Chapter 8 - The Audit on Bleek Street
The ReckoningThe small, single-story frame house at 1422 North Bleek Street smelled of sour mash whiskey, old lard, and the stale tobacco of a man who hadn't opened a window in three years.
Dale Mercer sat in his green vinyl recliner, a half-empty bottle of cheap bourbon balanced on his fat stomach, the television blaring a rerun of an old car race. He was fifty-six, with a thick, greasy belly that pushed against his stained undershirt, his fingers adorned with three heavy, square silver rings he had bought at a pawn shop in Cheyenne.
"Kid!" Dale shouted toward the laundry room window, his voice slurred and mean. "Get in here and fix the antenna! If you're hiding in that closet again, I’m getting the strap!"
The house didn't answer.
Instead, the entire front wall of the living room seemed to vibrate as a deep, low-frequency tremor shook the glass panes of the picture window. It wasn't thunder. It was the sound of seven hundred heavy-displacement motorcycle engines idling on the asphalt outside.
Dale frowned, setting his bottle on the carpet. He stood up, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards as he walked toward the front door. "What the hell..."
Before his hand could touch the brass knob, the front door didn't just open—it exploded inward. The heavy oak frame splintered into three pieces as Jaxon Reed’s size-thirteen boot hit the center lock with the force of a battering ram.
Dale stumbled back into his coffee table, sending empty beer cans flying across the room. "Who... who are you? This is private property! I’ve got a gun!"
Jaxon stepped through the ruins of the doorway, his massive frame completely filling the small hall. Behind him, the entire front yard, the street, and the neighboring lawns were a solid sea of dark leather and gleaming silver patches under the yellow streetlights. Seven hundred Iron Saints stood in absolute, terrifying silence, their eyes fixed on the man in the dirty undershirt.
"You're Dale Mercer," Jaxon said, his voice dropping into that lethal, flat tone.
"Yeah? What’s it to you?" Dale blustered, his hand reaching toward the drawer of the end table where he kept an old .38 revolver.
Before his fingers could touch the wood, Hawk was across the room. His heavy leather glove caught Dale by the throat, hoisting his two-hundred-and-forty-pound body completely off the floor and slamming him against the plaster wall with enough force to crack the lath underneath.
The drawer of the end table stayed closed.
Jaxon walked over, his heavy boots crunching on the broken glass of the door. He reached down, his large fingers grabbing Dale’s right hand, the one with the heavy silver rings. With a slow, deliberate pressure, Jaxon twisted the rings from Dale’s fingers, dropping them into his pocket.
"Tyler Wade," Jaxon said, his face inches from Dale’s sweating forehead.
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"The... the foster kid?" Dale gasped, his eyes bulging as Hawk’s grip tightened around his windpipe. "He... he ran away! The little bastard stole my jacket! He’s state property!"
"He’s Saint property now," Jaxon corrected, his voice a quiet line of iron. "And you are going to sign the release forms my lawyer is bringing into this room right now. If you don't... well, Dale, seven hundred of my brothers out there are very interested in seeing if your skin handles a belt as well as Tyler’s did."
