Chapter 6 #2
I gave him a slight nod, a smirk on my face, and repeated the same greeting I’d given him not even twenty minutes prior. “Elliot.”
He tilted his chin down. “Knight.”
I couldn’t even hate the bloke. Different badges. Same battlefield. His ended in cuffs. Ours in blood.
I pulled out my phone and texted Bear.
Me: Meet me at the clubhouse. We need to pay a visit to Old Man Jenkins out at Hollow Creek Farm.
I crossed the road and swung my leg over the bike, my gaze still locked on Shane. I could feel his on me, too, that same old heat. The heat from being under the microscope. He was watching, waiting for us to fuck up.
Little did he know, he’d be waiting a while.
I slipped on my sunglasses and kicked the bike to life, revving the engine just to get a bite out of him. Or, at the very least, to let him know the Ridge Riders weren’t going to be the ones left behind on this.
Hollow Creek Farm.
My grandfather used to tell us stories about this place growing up—ghost stories, ones to keep us from terrorising the old man who had owned the place back before Jenkins.
It didn’t stop us, though. Getting chased on a quad bike by Sylvester Skinner was a rite of passage. Hell, it practically made you a local.
Logan and Sadie had managed to escape his clutches all those years ago, their trips to the creek ending up in containers full of tadpoles. I didn’t much care for the slimy little creatures, even though Logan had a fascination with watching them transform into frogs.
But the farm wasn’t the deranged serial killer kind of place anymore. It rose up in a haze of red dirt and smoke as we rode the long gravel drive up to the entrance of the farm. The place looked half-dead—dry paddocks, busted fences, paint peeling like sunburnt skin.
Much like the old man who owned it now. He had been in his late eighties when he bought the place six years prior. The old bastard just wouldn’t die.
I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, which wasn’t far with that limp and that goddamn rifle slung over his shoulder like it was another limb. He’d been known to aim it at anyone he deemed untrustworthy.
Bear and Scout flanked me, the gravel crunching under our tyres as we came to a stop in front of the old weatherboard house. It sat there, quiet, watching us, eerie in that way you only find when you’re good and lost in the middle of the bush.
I swung off my bike, Scout and Bear following suit, and waited for Jenkins to realise he had guests. We weren’t there for a social call. Bear skulked around, kicking dust up under his boots as he went. If I didn’t trust many people, Bear trusted even less.
The bikes’ engines ticked as they cooled.
A large shed sat opposite the house. It was once the heart of the farm.
Now it was nothing but bones, slowly rotting away against the elements.
Another one sat about two hundred metres further up, steel siding glinting in the sun, smoke curling up from a burn-off behind it.
Hammering sounds echoed out from the inside, while two men standing in the large opening eyed us, their movements slowing as they sussed out the reason three bikers would be showing up to visit Old Man Jenkins.
The bastard had always claimed poor, so what was he doing with the likes of these blokes?
I called bullshit. He was doing better than he let on.
Rumours had it the old man liked to pick things up that weren’t his.
I was inclined to believe them. He’d sold the odd stolen part here and there for some cash.
Always had his nose stuck where it didn’t belong.
If he had stolen bike parts hiding somewhere in that shed, I’d have put the stupid bastard in the ground myself.
Two more farmhands hauled rusted-out parts from the shed, dumping the twisted metal into the fire pit like they were erasing evidence. They didn’t look our way. Didn’t need to.
I jutted my chin in their direction. “What do you reckon? They look like our culprits?” I gave them a two-finger wave, letting them know they could mind their own fucking business.
All I got in return were their backs as they disappeared back into the shed.
“Don’t know,” Bear said, shielding his eyes with a hand as he narrowed his eyes in their direction. “Too hard to tell from here.”
We were boxed in, the surrounding bush thick enough to hide a dozen bodies on one side, and scorched dirt stretching toward the carcasses of rotting cattle on the other. No neighbours. No-one to hear a damn thing.
Five k’s out from the town centre, right on the border of Timberflat—far enough for things to go missing, for people to disappear.
That’s why this place had a reputation. Smuggling mostly.
Weapons. Drugs. A couple of murders, too.
So, they said. That was before my time in the Riders, and what filtered through the grapevine wasn’t always truth.
Jenkins finally appeared at the edge of the rotting porch of the farmhouse.
He squinted as if he couldn’t quite see, but I knew better.
He couldn’t hide from me. He’d noticed our patches as soon as he’d stepped out the back door.
When a Ridge Rider paid you a visit, you best believe it was for a good reason.
It wasn’t just the parts. It was the lying.
The pretending. He knew what happened the last time someone stole from us.
Bear and Scout stepped up beside me, and we stood like stones in his yard, waiting for the coin to drop.
“Looking for me, boys?” Jenkins’s voice carried across the dirt like sandpaper, rough and unwelcome like he’d smoked a pack a day for the last fifty years.
With careful movements, he limped down the porch steps, his hat pulled low, his joints just about giving way beneath his scrawny frame. As expected, his rifle was slung across his back, more of a prop these days than an actual threat.
“Here he is,” I said, crossing my arms. “Thought you’d run out on us.”
He shook his head and adjusted his hat, his grey-blue eyes crinkling as they narrowed on me. “Ain’t much out here but hard work and bad knees, fellas. What’s got you sniffing around?”
“Just checking in,” I said. “Thought you might know something about stolen bikes getting torched last night.” My voice remained careful. I didn’t want to spook the old bastard before it was necessary.
Jenkins darted his gaze towards the shed where the boys were working, pausing for a long moment before speaking again. “You accusing me of something, boy?” His hard stare landed back on me, a dare set in his eyes. Or more like a warning.
He was kidding himself if he thought I’d bow down to the likes of him. He wasn’t even a local, swooped in from out-of- town years ago and snatched up the place. Christ knows why. It had been a dump back then, and nothing had changed.
I smirked, lifting an eyebrow. “Should I be?”
“You think I got time for pinching bikes?” He barked out a dry laugh. “I can barely keep the damn pump running. Besides, you think I want you fellas breathing down my neck. You think I’m stupid.”
I nodded towards the working shed. “Seems like you’ve got plenty of help.”
Jenkins grunted. “That’s just my great-grandson and his mates.
They’re helping me keep the place from ruin.
” He gestured to the men now watching us from their plastic milk crates beside the shed.
“Cheap labour, but not always the smartest.” He spat on the ground by his feet, saliva seeping into the red dirt.
“How long they been here?” I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it as I stared at the four men.
They didn’t seem like the type to go up against us, but I’d been surprised a few times in my life. They wouldn’t have been the first country boys to want to take a piece of this town.
He sniffed, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder with gnarled fingers. “Couple weeks, give or take.”
“They staying with you?” I took in a long drag of the cigarette and let the smoke curl around my lips slowly.
Could be he was telling the truth. But something in the way he shifted his weight said otherwise. Sneaky bastards like him always had something tucked inside a shed.
He pointed to the shed once again. “Told them they could stay if they fixed the place up. I ain’t no charity. Got bills to pay. They haven’t caused me any trouble.”
“Real generous,” I muttered, flicking ash to the dirt. “Almost makes a guy forget about the bikes.”
“I ain’t got nothing for you.” Jenkins’s eyes held steady, but his jaw twitched like he was chewing on the urge to tell me to piss off. He’d checked out three questions ago. Finally, he shrugged. “That it? Or you fixing to pull those pistols and shoot an old man?”
I huffed out a laugh, Bear and Scout following suit. “Not today, I’m afraid. But you mind if we have a look around?”
Flies buzzed around us, and the sharp scent of burnt oil clung to the air. I didn’t want to be there any more than Jenkins did. But those had been my marching orders—suss him out.
Jenkins made a sound that was more of a cough than a grunt. “Suit yourselves, boys. I got shit to do.” He flung a dismissive hand in the air and shuffled away, mumbling under his breath.
Bear stepped back, running his fingers over his beard like a man hovering over a trigger. “Think he’s bluffing?” His eyes never left Jenkins as he continued to shuffle away.
“Maybe,” I said, dropping my smoke and toeing it out. “He’s up to something. Or at least knows something. Not sure it’s selling stolen bike parts, though.”
Bear nodded while Scout walked around, inspecting the old shed. “Something doesn’t sit well,” Bear said, motioning towards the men still sitting on the crates in the shade of the shed. “You think he’s covering for them?”
“Don’t know,” I said, narrowing my eyes on one.
He was younger than the others, tattoos peeking beneath his sleeves. It was too early to tell if these boys were involved in anything other than getting pissed every night and sweating their arses off during the day for whatever measly pay Jenkins offered.
“Should we go talk to them?” Scout stepped up beside me, the first words out of his mouth since we had arrived there.
“Nah.” I slapped his shoulder. “We’ll do a quick border search. Don’t want anyone getting spooked just yet.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Good idea.”
We spread out, running a quick perimeter check.
Nothing jumped out. Just more rotting fencing and sheds that still housed broken machinery.
And the kind of stillness that made you wonder who was watching.
If Jenkins needed the cash, he could have easily sold the parts just lying around.
It was Barrenridge—no-one bought anything new when it could be fixed.
Bear whistled sharp and low from the far end of the property, already squatting like he’d spotted something worth keeping quiet.
I made my way over to him. “What have you got?”
He nodded to some fresh bike tracks leading away from the property, right into Timberflat territory. “What do you think?” he said. “Kids?”
“Possibly.” Nothing stood out in the surrounding bushland. Nothing but the tracks. “Aren’t the Sunfire Circle grounds just up ahead?” I pointed north.
The cult had set up somewhere near the farm a couple years back. They kept mostly to themselves, but now that a murder had occurred, their quiet lives had become a bit of a circus.
Bear followed my direction. “You reckon they’d have anything to do with it?”
“Honestly?” I scratched at the back of my neck, my uncertainty warring with my unease. “I’m starting to think everyone out here’s hiding something. Even the ones who pretend not to be.”
Someone was stirring shit up out here, and we were about to step in it.
Bear nodded. He didn’t have to say anything. We could both feel it in the air. Something big was coming, we just didn’t know what.
“Come on,” I said, nodding towards the farmhouse. “Let’s move. Old Man Jenkins will have a fucking conniption if we don’t get out of here soon.”
Bear followed me to the entrance where Scout was waiting for us by the bikes, arms crossed over his chest.
“What’s the play, VP?” Scout said, nodding to the crate-sitters. “We waiting for them to throw the first punch?”
I slapped him on the back of his head. “Get off my bike, Prospect.”
He winced, stepping away. “Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing the spot I’d just hit him.
He knew better than to touch another man’s bike. Seems I’d have to delegate toilet duty for the next week just to teach him a lesson. Still, the kid was trustworthy. Someone I wanted around when the shit hit the fan.
I shook my head. “And, to answer your question, no we aren’t roughing anyone up. Not yet.” I swung a leg over my bike and started the engine. “Let them make the first mistake.”
We’d be ready when they did.