Chapter Text
He'd been indicted on a class C felony charge and was sentanced to ten years minimum for small arms dealing.
But now he was getting out, and come eleven o' clock that morning, he'd be a free man.
But he knew things weren't going to be the same as they were ten years ago.
Times had changed, and so had Ace.
But he scratched his nose and wore a blank expression as if bored, like he was just waiting for a bus as the correctional officer behind the glass window bent to procure the box of items that had been in Ace's possession when he was locked up. He'd had nothing but the shirt on his back, a pair of faded jeans, a leather belt, chain wallet and boots. But what he'd worn over the shirt had been a denim vest with the moniker "Ace" stitched into the back in quotation marks, just below it the symbol of the Pagan Outlaws motorcycle club, and at the bottom a black and white patch that said Enforcer, which had been his rank as a member.
He accepted the items with no more enthusiasm than he would accepting a registered letter from a postal worker. He wasn't looking forward to his family reunion. Things were different now. The club had changed hands while he was absent, there was a new top dog in the pack, most of the members he'd known over the years were now imprisoned or dead, and only a handful of them he might recognize among what was surely to be a sea of young bloods in their place. Times had certainly changed while he was away. But on the inside of a prison cell, Ace had done some changing too, and dreaded his return to the club.
But he dressed accordingly, and when the paper work had been processed, he stepped outside and into the sunlight, squinting, and eventually spotted a beat up Pontiac Sunfire in the parking lot, out of it stepping a fellow member, putting out his cigarette on the pavement as he shut the door. He was younger than Ace by a margin of years, but looked much older now, as if the years passing had taken their toll. Though he looked happier than Ace ever remembered the man being, pulling his sunglasses off with a smile and welcoming Ace to the outside world with a firm handshake and a clap on the shoulder.
"Singer," Ace addressed him, nodding.
"Welcome back, brother," Singer grinned at him, then ushered him into the passenger's seat of the car. The very first thing he did, before he even started the car back up, was reach into the back seat for a carton of Marlboros and tossed it in Ace's lap, then picked up a Zippo lighter from the center console and handed that to him next. "Merry Christmas," he quipped and Ace snorted.
He tore the side of the box open, pulled a pack of smokes out, then set the rest of the carton back on the seat behind him. He smacked the pack against his palm a few times before peeling away the cellophane.
"Who's car is this?" he asked before lighting cigarette.
"My ol' lady's," Singer shrugged.
"Ya got married?"
"Yep. Been together two years now."
"Ya never mentioned her."
"I didn't? Shit. My bad. I thought I had."
"Ya gonna introduce me?"
"I might, but let's get ya to the clubhouse first," Singer chuckled. "You and I have a lot of catchin' up to do." He stuck the key in the ignition switch, then started it, but turned to Ace and said, "Gotta warn ya though, things are...well, they're different now."
Ace nodded. "So I've heard."
"Times have changed, brother."
Ace took a long drag off his cigarette, then said, "Yeah I imagine they have."
Singer stared for a minute, like he expected there to be more, but when he saw that Ace had nothing further to say, he nodded briefly, then shifted in reverse to back out of the parking spot. It was a long four hour drive of listening to the radio, and Singer humming along with the songs, occasionally singing, with the occasional smalltalk. Ace asked him if he still had his Gibson electric, to which he said 'yeah', and told him he still played all the time too.
That was how he got his name. He liked to sing. Had first showed up out of the blue one night at the Black Powder bar and grill where their chapter liked to frequent, broke and out of gas, with nothing but that electric guitar strapped to his back and a stammer in his words, asking the people inside if they were looking for some entertainment. The President waved him over, sat him down in a chair, pulled the revolver from his vest, cocked the hammer back, aimed it at the kid's face with a smile and said, "You go on and play me a song, boy, and if I like it, you can walk out of this bar still breathin'."
He'd played his heart out that night, sang Bon Jovi's Wanted Dead Or Alive for the Prez and his friends, and while it didn't sound quite the same as the original, it impressed the members present, the Prez liked it well enough to let him live, and started calling him Singer after that. Even after he'd joined the Pagans and became more than just their nightly entertainment, the nickname stuck with him.
Out of all of them, Ace and Singer had been the closest, more like blood kin than simply brothers in the club, and Ace had even taken him under his wing as a Prospect. It was no surprise at all that it should be Singer of all people picking him up the day he got out, rather than the new Prez or any others of the Cabinet. Singer drove them down the interstate but instead of taking the exit that would lead directly to the bar, he passed it and took the next one, making Ace glance over at him, narrowing his eyes.
"Where we headed?" he asked, to which Singer told him they had to make a pit stop first, and drove him to a self storage unit facility nearby.
When he parked the car and they both got out, he handed Ace a key to one of the storage units, saying, "I kept her for ya," and Ace was eternally grateful for what that implied. He hadn't let Ace's motorcycle get impounded or auctioned, and instead put it in a storage unit for him to ride once he got out. He unlocked the pad lock, tore it off, then slid the panel up to see a dusty black and white Victory Vegas in the shadow of the storage unit. He hadn't had a bike cover for it, but she still looked in relatively mint condition.
It was the only woman Ace had ever loved, that motorcycle, and since Singer was inclined to keep her maintained the last ten years, she was just as beautiful now as the day she came off the showroom floor. Just maybe needed a good wash, and a little turlewax to boost the shine on the side of that tank. But the storage units were above the flood zone so there was no water damage, and Singer was certain to take the bike to a garage for new oil and put a full tank of gas in it too.
In the left saddle bag was a Beretta with a full clip, tucked in a black leather holster, that Ace immediately reached for, removing his vest to slide it over his shoulders, tucking the pistol under his arm and throwing the vest back on to conceal it. The weight of the gun felt strange, too heavily laden, where it used to feel like a part of him he wasn't complete without, and for a moment he paused, standing and staring at the back wall. He slowly closed the bag, ignoring the manilla envelope full of unmarked bills he'd stored there for safekeeping, and took a deep breath through his nose.
Things had certainly changed for the Ace of Spades.
But he adjusted his cut before turning to see Singer smiling at him, eyes full of pride, because now Ace had truly returned, after ten long years of absence.
"Alright now I can take your ass to the bar," Singer chuckled, and Ace almost smiled.
After ten long years, a cold beer in his hand and a woman on his arm sounded pretty damn good right then, but...
Ace exhaled a slow breath through his nose and flexed his jaw, thinking.
But...things had changed.
"Wontchya follow me out to Disciple Hill," he requested, making Singer cock his head in confusion. "Gotta talk to ya about somethin'," was the only explanation he gave. But Singer nodded, puffing on his cigarette.
"Alright then," he drawled slowly.
They shook hands, then Singer got back behind the wheel of his old lady's car while Ace started up his bike and let it idle for a minute, pulling a rag from the opposite hand side to wipe away some of the dust that had settled. Disciple Hill was a secret meeting place of the Pagans, where brothers would meet for private conversation outside of club meetings, to discuss anything that couldn't be said over the phone, in case it was tapped, or around other members, if someone was thought to be wearing a wire.
But it earned it's name because it's original purpose had been to initiate new members into the club back when the former President's father, the founder of the chapter, was still alive and acting President. The Prospect would meet with the President and the rest of the Cabinet, who would bring a kidnap victim, bound and gagged with their face covered, to the top of the hill where the Prospect was then expected to shoot the victim, or take their place. Who they were or what they had done didn't matter. All that mattered was if the Prospect was willing to take a life without question at the Prez's orders.
Because every man must be willing to take a life, or give theirs instead.
Blood was shed on that hill, thus it was considered one of the most sacred of places to the Pagan way of life.
And it was there that Ace rode his bike, sun in his eyes, wind in his face, intent on this being his last ride.
But even though the pistol tucked under his arm felt unfamiliar to him now, the ride he took felt like the old proverb, "Once you learn, you never forget." He took the turns just as easily as if he'd taken them yesterday, just as smooth as could be. The sun was just beginnning to sink over the hills when he finally arrived to the meeting place, down a gravel road that ended at the base of the hill, overlooking a pristine valley floor. When Singer pulled in behind him and hopped out of the car, they walked the hundred feet to the top of the hill, stood and looked out at the valley, watching the sunset for a minute in silence.
"Why'd ya bring me out here?" Singer asked, but there was no humor in his voice, as if he already sensed the harrowing nature of Ace's request.
Ace pulled another cigarette from his pack.
He lit it, then with a flat, emotionless tone, he said, "I want out."
Singer was silent beside him, drawing in a breath at those words. "You sure that's what ya want?" he asked after a minute or so.
"I've had ten years to think it over," Ace said, then took another drag.
Beside him, staring off into the distance, Singer sighed, then adjusted the sunglasses on his face, before nodding and saying, "Alright."
Slowly Ace pulled his vest out of the way and drew his pistol, handing it to Singer by the barrel, heart pounding in his chest as his brother took it from him. He didn't want Singer using his own pistol, and risk having it traced back to him somehow. He could toss the pistol right in the unmarked grave with Ace's body, and no one would ever find it. The club would make sure of it. They would be sworn to secrecy, and take their knowledge of the circumstances surrounding Ace's death to the grave. This day would never happen, and it would never be mentioned again.
But there was only one way to leave the Pagan Outlaws.
In a body bag.
Ace enjoyed the sunset for a minute longer before closing his eyes as Singer took the safety off, then loaded one round in the chamber and he felt that gun pressed to the back of his head. The silence stretched, only broken by the wind rustling the leaves of the trees, and the sound of his own breathing as he patiently waited for Singer to pull the trigger.
But after an infintely long minute, he felt Singer remove the barrel and heard him flip the safety back on with a sigh.
Ace blinked his eyes back open.
Then he turned to glance at Singer.
"Why aintchya shot me yet?" Ace asked him.
Singer flipped the gun in his grasp and held it out to Ace by the barrel and said, "Like I said, brother, times have changed."
With his brow wrinkled in confusion, Ace took the pistol back, then watched Singer walk back to his car. "Come on," he called. "Let's head on out to the Black Powder and get a drink."
He left Ace standing there and headed back down, beyond the trees and Ace cursed, but eventually he followed, stamping his cigarette out once he'd smoked it down to the filter. Then he did just as Singer suggested, and followed him to the Black Powder bar and grille on the egde of town. It was dark by the time they reached the establishment, the parking lot filled to the brim with motorcycles, a few cars and trucks here and there. The air smelling strongly of greasy burgers, overcooked french fries and cigar smoke. Ace easily found a spot near the entrance, as the space was reserved for members.
There was a crowd of Pagans, most of them lit, holding beer bottles and shot glasses, shouting and smiling at Ace's return, all of them wanting to crowd around him to shake his hand, but Singer held them off for a moment. "Settle down, settle down!" he said over the crowd, and everyone quieted. "I need every member in the back lot!" he said to everyone, then led Ace that direction, hand on his shoulder.
They pushed through the crowd of patrons to the back entrance and went outside, every member following shortly. A crowd of close to twenty men corralled outside, and Singer said, "Alright everybody gather 'round!" He instructed them to form a circle around the two of them, then, keeping his hand on Ace's shoulder he said, "This mothefucker told me he wanted out!" Heads turned to each other, and then to Ace, eyeing him in confusion and bewilderment.
To say he didn't want to be part of the club anymore was the highest form of insult, and none of them could possibly understand why Ace would want that. To be a Pagan was for life. To leave was to reject his family, his brothers, and their way of life. To forsake everything he'd been taught. Ace had been one of the most loyal to his family, taking the fall for their organization and serving time for them. He'd shown such devotion and loyalty to the brotherhood, yet he would throw that all away, the day he finally got out.
But Singer let go of his shoulder and turned to face him, smiling like he held all the cards.
"Ya want out? Here's how it's gonna go then." He folded his arms. "You're gonna hand me your gun an' your cut, and the keys to your bike, then you're gonna let the boys here beat the ever lovin' shit outta ya, til your ass is black and blue, and then you can be on your merry way." He vaguely gestured to the open road beyond the parking lot. Ace cocked his brow at Singer.
"You're gonna let me live?"
"Yep. But to everyone that knows ya, you'll be dead. You forget what ya know about the club, an' we forget your ass ever even existed."
Instead of killing him, they would strip him of his livelihood, beat him senseless, then let him live the remainder of his days suffering the indignation of being treated like every other government ass kissing white collar waste of space in the county? And on top of it they'd even take the keys to his bike? But as long as he kept his mouth shut about what he knew about the club, they'd let him go on about his life as if the last twenty years had never happened?
But...they'd take his bike though. That was just cruel of a thing to do to a man.
It was worse than death.
"You mean my ass would have to hitchhike back to town?" he grumbled, hardly thrilled by the prospect. Singer nodded, grinning smugly at him. "Hell I'd rather die," he groused with a look of disgust, making most of them laugh. He grimaced at the thought of being bruised and bloody and sticking out his thumb for a ride. But evidently, just as Singer had said, a lot had changed while he was away. He was kind of curious as to what else the new Cabinet put in place while he was gone. Singer couldn't be very detailed in his letters since the correctional officers read all his mail. He was kept up to date on who died and who'd been had, but evidently there was more to know.
He decided he'd at least like to live long enough to share words with the new President, and find out what more had changed.
Ace exhaled a sigh.
"Shit never mind then," he mumbled, after thinking it over. "I'm stayin' in, 'cause my ass ain't goin' nowhere walkin'."
Singer laughed at him, clapped him on the back and waved him back inside, saying, "Come on, let's get a drink. Find your sorry lookin' ass a woman too. Been ten years since ya even seen one. Any man with a death wish ain't gonna wanna die once they got a nice pair o' tits in their face." Ace nodded a little in relent at that, following him back across the parking lot, the others joining them shortly.
"Ya know they got congigal visits in the state pen, smart ass."
"Yeah but name one woman that would drive four hours just ta come see your ugly ass."
"Just quit your doggin' and lead the way, brother," he grumbled at Singer, shaking his head as he followed the younger man inside.