Free Sons of Anarchy: Bratva by Christopher Golden Page B

have much ambition beyond the fraternity of the club. He liked the bar, enjoyed its reputation as a dive and the sort of clientele that dragged itself through the door on a nightly basis. The way Jax remembered it, when Rollie wasn’t busy, he liked to tend bar himself, listen to tales of woe from drunks and hookers, junkies and gamblers, and the occasional cop. SAMNOV pulled their weight when it came to fulfilling their obligations, protecting gun shipments, doing whatever distribution was required—and they’d gone to war to protect their territory more than once—but Rollie liked things simple and quiet.
    Jax was counting on that.
    He killed his engine, slipped off his helmet, and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t gotten used to the shorter length, but it helped on a ride like this. Opie and Chibs shut off their bikes and dismounted. Chibs opened and closed his hands a few times even as Jax was massaging his own knuckles. They’d stopped plenty of times to piss and take a breather, but his hands still felt tight. He tried to imagine how much pain Clay was in every time they rode, given how bad his arthritis had gotten, and hoped he’d never have to endure that curse.
    Opie gestured across the parking lot. “What’s the story on that?”
    Jax turned and smiled at the sight of the sign on the building next door. Once upon a time—he figured in the ’70s and ’80s—it had been a two-screen movie theater, one of those storefront jobs that had existed before the megaplexes had come along. Last time he’d been there, it had been a furniture showroom or something, but now it was a theater again.
    The Tombstone Theatre. The marquee offered up a Hitchcock double bill and a midnight show of something called Bubba Ho-Tep .
    “Looks like Thor got his wish,” Jax said. “Guy’s been talking about the charter buying that place and getting it running again for eight, nine years.”
    Chibs strode up between them. “You’d think the local law might get a bit suspicious when you’ve got two legit businesses guaranteed to lose money but somehow you manage to keep ’em going.”
    Jax shrugged. “As long as they pay their taxes, I guess.”
    They had pulled their bikes around the side of the bar. Behind it was a small paved yard enclosed with a chain-link fence, and Jax spotted a restored Ford Mustang, an old white box truck with the bar’s name on the side, and four motorcycles. The eastern sky had continued to brighten, hinting at the approach of dawn and turning much of the sky a rich indigo. They walked toward the heavy old wooden door that, despite its appearance, was used by the charter as a side entrance to their clubhouse, which was in the rear of the building that housed the Tombstone Bar.
    A loud clank echoed across the lot and the door dragged inward. A thin, hawk-nosed face peered out.
    “Morning, Baghead,” Jax said.
    Bag rubbed his eyes as he opened the door further, his suspicion giving way to irritation.
    “‘Morning’? You see any goddamn sunshine out here?”
    Jax kept back from the door, Opie and Chibs following his lead. They were all brothers here, but the charters had their own cultures, their own rules, and their own maniacs. Baghead had earned his name because he was a sociopath with no filter and no shame who’d pick up the homeliest woman in a bar, then make her wear a bag on her head while he fucked her.
    “You sleeping light, or you supposed to be on guard?” Jax asked.
    Bag stepped outside, putting away the gun he’d been hiding behind the door in case of trouble, and stretched tiredly. “Guard what? We’re just sleepin’ off what we finished drinking a couple of hours ago. I’m still fucking drunk.”
    “When aren’t you?” Chibs muttered under his breath, so only Jax and Opie could hear.
    For the first time, the real strangeness of their arrival seemed to hit Baghead, and he blinked, waking up a little.
    “What’s this about, Jax? You don’t show up at asshole