It Ain't Me, Babe (Hades Hangmen #1)(2)

Cut: Leather vest worn by outlaw bikers. Adorned with patches and artwork displaying the club’s unique colors.

Patched in: When a new member is approved for full membership.

Church: Club meetings for full patch members. Led by President of the club.

Old Lady: Woman with wife status. Protected by her partner. Status held to be sacrosanct by club members.

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



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 their absence.

Road Captain: Responsible for all club runs. Research, plan and organize 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


“You stay here, River. Got it?”

Turning up the air-conditioner in the truck, I nodded and signed, Got it.

Slamming the driver’s side door, my pop and the prospect headed off into the woods, the first body bag of the four dead Mexicans being carried by them.

Waiting until they were all out of sight I jumped out of the truck, my feet making a crunching sound as they hit the dried grass.

Tipping my head back, I breathed deep. I loved being outdoors, loved being on the back of my pop’s bike, loved being anywhere away from people expecting me to talk.

Making my way toward the bed of the truck, I snapped a long spindly branch off a nearby cedar and began whacking the reeds around me just for something to do. Sending stiffs to the boatman could take hours—digging, lime, and cover-up—so I made my way toward the trees and set to searching for snakes in the high grass.

I don’t know how long I walked, but when I lifted my eyes, I found myself deep in the forest, the air around me completely still and me completely lost.

Shit. Pop’s instructions were as clear as day. “Stay here, River. Got it?” Hell, he was gonna kill me if he had to come looking. The rules for dumping stiffs were simple: dig, dump, dodge.

Searching around me, I spotted a rise and headed for higher ground. I intended to work my way back to the truck before my pop turned up and got pissed.

Using the trunks of the trees to hold on to, I climbed the steep hill and, when I reached the top, began dusting the dried mud and bark scum from my jeans. When they were sorta clean, I scanned the horizon and frowned. About two hundred yards ahead was the biggest goddamn fence. My mouth dropped at its size; it was higher and wider than anything I’d ever seen before. It reminded me of prison, with curls of razor wire wrapped ’round the top wall. I looked all ’round me, but there were no signs of life, nothing to be seen behind the fence but more forest. I wondered what it was. We were deep in the boonies, miles and miles from the outskirts of Austin, miles and miles from anywhere. Folks don’t really come this far outta town… they know better. My pop said only bad things happen ’round these parts: death, disappearances, violence and other unexplainable things. It’d been that way for years; that’s why my pop chose it as a drop site.

Now completely distracted from finding a route back to the truck, I began wading through tall grasses toward the edge of the fence. Curious excitement buzzed through me. I loved to go exploring, but then I jumped out of my skin when, suddenly, something behind the fence caught my eye.

Someone was there.

I froze, focusing my eyes on the outline of a tiny slim person, the small frame of a young chick dressed in a long gray dress, her hair pulled back in a funny style at the back of her head.

She looked ’bout my age. Maybe a couple ’a years younger?

Heart beating fast in my chest, I crept toward the chick, her tiny, frail-looking body drowning in the dark material of her dress as she curled herself in between the roots of a large tree. Her shoulders were shaking as she cried, her body shuddering with sobs, but not making a sound.