War & Mayhem Book 5: Redback

From the corner of the room, I watched them laugh among themselves as they played pool and drank their beers. The Highway Jokers weren’t just a biker club—they were the spine of Bunbury.

A town that bent under their will. A town that feared them, adored them, depended on them.

But I didn’t come to Bunbury just to serve drinks and clean up ashtrays. I came to take it.

And if I had to burn it to the fucking ground to do it, I’d strike the match myself.

“Prospect! Get another round, man,” Blackout called out, his voice booming above the low thrum of a classic AC/DC track spinning on the jukebox.

I sighed and peeled myself off the wall, nodding once before heading toward the bar. It was muscle memory at this point—smile, nod, serve, disappear.

That’s what being a prospect was. A fucking ghost with hands.

“Another round?” the woman at the bar asked, giving me a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her name was Shelly, I think. Worked here part-time, probably for the tips and the view.

I nodded.

While I waited, I felt the air shift. Someone slid in beside me, and the familiar scent of her perfume hit me like a trigger.

Musky, floral. Something expensive and sharp.

“Hey, baby.” Her hand ran along my arm, light and taunting.

I turned my head slightly toward her, not enough to draw attention but enough to let her know she wasn’t invisible.

“Aww, what’s wrong?” she asked, voice coated in sugar, but her eyes were all venom.

“Nothing,” I snapped, jaw clenched.

Her eyes flicked over to the group of Jokers, calculating something.

“Just a few more weeks before Viktor wants you home,” she whispered into my ear, voice low and sweet like a lullaby. One meant to make you forget the sharp blade under the pillow.

“What else can I give the man? They don’t share shit—especially not with their prospects.” My voice dropped to a growl.

She smirked. “Try getting close to their road captain. Redback.”

I turned fully to look at her now, my stomach already twisting.

“And what’s so special about Redback?”

“I know he’s got a wife who keeps to herself and a daughter that’s six feet under. That kind of loss? It makes a man careless sometimes. He starts looking for painkillers in the wrong places.” She twirled the straw in her drink, smirking like she already knew how the story would end.

“I thought your time with them was over.” I didn’t mean for it to sound bitter, but it came out that way.

She shrugged, unbothered. “Doesn’t mean I stopped watching.”

The bartender returned with the jugs.

I reached for them just as Blackout shouted again, louder this time.

“Prospect! Hurry the fuck up!”

I slammed my fist against the bar before I could stop myself. The bartender jumped and spilled a little beer over the edge of one jug.

I muttered a quick apology, grabbing the jugs with one hand and turning back to the woman beside me.

“See you around, baby.” She purred, giving me a wink before lifting her glass to her lips.

I tore myself away and made my way over to the table where the Jokers were gathered. Laughter, smokes, flicked bottle caps.

The scent of leather, grease, and blood money filled the room.

I dropped the jugs on the table.

“Thanks, man, appreciate it,” Blackout said, slapping my back hard enough to make me stumble.

Then he gave me a look—the kind that wasn’t joking anymore.

“If you really want that patch, you can’t have any pussy.”

My eyes snapped to his.

“Thrasher’s words,” he said with a shrug. “Don’t get me wrong—it sucks. But once your heart’s in the club, you won’t even miss it.”

I glanced back toward the bar, but she was gone. Like a ghost.

Probably for the best.

I was finally off the clock.

After a week of cleaning blood out of car trunks and scrubbing puke from the clubhouse toilets, I took the van and drove out toward the edge of town.

Found the one park bench that didn’t stink of piss and dropped into it, pulling out my burner phone and a crumpled pack of smokes.

Lit one. Exhaled. Let the silence wrap around me.

Then I dialed the number.

“It’s me,” I said.

Viktor didn’t waste time. “Anything new?”

“Same old shit. Runs, bar duty, cleanup.”

“You think I don’t know when you’re feeding me crap?” he snapped. “You’ve been in there long enough. I want you in their armory. I want a list of their runs. I want Thrasher’s goddamn files. And if you need to, fuck your way into the old ladies’ confidence.”

“It’s not that easy, man.”

“I don’t give a fuck!” he exploded. “You want that VP patch back in Sydney? Then prove you can earn it. You’ve got one week.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone. The pressure building in my chest was a weight I couldn’t shake.

I finished the smoke, crushed the butt under my boot, and climbed back into the van.

Didn’t even realize how fast I was going until I saw the red and blue lights in the rearview mirror.

Fuck.

I pulled over, heart thumping.

“Bit of a lead foot today, huh?” the cop said as he approached the window.

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Turn off the engine and step out.”

“Can’t you just write me a damn ticket?”

“Out of the car.”

I shut off the ignition and got out. His hand was already hovering over his weapon.

“Hands on the van.”

I obeyed. Familiar as hell. Different city, same damn song.

He patted me down. Nothing illegal on me.

But when he searched the van, he found the baggies.

I hadn’t even known they were there.

“Stand up. You’re under arrest.”

Hours passed. No clocks, no windows.

Just stale air, concrete walls, and the soft buzz of a flickering light above my head that felt like it was drilling into my skull.

My knee wouldn’t stop bouncing. I tried to stop it—tried to look still, calm, in control—but the adrenaline in my bloodstream had other plans.

They hadn’t said a word in a while. Just let me stew.

Let the silence stretch on until my mind started turning on itself.

Every distant footstep outside the room made my heart leap. Every door slam echoed like a gunshot.

I kept running through the last few days in my head, trying to figure out how the hell I ended up here.

Then the door opened.

Two of them came in this time.

The first guy—Detective Something, didn’t catch his name—sat across from me like he was settling in for a casual chat. The other one stood by the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp and waiting.

“We’ll let you out on bail,” the detective said finally, voice like gravel. “If you give us something on the Highway Jokers.”

I stared at him, deadpan. “What makes you think I’m one of them?”

He arched a brow like I’d just told him the sky wasn’t blue.

“You’ve got their van. You’re wearing their patch. And your club’s been blowing up your phone for hours.” He leaned forward slightly, tone low and measured. “We know who you are. The only question is whether you want to help yourself, or not.”

I leaned back in the chair, trying to fake some calm, like I wasn’t already unraveling inside. My fingers itched to check my phone, to see who’d called, but they had it.

Along with my wallet, keys—my whole life now sitting in a plastic evidence bag just out of reach.

I said nothing.

They waited. Let the silence build again. It was a tactic. One I’d read about.

They wanted me to feel cornered. Isolated. Like the club wasn’t coming, like no one would.

And for a second, a cold bite of fear sank into my spine. What if they weren’t?

I glanced up as the detective started talking again. “We’re not asking for much. Just a breadcrumb. One piece. Prove you’re not wasting our time.”

I shook my head. “I’m not a rat.”

“Then enjoy jail,” the one standing said, finally speaking up. “You want to play tough, go ahead. But you’ll be sharing a cell with someone who might recognize that patch—and won’t be half as polite as us.”

I stayed quiet, lips pressed in a thin line. They could see me slipping. I was trying so damn hard to hold on.

“Weapons,” I said finally, voice rough from hours of disuse. “They go on runs once a month. Weapons, not drugs.”

The detective nodded slowly, like that wasn’t surprising. “Where from?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know. I just ride shotgun sometimes. No idea where they source the stuff. I don’t ask.”

“And the businesses?” he pressed. “The tattoo shop. The clinic. That warehouse near the docks.”

I shook my head. “Nothing illegal I’ve seen. The tattoo shop is clean. The clinic’s legit—just helps people who don’t want questions asked. And the warehouse? Could be storage. Could be empty for all I know.”

He studied me for a long moment. Then stood up and walked toward the door. “That’ll do. For now.”

The other one followed, pausing to glance at me with a look I couldn’t quite read. Then the door shut again, leaving me alone.

It wasn’t freedom. But it wasn’t jail either.

Not yet.

The second I walked through the doors of the Highway Jokers clubhouse, the temperature dropped ten degrees. Every conversation in the room stopped. Every head turned.

It was like walking into a wall of silent judgment. My boots echoed on the floorboards louder than they should’ve, and the clubhouse—which was usually all noise and smoke and laughter—felt like a church before a funeral.

Thrasher stood in the center of the room like he’d been waiting for me. Arms crossed, chin tilted slightly down, his stare sharp enough to gut a man.

Stone flanked him like a statue carved from rage, jaw tight and expression unreadable.

“I give you half a fucking Sunday,” Thrasher growled, “and you ignore your phone?”

His voice cracked like a whip through the silence. Every muscle in my body locked up.

I forced myself to keep walking until I stood in front of him, resisting the instinct to look down, to fidget. He hated that. Weakness.

“I ran out of petrol,” I said, keeping my voice even. No excuses. Just the facts.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded servo receipt, still warm from my hand, and placed it on the table beside him like an offering.

Thrasher didn’t even glance at it. His eyes stayed on me, cold and flat. “You think that matters to me? That I give a shit about your receipt?”

“No, sir.”

“You think I don’t know how to read between bullshit and a real reason?”

I opened my mouth—then thought better of it. Closed it again. Nothing I could say would make this better.

“You’re on a warning,” he said, stepping forward. His voice dropped lower, more lethal. “One more fuck-up, one more moment of silence when your club is calling, and you’re gone. I won’t say it again.”

My heart thudded in my chest like it wanted out. “Understood.”

Thrasher stared at me for another long moment, like he was trying to decide whether to drive it home further or let it go. Then he stepped back.

“Now get the dorms cleaned,” he barked. “Perth charter’s rolling in tomorrow. I want that place spotless. You hear me?”

“Yeah,” I croaked. Cleared my throat and tried again. “Yes, sir.”

He turned without another word and walked off, Stone following like a shadow.

The moment they disappeared into the back hallway, the tension in the room eased. Conversations resumed in low murmurs.

A few guys watched me as I headed toward the stairs—some with pity, some with amusement, and a few just glad it wasn’t them in the line of fire.

I climbed the stairs two at a time, throat dry, palms sweating.

One warning. That’s all I had left.

And the Perth charter coming in tomorrow? That meant everyone would be watching.

No more room to fuck up.