What they’re getting is fire and mayhem and death.
I’m with a group of brothers, twenty-five strong, lying in wait at the start of a narrow dirt road that leads to the Riders’ clubhouse from the north. Thick redwoods are shielding us from view of both the clubhouse and the interstate that pass this stretch of land. The tangy yet sweet smell of the trees is strong and pervasive as it always is on spring evenings.
The clubhouse is not far from the truck stop Veronica and me visited last night. I should’ve remembered that, though I doubt I could’ve stopped her going even if I had tried to stop her. She hasn’t called me all day, so I assume all is still well and her parents haven’t called the cops yet.
Only my buddies Edge and Ruin are watching them now since Cross wanted everyone else on this job. They’re sitting in a beat-up electrician’s van outside their house. If all goes according to plan, there won’t be any Riders left to go after Veronica. And if there are any left after tonight, Veronica will be the last thing on their minds.
I’m probably overreacting about the whole need to keep them under surveillance. It’s all part of my bigger need to protect her more than I’ve ever wanted to protect anyone in my life. I don’t even know where that need is coming from, but it’s one of those things that have been with me in the back of my mind since I first met her.
I wish Hunter was here with us. Not just because that would mean he never got stabbed in the first place, but because I’m sure he knows a thing or two about wanting a woman you can’t actually have.
But he’s not here. We are. Because he did get stabbed and he did almost die.
The plan is simple. Surround the clubhouse and don’t let anyone leave alive. That last part is up to us, hiding in this redwood grove. We’re to take out anyone who manages to escape the clubhouse.
Several other groups are taking out those that aren’t attending the clubhouse meeting tonight, and their president, currently in a coma in the same hospital as Hunter, won’t ever wake from that coma.
It’s a well-laid plan. Simple, concise, with every chance of succeeding. But all the best plans always go to shit the moment the shooting starts. I’ve heard those words of wisdom more than once from the older brothers.
I wanted to be with the group that is attacking the clubhouse. I even had a heated discussion about it with my father. Or tried to, because he wouldn’t rise to anything I said, or change his mind, no matter how many times I told him I’m ready for the front line.
Ace is in charge here, and while he’s not one of the execs, he has been with the club through all the big jobs, like the Spawns and taking on that cartel down in Mexico City. So I’m sure we’ll see action here, just like dad said.
The meeting is set for nine PM and it’s a quarter of now. The sky is mostly dark, with just a pale band of the purple sunset left along the horizon beyond the interstate.
No one’s talking. I’m sure I’m also the only one thinking a mile a second. But that’ll stop once the action starts. It always does.
From my spot right at the edge of the redwood grove where it meets the dirt road, I can see the wall and roof of the Riders’ clubhouse clearly. I can’t see any of the windows, because the wall surrounding it is too high, but the bright floodlights illuminating their yard are on, making it look like a fire is already raging there.
Not yet. But soon.
“Alright, take your places and look alive,” Ace says in a low, carrying voice. “It’s almost showtime. The show starts at nine.”
“Yeah, fireworks,” Crow, a brother who maybe likes killing a little too well, exclaims.
“None of that now,” Ace snaps. “Focus.”
The last five minutes to nine PM seem to last a week.
Good, time is finally starting to slow down for me. That’s my last thought I have before the dreary clubhouse we’re watching erupts in shades of bright orange. Loud bangs rent the silence and make the ground shake. The explosions just keep on coming after that, the bangs mixing with the sound of men screaming and bikes revving to life. The smell of smoke and fire soon drowns out the scent of the redwoods completely.
It’s not bombs going off. It’s bazookas and man-fired anti-tank missiles. The one good thing about our MC being solely a provider of weapons now is that we always have enough of it. And that we always have the newest toys too. Military grade shit.
We could arm a small army at any given time with our stock, and that’s what we did tonight—armed ourselves. The Riders have no chance. And by now they probably know it.
The machine gun hanging on my back is top of the line, guaranteed not to jam and whatnot. But I also have my two trusty nine mils, because frankly, I’d prefer to look the Riders I kill in the eye before I dispatch them. For Hunter. For Veronica and her sister. And even for all the women whose lives they ruined.
The wall surrounding the Riders’ compound is on fire, bright red flames engulfing the shitty metal it’s made of. With a crash and a blinding shower of sparks a whole section of it collapses outward, revealing another wall behind it, this one made of flame.
Every last inch of the courtyard is on fire, men, and bikes included. Those that try to run are quickly mowed down by rapid machine gun fire that seems to come from all sides at once.
But there are still many of them standing and a group is riding through the gap in the wall, dark blobs back-lit by the flames.
“They’re coming our way,” Ace says. “Be ready.”
There’s ten of them going full speed, the dust they’re kicking up glowing orange and white at the edges and making them more visible in the night.
I aim my gun and take the first shot. The bullet seems to move in slow motion, taking a very long time to hit its mark. But it does, as I knew it would. It hits the man riding in front directly in the center of his chest.