Outlaw MC

by Dwayne Clayden

  Devlin stepped over to Brad and pointed at the bikers. “The vests tell the story. Someone took care of two things. First, they eliminated the Head Hunters Motorcycle Club’s leadership. Now the rest of the members, about eight, will join the Satan’s Soldiers or the Gypsy Jokers—or move. Second, this was a warning to the other clubs.”

  “Let’s round up the Jokers,” Steele said.

  Devlin shook his head. “That’s what I thought too. I just got a call from one of my UC guys. The Gypsy Jokers have solid alibis. They were at the Beacon Hotel bar. The Jokers and some skinheads fought. The zone cops broke it up. In the end, no one pressed charges, and they drank beer—best of friends. My cops are witnesses.”

  “Let me guess,” Brad said. “The brawl took place around the time the four Head Hunters members died?”

  Devlin touched his nose with his index finger.

  “Then who did it?” Steele asked. “The Satan’s Soldiers?”

  “Probably some prospects of the Jokers, as a ticket into the big leagues,” Devlin said.

  ““Low-level bikers wouldn’t do this on their own ,” Steele said.

  “You’re right,” Devlin said. “Likely Jeter Wolfe. The bikers say he was in the bar. Cops didn’t get names.”

  “Why kill them tonight?” Steele asked.

  Devlin shook his head. “This wasn’t the first meeting. Word on the street is that the Head Hunters were playing the Jokers against the Soldiers. See where the best deal was. The Jokers made it clear they’re going to the club in Calgary.”

  “What about the Satan’s Soldiers?” Brad asked. “They’re powerful.”

  “It will come down to the Jokers and the Soldiers,” Devlin said. “Tonight was gruesome, but it’ll get worse—more violent than anything you can imagine.”

  Chapter Five

  Gypsy Jokers’ Clubhouse

  Tuesday Night

  Jeremy Pickens leaned back on the park bench across from the clubhouse. He took a long pull on his cigarette and stared at the white house with its heavy metal front door, thick metal window shutters, and landscaped yard. Harley-Davidson motorcycles rumbled up the driveway. The riders parked in front of the garage and wandered to the backyard.

  A biker strolled down the sidewalk smoking and talking to a neighbor walking her poodle. Good old boys who rode chopped bikes. No sense giving the cops a reason to pay attention.

  All part of the illusion, the game. Heck, on Saturday they helped out the seniors’ club set up for their barbeque, then later hauled the tables and chairs back to storage. One club looking out for another. Good neighbors.

  Pickens enjoyed being a full-patch member of the Gypsy Jokers. To the club, he was Slim—a nickname from his dad, may he rot in hell. The irony was that his old man had never been near a horse and hated westerns. Another pull from the cigarette.

  He checked his watch—five minutes before the meeting — enough time to finish the smoke. Biker life was exciting, but not the career path he’d planned. After college, he’d bounced from one accounting job to another. Five years ago he was fired. One night, when he was drowning his sorrows in the Beacon Hotel bar, Eldridge Hammond, a high school classmate, took the stool next to him. They’d never been friends in school, and Pickens was surprised Hammond recognized him. In school, Hammond was a bully, and Pickens was often the target.

  That night they drank, talked, and drank some more. When they left, Hammond headed to a chopped bike. Pickens ogled the motorcycle. He was in love. He’d never cared about his transportation—car, truck, it didn’t matter, as long as it ran. But this bike was a sweet ride. Hammond said the club was recruiting members. He could hook Pickens up with a bike too. Hammond wanted to be friends. That wasn’t going to happen, but Pickens was interested in the bikers.

  They met a few weeks later, and Hammond introduced Pickens to other members. The club could use someone with accounting skills. What the hell? I’m not doing anything. He wanted to be part of something. They fast-tracked him into the club. Could have been the Rotary or the Kinsmen, but he chose the Gypsy Jokers. He was their accountant—the money guy. He’d worked in a couple of places that had creative accounting practices. Nothing like this club, though. The money came in from a lot of sources, and none of it was legal. The challenge was making it appear legitimate. At first, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. Then he discovered he was good at laundering money—real good. It became a game, a challenge, and the thrill was addictive.

  Pickens crushed the cigarette under his boot and crossed the street. If the outside of the clubhouse fit in with the neighborhood, the inside was another story.

  A prospect let him pass. Only full-patch members attended the meeting. Pickens strolled into the large meeting room, formerly the kitchen, dining room, and living room. A year ago, some of the members renovated and fortified the inside of the house. After the month-long project, nothing less than a tank was gonna knock this house down.

  Pickens strolled over to the pop machine and grabbed a beer. No Coke here. He popped the top on the opener nailed to the wall and took a drink. Tobacco and weed smoke formed a gray cloud at the ceiling. The smell of beer co-mingled with the smoke. A half-dozen conversations created a low buzz in the room. A biker bragged about his night with two hookers. Another described a fight with the skinheads at the Beacon Hotel bar. Everything was cool when the Jokers bought beer for the rest of the night. By the time the cops arrived, everyone was buddy-buddy.

  Pickens was different from the others, his college education set him apart. He had a slight build where the others were bigger, some, like Hammond, a lot bigger.

  He took his place at the large table with the Gypsy Joker’s logo carved into the middle. Twelve chairs circled their own Knights of the Round Table.

  Pickens slumped in his chair and took another swig. Full house tonight. Bikers occupied eleven of the twelve chairs. All guys, all late twenties or early thirties, and some of the meanest, most racist men he’d ever met. Women weren’t allowed in the clubhouse during meetings—they’d arrive later for entertainment. Other bikers sat on couches or stood against the back wall.

  Club President Felix Keaton strode into the room and took the last seat. Time for the meeting to start.

  Keaton wasn’t much to look at—stocky and soft-looking. That was deceiving. Pickens had never met a more cunning, pure evil person. Keaton had a quick temper, and anyone who crossed him got hurt. His dark eyes burned into your soul.

  He banged the gavel twice. Once he had everyone’s attention, he pulled the patch for Head Hunters off the wall. A month ago, he’d put the patches of the Head Hunters and the Satan’s Soldiers on the wall. Then he described how they were going to assimilate or eliminate them. Few knew what assimilate meant, but they cheered for the eliminate part. Idiots.

  Keaton pulled a lighter out of his pocket and spun the flint. A flame darted out, the patch burned quickly, and Keaton tossed it onto the floor. “One down.”

  The room burst into cheers. Keaton held up a hand. “I thought the Head Hunters were going to come under our wing. They’d be full-patch members and take our colors. But they played us against the Satan’s Soldiers. No one, I mean no one, ever fucks me over.” Keaton nodded to Jeter Wolfe. “Good job.”

  Wolfe grinned. He’d come west with Keaton and was the club enforcer. He was big, mean, and took perverse pleasure in inflicting pain on others, especially women. With the long, dark hair and beard, he lived up to his nickname, Wolf-man.

  “Won’t the rest of the Head Hunters keep the club going?” a biker asked.

  “Cut off the head of a snake —” Keaton said. “We’re taking the fuckin’ northeast. We need the rest of the Head Hunters. You know, show them the advantages of joining us. As for the disadvantages, I’m sure they’ve already got that figured out. I tried to work this out peacefully.”

  Keaton’s voice rose. “If the Soldiers want a fight, we’ll give them a fight. We didn’t start this, but we’ll fuckin’ finish it.”<
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  “I’ll take a few of the boys and we’ll take care of the Soldiers, boss,” Wolfman said. “Just like the Head Hunters. Say the word, and they won’t be a problem.” Heads nodded in agreement.

  “We’ll take it to them,” Keaton said. “I want a council of war with Pickens, Hammond, and Wolfman after this meeting. Nobody does nothin’ till I say. Understand?”

  Nods all around.

  “Good. Down to business. First item.” He turned to Wolfe. “That business with Nelson and Russ Sutton, that’s taken care of?”

  “Yeah, boss. They ain’t never gonna find Nelson, and Russ was easy. He didn’t fight. Not even when we wasted his slut girlfriend.”

  “Good. Cops gonna trace that back to us?”

  “Nah. We was real careful.”

  “I hear you got a trophy?”

  “Oh yeah. Sweet piece of ass. Spoils of war.”

  Pickens liked the money, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could ignore the way these pigs treated women. Wolfman was a sexual predator. Not much Pickens could do, this was part of the biker culture.

  “Make sure you get her under control,” Keaton said. “If not, take care of it. Understand?”

  “Yeah, boss. Gonna get right on that.”

  The biker next to Wolfman slapped his back.

  Pickens glared at Wolfman. Pickens didn’t hate many men, but Wolfman had no redeeming characteristics. Pickens couldn’t stand to be in Wolfman’s presence.

  “Let’s move on,” Keaton said. “Guns. I got Nines, Remington 870s, .308s, and all the ammo we’ll need coming in. Should be here next Friday. Soldiers want a war, they got one.”

  The room erupted with hoots and cheers.

  “Next, the towing business. How’s that doing?”

  Pickens watched the club vice president, Eldridge Hammond, known to the club as Hammer, stand. The big man looked like a thug with his Fu Manchu mustache.

  “Goin’ great, boss,” Hammer said. “We got a new towing contract for Highway 1 West—accidents or abandoned vehicles. We get them quick and strip them. Have to be real quick, though. If we leave ’em too long, they’re vandalized, and there’s nothing worth salvaging.”

  “Pop a few vandals, and they’ll back off!” Wolfman said. “Maybe someone wants to ride shotgun with me.”

  Hands raised.

  “No sense bringing attention.” Keaton turned to Pickens.

  “Any other business?”

  No one spoke.

  Keaton rapped the gavel. “Meeting closed. Party time.”

  Chapter Six

  Gypsy Jokers’ Clubhouse

  Late Tuesday Night

  Annie lay curled in a ball on the lumpy mattress. Yesterday, they’d locked her in the room. She’d pounded on the door, tore at the heavy shutter over the window until her nails broke. Her fingers bled and throbbed in pain. Dejected, she lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, wondering where she was.

  The room was the size of her bedroom at home with one solid, locked door. The one window was blacked out. She’d searched for anything she could use as a weapon. The bed and desk were nailed to the floor. Wire mesh covered the single light bulb in the middle of the room. She slept when she could or lay curled up on the bed, listening to her stomach growl. She missed her mom and her little brother. Tears flowed. Why was she here? What happened?

  She remembered awakening from sleep by arguing, which wasn’t uncommon for her mom and boyfriend. Annie refused to accept that her mother had shacked up with the stupid loser, and she would never call Russ “Dad.” Somewhere in her subconscious, she’d realized there were other voices—then yelling. Then two loud gunshots, followed by two more.

  It seemed crazy now, but she’d jumped out of bed and raced toward the sounds. Guns were pointed at her when she entered her brother’s bedroom. She’d stifled a scream, sure she was about to die. Then a fist struck her jaw.

  When she regained consciousness, her jaw throbbed, her teeth ached, and she was on this bed. The door was locked. She’d screamed for someone to open the door. No one came. She had no idea how long she’d been in the room. She was hungry, thirsty, and she needed to pee. She glanced at a roll of toilet paper next to an old bucket in the corner. She’d held out as long as she could, then used the bucket. Now the room stank of urine.

  The door lock clicked, snapping Annie out of her thoughts. She sat up. A man with a scruffy beard and long black hair tied in a ponytail peered in, scanned the room, then stepped aside. A girl her age, sixteen or seventeen, came into the room. She wore a tube top and shorts, her dark, shoulder-length hair hanging around her face. Dark rings circled her eyes, her face pale. She set a basin of water, towels, and a small stack of clothes on the dresser. She shuffled back to the door, and the big guy passed her a tray of food. He grabbed the girl’s ass and closed the door. The lock clicked.

  The girl sat on the bed. “I’m Sissy. I need to get you cleaned up.” She didn’t make eye contact.

  Annie put her arms across her chest. “Yeah, that ain’t gonna happen. I need answers.”

  “Please don’t —” Sissy pleaded.

  “Where am I? Why am I here? Where’s my mom and my baby brother?”

  Sissy glanced toward the door, her hands shaking. “We can talk later,” she whispered. “It’s not safe now.”

  Annie stared at the tray. Her stomach growled. She licked her lips. “How about some of that food?”

  “I was told to get you cleaned first, then you can eat.”

  “I won’t move until I get food and water.” Annie pulled her legs tight to her chest and hugged her knees.

  “Okay, but make it quick. If they find out, I’ll be punished.”

  “Who’s they?”

  Sissy brought the tray to the bed. Annie grabbed the glass of water and drained it. She grabbed a sandwich and took a big bite. Baloney. She hated baloney, but that didn’t stop her. She devoured the sandwich and reached for another. Sissy put her hand on top of Annie’s. “Wait. You need a sponge bath, then you can have the rest of the food.”

  “Please let me finish eating.”

  Sissy was firm. “No. Take off your pajamas.”

  “Why?”

  “I have to clean you up.”

  “Don’t touch me. I’ll do it myself.”

  “Fine, just get those clothes off and wash.” Sissy stared at Annie, eyes wide. “Please don’t get me in trouble. Do as I ask.”

  Annie thought about arguing, but something in Sissy’s face stopped her. She slipped off her clothes and washed with the lukewarm soapy water. She toweled off and stared at the pajamas she’d been wearing for how long? Days? “Do I put these back on?”

  “No.” Sissy grabbed the clothes off the dresser and set them on the bed. “Help yourself.”

  Annie sorted through the clothes. No panties or bra, just a tube top, jean shorts, and a silky, lacy outfit. She didn’t want to think about what the frilly outfit meant. “Not much of a selection.” She slipped the tube top over her head and slid on the shorts.

  Annie finished the sandwiches and drank a generic cola. Her stomach rumbled. She wanted more.

  “Where am I?” Annie asked.

  Sissy shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why?” Annie asked.

  “They’d kill me.”

  Annie grabbed Sissy’s arm. “Who’d kill you? Tell me.”

  “The men.” Sissy pulled away.

  “Who are they?”

  “I can’t say.” Tears streamed down Sissy’s cheeks. “They’re bad men. Very bad. Do what they ask. It’s easiest that way.”

  The door opened. “Let’s go, girlie.”

  Sissy looked at Annie with sympathy mixed with fear. She whispered. “I’ll come back when I can.” She grabbed the tray and raced to the door.

  Annie drifted in and out of sleep, then the door opened. It might have been minutes or hours later, she didn’t know. She opened her eyes and sat up, expecting Sissy. A big man with long black hair, haw
k-like nose, and thick beard entered the room and sat on the edge of the bed. He towered over her. His bloodshot eyes roamed over her body. When he smiled, a front tooth sparkled from a gold cap.

  He slid his hand over her bare leg. She screamed and backed away. He laughed and leaned close. His breath smelled like beer and something else—pepperoni maybe? He stroked her hair. She wanted to move away, but she was already against the headboard.

  “Tube-top and shorts. That’s okay. I was hoping for the silk thing. The clothes won’t stay on for long. How about a kiss?” He leaned in close.

  “Fuck you.” Annie jammed the heel of her hand under his chin.

  His head snapped back. “You got spunk. I like that. That’s gonna work good for me. After a while, you’ll learn how to use that just right. Tonight, though, you need to be tamed.” His big hand grabbed her by the throat. Gasping for breath, Annie used both hands to pry his hand away. His other hand grabbed the tube top, yanked hard, ripping it. He grabbed her small breast. She was losing consciousness as she dug her fingers into his nose, but her worn nails had little effect.

  He released his grip on her throat. She gasped for air. A big fist swung from the left. Her head spun and her jaw ached. She felt like she was going to pass out. He grabbed the shorts and yanked. She crossed her legs. He pried them apart with his knee. She reached for his face again, but he caught her by the wrist and twisted until she rolled onto her stomach. He put a hand between her shoulder blades, pinning her down. She heard the rattle of a belt buckle and the sound of a zipper.

  A hand touched Annie’s cheek. She grabbed it and bent it back.

  Sissy cried out. “Annie, it’s Sissy.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Your cheek is swollen and bruised.”

  “I hurt everywhere.”

  “I’m gonna stay with you. I’ll take care of you. I brought food, more clothes, and some soap and water. Clean yourself, change clothes, then eat.”