Outlaw MC

by Dwayne Clayden

  Everyone leaned forward on the table, staring at the map.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Briscoe paced outside his van. For the hundredth time, he checked his watch. It hadn’t been that long since he talked to Brad, but time dragged. Finally, in the distance, the roar of big engines grew louder. He peered through the darkness toward the city. Two vehicles approached, hauling ass.

  The Suburbans stopped beside him. Briscoe approached the passenger window of the first truck. Brad rolled down the window.

  “‘Bout fuckin’ time,” Briscoe said.

  “Ten minutes from the northeast is good.”

  Briscoe grunted. “Just five of you?”

  “Devlin and his guys are coming from downtown. The rest of the TSU were alerted. Most live northwest or southwest. They’ll be a while. I got cruisers and ambulances coming.”

  “Great,” Briscoe said. “Six of us.”

  “How many bikers?” Brad asked.

  “A dozen each, from the Jokers and Soldiers. Not good odds. But the odds got worse.”

  “Never believed in odds.” Brad got out of the truck. “How’d the odds get worse?”

  “About five minutes ago, a van drove by, turned into the lane, and stopped. At least twelve guys, maybe more, all dressed in dark clothes, got out. They spread out into the trees. Then I lost them.”

  “Hells Angels, I bet,” Brad said.

  “What the fuck do the Hells Angels have to do with this?” Briscoe asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s as simple as the HA are brokering a peace deal.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Not with the Hells Angels here. This meeting won’t be about making peace.” Brad turned to Zerr, Ames, and Nichols as they jogged over from the second truck. “We’ll split into two teams. Zerr, Ames, and Nichols, go through the trees around to the back. Steele and me to the front. The Jokers and Soldiers will have sentries in the trees. Worse now that the Hells Angels are here, too. So be very careful.”

  “I’ve got a better idea, boss,” Zerr said. “Me, Ames, and Steele got experience in this. We’ll go to the front and figure out what we’re up against. You and Nichols circle to the back—stay deep in the trees—safer that way. We meet back here in twenty.”

  Brad started to reply then stopped. They were better trained. All three had military experience. Zerr had led his team of Rangers in Vietnam. It made sense because they didn’t know where the Hells Angels were. “Okay.”

  “What are the rules of engagement?” Zerr asked.

  “What?” Brad asked.

  “Uh, if we find sentries, what do we do?”

  “Whatever you have to.”

  Brad tapped Nichols on the shoulder and they headed into the trees. The ground was littered with twigs and branches, which made the going slow. Ahead, two bodies lay on the ground. Brad provided cover while Nichols checked them. He looked back and made a slashing gesture across his throat.

  Brad stepped closer. They wore leather vests—one Gypsy Jokers and the other with Satan’s Soldiers. Brad pointed toward the barn.

  Nichols led the way. A branch snapped loudly under Nichols’ boot. They stopped and listened—no sounds. They took another couple of steps. Nichols stopped about ten feet in front of Brad, then turned around. Someone dressed in black held a knife to Nichols’ throat.

  Brad raised his rifle. “Okay, let’s take a breath here. No one needs to get hurt.”

  “Good point,” the man said. “Drop your gun.”

  “I can’t do that,” Brad replied. “How about you drop the knife, then I lower my gun.”

  “Fuck, Coulter, do something,” Nichols said.

  “Yup, working on that,” Brad said. “Stay cool. Hey buddy, no one needs to get hurt. Let my partner go.”

  “You guys weren’t supposed to be here,” the man in black said. “This is between clubs.”

  “I get that,” Brad said. “Yet here we are. Just let my partner go.” Brad moved his gun slightly, placing the cross-hairs between the eyes of the man holding Nichols. Then he felt cold metal against his neck.

  “Lower your gun … now,” a deep voice said.

  Shit. Brad slowly lowered his gun. “This isn’t a path you guys want to go down. No one else needs to get hurt. We can all walk away.”

  “Don’t work that way, pig. We already killed a couple of guys. You know that. Adding you two don’t mean much.”

  “Killing a couple of bikers is one thing,” Brad said. “Killing cops will get cops everywhere hunting for you.”

  “Maybe. But they’ll never find us.”

  “I’m sorry, Coulter,” Nichols said. “Sorry for everything.”

  “It’s okay, we’ll work this out.”

  “I don’t think so,” the deep voice said.

  “Remember when LA SWAT trained us?” Nichols said.

  “No!”

  “Protect and Serve!” Nichols drew his pistol and fired. Brad dove to the ground. The shots hit the assailant in the neck.

  Brad rolled and raised and fired twice. At the same time, the biker slashed Nichols across the neck. Brad’s second shot entered an eye and blew out the back of the biker’s head. Nichols dropped to the ground. Brad glanced at the gunman closest to him. Blood bubbled from his chest—no longer a threat.

  Brad crawled to Nichols. Blood spurted from the neck wound. Brad slapped a gloved hand on the wound and with the other hand pulled out a trauma bandage. He pressed the dressing onto the wound and applied pressure. The bandage was blood-soaked in seconds.

  “I’m … sorry,” Nichols gasped. “I didn’t mean to … she … Teri set me up … sorry.”

  “Hang on, Jimmy. I’ll get help.”

  “Too late … I fucked up.”

  A rattle escaped from Nichols’ throat, then blood gushed out of his mouth and flowed over Brad’s hands.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Keaton and Perrault worked out the details. After a lot of arguing and posturing, they’d agreed on a plan. Not that it would make any difference. Pickens looked at his watch and glanced at the front door.

  Four figures, dressed head to foot in black, burst through the door. Startled faces stared from the table.

  White leaped from the table and dove to the bar. He grabbed a shotgun from under the counter and chambered a shell. As he turned, he was shot in the forehead. The gun tumbled from his hands as he collapsed. The mirror behind the bar was spattered with a bloody red starburst.

  Keaton reached under his chair for the gun he’d hidden—his hand came up empty.

  The closest intruder slammed the gun butt across Keaton’s head. He fell onto the floor, blood dripping from a gash above his eye. Hands roughly lifted Keaton off the floor and shoved him into his chair.

  Pickens rose from his chair and lunged at the closest gunman who easily deflected Pickens’ punch then slammed the gun butt into Pickens’ kidney. Pickens arched his back and fell the floor. The pain was intense. He rolled onto his side, gasping for breath.

  Jacques Perrault reached for White’s shotgun, which lay a few feet away. A gunman pressed a gun against the back of Perrault’s neck. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  Another gunman rolled Pickens onto his face, tied his hands behind his back, then lifted him off the floor and dropped him onto a chair. The pain eased, but still coursed through his back in waves.

  Perrault sat defiant, despite the gun to his head, and said, “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “That’s a fair question. Rodney Brazeau, Hells Angels National Vice President.” He waited for that news to sink in.

  Pickens avoided eye contact, still breathing in gasps.

  Brazeau’s lip curled. “The clubs in Calgary are out of control. You don’t get along. You’re pissing off the cops, the politicians, and the citizens. This shit is an embarrassment to all clubs. You can’t sort this out on your own. The Hells Angels are pullin’ your patches. The Gypsy Jokers and Satan’s Soldiers no longer exist.”


  “I don’t care what you think,” Perrault said. “This is my city. You ain’t getting my patch. You and the Hells Angels can fuck yourselves.” Perrault spat at Brazeau.

  The gunman behind Perrault grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back. Brazeau pulled a hunting knife out of a sheath on his hip. In a quick swing, he cut Perrault’s throat from side to side.

  Blood spurted and Perrault’s eyes bulged. He gurgled as life spewed from his neck. The gunman released his grip and Perrault slid off the chair. His legs kicked spasmodically for a few seconds, like a dog having a running dream. Then all movement stopped—a dark pool formed around his head.

  “Keep your hands on the table,” Brazeau said.

  Wolfman glared, defiant, then placed his hands on the table.

  A gunman stood guard, while another did a quick search, then tied Wolfmans’ hands behind his back.

  Brazeau peered at the map. “This is the best you could do? It’s the same as months ago. All the fighting, all the deaths, all the unnecessary attention from the cops, politicians, and press. You accomplished nothing.”

  Brazeau circled the table and stopped at Wolfman. “Jeter Wolfe. You’re the tough guy for the Jokers, huh? You like hookers. Not one at a time but two or three, that I can live with. I don’t mind a couple of ladies now and then. But you’re a deviant, you like young girls. You like to hurt them bad. That’s where I draw the line. Stand up.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “That’s it? Fuck you?” Brazeau kicked the chair over. Wolfman’s head hit the floor with a dull thunk. He kicked Wolfman in the head a couple of times.

  “Stand him up,” Brazeau said.

  Two gunmen lifted a wobbly Wolfman to his feet. Brazeau pointed to a support post.

  “Tie him up.” Brazeau stood in front of Wolfman. “Well, Jeter, your time as an outlaw biker has come to an end.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You’re stuck on that,” Brazeau said. “Such creative thinking. No wonder you’re in this situation.” Brazeau slipped on heavy black gloves. Brazeau punched like working a heavy bag. Bones cracked as punches landed on Wolfman’s ribs. Then Brazeau worked his face like a speed bag. More crunches, then Wolfman’s head sagged.

  Wolfman was getting what he deserved, Pickens thought. As good or better than he’d given out. Good riddance, motherfucker.

  Keaton struggled out of the chair, hands tied behind his back. “What the fuck do you want?” he asked. “What’s the point of beating him to death? Tell me.”

  The closest gunman grabbed Keaton by the hair, shoved him into his chair, then slammed his head into the table. Blood flowed over Keaton’s chin onto the table.

  “Good point.” Brazeau stopped punching.

  Brazeau glanced at Pickens, then stood beside Hehn. “You two are the money men. You looked after the finances. You kinda fucked that up, I’d say.” Brazeau pointed at Hehn. “Stand him up.”

  Hehn was yanked out of his seat. “No, wait. That’s not what happened. Please. Let me explain.”

  Brazeau leaned close to Hehn. “Maybe you take a little off the top for yourself? Keep a little back for the extras in life?” Brazeau slammed a punch into Hehn’s gut. Hehn buckled at the knees and bent over, groaning. He was hauled upright.

  “Maybe you got a bit of a gambling problem?” Another punch to the gut.

  He spat food chunks on the floor. “Please … it’s not … what it seems. Please.”

  “That little extra each month must come in handy. But then it’s not little, is it?” This time it was a punch to the head. “It’s more and more each month.” Hehn’s head hung down on his chest, blood and saliva dribbling down his chin. Hehn’s arms were released and he fell to the floor.

  “That takes care of the Soldiers,” Brazeau said. “Keaton, you got anything to say?”

  Keaton looked around the room, pausing on each dead biker. “What the fuck do you want me to say? I don’t want to die. I don’t care what club I belong to. I got skills.”

  “We don’t get along with your former club, the Banditos. I hear they’ve been helping you out. You’re their puppet here.”

  “Set me up and I’ll be your man in Calgary.” Keaton sat straight in his chair. “I can pull the clubs together. Hell, that’s what we were doing today. This was my idea. Get me some cash to make things right with the Mexicans. I’ll make it work. I’ll pull the boys under your colors. You’ll see.”

  Two shots sounded from outside the barn, then three more.

  Brazeau turned toward the front door.

  Two more shots. The barn door burst open and a man dressed in black staggered in. One arm hung limply at his side. Blood flowed from his shoulder. “Cops outside. You gotta go. Get out the back.”

  “How the fuck did the cops know about this?” Brazeau asked.

  Fuck, Pickens thought. Fuck. He struggled against the ropes.

  Three gunmen gathered around Brazeau. One said, “Let’s go.”

  Brazeau walked over to Keaton. “I liked where this conversation was going. But now I’m out of time.” Brazeau fired two shots into Keaton’s forehead.

  Brazeau turned to Pickens. “I have to go. I’m sure you understand.”

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Brad found Zerr, Ames, and Steele at the tree line. Devlin and his team were there.

  “Where were you?” Zerr asked. “I’ve been calling on the radio.”

  Steele stepped closer to Brad. “You’re covered in blood. What the hell happened? Where’s Nichols?”

  Brad told them what happened. “Before I could shoot, Nichols was … he … he’s dead.”

  “Ah, fuck,” Steele said. “We need to get him.”

  “We worry about that later,” Ames said. “The mission comes first. We mourn later.”

  “He’s right,” Devlin agreed.

  “Okay,” Brad said. “What’d you find?”

  “Two dead sentries,” Ames said. “One each from the Jokers and Soldiers. Their necks were slit. Before we got far, we heard noise from the other side of the barn. Four guys dressed in black were herding about a dozen bikers toward the farmhouse. Everyone went inside. Then two guys dressed in black came out and stood in front.

  “Eight men in black met at the edge of the woods, about twenty yards from the barn door. Two went to the back of the barn, the other six to the front. Two of those guys stayed outside and the other four are in the barn.”

  “About ten minutes ago, we heard a single gunshot,” Steele said. “That’s when we tried calling you. We couldn’t rush in with just the three of us.”

  “Steele, can you take out the two guys outside the barn door?” Brad asked.

  “The light is shitty,” Steele said. “I can try shooting from here. I could take out one, but it’s too dark for me to shoot the other. It’ll take too long to acquire the next target. With Ames, we can take them both out.”

  Behind them, leaves rustled. Knight, back on duty, walked up with guys from team two.

  “What’s happening?” Knight asked.

  Brad brought them up to date.

  “Who the hell are the gunmen in black?” Knight asked.

  “Hell Angels,” Brad said.

  “Oh, fuck.”

  “Knight, take your team to the farmhouse,” Brad said. “You’ll have to take out the sentries quietly.”

  “Okay.” Knight led his team through the trees to the farmhouse.

  “Devlin, take your team to the back. Zerr and I will go to the front. Don’t take chances. Shoot to kill.”

  Brad keyed his mic. “Briscoe, get EMS on the way, all the ambulances they’ve got. We’re gonna need lots of backup.”

  Brad gave Devlin a couple of minutes to get his team into place, then moved his team to the tree line twenty yards from the barn. Brad gave the order to Steele and Ames. The first sentry looked in their direction then reached for his radio. He was cut down by two shots from Ames. The radio clattered to the ground.

  The second sentry r
aised his gun but was struck in the shoulder and arm by two shots from Steele. His head exploded with the third shot.

  Brad and Zerr sprinted toward the barn. A third sentry appeared. Brad got off two quick shots. The sentry staggered back, opened the barn door, and disappeared inside.

  “Steele, Ames, get down here,” Brad said into the mic.

  Zerr faced away from the barn, searching for other bikers.

  Brad stood at the barn door. His radio crackled in his earpiece. “Two down. We’re going in,” Knight said.

  Brad double clicked his mic in acknowledgment. More gunshots from inside the barn—two, followed by four more.

  Brad keyed his mic. “Devlin, we’re going in.”

  “We’re ready,” Devlin replied.

  “Execute.”

  Zerr opened the door and followed Brad to the left. Steele and Ames went to the right. Several men dressed in black raced toward the back of the barn. Brad keyed his mic. “Devlin, gunmen coming your way.”

  Brad’s eyes swept the barn. On the floor in front of the bar lay two men, unmoving, a couple of feet to the right was a long table.

  Ames fired two shots. Brad glanced to the right. The gunman who’d survived Brad’s shots and escaped into the barn, lay on the floor bleeding from two wounds to the chest. Ames rushed over and kicked away the fallen gun.

  Brad stepped cautiously toward the table but saw no movement. There were gunshots and shouts from the back of the barn.

  “Devlin, status.”

  No answer.

  “Devlin, status,” he repeated. “Where are the others?”

  “One dead, three others got away,” Devlin replied. “We couldn’t chase them. If we did, we’d lose these two.”

  Brad stood in the middle of the barn. “Too late.” Too fucking late. White and Perrault lay in a pool of blood. White shot, Perrault’s neck slit ear to ear.