I woke up in a hospital bed, handcuffed to the rail, with an FBI agent telling me all my brothers from the Steel Eagles MC were dead. Forty years of riding with the same men, gone in one night. And every piece of evidence pointed to me pulling the trigger. Someone had set me up perfectly, down to gunshot residue on my hands and security footage showing my bike at the scene. I couldn’t remember anything after our club meeting—just darkness, then sirens.
The agent dropped photos on my lap—my best friends lying in pools of blood at our clubhouse. Men I’d ridden beside since Vietnam. Dead. Then he showed me what they’d found in my garage: the murder weapon, bloody boots, and a journal detailing “my plan” to take over the club’s territory.
“Pretty elaborate setup,” he said, almost admiring. “Question is: who hated you enough to massacre your entire MC and frame you for it?”
Only one name came to mind. A man I hadn’t seen in thirty years. A man who swore he’d destroy everything I loved after what happened in ’86.
