We pulled up at the spot ten minutes early. I sent Tyson out to scout the surrounding area, just in case some shit was going down. That was just good practice, though I didn’t expect violence to go down.
We leaned against our bikes, shooting the shit for a few minutes. Soon enough, though, the roar of the Mezcal bikes coming up the dirt road meant it was almost time to get down to business.
“Weird time to meet,” Clutch said as the Mezcals pulled up.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Right after that Rebel kid gets murdered.”
“They’re not so stupid,” Noble said. “They wouldn’t make a move on us.”
Spoil grinned. “I hope they do.” He cocked his rifle, chambering a round. “I haven’t had live target practice in a while.”
The guys laughed, and I grinned along with them. But I completely agreed with Clutch; it was a weird time for a drop. Club business never ended, even with Caralee in danger. I knew she’d be safe at my place with the pledges protecting her, since if she got hurt, it was their asses under my fucking boot. And just because Caralee showed up didn’t mean our regular business ended.
Still, it just felt weird. The Mezcal gang pulled up, arraying themselves in front of us. They’d brought along eight as well, though they weren’t as well armed. Their leader, Juan Manuel, stepped up toward me, and I walked out to meet him.
“Larkin busy today?” he asked once I was near enough.
“He sends his regards.”
Juan Manuel shrugged. “Whatever, man. You got the cash?”
I gestured toward Thade, who walked out carrying a duffel bag. “We got it.”
Juan Manuel nodded and gestured to one of his boys. The guy came forward, carrying a large brown paper bag. We met in the middle. Thade tossed them his duffel, and the Mexican tossed us the paper bag.
Thade rooted through it and then nodded to me. I looked at Juan Manuel. “Nice doing business, as always.”
He grinned. “Yeah, sure, man. Hey, I heard something about the Rebels.”
“Yeah?”
“One of their boys got offed.” He dragged a thumb across his neck and made a gagging noise.
“During a deal like this,” I said.
Juan Manuel smirked. “Guess we need to be careful now, huh?”
Just then, up on the southern ridge, there was a loud shout. Everyone looked up just as Tyson crested it, screaming something.
“The fuck is this, man?” Juan Manuel said.
“Spoil, Clutch,” I yelled.
But it was too late. There was a loud bang, then another, and Tyson tumbled forward, blood spurting from his chest.
“The fuck?” Juan Manuel yelled, dropping back toward his boys.
I ran forward. “Move!” I yelled.
Then all hell broke loose.
Bullets sprayed everywhere. I counted four guys firing from the hills as we got behind our bikes. The Mexicans started shooting back, and I tried to signal to Juan Manuel that it wasn’t us attacking.
Whether he saw me or not, he didn’t seem to give a shit. The Mexicans got onto their bikes and rode off, not caring that we were pinned down.
I cursed. “Clutch, man, we gotta make moves,” I yelled over the gunfire.
“Got you boss.”
Clutch, Spoil, and Thade all began returning fire. I nodded to Locke. He was a young guy, one of the newest members. I liked him for his recklessness and his desire to prove himself.
We moved together, sprinting toward the hills. Bullets sprayed all around us, but the others did their job. We made it, diving down onto the base of the hill.
We quickly ran up the side, guns firing. Ahead, I could see the guys more clearly. They were bikers, without a doubt.
“Toss it, fuck,” I yelled to Locke.
He grinned hugely and pulled a grenade from his jacket. He pulled the pin and threw it toward the guys firing their weapons.
The explosion was enormous, a deep, booming scream. We ran up the hill following the bang, getting there just in time to catch two guys falling back. We started firing at them as the others come to join us, but it was too late. They were already on their bikes, pulling off.
“What the fuck was that?” Clutch said. “The fucking Mexicans fucked us!”
“No,” I said. I walked over to where the grenade had gone off, bending over.
There on the ground was what was left of one attacker. But clearly on his jacket was the patch of the Snake Spit MC, a giant serpent breathing fire.
“Fucking bastards,” Spoil growled.
I looked around. “Tyson?”
“Dead,” Locke called out.
“Get his body. Clutch, Spoil, grab this fucker’s corpse too. We’ll need proof.”
“Got it, boss.” The two big men began to load the burnt-up bastard’s body onto their backs.
We spent the next twenty minutes dragging the bodies down and getting them set up on the bikes. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but time was not on our side. We couldn’t wait around for the Snakes to come back.