Christopher Golden - Sons of Anarchy - Bratva

“Feliks was a man of few words, so I won’t disturb the quiet with a lot o’ my own,” Trinity said. She glanced at Oleg and then at Kirill, whose expression had never been more like stone. There would be no tears from this lot. “He had courage and dignity, and he defended his brothers with his life. God keep him.”

For several seconds they all stood there, staring at the freshly turned soil. The wind blew, and somewhere a loose shutter creaked in the dark like the squeal of a frightened rat. They had dug the grave in the scrubland behind the motel, fifty yards back from the cracked, empty swimming pool.

Kirill realized she wasn’t going to say anything more and cleared his throat of whatever thickness of emotion had lodged there.

“The traitors have taken another life,” he said, speaking English purely for her benefit.

He’d mourned in his native tongue, but now he clearly wanted to include her, and it touched her deeply. For a long time she had been nothing but Oleg’s woman to them, but now that they were at war, she had become family, for better or worse.

“Krupin and the others might not have been at Temple’s ranch, but it was for them Temple acted. For Lagoshin. Feliks’s blood is on his hands. Another of us dead because Lagoshin wants the Bratva business in this part of the world for himself. We have… What would they say here? Rules. These men have betrayed us all. They have murdered those who should be their brothers. We have been forced to strike from the shadows, to hide our heads because they have numbers and weapons we could not match. But now that has changed.”

Kirill nodded at Oleg, Gavril, and Trinity in turn.

“We have as many weapons as we have hands and enough ammunition to kill our enemies and their entire families.”

He surveyed those gathered around him. A chill went through Trinity, and she wiped tears and smudged dirt from her cheeks.

“Feliks died for these guns,” Kirill said. “And we will use every last bullet.”

Oleg nodded slowly, lips pressed into a tight line. “Amen,” he said, as if Kirill’s declaration had been another prayer.

“Amen,” the rest of them echoed.

Trinity felt sick. Feliks’s death, the digging of his grave, and this pauper’s funeral had disturbed her enough, but this…

She whispered her own private little prayer and turned away, walking back across the rough ground and past the empty pool.

Oleg caught up to her just as she was entering their room, took her wrist and followed her inside, closing the door behind them. Her heart pounded, and she felt her face flush as tears spilled down her cheeks. She hated herself for crying, hated the vulnerability it made her feel, even though she believed that empathy showed strength, not weakness. Angrily, she wiped her eyes again.

“What is it?” Oleg asked.

Trinity turned away from him. “You mean besides Feliks being dead? Isn’t that enough?”

Oleg grunted. He did that a lot. It was practically a third language for him.

“There is more. You turned your back on us, came rushing back here. Something upset you, and it wasn’t just Feliks dying.”

He touched her shoulder and she pulled away, then spun to face him.

“It wasn’t a prayer,” she whispered, barely controlling her fury.

Oleg frowned, grunted again.

“What Kirill said? I understand it. You don’t grow up like I did and not understand violence… vengeance. I’m not gonna try to persuade you to turn the other cheek, ’cause in my life turnin’ the other cheek just means givin’ the bullet a clear path to your brain. But bloodlust is not prayer.”

“Of course it’s not!” Oleg snapped, throwing up his hands. “You think we don’t know that?”

Trinity scoffed. “You said, ‘Amen.’ You all did.”

“And what does it mean, ‘Amen’?” Oleg said quietly, reaching out to touch her face, to lift her chin so that she would look him in the eye and see the love he had for her. “It means ‘I believe,’ Trinity. When I said it, that’s all I meant. The others just repeated it.”

She closed her eyes tightly and let out a shuddering breath. His touch had broken a dam of emotion within her, but somehow this wave of grief and anger stopped the flow of her tears.

“Don’t say it like that again, okay? It means somethin’ real to me.”

Oleg kissed her forehead. “I promise,” he said.

He kissed her gently on the lips, and then more firmly, and she pressed her body against his and let all of her emotions crash into him, shared it with him in a way she never had with anyone. She trusted him with all she felt, love and fear and rage.

To the end.

The eastern sky had begun to lighten by the time Jax, Chibs, and Opie rolled into North Las Vegas. It had been a long time since either Jax or Chibs had paid the North Vegas charter a visit, but Opie had never been there before. Bone-tired, his jaw tight and his hands aching from gripping so long, Jax guided them into the parking lot of the Tombstone Bar, so named because the building had once housed a business that sold gravestones and other funerary monuments. The growl of the Harleys’ engines echoed off the bar and the building across the lot, loud in the darkness just before dawn.

The Tombstone was a grade-A shithole, a dive with a faded, tilted sign above the door and dying neon beer logos in the windows that burned 24-7. It had just about the least curb appeal of any bar Jax had ever seen, which made it perfect for SAMNOV to use as the legitimate front for whatever illegal business they might do. Truth was, the North Vegas charter didn’t invest a lot of time or energy into criminal enterprise. Their president, Rollie Thurman, didn’t 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.”