4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Revenant
Fucking love the Chattanooga run. A quick hour or so long trip depending on traffic.
Get in and get out. Yeah we gotta watch our backs and our product, but it’s nothing like running shipments to the Atlanta Mullins’.
For a family that grows and deals between itself, you’d think they’d have a way to transport their shit, but they don’t.
The Holler Mullins use us to send shit to the City Mullins.
That’s the one I tend to avoid. I show up to the drop off point with the chaplain patch on my chest and they see me as a guy who has answers.
Jokes on them, I only have questions. I shouldn’t deny them guidance, God knows they need it.
That family is all sorts of fucked up, but damn their product keeps us in the black.
Cedar moves a little closer to me, catching my gaze before tipping his chin over his shoulder.
Yeah, brother. I”ve noticed too. Ever since we left the city we’ve had a shitty white van on our tail.
Makes no sense given the drop has been done and all product has been offloaded to our buyers.
A premium price for a premium product. Which is paid in a fat briefcase full of cash so we can launder it through our legit businesses.
When I first turned up and found out the MC didn’t own any bars or strip clubs I was shocked.
Instead they own an HVAC business and a funeral home.
Turns out that shit is lucrative, needed, and nobody asks fucking questions when we clean our money through them. Gallows is a fucking genius.
“Heads up boys, we got a tail. Been on our asses since we left Chattanooga,” Cedar’s voice calls through the bluetooth.
“Roger that,” Jubilee answers. “We got eyes on a white van up ahead. Moving erratically enough to cause suspicion.”
I share a look with Cedar. Looks like we’ve got shit building.
I curse to myself, knowing that my gut has been telling me something is off for the last half hour and I’ve ignored it.
It’s a helluva thing not being able to trust your gut, but mine has had me in trouble on more than one occasion.
Now I have to pretty much wait for confirmation.
“Tighten up boys. The turn off to Winlaw is coming up. If these fuckheads know what they’re doing they’ll corral us in that dead area just outside town,” Coyote patches in from the truck.
“The place teenagers go to fuck?” Cedar asks.
“How do you know that?” Coyote asks.
“I fucked your sister there last week,” Cedar replies, throwing me a grin.
No words are spoken, just a feral growl through the comms and I huff to myself.
“Dead area coming up fast, boys.” Jubilee says, shutting down any more shit talk.
I settle into my seat, confident with what's coming up. I know that area well. Not that I’ve been up there fucking barely legals, more that I’ve had to pick up Sleet, one of our younger members, from there after being honey trapped.
Without saying a word we all pick up speed.
If we’re going to be ambushed, we may as well get it over and done with.
“Gallows, Mercy, and the prospects are heading our way. They’re ten minutes out,” Brake says.
Good. Depending how many are in the vans we got on us, we could use the help.
Coyote is packing weapons in the truck, all my brothers carry, and I have two Sigs on me.
One in my holster, the other in my saddle bags.
Locked. Loaded. Ready to be used if need be.
For now though they’ll remain where they are.
No need to escalate things unnecessarily.
“They’re making their move, brothers,” Coyote calls, the truck veering off exactly where we picked they’d make their move.
The van behind me and Cedar starts to speed up, narrowly missing my brother on his blind side.
“Fucking hell!” he yells, his voice echoing through my helmet.
“You good, brother?”
“Fucking sneaky shits coming in on my dead eye side, fuck’s sake,” he grouses, swerving closer to me.
We have nowhere to fucking go other than to be corralled.
I could pull out my weapon and start firing, but I’d rather find out who the fuck these guys are and what it is they want.
The truck ahead skids to a stop, kicking up dust and rocks.
Brake and Jubilee are already off their bikes, hands in the air with two armed men wearing patches at their backs.
Sinister Wolves. The pissant MC full of drug heads who have been on our asses for a while now.
I stop my bike, raise my hands and sit there.
I ain’t getting off until some brave little cocksucker makes me.
A third patched man grabs Coyote out of the truck's cab, shoving him roughly onto the ground. It’s meant to intimidate, but Coyote is a big bastard, so instead he rolls around in the dust taunting him.
“Off your bike, pretty boy,” someone snarls from my left.
Turning my head slowly, I raise a brow. No one in the history of the fucking world has called me pretty boy before, but I guess there is a first time for everything.
Swinging my leg over my bike I freeze when I spot a baby blue moped parked under a shady tree.
A moped that shouldn’t fucking be out here.
My gaze swings wildly, looking for a glimpse of long dark hair, tanned skin, big doe eyes and fucking ass and tits for days.
If Sunny knows what’s good for her she will hide and stay there until we get this shit sorted out.
Unfortunately, Sunny doesn’t know what’s good for her.
Sunny
Motorcycles and a truck skidding to a stop ruin the nice planning session I was having.
At first I was excited at the sound of the motorcycle pipes.
The rumble always gives me a thrill, especially the low, bassy tone of Revenant’s bike.
I’ve heard it enough to pick his out. I’m about to jump up and wave when a rough voice starts shouting to put hands up and some other very dangerous, manly things.
I squat down low, thankful that today I decided to wear jeans and a t-shirt. I mean, it’s my usual uniform, I only really wear my titty sundresses when I know I’ll see Revenant. Yes, I am that scheme-y.
Revenant being shoved enters my line of vision and I shrink back.
I know he’s spotted my baby blue moped. That would be the only reason his narrowed gaze is scanning the area, trying to find me.
Most likely to growl at me to stay down or get home or that he’s a bad man, blah blah blah.
Not today Rev. I get low, eyes on the action.
Coyote, Cedar, Jubilee, Brake and now Revenant are all on their knees, hands behind their heads.
They’ve been disarmed. There are five, no six men, wearing leather jackets I’ve not seen in town before.
They have a patch with a huge skull on their backs, guns in their hands and are scrawny enough that I bet Revenant could snap them in half with his bare hands.
Where the Saint’s Outlaws are all over six feet tall and probably weigh at least 200 pounds a piece, these guys are greasy, frail and look like meth heads.
“We’re taking over Winlaw and your runs, so we’ll need you to get gone,” the main guy sneers.
It takes everything in me not to laugh out loud. OK buddy, the Saint’s Outlaws will totally clear outta town for you bunch of rejects.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to work for us,” Revenant says drily. “How about you take this as a warning. Get the fuck outta town before we send you and your little buddies straight to hell.” He growls low and dangerously. Dangerous for these guys, and my panties.
Meth head number 1 starts cackling like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard before cutting off abruptly and pressing the muzzle of his gun into Revenant’s forehead.
He’s pressing so hard Revenant is having to lean back a little.
I marvel at the core and hamstring strength my man is exhibiting for a moment before digging my favorite cowboy boots into the ground and getting ready to make my move.
Tweakers can't be trusted so I need to be on my game.
My daddy taught me to shoot and I know from this distance I can realistically take two, maybe three cleanly.
Flicking the safety off my gun, I wait. Slowing my breathing, not taking my eyes off the men in my sight.
Tweaker shouts in Revenant's face, spittle flying everywhere as he leans further into Revenant’s space.
Darting my gaze to the others, they all kneel, coiled and ready to attack but much like Revenant, they’re biding their time.
Probably waiting for the rest of the SOMC to arrive.
“Fuck it, Carmichael, just shoot him already. That’ll send the Saint’s a message,” one of the other losers sneers.
Carmichael? What sort of name is that?
“Yeah, do it! Who gives a shit if one of these fuckers die?” Another grins.
I do. I give a shit you little tweaker dweeb. Squatting low I shuffle slightly closer, gun in hand, already raised to hit my target. No one touches my man. No one.