranking club officer, answering only to President or VP.
Sergeant-at-Arms: Responsible for club security, policing and keeping order at club events. Reports unseemly behavior to President and VP. Responsible for the safety and protection of the club, its members and its Prospects.
Treasurer: Keeps records of all income and expenses. Keeps records of all club patches and colors issued and taken away.
Secretary: Responsible for making and keeping all club records. Must notify members of emergency meetings.
Prospect: Probationary member of the MC. Goes on runs, but banned from attending Church.
Prologue
AK
Plano, Texas
Eleven years ago . . .
“I’m gonna be a Marine!”
I raced into the kitchen. Devin was sitting by the table, working on the engine of his bike. He looked up. His face was pitted with grease. “What?” he exclaimed, brow furrowed.
I stood, catching the breath I’d lost running home. I threw off my leather jacket and tossed it on the back of a chair. “I’ve just enlisted.” I smiled, doing a totally shitty job of keeping the excitement from my voice. “Just like you. I’ve joined the Corps.”
Devin blinked at me, but said fuck all. My excitement began to wane. “Dev—” He dropped the engine onto the tabletop with a resounding thud.
He got to his feet and ran his hand down his face. “X, what the fuck have you done?”
I shook my head in confusion. “What? What’s wrong?”
My brother sighed and looked out the kitchen window. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” He took in a deep breath, releasing it slowly as if trying to calm himself down. “This ain’t the life I wanted for you. You’re my fucking little brother, and you got more brains in that stupid head of yours than I ever had. I was banking on you going to college or some shit. Not the fucking Corps.”
“I don’t wanna go to college, Dev. I wanna be over there, fighting, too. I wanna fight beside you.”
Dev was still facing the window, but I caught his wince. “Dev . . .” I tried again, but I couldn’t think of what else to say. My brother was acting weird.
“You got no idea what it’s like out there, X.” Finally he turned to me, a fucking haunted look on his face, each word pronounced like a gunshot. “You got no fucking idea.”
Unable to take him looking so damn lost, I walked over and put my hand on his tense arm. “I wanna fight, Dev. I . . .” I laughed, knowing I was about to sound real pathetic. “I wanna fight for our country, like you. I . . . I fucking wanna be like you, Dev. Always have.”
Devin’s eyes shone. Sighing, he grabbed me by the back of my neck and pulled me into his big chest. I struggled to breathe as he hugged me tight. “When do you report?” Devin’s voice was rough and raw, as if he could barely force the words from his mouth.
“In eight weeks.”
“Fuck, kid,” he said. “What MOS?”
“Scout Sniper.” I shrugged. “You know I can shoot real good.”
Devin tensed, then forced himself to relax. It must have been a couple of minutes before he let me go. I was eighteen; Dev was twenty-six. He’d joined the Corps when he was my age, and as soon as he could, he’d gotten us the fuck out of our shithole existence with our drunk parents and had given us a better life.
He’d saved us. Pulled us outta the damn gutter.
He was my motherfucking hero.
Devin pulled back and kissed my forehead. I was an inch or two taller than him now and still growing, but I always felt smaller around Dev. He just had that kinda larger-than-life attitude, or at least he used to. After the last two tours he’d changed some—the last one, to Iraq, being the worst. I knew it was ’cause he missed home. But if I ended up stationed near him, he wouldn’t have to be alone no more. True brothers in arms.