AN: There's a lot of detail and background in these initial chapters, but the scene is almost set now, I promise! I'm an action junky, it gets faster :) Also, in this chapter, there is mention of the word 'nigger'. The racist biker mentality is appalling and I wanted to show this, but if this offends you, please do not read it.

Part 3. Ride On, Lone Rider

I got a burning feeling

Deep inside of me

It's yearning

But I'm going to set it free

I'm going in to sin city

I'm gonna win in sin city

Where the lights are bright

Do the town tonight

I'm gonna win in sin city

Ladders and snakes

Ladders give, snakes take

Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief

Ain't got a hope in hell, that's my belief

(AC/DC Sin City)

..

The outer city street was dark and quiet. It was not only the driving rain that pelted the concrete in a steady force that kept the people away. Purgatorio was a bad side of town that decent folk never visited, one that few, in fact, ever saw. The dirt went far deeper than the concrete walkways and old, battered buildings, mostly vacated over the years and never restored. It was in the very drains that ran beneath the ground, like a tunnelled life-force channelling through the outer reaches of the city. Tonight those drains were overflowing from the unexpected deluge, bringing dirty water surging back up to the ground to seep onto the roads, spitting rubbish back up to the scattering feet of the careless sloths that fed the very veins that supported them with their filth. Even bad areas had a worse side… everyone knew the place was as bad as it came, but even those that lived there never ventured over to the western streets.

Today was the first rain in a long, long time and even the gangs, drug dealers and prostitutes were indoors, taking refuge inside cold walls that offered little comfort on this miserable night. This was a night to let the devil have his way and to find other sources of entertainment beyond the routine. Trade continued underground, in sheltered doorways and damp buildings and the only public bar was seeing any action.

Purgatorio itself had only two bars. A third had ceased operating the month before when a fire-bomb had ripped through the building, killing the owners and late night punters who had lingered over their last drinks. The charred remains of rubble were now left to serve as a reminder to those who did not head the warnings of the men who ran the town. There was an enforced system of order, one which was seemingly unstoppable and the residents of the streets did not believe it in their power to stop it.

One of those two bars sat well distanced from the rest of town. It was named "The Shaking Hand" and was a place where the baser side of man was catered to, alcohol consumed, packages exchanged and all with the confidence of men who knew that no law would dare enter their domain. This bar could not exactly be called public, for a man would be truly crazy to enter without specific purpose, for it was owned and operated by the Devil's Jokers, the very men who ran the town.

The `Jokers' as they were commonly known, had begun in Texas back in 1959 and had grown to become one of the largest outlaw motorcycle clubs in the country, with chapters and affiliates in most of the states. In its early days, many of the members were inspired by Marlon Brando in the Wild One, as were many men of the time, loving riding their bikes and loving being a part of something. It was a tight-knit group of men, men who knew each other well and would back each other to the end. Some were war buddies, some just men who loved to ride. For every man it was slightly different, for every man was individual, but joined by a common bond; motorcycles and 'the club'.

In later years, the club had experienced a surge in numbers, with hundreds of men vying for acceptance into the ranks, though with few actually making the cut, for this was a select group, not easily joined. For many, riding was the main attraction, but to say that they were not attracted to the outlaw lifestyle, would not be a fair call. By the time a man became a full member of the Devil's Jokers, he knew exactly what it was all about and precisely what lifestyle choice he was making.

Then one clear day in Denver, five men had ridden into Purgotorio in a unified thunder of chrome piping and simply never left. In a calculated play, the small time club that had operated there before had not been given the choice to become part of them, or 'patched over' as the term was known in some places. They were simply informed that they no longer existed, told to 'Get the hell out'... and they did.

The clubs main headquarters were located out of town, but it was The Shaking Hand where their regular income was made. Their interests ran far and wide but this was their territory, every deal had to be passed through them and every methamphetamine lab was now under their jurisdiction. Nothing was done that they did not know about, or there were consequences to be met.

One might easily miss the steps leading down to the basement venue, the smell of decay reaching up to the street as one approached, if not for the long line of metal steeds that parked at an angle along the sidewalk, under the cover of the building's overhang that was a clear sign that the dark, tattered building was inhabited.

This was meeting headquarters for the town's rulers. It was a human den of snakes and rats, where deals were made and goods bought and sold. Human life was traded as nothing more than meat, women swapped and passed over for money or to pay a debt owed to another. This was a man's world, of that there was no mistake.

Female life here was nothing more than income and sex to the men that lived and worked the streets. That wasn't to say some of the men did not have wives that they cared about, it was just that in here, most women knew their place and some even welcomed the chance of being taken care of and fed and clothed, wishing only to be owned by one man, not the entire gang as some were. The `sheep' were put to work on the streets, selling themselves, selling drugs, some were even sent into the city to work decent jobs, working as spies in government departments, helping forge documents and gather information.

One might assume that women who chose to live such a life were uneducated, unresourceful, but this was not true. Some of the women simply loved the sex, loved the dark side of life, were punishing themselves for one reason or another, mistook sex for love – there were many reasons why they stayed. Like the men who joined the club life, women too were attracted to it. If each one were to say exactly what kept them there for the abuse, the degradation and the shame, there would be many answers. Some simply never saw it that way. They were getting just what they had set out to get.

There was a certain amount of romanticism associated with motorcycle gangs, but unfortunately most in Purgatorio learned the hard way that there was nothing romantic about being the property of men like these ones. To these men women were dirt, they were nothing more than a hole to fill and a source of income and men reigned supreme in this closed world. No, there was definitely nothing romantic about it, it was barbaric and cruel. It was men getting away with cowardly acts of strength over the less strong of the species…and no one was stopping them.

While there were those that hung around by choice, there were those who were not willing, had never been given the choice. Some were taken from the streets at a young age and put to work, initiated in a sickening, mind shattering game of servicing the entire gang in one crushing night of pure male cruelty. This act known as `pulling a train', was something beyond the comprehension of decent folk, something that put these men below the line of what was human, it made them animals, without souls.

The large wooden door at the entrance to the tavern was solid, the windows boarded well shut. Outside stood one massive man dressed in jeans and cut off leather jacket, standing sentry at the door. His colours showed he belonged to the Jokers and if one were to look closer, they would see the patch that labelled him a soldier. To those familiar with the club, there were darker patches on his jacket, labelling him many things, a murderer being just one of them. Even if a man was stupid enough to try, they had no chance of gaining entrance to this fortress. There were snipers on the roof and men stationed around the streets. An armed man stood at an upstairs window, watching the street at all times. This was a well run organisation, of that there was no mistake. They lived their lives with no regard for the rest of the citizens of the world, certainly with no regard for the law and they supported their lifestyle by committing crime.

Many 'citizens' wondered if the law actually knew what they were up to. In an age considered civilised, in a world where terrorism was condemned by most cultures, many asked the question of why in hell they were not stopped. Did the law really fear these terrorists as many suspected? Did their web of corruption extend too high to be stopped?

But few knew of the newly appointed task forces now dedicated to infiltrating their ranks. Coordinated efforts of both local and federal departments working to gather intelligence to stop their activities and bring them down once and for all. The problem was massive, in-depth and complex and infiltrating the close-knit groups was something near to impossible. Educated people that worked in the city - police, prisoners, judges, lawyers - there had been connections made to all groups far beyond the leather and the chrome of the obvious targets. It took a skilled and talented man to enter this world, to walk into a place like The Shaking Hand and become a part of it, but more than that, it took sheer guts - or stupidity, depending on the side you looked at it from.

As the rain continued to pelt the earth, a lone bike rumbled its way into the light outside the bar, its chrome work flashing in the neon lighting above, the sound of its pipes blanketing out all other noise until the engine was cut off and the solitary, black denim and leather-clad man eased his lean frame from his low seat. The guard at the door, who went by the name of `Bounce', an abbreviated term for his main job of the past five years of club bouncer, recognised the man by his bike, one that had drawn great interest in the past week since it had wheeled into town. He'd seen the bike before – and the man who owned it, Vincent Turner.

The Joker club rules stated that members had to ride Harleys, there were no exceptions. It also stated that the bike could not be stock, which led to some interesting combinations. Vin had always loved bikes and had been riding them since he could practically walk. Harleys weren't his first choice, he didn't consider them as reliable or as well made as some of the other bikes out there, but as long as he was in the club, he rode them. He'd been modifying and creating his own bikes for a long time and secretly frowned at the yuppies and retiries who paid cash for stock bikes and rode them around without knowing a thing about them, bar the fact that they pulled the throttle and the thing moved. Customising your own ride was what it was all about to him, it's what made the bike yours.

His own bike was such an awesome collaboration of black and chrome, it was easy to recognise by both sight and sound. It was, in fact, one of two that he owned. This was the one he liked to take on longer runs, such as riding up from Texas had been. The highly customised springer softail was not flashy by any means, rather it was the understated predator that sang from this machine that turned heads. Lean, dark and low, it sat like a menacing panther on the darkened street, it's rumbling v-twin engine growling its perfectly harmonised presence to onlookers and passers-by.

He'd spent many an hour working to customise the machine, in particular the hated exhaust crossover pipe that covered the most significant part of the machine - the massive v-twin engine. In order to give the beloved engine the viewing it deserved, he'd found a better way to place the interconnect pipe so that it cleverly routed from the front header pipe, behind the lower muffler, around the transmission and up to the rear header pipe, coating it in a slick black to hide it's presence. It was a modification significant enough to have caught the notice of a Harley representative, who had taken great interest in what he had done to improve something that had always annoyed the hell out of owners.

Only the fuel tank featured any colour and this is the part that marked the machine as his more than any other. A thread of metallic silver and blue could be seen shining against the black, but only if you caught just the right light to see it. If you stood in the right position long enough, your eyes could make out a picture, of which many had talked about, but few knew what it really meant. At first glance, it looked like a snow laced mountain, but as you looked closer, your eyes would find the outline of a wolf, his magnificent silver throat turned to the sky. Down the mane of silver blended the shadings of another wolf, this one with its body curled so that its face could not be seen. Although the wolves captured the eye of the observer, the picture that faded down to disappear into the chrome beneath was often missed. For just faintly, there was the outline of a deer, and if you followed its line, its face was turned toward the headlight before it and within its rigid body and eyes, stood fear.

The image was both beautiful and haunting at the same time. Some silently wondered if it was a woman which darkened his soul, looking for answers in the image of the wolf that was buried within the mane of the larger animal, but there was not a person alive that knew for sure. Coupled with the buckhorn handlebars, which Vin had never really liked, but for some reason was about the only thing he left on the bike when he'd bought it from the previous owner, the bike seemed every bit the steed of a hunter. With Vin's own silence and quietly dangerous presence, it was easy to think of him as the lone wolf among the pack, even though that is not what being in the club was supposed to be about; it was about brotherhood. But for all his silent ways, his 'brothers' back in Texas trusted him to back them up, well enough that they had voted him in, but he was still not a man you knew well, for he did not let anybody know him well, it was that simple.

Bounce eyed the Texan getting off his bike and knew he had just ridden in from the main chapter a few days ago. They'd met numerous times on runs across the country in the past year, but he'd never really spoken to him before, for Vincent Turner had a reputation for unnerving men with his silence. The clubs Enforcer back in Texas had nicknamed him `The Hangman' after his very first professional fight, although it had never really seemed to fit him.

He was not a big man, but there was something promising and deadly in his lithe frame and silent way… and he was smart, it came through loud and clear in his fighting. His nickname had been given for the way he often studied his opponent, letting him come to him first, letting him `hang' himself when he did, for he was always ready with the right approach to silence him. A hangman's job was to be an executioner, but to remain in the background. That was something Turner did to perfection.

The two men nodded in greeting and `Bounce' eyed the fading bruises on the other's face, knowing how they'd gotten there, before looking at the patch on his jacket that showed he had done time as he passed. The door was opened to the newcomer, looking forward to getting in out of the cold rain and he moved up the steps inside the door, giving his long wet hair a slight shake as he walked, thankful for the thick leather jacket, which kept him warm. Often, it seemed to him, his whole life had been one steady stream of rain.

He entered the wide bar, his hard blue eyes taking in every corner of the room as he crossed to the wooden stools and leant on the counter, running a hand across the harsh growth of beard on his face, much too long for his liking. He did not bother with a full beard, he found it annoying when he trained and sweated so often, but he found that going clean shaven made him look far too young around the other members of the club. His body language spoke of calm and ease, but he had already proved himself a man not to be toyed with many times over since he had first started hanging around the club and later become a probate. He shifted his weight from his stiff right leg and kept his left hand in the pocket of his jacket. These were conscious gestures. His knee had not healed completely from the shattering blow he'd been dealt when he'd been beaten back in Texas and his ribs were still tender even after all these weeks. He left his hand in his pocket to protect them, without giving away his vulnerability.

"Turner, where the fuck've you been?"

Vin turned, casting impassive blue eyes over the massive man who had approached him from the other end of the bar. His barrel-shaped stomach preceded him by a foot and his blonde beard was long and unkempt.

"Keg…" he said in greeting, his voice soft and low as always, grating past his throat as if scratching through his beard. "I keep ya waitin'?" There was no apology in his tone.

The two men eyed each other, staring each other down. They had not seen each other since they were in prison together back in Texas. There was a moment of tension in the bar. `Keg', so named for the shape of his stomach and the means of consumption by which it had achieved such proportion, had been out of town for a few months and Turner had only arrived that week. No-one could be certain what the current state of their friendship was. While Keg almost doubled the leaner man in size, all knew that `The Hangman' was not someone to take on lightly. It was told he had killed a guard whilst in prison, but had not been caught in the act and it had been ruled an accidental death. No one had ever asked him about this, therefore the rumours had provided the answers to fill the void.

And then suddenly the larger man grinned and grabbed Turner in a fast, hard clench of an arm-length greeting, pushing him back again and demanding bourbon for the occasion. The other men in the bar returned to their conversations and to the cheap women that worked the room, as Vin struggled not to show the pain the gesture caused him as his ribs were squeezed.

"You stop to check your hair?" Keg asked him with a grin, knowing the grief his old friend went through with good looks that had often seen him called `pretty boy' in prison, although no-one had dared mess with either of them, in fear of their affiliation with biker outlaws who effectively ran the prison system.

Vin threw the larger man a sideways glance. "Fall off yer bike again?" he countered.

Keg's smile only grew as their drinks came. He liked Turner, had done since they were in juvenile detention together as kids. He wasn't a man who said much, never had been, but if you got to know him well enough, you could joke around with him and he was a good friend to have. He'd been a tough nut even back then, and he'd been pleased when they'd met up again only a few years before in Texas.

"Like I've explained before, I didn't fall off my fuckin' bike, the chain snapped."

Vin gave a slight snort as he took a drink, the sweet smell of the bourbon welcome after the cold ride. "That ain't how I heard it." He studied his old friend as he let the fiery drink slide slowly down his throat and decided he looked exactly the same since he'd last seen him, the day he'd gotten out three months before his own release. That was before he'd even been accepted as a full member of the club. He knew it meant a lot to Keg that he had joined and knowing that, he always tended to get a tight feeling in his stomach at the thought of him finding out his real reasons for signing up.

"Nice face paint," Keg told him, referring to his still fading bruises.

He didn't respond. Everyone in the club knew how he'd gotten them, from one end of the country to the other – and beyond - word spread fast amongst the men. They all knew about the FBI bust and that he'd taken his licks like everyone else. He knew it had earned him respect from a lot of the men. Some even considered you were not truly initiated into the ranks until you'd taken a beating from the club Enforcer.

The bartender approached them and nodded to Keg. "Chooks wants you upstairs."

Keg nodded and sculled the rest of his drink, slapping Vin on the back. "Back in a sec, Hangman," he grinned and Vin narrowed his eyes in response. It was weird to speak to someone you hadn't seen in a long while years after a nickname had taken root; it did not have a place that fit.

He leant on the bar and waited in silence, ignoring the bartender's poorly disguised scrutiny as he nursed his drink. He was in tune with everything going on around him, but did not engage in any conversation. Several times he was approached by the working women in the room, their faces hopeful as their hands reached out to entice their prey. He told them perhaps another time and they turned away disappointed.

Finally Keg returned and nodded to the door.

"Let's go, got a job to do. You owe me a few favours."

Vin raised an eyebrow as he pushed away from the wooden frame with his hip. "How ya figure that?"

As they crossed to the door again, Keg considered the question. "Well, there was that time that Russian guy had you bailed up in your pen…Actually, I think they were brothers weren't they?"

Vin remembered the giant Russians well. They had repeatedly blamed him for being responsible for their incarceration, for reasons entirely unknown to him. An altercation was long-overdue by the time it had happened. Keg had entered the scene just in time to find Vin cleaning the blood off his fists with the Russian's own shirt. He gave a short huff of disbelief. "Yeah, thanks for helping me shut the door behind them."

Keg smiled then. "Actually sorry I missed the show on that one..."

Vin got on his bike and leant forward to put his key in the ignition, not too happy about going back out in the rain. Any further conversation was cut off as he set his ignition switch to run and pressed the start button, instantly hearing the responding rumble as his motor kicked to life once more with a plume of exhaust in the cold air. The noise was echoed by the roar of Keg's bike as the widely-girthed man eased himself into his gun fighter seat and started his own engine, bringing the customised drag pipes of his Low Rider to life an instant before wheeling off out into the dark street.

Vin watched the light of the neon sign reflect off the detachable windshield of Keg's bike as he was left behind, waiting a moment to let the oil cruise its way through the motor before walking his own rumbling machine backwards out into the rain. His right knee strained to push the heavy weight back up the slight incline of the road until he was facing the direction Keg had gone and he cursed himself for not having backed it in when he'd parked in the first place. He'd just wanted to get out of the rain, not thinking he'd be heading out again so soon.

He snapped the toe of his left boot down and felt the bike jerk into first gear with a loud clunk, heading out into the street with a lazy turn of acceleration, seeing the red tail light that pinpointed Keg like a target up ahead in the distance.

A few minutes passed before he came up alongside the teal and silver Harley that Keg had stolen years before from the garage of a retired businessman. Like his own bike, Keg's machine did not reflect much of its original state, having been chopped and changed over the years. The fact that it had remained the greenish colour had many perplexed and had been a constant source of taunting. "A disturbing colour' was the official consensus published on the club's private web site one year after a Christmas run up the coast. What no-one knew was that Keg had been about to have the bike sprayed a gun metal grey the next week after the run, but after that comment, he'd left it the stock colour on principle. As for the brother who'd put the comment in writing, well he'd been instantly placed on the top of Keg's shit list - and had found his own bike missing shortly after the offending words were published. He did get it back though, as fast as the US postal service could deliver it back to him in it's individually portioned state. Being the good soul that he is, Keg had kindly outlined a map showing where the handle bars could go.

They both clicked up into neutral as they approached a red light and let their legs steady them as they waited for it to change, stopping for no other reason than that they encountered traffic. Keg grinned over to him through the rain, his hand's still hanging from his ape-bars. He had to speak loudly to be heard over their engines.

"Been a while since we rode together."

Vin nodded, he'd just been thinking the same thing. "Not since that Christmas run."

A car pulled up behind them and the light went green, but it was at that moment that Keg stalled his bike, letting his clutch out too quickly for the cold motor and causing it to jerk to a dead halt. His expression went from confusion to self-directed anger in a flash as he watched Vin take off, not having realised what had happened.

It was the sound of a loud horn beeping that had the lean Texan looking back in his side mirror to see a frustrated driver stuck behind Keg, stalled at the lights. He knew that Keg would never allow a man to honk his horn at him and walk away with no consequence and so quickly did a u-turn, not easy on the narrow street on a bike that size, heading back through the lights once more.

By the time he reached them, the middle-aged man was glaring out from behind his wheel at Keg, probably itching to get home to his wife and kids after a long day, not realising he had just signed on for an actual fight when his impatience had sent his hand to his car-horn.

Keg was off his bike and Vin knew he couldn't stop him from approaching the car, he could only hope the man inside would see some sense and apologise for his hasty horn action. But as the man rolled his window down, he clearly read the determination and misplaced courage on the pale face and his heart sank even as he heard Keg's threatening words.

"You stupid fuck, how 'bout I ram that horn up your ass for you and you can honk it all the way to the hospital?"

"The light was green and you were just sitting there."

Keg turned and looked back at Vin as he approached, shaking his head as if to say 'can you believe this guy?!', as he moved up to the window.

Vin also knew Keg was checking that he had his back. You backed your brothers, that was that. If for one moment he hesitated to do that, his life as a brother, no matter the facade it really was, was over.

He cut his engine but remained seated, willing the man to back down and reverse his car the hell out of there.

"Get out of the car." Keg ordered.

Suddenly, the man inside looked back at Vin, then slowly back at Keg and finally, Vin saw that he understood what he'd started. 'Stay in the car,' he willed him silently. ' Reverse and back the hell away.' He'd purposely left him enough room to do just that.

"Get the fuck out of the car!" Keg repeated, his voice raising. "You wanna beep at me and start a conversation? Come out here an' talk."

"I'm not getting – OUT!"

His last word was a shout of alarm as he was hauled by his shirt, through the very window he had bravely opened, and dragged out onto the pavement.

'Fuck,'Vin thought, pissed off at having to get off his bike again, 'you stupid, stupid bastard.' But the 'conversation' was over before it really began. With one punch, Keg sent the man to the road, cheap suit rustling to the blackened ground.

Keg nudged the fallen man with the toe of his boot and looked a little disappointed as he looked up at Vin who had walked up beside them. "Reckon he won't be usin' that horn any time soon..."

Vin saw his face light up as he leaned into the car and pulled a lever. The large man stepped up and lifted the hood, sticking his head under it. He heard a slight grunt as he watched the wiring to the horn be ripped out a second before the car's alarm system kicked in. Keg hesitated then, apparently considering ripping out more, before shaking his head and shutting the hood again, wincing at the high pitched drill of the alarm.

"Ya finished?" Vin asked dryly, but loudly to be heard over the noise.

Keg just grinned his trademark grin when he was up to no good. "Am now."

The large man didn't look back as he walked back to his bike, mounted and again started his engine. Vin gave the fallen man one last look, seeing that he was already moving and that the alarm and accompanying hazard lights would be enough to stop anyone running him over on the street, before heading back to his own bike and following Keg on through the lights, leaving the incident behind them.

A few minutes later and they were again stopped at a set of lights when Vin had the depressing thought of just how many intersections he would be forced to endure in the next weeks. He clicked his gear lever up to neutral and relieved his left hand of the clutch, flexing his cold fingers and already dreaming of the long, open ride back to Texas. He looked at Keg and a chuckle escaped his lips.

"What?" The larger man said suspiciously as he looked back, his face daring him to say anything.

His grin only grew. The opposing light changed to amber and he once again clicked down to first with a simultaneous short burst of the throttle to avoid the short jolt of the gear moving. He spoke innocently to the pugilistic man over the noise of their engines. "Jist wonderin' if yer gonna stall it again..."

He took off then on the green light, not hearing the shouted curse yelled at his back. Stalling your bike was an amateurish thing to do by any standard - and cause for incessant recrimination. Keg knew that, but had no intention of admitting to anything.

Keg caught up to him a minute later and casually overtook with a challenging grin as he passed. Unable to help himself, Vin dropped down a gear and gunned his own bike, taking the lead again before the next curve in the road. Over the next minutes the noise of their accelerated engines reverberated off the cold walls of the buildings as they raced each other through the city, letting the gears stretch out and not backing off as they hit a wide bend in the road before straightening out for a long stretch. Their bikes weren't made for city manoeuvring, but they were both skilled riders who knew their bikes like they were extensions of their own bodies.

A short while later they pulled into the undercover parking lot of a massive building that Vin had seen only once before. DV8 City. Cutting his engine, he ignored the looks of young party goers who he knew from experience were both shit-scared and fascinated by them at the same time.

"You gonna let me in on this plan?" He finally asked, running his hands through his soaked hair again as left their bikes behind and headed toward the building.

Keg led him towards a back entrance. "Gotta do a little errand. There's a bartender just signed on a few days ago needs taking care of. The Blade wants to send him and the guy who hired him a message." He grinned at Vin then, "We're the message."

Vin's stomach clenched at the mention of the local club president but he managed to keep the bitterness from his voice. He knew too well the reason why the man had earned that name. "Still playin' henchman? Thought ya mighta gotten a promotion by now."

Again the blonde giant's grin flashed and again he slapped Vin on the back as he ushered him inside a back door. "I volunteered."

"What's the problem with the new guy?"

Keg grinned at him. "We don't employ niggers in our clubs."

With his back to Keg Vin closed his eyes for a brief moment with a slight shake of his head. This was another part of the club he despised. He couldn't say he hated it any more than its treatment of women, it was just one of the many aspects of their creed that he could not tolerate. But he said nothing, merely let Keg take the lead and followed him down the long hall that greeted them inside, which brought them to two security guards who nodded as they approached. They were associate members, all security in the building were carefully hand-picked.

"Boys," Keg greeted, meaning the term literally as he eyed the two virtual kids. They looked barely twenty one.

"Hey, you're the Hangman," one of the young men addressed Vin who did not reply, causing the youth to regret his outburst instantly. You didn't just speak without thinking to a Joker. He sniffed reflexively and Vin glanced at his eyes, noticing the large pupils and nervous stance.

"Where's the nigger bartender?" Keg asked, moving past them.

The two youths looked at each other a second. "The new one?" one asked.

Keg turned back sharply. "There's more than one?"

"Well, no…"

He gave a huff of impatience. "Then it's pretty simple, the only nigger bartender – where is he?" he walked over to a medical kit on the wall and used a key to open it, rummaging inside as they answered him.

"He's up in the club, the VIP ain't open yet," one of them answered, then seeing what Keg was looking for he stopped him. "Hey man, there's nothing in there, here," he dug in the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a clear zip-lock bag.

Keg took it from him with no word of thanks and moved to a bench in the corner, not bothering to ask Vin to join him. He hadn't seen him say yes to anything since they were practically kids. He indicated the medical kit. "That should be stocked."

"Yeah, it will be, Wizz's droppin' some stuff off later."

Vin had no idea who Wizz was and didn't care. His thoughts were on the bartender he would soon be meeting up with as he watched Keg cut up the powder with a practiced motion. To this scene his face showed passive disinterest. It was nothing new to him. He'd brought a lot of men down during his time with the NTA, but he'd had to let a lot of things slide to get the bigger fish. If it came the day when he was discovered, a rat among their ranks, his life was truly over and one thing he knew for certain, it wasn't going to be for some small-time drug bust, not when he was hunting for the leader of the pack.

In moments when he was truly honest with himself, he knew that the crimes that these men involved themselves in were a convenient way of him justifying his position; that the tip-offs and busts he handed over to his department were his means of appeasing his superiors so that he could reach his real objective. If they weren't committing crimes like manufacturing drugs, he wouldn't be paid to be amongst them... but he didn't dwell on those insights too often.

He studied Keg, watching as the unkempt head of hair lifted to emit an extended loud sniff. For all of Keg's faults, Vin knew that his life had not been an easy one. He was not a particularly bad man. He liked to play the big, bad biker well enough, but Vin knew it was a need to belong to something that had drawn him to the club. He wouldn't call him a friend, exactly, although he was definitely someone he could trust with his life. The fact was they had a lot of history together and a part of him understood why he was how he was.

Grabbing a water bottle from one of the kids, the object of his thoughts walked back, taking a drink to clear the bitter taste from his throat. He pocketed his still tightly rolled up twenty, along with the bag, smirking at the kid's frown as he passed him.

"Let's do this," he said to Vin, then stopped and turned back to the younger men. "If you two want to have some fun, stick around down here." He then turned to Vin. "We'll bring him down here and deal with him out back."