by D. A. Young
His wife refused to take his disparagement a moment longer. With tears in her eyes, a livid Porsha flew across the room and grabbed his arm and spun Neville around. The slap she gave him carried the force of her rage. He grabbed his stinging cheek, stunned at what Porsha had done. Never, in their forty years together, had either of them resorted to violence toward each other. There’d been no need. Their marriage was a solid one built on mutual respect and love. The Porsha he knew was the calmest and sweetest woman alive, incapable of the bodily harm she’d now inflicted upon him.
“Whatever has come over you, Porsha?!” As Neville looked down at her in bemusement, he knew that she’d put that docile woman on the shelf. Her golden-brown complexion was heated from anger, and her brown eyes snapped with unspeakable ire.
“You have come over me!” Porsha could barely stand from the anguish racking her body. She covered her face and silently asked God for the strength to see her through this plight. But her husband’s insufferable attitude would not go overlooked.
“Why must you be so vile?! For God’s sake, the poor girl just lost her mother, Neville! Our daughter, whom you drove away in the same manner! Billy is all we have left of Melody! I will not stand for you treating her like this!”
When his face tightened into that pinched, snooty expression she loathed, Porsha lost it. She loved her husband, but dear, God, he could be the most pompous, stuck-up asshole at times. Utilizing her fists, she beat at his chest with all the fury and hurt she’d tightly contained for the last eighteen years. Stunned, Neville uncontested the blows.
“She is a kind, sweet, and beautiful girl! We could not have been blessed with a finer grandchild. Yet, you treat her as if she’s a plague! Ambrosia got what was coming to her and you know it! You should be proud that Billy defended our honor. Not just her mother’s! Ours.”
Porsha whirled away from him and headed toward the door, leaving Neville to stare after her in consternation. She paused in the doorway with her back to him. Her final words were quiet yet infused with steel, leaving him ice-cold with fear.
“If you do not make this right, Neville, I swear by all that is holy, I will leave you,” Porsha swore. “Perhaps you’d like that. Driving away the women in this family appears to be your specialty.”
Las Cruces, New Mexico
The six bikers split through the two lanes of traffic until they reached the front of the intersection and stopped at the red light. The group was led by Slade, the Road Captain while Blaze brought up the rear as the Ride Lieutenant. No one bothered honking in protest for bikers were just a way of life in these parts. So was daredevil driving. In New Mexico, obeying traffic rules was like playing ‘chicken’. Driving was a competitive sport that made turn signals and speed limits seem like mere suggestions.
Once the light turned green, Slade hammered down, and his Harley shot forward with a thunderous rumble. Followed by his men, Slade used hand signals, indicating they were switching lanes. He veered right, leading them to the entrance ramp of the freeway. The sun was just rising over the mountains, bathing the sky in a golden light, and the predominantly empty road was a biker’s paradise. Farther ahead was a big rig with the name Bimmerman’s, a nationwide chain of electronics stores, displayed prominently on both sides.
Again, Slade used hand signals, and the group fell back as they entered the Kalamitchka Pass, a terrain notoriously known for its deadly twists and turns. A highway patrol car entered after them with its lights flashing silently. The trooper behind the wheel suddenly angled the car so no other vehicles could enter. He would stay there until Slade signaled otherwise.
Keeping an eye on the truck ahead, the bikers followed behind at a snail’s pace. Suddenly, there was a commotion ahead. The distinct sound of revving motors filled the air. Riders mysteriously appeared on dirt bikes from behind large boulders. They were dressed from head to toe in earth-toned camouflage, specifically designed to blend in with the elements.
The bikers raced down the hill expertly as if they’d done it a hundred times before. Which they had, and not just to Bimmerman’s but their rival store Ace’s and One Stop Shop, a local version of Walmart. Slade counted eight of them total. The bikers fired in the air, and then two raced ahead to confront the big rig head on. The riders pointed their guns at the windshield, forcing the driver to come to a complete halt or run them over.
Two riders moved to the back of the truck and hopped off their bikes. One of them produced a lock cutter and used it to break through the padlocked latch. The two masked vandals then hopped up on the truck’s ledge to open it.
Eyes gleaming with expectation, Slade turned to his group. “Let’s roll!”
They accelerated as the lid rolled up, and the deafening blast of two shotguns filled the air as the bullets tore through the surprised riders, sending the now dead bastards flying off the truck. The remaining riders quickly drew their guns on the two members of the Immortals that jumped out of the truck.
“Let ‘em live unless they strike first!” Slade shouted as he pulled his gun from his back holster. He glanced at the rider directly behind him on his right, his oldest son Harley. “We got front!”
Guns drawn, the club members followed his order. Shots were exchanged and bullets flew as the hidden Immortals, Ransom and a prospect named Zeke, jumped out of the truck. Zeke took a bullet to the head and his killer quickly met his maker in the same way, courtesy of Ransom. As Slade predicted, the two in front started their bikes and tried to make a hasty getaway. He and Harley shot out their tires, sending their bikes spinning out of control, their bodies and guns flying in multiple directions. They stopped their bikes next to them. From behind them, the shootout was finally ending. The smaller of the two masked riders tried to run, but Harley grabbed him by the neck and forced him to his knees while Slade trained his 9mm on the larger one still lying on the ground with his hands raised.
“Helmet off slowly and roll it over to me!” he ordered. “Don’t try any funny shit! I’m a shoot-to-kill kinda motherfucker.”
The rider obeyed begrudgingly, and Slade kicked the helmet out of his reach. Immediately recognizing the biker, he lowered his gun and glowered menacingly at the dark-haired, olive-skinned man with tattoos plastered over his face and neck. Unfazed at being caught, he arrogantly grinned up at Slade, who lowered his weapon with a grunt.
“Well, I’ll be damned! Caesar Vargas, you son of a bitch! What the fuck are you doing all the way out here?”
He helped the younger man to his feet, and they exchanged a friendly clasp on the back.
Caesar was an enforcer for the Aztecs MC run by his brother Raymudo. They were based out of Santa Fe, which was about ninety miles north of Chatham, the Immortals home base. Both clubs were on good terms with each other and helped each other out whenever possible. The peace treaty between them and a third club, the Death Lords, had been established thirty years ago.
“Órale, Slade! Que Paso? Those Bimmerman putas finally got smart, eh? We’ve been at this for three months now. Taking the products over the border for a nice, steady profit,” Caesar bragged. “It’s easy money, and no one gets killed, nah mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean, but now we’re on the scene, running security, so you guys gotta cut your losses. We like the peace treaty between our clubs, and I don’t have any intentions of breaking it,” Slade replied seriously. “Raymundo knows where he stands with me. He shoulda said something at our meeting last month. Makes me wonder what else is going on.”
The flickering of Caesar’s eyes confirmed Slade’s suspicion that the Aztecs were making moves behind the scenes. “Tell me I’m wrong, Caesar. Our clubs have spent years building the trust between one another. Once it’s broken, it’ll take forever to repair, and I gotta be honest with you, Caesar; I won’t be inclined to do it, knowing I could be so easily disrespected.”
Caesar glanced anxiously at the other masked rider who subtly shook their head at him. Seeing the covert move, Slade put his arm around the
other man and drew him away. “Walk with me for a sec. Lemme know what’s on your mind.” He jerked his head at the two dead bikers. “Sorry about your men.”
“Don’t worry about it. They’re just prospects. One of the pendejos couldn’t even tie his Velcro shoes right,” Vargas dismissed. “Look, Slade, it ain’t what you’re thinking, amigo! Aztecs ain’t trying to pull shit on the Immortals. Lately, funds have been stretched for us, and we’re just trying to breathe. We would never have poached your territory if we knew it was y’alls. Truth is, Raymundo don’t even know I’m doing this. I wanna rank up, and I need him to see that I’d do anything for our club. In order to be taken seriously, I need to make moves.”
“Oh yeah? And what kinds of moves you gotta make for that to happen?” Slade inquired coolly. “Don’t fuck with me on this, amigo.”
“There’s a big player in Mexico who wants a little ‘product’,” Caesar explained earnestly. “Just a little bit here and there, but it has to be fresh, you feel me? They’re willing to pay top dollar for it.”
“How fresh are you talkin’?”
“Virgin white, Slade,” Hector boasted meaningfully, wiggling his eyebrows. “They want that special shit Mexico ain’t known for.”
Mind racing with possibilities, Slade gave him a wily grin. “I hear ya, brother. Can you afford that? You got the bankroll for it?”
“Almost,” Caesar declared proudly. “This job right here would put us over to get shit poppin’!”
New players coming to town usually waited to be issued an invite first. Then it was discussed at the monthly meeting. Raymundo had gone about this shit all wrong and because of that, Slade wanted in on principle alone. Caesar wasn’t going to like his choice—
“Motherfucker!” Harley roared, interrupting his thoughts.
Slade and Caesar turned to see him on the ground, clutching at his groin as the other rider jumped on his bike and started it. Harley raised his gun and aimed.
“Nooo!” Caesar screamed in protest as he ran toward the disguised biker. “Don’t Shoot!”
His warning was ignored. Harley fired off two shots, instantly killing the would-be jacker who was now slumped over the bike, inert.
The incensed Aztecs jumped to their feet, protesting and cursing. Dashing forward, they formed a protective circle around Caesar as he clutched the lifeless body to him. Tears streaming down his face, he rocked back and forth and carefully removed the helmet to reveal the face of a young, pretty Hispanic girl.
“Jesus. Fucking. Christ!” Slade hissed as his oldest son got to his feet, gun still drawn. Quickly making the sign of the cross, he approached the mayhem.
The Aztecs rushed Harley, who leveled his gun at their direction. “Back the fuck off!”
The Immortals trained their guns on them again and forced them to their knees while they waited for Slade to call it. Slowly, he approached Caesar and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. The casualty looked to be about sixteen, he noted dispassionately.
“Who is she?”
“Garcella! Mi hermosa! Mi princessa!” Caesar moaned blindly. “She’s our baby sister! How do I fucking tell Raymundo she’s dead?!”
Carefully, he laid her down on the ground and lunged at Harley, his face feral with rabid hatred. “She was just a baby!”
“That bitch kicked me in my balls! No cunt is getting away with shit like that!” Harley spat.
They grappled with each other before he way finally able to shove Caesar off him. The Aztec lunged for him again, but a pair of arms held him back, and, try as he might, Caesar couldn’t break free. A calmer voice spoke in his ear. “Easy, brother. It was an accident. You know we don’t hurt women or children. That’s not our style, Vargas. Not now, not ever. You know that.”
It was Slade’s younger son, Ransom, trying his best to diffuse the situation. Where his identical twin Harley was a hothead, Ransom led with cool logic.
“Nah, what I know is that y’all just started motherfuckin’ Armageddon, Ransom!” Caesar screamed over his shoulder. Ransom released him, and he stumbled away from them and addressed Slade with a manic glare. “I’m declaring this shit here and now! Raymundo will have my back! Familia sobre todo!!!”
Family over everything.
And didn’t Slade just know it. His flinty eyes drilled into Harley. That stupid impulsive asshole son of his had just started a war they didn’t fucking need. Raymundo Vargas was a ruthless son of a bitch. A meager “Sorry, it was an accident” wasn’t going to cut it for him. He would want vengeance. Slade didn’t blame him. It was nothing less than what he’d declare on anyone who took out one of his own.
His gritty voice echoed Caesar’s sentiment. “Yes, friend, family does come before everything.”
The bullet hit Caesar directly between the eyes. As he fell back, the remaining Aztecs each took one to the back of their heads, joining him and Garcella in the afterlife.
Slade surveyed the dead bodies with disgust and a twinge of regret. This was a real damn shame.
Not to mention, he hadn’t even found out what the name of the Mexican bigwig was to get in on the deal.
Shakes, Blaze, and Pitch watched the scene unfolding in front of them with mixed reactions ranging from humor to disgust and concern as Slade lit into Harley.
“The shit never gets old with those two,” Shakes mused, slurping his chocolate malt shake. His love of the cool, sweet beverages had earned him his club moniker.
They were sitting on their bikes in the parking lot of Maxine’s, a small diner off Highway 25, on the way back to Chatham.
His eyes drifted to his good friend, standing off to the side, monitoring the conversation. Shakes felt a pang of pity for him. “Why does Ransom always get dragged into it? He didn’t do shit to deserve the rag down he’s currently getting!”
“Maybe he should stop trying to show Harley up! Ransom shoulda had his brother’s back today,” Pitch insisted obstinately, stoutly defending his best friend. “So, Harley overreacted today. What’s the big deal? We all do dumb shit every now and then.”
Blaze and Shakes stared at him through narrowed eyes, unable to believe he could seriously be that colossal of an asshole.
“Like talk out of our asses about shit we clearly don’t understand?” Shakes drawled sarcastically. “Name one time that Ransom hasn’t had Harley’s back! Today, he was just trying to calm Caesar down. What Harley did would bring war to our gates and even more unnecessary, bloodshed! The Immortals code is that we don’t hurt women or kids. He changed that today. That’s automatic grounds for breaking the peace treaty with the Aztecs.” Shakes sneered at Pitch. “If you weren’t just in this for yourself, you’d understand that!”
“Fuck you, Shakes!”
“More like you’ll get fucked up, little man,” Shakes mocked. “Besides, how would you know what happened? Wasn’t your ass babysitting the truck driver?”
“Enough!” Blaze rumbled, his decisive tone brooking no argument. “I don’t need the two of you taking sides and going after each other. We’re a brotherhood! Dissension will not be tolerated. So, this run didn’t go as smooth as planned. Everything got handled and as soon as they’re finished, we’ll be on our way. Why don’t y’all make sure that Scar and Digital are ready to roll out?”
Pitch stomped off like a fucking kid while Shakes watched with amusement. “One of these days, he’s gonna get his fuckin’ head beat in, Pops. I can’t stand that little shit, and I sure as hell don’t trust him.”
Blaze knocked the shake out of his surprised son’s hand. “Shut the fuck up, Lucas! He was raised in this just like you, and we’re all he’s got. You’re giving me a headache, and we got enough shit to worry about with those three over there. Now, go help him out.”
Shakes noticed that his dad didn’t dispute anything he’d said about “Pitch the Prick”. “Love you too, Pops.”
His father acknowledged his endearment with a grunt and rose from the bike and resignedly approached the trio. The old
er the Lawson boys got, the more trouble brewed between them and their father. Blaze wanted to liken it to growing pains, but it seemed a little more turbulent than that. Whatever it was, it needed to be squashed before the situation exploded.
“I’m tired of your ass going off half-cocked!” Slade shouted, his thick finger in Harley’s face. “You know better than to get spooked. And by a bitch at that!”
“She kicked me in the fucking balls! What the fuck was I supposed to do?” Harley muttered defensively. “Did you want me to congratulate her on hitting her target?”
“She wouldn’t have been able to get the jump on you if you hadn’t been standing around daydreaming, ya fuckin’ moron!”
Harley’s face turned beet red in a combination of anger and embarrassment. It was all that slut’s fault. The sweet curve of his captive’s ass caused his cock to harden, which both shocked and disgusted him. Then Harley couldn’t help but notice that it was too full to be a man’s ass and reached out and touched it. When he heard the muted, infuriated gasp, it was confirmed that his prisoner was a woman, and Harley hadn’t thought twice about giving her ass a vicious pinch. But his father didn’t need to know that. She’d humiliated him in front of everyone. Killing her hadn’t exactly been a hardship for him.
“Because of you, I had to kill a decent man today. Vargas didn’t deserve that shit, and now we gotta act like we don’t know about it! Once word gets out, I’ll have to go and pay my respects to his grieving family. I should just gift-wrap your sorry ass and drop you off on their doorstep!”
“Slade, the bodies have been disposed of in the gorge. The bikes are on the way to Runyan’s chop shop. He’s willing to dismantle and burn everything for five thousand dollars. Cash,” Blaze reported. “I got Sgt. Bodie squared away and he said to give him a call anytime.”