Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
SHORT
Prez brings the gavel down. “Church is in session.”
We’re two men down and have six visitors. Bigfoot and Baffle obviously have seats, but for the rest of the New Mexico crowd, it’s standing room only. Grease, Jester, Dime, and Smooth lean against the wall.
Prez looks up. “First order of business is to officially thank New Mexico, who came and saved our asses last night.” His eyes narrow on our secretary. “Brother, why aren’t you writing this down?”
Piston looks up sheepishly and indicates his bandaged arm. “My arm ain’t cooperating.”
Prez turns his eyes to Stalker, who looks so pale I wonder if he should be here.
But the brother just shakes his head. “My fuckin’ glasses got broken last night.
Can’t see fuck all close up without them.
” I notice he doesn’t mention his injury.
Christ, Bron had been fishing for a bullet in his stomach last night, and yet he’s still standing.
He doesn’t even seem to have a hangover from all the rum poured into him.
As one of the men who’d escaped with only a flesh wound, I raise my hand. “Don’t mind taking notes if that will help?” Piston slides his notebook and pen across, then sits back and awkwardly crosses his arms, wincing as he does so.
“Hey, Stalk, we’ll get you some new eyes soon,” Saint reassures him.
“Can he see to fuckin’ ride?” Rattler asks. Both he and Winchester are back from the hospital, Knight keeping guard on our two men still inside.
“My long distance is fuckin’ fine,” Stalker retorts. Then shoots him the finger. “As you well fuckin’ know.”
“Can’t ride anyway as he ain’t got a bike. Same as all of us,” Paint remarks, rubbing at the bandage around his head.
“That’s on the agenda,” Bullseye uses the opportunity to regain control.
“We’ve got to see what we can salvage, then rebuild or buy new bikes.
And we’ve got a bunk house to replace. That’s all taken as a given.
But that’s our business, and we’ve got other things to discuss while New Mexico is still here.
Don’t want to take up too much of their time, as they’re probably itching to get back home. ”
“Don’t mind us,” Bigfoot drawls magnanimously. “Bikes and places to sleep are important. And that said, thanks, Short, for putting us up last night. Slept like fuckin’ babes, we did.”
“Your recliner’s quite comfy,” Jester inputs.
“Thank fuck someone had a good night,” Bullseye murmurs under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear, a reminder that he slept in his office chair.
He rolls his eyes. “Nevertheless, we’ve got to talk about how last night went down, and how the fuck the MDMC could come at us with such numbers.
Bigfoot, you’ve got something to enlighten us? ”
The New Mexico prez sits forward, elbows on the table, and his hands clasped. “You know the Mojave Devils have strong links to the Rivera Cartel?”
Bullseye straightens, as do the rest of us. “How did we not know this?” He speaks for us all. His face firms. “Fuckin’ Griz held back on us.” For clarification for the New Mexico prez, he clarifies, “The MDMC member known as Skunk who infiltrated us.” Bigfoot nods. It’s not news to him.
“We didn’t ask the right questions,” Saint remarks.
Bigfoot shrugs. “Whatever, facts stand. The MDMC didn’t source all of the assholes who attacked you last night. Some of them were probably gang members courtesy of the cartel.”
As the implications hit, I feel cold seeping down my spine. Looking around, all my brothers are taking the news hard. One brother sums it up for all of us.
“The cartel itself will be gunning for us for killing their men.” Winchester sighs.
Baffle leans back in his chair, linking his hands behind his neck. “And your shot-up clubhouse and burned barn is evidence their men came here?”
“Fuck this,” Bullseye exclaims. “So, we’ve got the fuckin’ cartel on our backs now?”
“Who do you think wanted your land? Your base as a route over the border? You’re what, twenty miles from Mexico?” Grease states, quite accurately.
“As the crow flies. By road, it’s further,” Freak tells him.
Grease shrugs. “Ain’t roads they’re considering.”
“It’s okay, you don’t need to draw a picture.” Bullseye meets Bigfoot’s eyes, then lowers his head into his hands. “The fuckin’ cartel,” he repeats. “So that’s where they were getting their manpower.” He snorts a laugh. “So, we’ve taken out some cartel members.”
The New Mexico prez sits back in his chair. He raises a shoulder, then lowers it. “Can’t tell. MDMC were recruiting, so they might be all theirs, but it’s possible the cartel put some of their foot soldiers in just to make sure the hit was carried out.”
“I’ve got to bring Big Daddy in on this.
” The gruffness of his voice suggests that’s the last thing Bullseye wants to do.
Kings of Anarchy chapters are normally bound only to themselves, but in some circumstances defer to the national prez.
I know Bullseye will be thinking it could be seen as an act of weakness on our part, but I’m not sure we can handle something this big ourselves.
Bigfoot shakes his head. “He’s already forewarned. Needed to update him on our own run-ins with the cartel. We’re in the same fuckin’ boat, Brother.”
“Up shit creek with no paddle.” Freak’s apt summation breaks the tension and makes us all laugh.
Unusually, it’s Words who’s next to speak up.
“All bodies will be ash in the next couple of days. Have to stagger them out and put a couple in with each bona fide body. Can’t have the chimney belting out smoke at all hours.
That would get people asking questions. But soon, there’ll be nothing left of them to be found. ”
Jester raises his hand. “I’ve pressure-washed all the blood away. But can’t do much about fixing the clubhouse…”
Paint scowls. “Few panes of glass, fix the door, and we can patch this place up fast.” As various pairs of incredulous eyes go toward him, he shrugs. “Who’s to know whether it was always a pigsty or not?”
“Man’s got a point.” Baffle raises his chin in his direction.
“And the fire in the bunkhouse could have been one of…” Winchester pauses, then corrects himself. “Our prospect smoking.”
“Heathen got family?” Bullseye asks Piston, who shakes his head in response. “He was just a kid who aged out of the system, and landed with us as he’d nowhere to go.”
“Any problem keeping his body under wraps in the mortuary for now?”
Words, the man whom Bullseye’s focus has now settled on, shakes his head. “What you thinking, Prez?”
“Man deserves a good send-off, but having it too soon would be another admission something went down, and give the fuckers who ordered the hit something to crow about. If we wait a few weeks, we can come up with another reason. No one would question a fatal accident on his bike.”
I slap my hand on the table. Bullseye’s suggestion sounds sensible. And mine’s not the only positive reaction around the table.
“We’ll be back for his funeral.” Bigfoot glances at each of his men in turn and receives chin lifts from all of them. “He died a true King, fighting to the end to protect his brothers.”
There’s a thumping of fists over hearts from all around the table, solidarity with the fallen man who paid the ultimate price for being part of the club.
“Right,” Bigfoot speaks, pushing his chair back from the table. “You’ve got your own business to discuss, and we need to hit the road.” He gives a wry smile, “And don’t bother thanking us again, we’ll take it as a given, and know you’d return the favour if we require an assist.”
“You better believe it,” or words to that end, come from me and all of my brothers.
“We’ll adjourn church, see our brothers off. Then reconvene in half an hour,” Prez decides.
“Oh, one last thing,” Baffle speaks before he stands. “Just an idea, I know none of you, nor any of our club, work in construction, but why don’t you put a call out to other chapters? You need a new bunkhouse fast, and they might have the skills that could help you do the job faster.”
It’s a good suggestion, as Prez tells him.
Chairs scrape across the wooden floor as everyone gets up, either to get on the road or to give a send-off to those leaving.
A hand lands on my shoulder as I enter the hallway. Turning, I see it’s Dime. “What’s this I hear about you having a son, Short? Might not know too much about it, but don’t kids take like, nine months to bake? It’s not been that long since I saw you last.”
Rolling my eyes, I tell him, “He’s eight years old, came along with my ol’ lady. So, I’ve adopted him.”
Dime rolls his eyes. “Sounds like a whole load of unnecessary trouble.”
He doesn’t know the half of it, but I answer him honestly, “I wouldn’t change it for anything.”
And as luck would have it, when I enter the clubroom, Trip rushes over to me with what’s becoming his normal greeting. “Dada!”
I take the opportunity to introduce him. “This is my kid, Trip.”
Dime grins. “Hi, Trip.” When he gets no response, he widens his eyes, mouthing something like, rather you than me.
“Are we leaving or not?” Smooth shouts loudly, clearly eager to get his crew on the road. “Everyone gone to the heads, as I ain’t stopping once we get on the road?”
“Yeah, yeah, Mom.” Grease body checks him as he goes out the door. “Had a shit too.”
“Jester, get your ass over here,” Baffle yells, rolling his eyes at the cleaner who has Heaven hanging on to him, apparently promising they’ll get together when he comes back in a few weeks.
Eventually, all the New Mexico Kings are outside, astride their bikes and ready. After a rousing cry from everybody of “Nobody fucks with the Kings,” they rev their engines and then they’re off, leaving silence behind.
As they disappear out of the gate, any upbeat feeling leaves me. I feel flat as I turn and view the row of our ruined bikes. What I wouldn’t give to be riding right now. And from the looks on faces, my sentiment is shared by my brothers.