Chapter 36
MERRICK
The headlights of cars going in the opposite direction are a streaky blur as I motor down the highway toward Lucifer’s Kin.
Most all the club has come out, other than the posts guarding the clubhouse.
I ride near the back, like a prospect should, in front of the truck driven by Fancy with Chain in shotgun, along with a literal shotgun in this case.
He keeps leaning out, his gray braids flapping in the wing, waving the barrel around.
I glance back at him every once in a while in the mirror. He’s on top of the world, almost euphoric. Several of the Wild Hair whoop it up in encouragement, raising their fists. Low Joe, Two Fast Freddy, Scottie.
Iron Jack leads the formation with grim determination. I see why he’s the leader. The others might act foolish and cocky, but not him.
He told us what Marietta found out about Anarchy.
Turns out his bonus woman is the former sheriff’s wife.
Iron Jack rattled a lot of cages with that information.
The sheriff has a lot of influence on the local law enforcement, and all bets are off on any protection his wife wrangled for the Kin now that her husband knows she’s been banging Anarchy.
Iron Jack figures we have to make life hell for Anarchy, and between our pressure and the lack of a sweet, look-the-other-way deal, they’ll move on. Or better yet, scatter completely.
We turn off the highway. We’re taking back roads when we can since a group our size will get noticed on major thoroughfares. Out here, with the Everglades to our right, the darkness is cut only by our headlights.
I can feel each bump and crack in the asphalt.
I wonder if we’ll be burying someone in the woods tonight.
It wasn’t my intention to be involved in a setup like this.
But I should have known. Construction and protection might be the club’s primary pursuit, but sometimes, they have to fight ugly with ugly.
Iron Jack is on the right side of this fight, what with the other club capturing an ex-Wild Hair woman, running meth houses that preyed on women like the two in the bunkhouse, and threatening Marietta. Not to mention, trying to run me off the road.
They made it personal.
The last thought makes me rev the engine, the sound rising above the motors of the other bikes. The rest of the Wild Hair follow suit, the roar echoing into the night.
I feel like a part of something again, something wild and important. That hasn’t happened since I left the military. There were bodies then, too, accidents, aggression, mistakes.
We’ll get fired on tonight, no doubt. Who might take a bullet? What would I leave behind if I went down?
Diesel, for sure. We’ve been tight since we left home at eighteen.
The bar, though, Diesel can manage that fine.
The rest of the family, especially Greta, who’s in the middle of an ugly divorce. She and her kid Caden come down occasionally when she needs an escape, like earlier this week.
But then I’m back to Marietta. What are we exactly? Fuck buddies? Definitely that. She’s a wild one. I’ve never been consumed by someone like I am with her.
There’s more, though. It’s that Disney princess look, that yearning for something bigger. I don’t know that she’ll find it dancing on a pole, though she’ll have fun on her way to figuring it out.
I’m not sure her thesis will do it either, not that she got it approved. She had to cancel her meeting this morning with her adviser since she’s not allowed to leave the club yet. I’m not sure if that hurts her case or not.
I can picture her spinning on a hillside like Belle, wanting adventure. Or Maria, climbing every mountain. She’s that kind of girl. The one who wants more.
Can I give her that?
Do I want to try?
As the Wild Hair ride deeper into the night, I realize, I do. I want to lift her up, show her to the world. Rally behind her. Make sure people pay attention.
I don’t know what that looks like exactly. How she’ll need me. But this hollow in my gut when I’m not around her, or we’re on the outs, tells me she’s the only thing that fills it.
Iron Jack lifts a fist, and we all slow down. We’re approaching the clubhouse road. It’s deep in the woods, more hidden than ours. Not a lot of escape routes. We all reviewed the map. This road is the only way out unless you take your chances in the deep forest.
We turn down a dirt road, damp and soft. After a half-mile, Iron Jack raises his fist again, and we all throttle down, then kill our engines, walking them along the earth.
He opens his fist, and we disperse into the trees, anywhere we can stash a bike, aiming them back at the road for a quick exit.
I head to the truck to grab my gun from the back. This is where shit gets real.
We walk along the road for another few hundred yards until we can see the lights of the clubhouse. Fancy idles slowly behind us in the truck, headlights off, the engine purring as quietly as a box fan.
Iron Jack motions for us to move out. We take the positions we studied from the plan put together by the Deity enforcer. I’m near the road, opposite Iron Jack, ready to cover the others.
I think he put me here because I have the most recent military experience. It’s a precarious placement. I’ll have to adjust on the fly based on what happens.
Fancy idles forward until just before the clearing.
Iron Jack signals for him to stop. Chain takes the driver’s seat, and Fancy comes down.
The rest of the Wild Hair have small incendiaries to make a ruckus and cause some damage.
But Fancy has a big explosive to get everybody out before the place goes up in flames.
We’re aiming the bomb at wherever they park their bikes to cause the most havoc without straight out killing people.
Fancy straps on an enormous backpack and moves along the edge of the trees toward the complex. Iron Jack follows behind him, and I remain on the other side of the dirt road, ready to cover them with gunfire.
Chain slowly backs up to turn the truck around, ready to haul ass.
The plan is for Fancy’s bomb to be set up with a delay, and as soon as it goes off, and people start running, the rest of the Wild Hair will let loose. Then we retreat to the woods and get the hell out of there, knowing most of their transportation is wrecked.
Fancy disappears into the shadows near the exterior garage. About twenty bikes are parked in front of it. He’ll get a handle on the best location. It’s my job to manage anybody who might discover him.
We wait, the cool air a relief to my face. I haven’t had a moment like this in years, and as I shift my feet, I half expect to feel the crunch of sand beneath my boots. It’s the same anticipation of action, of danger, that I got in Afghanistan.
But then Fancy is rushing away from the building and melting into the trees. I grip my gun. He got away clean. Only three minutes until it goes off.
The wait feels forever. For a moment, I wonder, did it fail?
Then there’s a cracking sound and a plume of smoke, and then the door of the garage blows clean off. The metal cuts through the motorcycles in a fiery flash, and a shower of sideboard falls on top of the heap. The garage tilts and begins to collapse, burying all the bikes in flaming rubble.
More explosions pepper the front of the clubhouse, seeming to come from every direction. The Wild Hair have let loose. I hold my gun steady, waiting to see if anyone will emerge.
A man comes out onto the front porch, but I shoot both of the windows out on either side, and he dives back in.
The aim is to drive them out the back, giving us time to retreat. I hear the crunching footfalls of the Wild Hair breaking through the underbrush to return to their bikes.
Fancy passes us on his way to the truck.
Iron Jack and I remain in the trees on either side of the road, watching for anyone else to come forward. Two more men come out, this time shooting into the forest. They’re half naked and shoeless, and they run their ammo out to no avail.
When they pause to reload, we shoot around their feet to force a retreat. One of them hops, so we may have hit a leg.
They move back into the shadows, but no more gunfire comes from our direction. Our men are gone. The garage is blazing, and it’s not long before the clubhouse itself catches fire.
Iron Jack tilts his head, listening, then motions for me to head out.
I race along the edge of the road, ready to duck into the trees. I’m back at my bike, ready to hop on, when I realize Iron Jack isn’t with me.
Shit. Did he get hit?
I glance back. A shadow moves from the trees toward the clubhouse. It’s him. He’s not going for his bike at all.
I know what he’s doing. He’s going for Anarchy. He’s sure the Kin were involved in killing his parents, particularly after they came after Marietta and me.
I hesitate. Should I go be his backup? That wasn’t in the plan. What would I be getting into?
I think of Marietta back at the club, waiting to hear the news. I can picture her face when she realizes I’m not with the others.
And it hits me.
When the shit hits the fan, I think of her.
I worry about her.
My concern is … for her.
I’m momentarily stunned.
What’s happened here?
But I know.
I’m falling for that wild mouse.
All the more reason to protect her.
The club.
The life we’ve made.
I glance back to where I last saw Iron Jack.
Nobody goes in alone.
I run full bore toward the clubhouse. Iron Jack stands in the middle of the road right as it opens to the clearing.
Another man strides out, gun on his shoulder. He’s tall, built, and walks with the menace of someone who gives zero fucks. When he sees Iron Jack, he lifts his gun as if he’ll take the shot, but Iron Jack aims his weapon right back.
Fuck.
I duck into my previous position in the trees and aim my gun at the man. I can’t blindly shoot before Iron Jack gets his answers.
But if this asshole is going to get Iron Jack, he’ll go down, too. I’ll make sure of it.
The two men walk toward each other in the open area in front of the club.
“You fucked up my club,” the man calls.
“You fucked up period, Anarchy,” Iron Jack shouts back.
I let out a long slow breath and keep my sight right on Anarchy’s forehead.
The two men keep aiming their guns at each other.
More men emerge from the burning house. Others spray water and use blankets to put out the flames. There are gaping holes in the front of the club. Faces peer through the blown-out windows. Iron Jack made his point.
I can’t take out the entire line of Lucifer’s Kin, but I can eliminate their leader. Probably get about five more before they figure out where I am.
Why did Iron Jack want to do this alone?
But I know. This is his personal vendetta, and he wants his club out clean.
The two men are only ten yards apart, still aiming their guns at each other. I count seven, nine, twelve men lined up with guns in front of the club.
Not loving those odds.
“You tried to run down one of my men,” Iron Jack calls.
“Just a prospect and a whore,” Anarchy says.
I almost shoot him for that alone, but I relax my hand on the trigger. Asshole.
“Same thing happened to my parents,” Iron Jack says.
Anarchy cocks his weapon. “You say so?”
“The bikers were drug runners, but they had crystal on them. Then you show up with your operation.”
“Lots of rock shops around,” Anarchy says.
They walk in a circle, guns raised. Iron Jack is focused and calm. “You started fucking the right mark to see if you could get someone to look the other way.”
“I fuck a lot of whores.”
“The biggest one of all isn’t going to be coming around anymore. I made sure of that.”
Anarchy spits on the ground. “I figured it was you. Did those bitches you took talk? You should have left your dick in their mouths.”
“That’s one thing I hate about you,” Iron Jack says. “You’re foul mouthed about the ladies.” He cocks his weapon with a loud click. “Before I blow a hole between your eyes, tell me who made the order to take down my parents.”
Anarchy doesn’t answer, walking in the circle, aiming his gun at Iron Jack.
Jesus, these two are going to kill each other. That’ll make for real hell in both clubs. The feud will never end. I don’t think he thought this through.
But I’m not the one to put an end to this standoff, even if I could. I’m just here to finish it out if Anarchy gets Iron Jack, and he can’t retaliate. Or to cover his getaway.
They stop talking, and the wind goes still, as if it wants to watch what happens, too.
The only sounds are muffled shouts from inside the house, and the spray of water and cracking of blankets. The clubhouse fire is mostly out. It will be an expensive fix, but the place isn’t leveled other than the garage. And the bikes.
This plan to get them to move on better work, or there will be a war on our hands.
My ears tingle before I hear the next thing, like an early warning system that something’s wrong.
I hold my breath, listening. Cars. Lots of them, rolling through the soft dirt, their engines nearly silent, crunching branches on the road.
Those are not motorcycles. Nor Fancy’s truck.
It’s a fleet of new cars, electric or hybrid, made for stealth.
I peer into the dark and see the shapes, the faint glow of the interiors from screens or dash dials. A brief glint of an unused flasher atop a hood tells the tale.
Law enforcement.
I move away from the road, running along the treeline, keeping the two men in sight away from the oncoming fleet of cops.
I have no way to warn Iron Jack. Or does he know? Did he orchestrate this?
I’m guessing not because he says, “I’m going to assume the call to kill my parents came from you.” He shifts like he’s about to take the shot when the whole road lights up like someone turned on a disco.
An amplified voice orders, “Drop your weapons.”
Mayhem ensues. Lucifer’s Kin runs every direction. Anarchy stands his ground for a moment, but as the sheriff’s cars roll into the clearing, he takes off for the woods behind the house.
I shield my eyes to see what Iron Jack will do, but he’s disappeared in the glare of the lights.
That’s my cue to exit.
I run through the woods. Nobody has run from the club toward my direction, so the cars are all focused on the house and beyond it.
My boots crunch over broken limbs, but it’s only fifty yards before I realize the road is empty. They’ve all gone straight to the club.
I find my bike and jump on. Just before I fire it up, I spot Iron Jack on the opposite side. He’s made it, too.
I race onto the road, sensing when he comes up behind me.
We fly down the dirt, skidding occasionally in the soft spots until we make it to the asphalt.
By the time we arrive at the highway, we know we’re home free.
The two of us race side-by-side back to the clubhouse.
But now I need to know.
What the hell happened back there? Who called the damn police?