Chapter 10 #2
Judge circles his finger in the air, leading the way down the long gravel drive, all of us falling in behind.
Pops pulls up next to me, giving me a wink and I can’t help frown back.
The old coot looks far too excited to be riding.
It’s only then I notice Niko shadowing us in one of the club SUVs.
I give Rider a look, tipping my head toward Pops but Rider just throws me a grin and a thumbs up.
Shit. He pulls further forward and I choose to ignore him.
It’s an hour long ride and I’d rather be soaking that up than worrying about what Pops has up his sleeve.
***
Judge slows, the rest of us dropping down our gears as we enter the outskirts of Roxburgh.
It’s a little larger than Rose Grove, but there’s a grit here that Rose Grove doesn’t have.
It seems even grimier now that the Quarter Mile MC have unofficially set up here.
The parks where the kids play seem abandoned, the whores on the street corners look even scrawnier than usual, and the number of boarded up storefronts as we get closer to the old Death Riders’ compound seems to be rising.
Judge pulls us to stop across from the compound, and curiously no one comes out to see what the fucking noise is.
With this many sleds you’d think we’d wake the dead, but not Quarter Mile.
I kill my engine, plant my feet and just watch.
It’s quiet without our machines rumbling.
Too quiet. There are none of the usual sounds you get from an MC.
No engine noises, no music blasting, no partying.
Nothing. There don’t seem to be cameras other than the ones on the warehouse that Rider and I spotted last time we were here. Not even a prospect on the front gates.
“Where the hell are they?” Tav mutters.
“I know where they ain’t,” Savage says, eyes on his old clubhouse. “That’s the clubhouse. Bar, bunk rooms, Church. They’re not using it.”
“How can you tell?” Rider asks.
“Because that window there? It’s been boarded like that since the last of the Death Riders left. If the lights were on inside you’d see it through the crack in that board.”
I turn to look where Savage pointed, not seeing much but hell, the kid knows more about this place than I do.
“See that door there?” Savage points out, “That’s only used for lockdowns. It's a pain in the ass to close like that which means they ain't coming and going.” He runs a hand down his stubble. “You said you saw Quarter Mile here?”
Rider and I share a look, “Yeah, but there were only around five bikes parked. Two more escorted a truck in.”
Savage tilts his head, thinking. “Was there much movement? Music or anything?”
Shit. Now that he’s asked, I don’t remember any of the usual shit you’d get at an MC club.
“Nada,” Rider replies.
Savage narrows his gaze at the warehouse on the property. “The clubhouse is unused so I’d guess that-” he points, “is where the action is.”
“What did Death Riders use it for?”
“Nothing. It was fucking useless. Leaked like a sieve, was fucking freezing in the winter and like a sauna in the summer.”
“So whatever the hell this lot are using it for, it’s not temperature sensitive,” Judge says.
“Which means they ain't cooking the drugs they’re selling,” Jules adds.
“Ah, where’s Pops?” Tav asks, staring at the lone sled with no rider.
We’re all on swivel looking for goddamn Sidney Tombs. I’m almost hoping the little shit wandered off somewhere for a leak, but that’s dashed when I catch him waving from inside the compound gates.
“How in the hell did he get in there?” Fox says.
“Niko?” Wire growls.
“Don’t look at me. I was parking the SUV.” Niko says, hands in the air.
Pops waves again, points to the side and then disappears again.
“Ah shit,” Savage says, swinging his leg over his sled. “He’s gonna get himself shot.”
“Motherfucker is gonna get me shot trying to save his geriatric ass,” I mutter.
“Like you can talk,” Rider teases, coming to stand beside me and our brothers. “You ain’t no spring chicken either.”
“But I’m younger than that old asshole.”
We follow Savage’s lead as he crosses the road, veering left rather than walking directly to the gates. He follows the fenceline to the very corner, then shoves at a plank of wood. The thing pops out leaving a decent man sized hole.
“Thank God it ain’t a tiny little mouse hole.” Tank breathes.
He and Judge are the biggest men in the club. Tank also fucking hates small spaces but he shimmies through the hole with the rest of us.
“Where is he?” Wire asks, eyeing the compound.
I spot Pops’ head peeking out from behind the warehouse. He raises his fingers to his lips then disappears.
“Did he just shush us?” Fox asks, bewildered.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll kick his ass on behalf of the club later,” Tav promises.
We make our way through the compound, and it’s silent as hell. Not a scout or a lookout to be seen. Nor are there any cameras until we reach the building that looks in much better condition than the rest of the compound.
“How good of you all to make it!” Pops says in a hoity toity accent, cackling when I flip him the bird. “Anyway assholes, we got trucks coming in round the back.”
“Now?” Judge growls.
“What? Oh no. Just…at some stage. There’s huge doors round the back, fresh tire marks, big ones too. Oh, and no one is living here.”
“Then they’re moving shit through here.”
“Bingo.” Pops finger guns me. Then blows me a kiss and skips back around the back.
“How is he so spry?” Savage asks, eyes glued to where Pops was just standing.
“Right?” I agree, “One afternoon of hobby horsing and my legs are so stiff I can barely sit to shit.”
“Awwwww.” Rider says in a highpitched voice his hands clasped under his chin while he swishes around.
“You didn’t hear anything.” I jab a finger in his direction.
“Didn’t I?” Rider grins before following the rest of the brothers into the unlocked side door.
I don’t know whether it’s sloppy work by the Quarter Mile MC, or if Pops really is just good at everything involved in breaking and entering. We all file in and I know something is up when Savage lets out a long, low whistle.
“Boys, Casa del Stolen Goods.” Pops does his best Vanna White impression and my gaze bounces all over the shelves stacked high with whatever shit you could ever wish for.
One segment seems to be full of bikes, kids backpacks, and electronics. Another section is full of any drug you can think of. All of it shit we don’t want in our town.
“Something ain’t right,” Savage murmurs.
“Yeah, we got an MC not staying at their damn compound, it’s obvious.” Rider smarts.
“No, I mean, something is off with Quarter Mile MC. Look around. If they’re moving shit why are they sitting on it?”
“Huh?” Pops asks, holding a toaster.
“Put the damn toaster down.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and take deep breaths.
“I was looking.” Pops answers.
“With your hands?”
“Best way to look if you ask me,” Pops mutters, but does as I say and plops the toaster on top of a mountain of crap.
“For like 6 months the Death Riders were in the distribution business -”
“Is that what the kids call it these days?” Fox teases.
“- anyway,” Savage continues, “we brought shit in, tagged it, cleaned it, got rid of it. This is amateur hour. No system. Shit piled on top of shit and none of it is worth the effort of stealing it.”
“Except the drugs,” Jules says, hands hooked on his hips as he stares at the only segment of the warehouse that looks tidy. His head tilts to the side. “They aren’t theirs.”