Chapter Twelve
Dried grass and leaves crunched under Rags’s boots as he walked away from the barn and from Casey.
He could still feel her lips against his, her arms around his neck, her curvy body flush against his.
Fuck! He needed to detach, to pull full focus on what was going on now.
He had to clear his mind—shake her scent off him.
Forget about the way her perfume wrapped around him, or the way she moaned when he touched her. Damnit! She was still under his skin.
“Didn’t mean to break up what you had going with that chick, but Banger wants the Devil’s Reign off the property without the citizens noticing anything,” Throttle said, pulling Rags’s thoughts away from Casey and back to the impending confrontation.
“No worries. The club comes first,” Rags said, shoving thoughts of her into the far recesses of his mind.
They headed toward the far side of the ranch.
“Any of the assholes at the festival?” Rags said.
“Not yet. They came by a back road. Probably thinking they’d surprise us,” Diesel said. “What a bunch of fuckin’ pussies.”
“Dumb shits didn’t think we’d be surveying the festival?” Tank said.
“Like Diesel said, they’re damn pussies. They get some cuts and they think they’re in a fuckin’ club. Insurgents have been around since the seventies. We’re the mother club.” Streaks of anger shot through Rags. “I can’t wait to beat their asses.”
“Me too,” Throttle said.
The other members agreed in unison.
“There’re twelve of the fuckers. They’re at the far side of the ranch by the service road.” Chas’s voice crackled through the smart radio.
“Can you see their cuts?” Rags asked, grabbing the radio from Throttle.
“Yep. Their bottom rocker is clear as hell. It says Colorado.”
“Fuck that!” Rags stomped his steel-toed boot into the dirt.
“We’re gonna teach these assholes some respect,” Diesel said.
“Can’t wait.” Throttle pounded his fist into his palm.
“They’re gonna be sorry they messed with the Insurgents.” Smokey dropped his roach and crushed it with his boot.
“Fuck, yeah,” Diesel said. “Are Rock and Shadow with Chas?”
Throttle nodded. “Banger wants us at the tree-line. He wants us to rough them up. No weapons drawn unless we have to. Keep it low-profile. He doesn’t want citizens seeing shit.”
“Let’s roll,” Rags said.
The rest of the Insurgents were strategically positioned around the festival, making sure no trouble bled into the public area.
“The assholes just got off their bikes,” Chas said. “They’re acting like they’re stretching their legs, but they’re scouting.”
“Did they make any of you?” Rags asked.
“No. How far away are you guys?”
“Another few minutes, then it’s showtime.”
Hawk appeared from behind the equipment shed, flanked by Puck and Razor. His expression was tight and determined.
“We keep this shit contained. If it escalates, use your knives, chains, and kill-lights before a gun unless one of these fuckers pulls a piece. We hit hard and fast. Any questions?”
The men shook their heads then trudged forward.
They saw the members of the Devil’s Reign leaning against their Harleys, arms crossed, smirks plastered across their faces. A section of the fence had been torn down by the motorcycles which pissed the Insurgents off big time.
“They just keep giving us more reasons for the beatdown,” Throttle hissed.
“Yeah.” Rags kept walking.
Then he saw the bottom rocker. Colorado. Big and bold—a middle finger thrown up at the brotherhood. Rags stepped ahead of his brothers. One of the Devil’s Reign members pushed off his Harley and stood straight with arms crossed, feet wide apart.
“That patch doesn’t belong here,” Rags said, voice low.
The big guy had long, matted greasy hair pulled into a braid. A tattoo of an Uzi crawled up his neck, and naked women inked across both arms.
Greasy cocked his head. “Who says?”
“Take the fuckin’ cut off,” Rags said, every muscle tensed to pounce.
The biker’s grin widened. “This ain’t comin’ off unless you wanna come over and take it.”
For a man his size, his fist moved fast, but Rags was faster. He ducked and slammed his shoulder into the man’s ribs, stunning him. Before Greasy could land another punch, Rags caught him with a hard right to the head and knocked him to the ground.
Then all hell broke loose.
The other Devil’s Reign bikers surged forward at once, roaring like animals.
The Insurgents met them head-on. From the corner of his eye, Rags saw two Devil’s assholes jump Throttle.
Throttle stumbled before kicking one of them in the balls.
The guy folded with a groan. The other rival landed a fist to the side of Throttle’s face.
Diesel came flying over, grabbed the man off Throttle, threw him to the ground, and stomped him with a steel-toed boot.
Crack! Blood splattered across the dirt.
As Diesel and Throttle beat down two more rivals, Rags fended off a biker rushing Chas.
The man’s hand dipped into his cut, the Glock gleaming in the fading sunlight.
Rags kicked him hard in the shin, the spikes on his boot ripping through denim.
Blood streaked across the brown grass. Rags ripped the Glock from the man’s hand and pistol-whipped him.
He stuffed the 9mm into his cut and whirled around.
Hawk was beating the shit out of Greasy. Puck was fighting off two rivals. Rags charged in, grabbed the back of one attacker’s cut, and yanked him off Puck. He hurled the man into a fallen log. The bastard hit it with a loud crack and rolled, coughing up blood.
The musty smell of sweat mixed with the metallic scent of blood.
Curses and shouts were swallowed by the cool breeze.
As Rags turned to see if he could help a brother, a Devil’s Reign bastard grabbed him from behind in a chokehold, crushing Rags’s windpipe.
Rags clawed at the thick arm, but the guy squeezed tighter.
Struggling to breathe, Rags shoved back with everything he had, but the asshole was a brick wall.
Then Rock barreled into them, ripping the rival off Rags and throwing him down.
Rock’s fist came down like a sledgehammer, and the man’s head bounced off the dried leaves.
Rags stayed low on the ground, dragging in air, coughing. Rock grinned at him, and Rags raised his fist in thanks.
“You okay, dude?” Rock asked, patting his back.
“Yeah. Damn, that fucker was strong.” Rags’s laugh turned into a coughing fit.
“Why don’t you head back?” Rock said. “We can wrap this up.”
“No fuckin’ way,” Rags growled.
“Gotta help Razor,” Rock said, dashing away.
Rags barely caught his breath before a boot smashed into his ribs, knocking him sideways. “Fuck!” Rags hissed, as white-hot pain shot through him.
He blocked a second kick with his forearm.
The Devil’s Reign biker, a stout, vicious-looking bastard with a shaved, tattooed head, charged him.
Rags ducked under a wild swing and drove an uppercut cut into the man’s jaw so hard his teeth clacked.
The man staggered, giving Throttle time to grab him and slam him face-first into the trunk of a pine tree.
“Motherfucker,” Throttle snarled.
Across the clearing, Shadow grappled two Devil’s Reign bikers, smashing their skulls together with a grunt. Another rival lunged at him swinging a chain, but Hawk stepped between them and took the hit across his arm without flinching. He punched the dude so hard he dropped flat on the ground.
Rags looked over and saw a Devil’s Reign biker tackle Chas, driving him backward. Chas hit the ground hard, gasping for air. The bastard pulled a knife, the blade flashing.
Rags ran over and grabbed the attacker’s wrist mid-stab and twisted hard until the bone popped. The biker howled. The knife dropped. Rags shoved him off Chas and smashed his head into the dirt twice until he went slack.
“You good?” Rags panted.
Chas coughed, spat a mouthful of red, and nodded. “Yeah, the fucker came outta nowhere.”
A guttural cry tore through the clearing.
Greasy rushed Rags before he knew what hit him.
Rags blocked one punch, but the next clipped his temple and colors burst across his vision.
He stumbled. Greasy wrapped his arms around Rags’ chest, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him down hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Rags gasped.
The asshole straddled him, his beefy fists raining wild and brutal hits.
Then nothing until something hard slammed into the side of Rags’s face.
Shit! Blood sprayed from his split brow.
Before Greasy could land another blow with his kill-light, Hawk grabbed him from behind, hooking an arm around his throat.
“Get your pathetic ass off him,” Hawk said, voice sharp and deadly.
Greasy roared and threw his elbows backwards. One connected with Hawk’s ribs. He hissed and shoved the bastard forward.
“I’m tired of this shit,” Hawk snarled.
Rags wiped blood from his eyes and pushed up, his body screaming.
In one fluid movement, Hawk stepped in, positioned his hip and flipped the bastard. Greasy hit the ground with a brutal thud, air leaving him in a single wheeze.
Rags snorted. “You gotta teach me that, dude.”
“A black belt comes in handy.” Hawk grinned.
All around them, Insurgents were wearing down the Devil’s Reign: Smokey had one pinned under his boot; Shadow kicked a knife away then knocked the man cold; Rock slammed one rival against a tree; Diesel stood over three groaning bodies, chest heaving, fists dripping blood.
It was over.
The distant thump of bass from the festival filled the air, mixing with the groans of both clubs. The Devil’s Reign fared worse than the Insurgents. Only a few of their members were still coughing or trying to crawl.
Hawk stepped forward, Glock in hand. “Get the fuck outta here. Now,” he said, voice calm. “If you make me wait more than two minutes, your shiny Harleys will become our property and we’ll be digging graves.”