Chapter 1
VINNIE
The gates opened with a groan, metal grinding like a final warning. I stepped out, my boots scuffing the dirt and paused on the other side of the razor-wire fence. Bunbury Regional Prison stood behind me, a low-slung, sunbaked beast of concrete and wire nestled in the scrublands of Western Australia. The sun was hot on my skin, the air was thick with dry dust and eucalyptus. No guards. No keys. No orders. Just the sky, wide and blazing, and five years of lost time stretching behind me.
I ran a hand over my cropped hair, fingertips brushing old scars that didn’t show. My stomach tightened with the weight of freedom, freedom that didn’t quite feel like mine yet. I glanced back once at the gate, its steel teeth were already closing. That place had caged my body, yeah… but it was the silence and the waiting that had gnawed at my soul. And now, beyond the wire, there was nothing but open road and unfinished business.
I took a breath.
It didn’t feel real.
Five years in prison hadn’t broken me, but they bent me in ways I hadn’t expected. Bent my routines. Bent my thoughts. Bent my faith. Now, standing in the sun, free but heavier than I’d ever been, I wasn’t so sure if the man I’d been before was still in there somewhere or if this prison had swallowed me whole.
The low rumble of bikes cut through the silence. I lifted my head just as a black van rolled up behind two motorcycles. Sunlight danced off chrome and matte black tanks. The emblem of the Highway Jokers, a grinning skull-faced joker riding a motorcycle was stitched into the leather kuttes of the two riders.
The first bike pulled up, gravel crunching under the heavy boots. The rider swung off and yanked his helmet off, blond curls tumbling free.
“About fuckin’ time,” Saint said with a grin stretching across his face as he moved in with open arms.
I didn’t move. I let them come to me, Saint first and then Redback, who dismounted slower, more careful as his eyes scanned the prison grounds behind us. A third figure stepped out of the can and leaned against the hood, smoking a cigarette. Stone.
Saint threw his arms around me in a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of me. “You look the fuckin same.” The guys had visited me over the years, taking turns when they could, Saint the most, but Redback, Thrasher, and even Stone made the trip when time allowed. They brought stories, smokes, books, whatever they could sneak past the guards. It wasn’t just the visits, it was the reminder that I still mattered. That I wasn’t forgotten.
“You look like a muppet,” I rasped. My voice sounded like it hadn’t been used in years.
Saint laughed, holding on tighter. “We missed you, brother. Shit hasn’t been the same.”
I lifted my arms slowly, hesitantly, and returned the hug. Not because I didn’t want it but because it felt foreign. Touch. Warmth. Not followed by a guard’s shout or the slam of a cell door.
“I’m out,” I said quietly.
“Damn right you are.”
Redback stepped up, extending his hand. I took it, the shake was firm and grounded. Like it always was.
“Good to have you back, mate.”
“Thanks,” I said, then glanced towards the van. “Where is Thrasher?”
“Back at the clubhouse,” Saint replied. “Getting things ready for your welcome-home party. Said he wanted it to be a surprise, but you know Thrasher, can’t do subtle things to save his life. And I think the old ladies might’ve gone a bit nuts with the planning—balloons, banners, probably even a bloody cake.”
That sounded like Thrasher, the man might bark orders and throw punches like a storm, but he had a soft spot when it came to his brothers. I could picture him now, pacing around the clubhouse, snapping at anyone dragging their feet while secretly making sure the welcome home party was perfect. And if the old ladies were involved, there was no telling how over the top it had gotten, streamers, signs, probably enough food to feed the whole bloody club for a week. I nodded, a flicker of warmth stirring under my ribs.
Stone flicked his smoke and crushed it under his boot. “You ready? Got your bag?”
I looked down at the cheap prison duffel. Everything I owned in one ragged canvas sack. Toothbrush. A photo of Mum. A battered copy of The Art of War, pages yellowed and lined with pencil. Page 83 folded down, Saint’s handwriting scrawled in the margin: This one’s you, bro.
“Yeah.”
We climbed into the van. Saint talked the whole way, the same as always. Patch-ins. Club changes. Who got married. Who split up. I let the noise wash over me, my eyes fixed on the passing landscape.
The roads were familiar, but the world felt different. Wider. Louder. Too bright.
My mind drifted.
Time in an Aussie prison isn’t like what you see on the American shows. No dramatic yard riots or big speeches. Just long days, short tempers, and the constant hum of something ready to explode.
You learn to keep your head down. You learn who’s dangerous and who’s dumb. And you learn quickly how to read a room, because reading wrong can get you stabbed with a toothbrush.
I spent the first year finding my footing. Observing. Staying quiet. I kept to the edges, kept my fists ready, and learned the rhythm of the place, the clang of doors, the shuffle of boots, the codes in silence. My club tattoos made me a target from day one. I was the only Highway Joker in there, and that patch inked on my back might as well have been a red flag. First few weeks, I got jumped twice, once in the showers, once in the yard. Nothing fatal, just enough to send a message. I gave back what I got, made it clear I wasn’t soft, and after that, the heat died down. But the tension never left. Eyes always watching, waiting. That ink said I had backup, even if they weren’t behind the walls with me.
The second year I stopped counting days. Saint visited, always with a grin and a new story from the outside. A wedding. A new patch. A bike rebuild. Every visit reminded me of what I’d given up. But not once did I regret it.
I’d taken the charge to protect the club. One man doing time meant the rest of them walked free. If I hadn’t, Gravel might be in for life. Redback might’ve lost everything. The Highway Jokers were more than brothers.
They were my only family outside of my Mum.
My mum, she wrote when she could, her neat cursive telling me about the weather, her garden, how proud she was. She couldn’t visit much. Too far. Too hard. But her letters were folded tight and hidden in the corner of my cell, my quiet anchor.
By the third year, I was part of the furniture. Guards called me by name. New inmates gave me space. My cellmate got shanked over a tube of toothpaste and bled out while I watched, helpless. That memory never left.
I started doing push ups until my arms trembled. Read anything the library had. Found order in the chaos. Still, rage simmered. Quiet. Always there.
By the time the fifth year rolled around, I wasn’t sure who I was anymore.
I’d done the right thing.
And I’d do it again.
But five years strips a man down to the bone. Leaves you raw and wary. Leaves you wondering if you even know how to exist in a world without bars.
“You good?” Saint asked, glancing over with that annoyingly cheerful expression he always wore, like he wasn’t capable of being serious for more than five seconds.
I blinked. “Yeah.”
“You went quiet.”
“Thinking.”
Saint grinned. “Still doing that, huh?”
I huffed a breath. “Only when you’re talking.”
Saint elbowed me. “You should’ve heard Thrasher by the end—thought I was gonna drive him mad. I kept counting down your release every bloody day, reminding him how many hours were left like a broken clock. He finally snapped and told me to shut the hell up and go polish my bike or something. Still, when I told him today was the day, he just grunted and said, ‘Hope he’s still mean as shit.’”
I didn’t smile, but my eyes softened.
“We saved your room,” Saint added. “Didn’t touch a thing. Didn’t feel right.”
I nodded again. Gratitude was a strange shape in my throat.
We turned onto a long dirt track. The clubhouse was close now. The same scent drifted on the air, burnt rubber, oil, smoke, salt from the coast. A few bikes rumbled in the lot, but no one was crowding the entrance.
Saint steered around the back. “Figured you wouldn’t want a full house right away.”
I stepped out. The sun hit my face. I looked around at the place that had once been my home.
It still was.
Maybe I didn’t know exactly who I was now. Prison had stripped away the noise, the swagger, the comfort of the patch on my back. But it hadn’t taken my loyalty, my fire. I’d been bent, yeah, but not broken. And standing here, breathing in the scent of oil and dust and home, I could feel those pieces starting to shift back into place.
But I knew where I belonged.
And that was something.
