Ironside motioned the Knights to a stop in a commuter lot across from Cudell Commons. “Listen up,” he said as the bikes fell silent. “Here’s what really going down.”
He laid out the plan, how there were no guns, and this was all a ruse for a mole hunt. “I don’t want any heroes,” he continued. “If the Saracens bite then we’ll have accomplished our mission. Run if you can and only fight if you must. Any questions?”
“So we’re not hitting the Saracens?” Lolly asked.
“Not straight on, no. Not yet anyway. We’ve lost too many brothers already.” He could tell that didn’t go over well, but so be it. “The Saracens will get theirs, but I’m not willing to throw away more lives to do it,” he added to mollify the brothers. “Once we out the mole, then we can begin to plan how we’re going to step on their dicks.” He paused to see if there were any more question. “Let’s ride,” he rumbled when there were none.
The Knights pulled out of the parking lot, and after riding together for a distance, they split, Ironside continuing to the docks while Whiteshirt and his men turned south to Industrial Valley, a section of town where they often made exchanges when they were still running guns and drugs.
Ironside and his men rumbled to a stop by one of the huge warehouses on the docks. Cleveland was mostly a bulk shipping center where raw materials were unloaded for the forge of industry, but there was enough traffic through the St. Lawrence Seaway a few crates of contraband could easily be shipped in or out without the level of scrutiny the coastal ports received. Their colors were familiar on the docks, so nobody questioned their presence.
Ironside furtively scanned the area as he removed his helmet, but saw nothing, before leading his men into the warehouse to prepare to snap the jaws of their trap closed if the Saracens showed.
***
Whiteshirt and eleven other members of the Knights pulled into the truck rental lot and rolled to a stop. They were going to mill about a moment, and if they didn’t see anyone, they were going to rent a truck to try to flush the Saracens. He could spend $19.95 plus mileage to uncover the mole, even though he was pretty sure it was going to be Ironside that was going to be in the shit.
As he dismounted, he looked around, but saw nothing. “This way,” he said, leading the men toward the smallest of the trucks sitting on the lot, a one-ton van that looked like something you’d ship a few crates of guns in. He peeked into the back of the van, as if he was checking for cargo, then stepped back.
“Skids, come with me. The rest of you guys stand around like you’re guarding something.”
Skids and Whiteshirt went inside the office and filled out paperwork, taking the optional insurance, just in case, while chatting up the clerk and spinning a yarn about the club going to go pick up a classic Harley knucklehead.
Keys in hand, he and Skids stepped out of the office. “Ready?” Whiteshirt asked.
“I hope the fuckers do come,” Skids growled. “I’d like to get another shot at them.”
“You heard Ironside. He’s right. We don’t want this fight, not today.”
“Yeah, I heard him, but I prefer a standup fight to all this sneaking around, cloak and dagger, bullshit.”
“I’m going to take Ninety to Lorain. I hope we’ll be able to pick them up on the interstate,” Whiteshirt explained to the rest of the Knights as he approached. “If we don’t see anything, we’ll return the truck and see if Ironside had better luck with his fishing trip.”
As Skids slid behind the wheel, Whiteshirt crawled into the passenger seat, pulling his phone out as he did. “Any luck?” he asked when Ironside answered.
“Not a sign. You?”
Whiteshirt took another quick look around as Skids turned out of the parking lot. “Nothing. I rented a truck. We’re going to make a loop by the clubhouse to see if we can spot a tail.”
“Shit,” Ironside muttered. “How the fuck do they know?”
Whiteshirt shook his head. “Don’t know, brother. Don’t know.”
“I’m going to give it another thirty minutes, then call it.”
“Yeah, same here. If we don’t see anyone by the time we get to the clubhouse I think we can say this was a bust.”
“Yeah,” Ironside growled. “Let me know when you reach the clubhouse. That’s when we’ll pull the plug.”
“You got it,” Whiteshirt said then hung up and looked at Skids. “It was worth a try, but I figured this wouldn’t—you missed the on ramp,” he said dryly as the entrance to I-90 passed. “You want me to drive?”
“Damnit,” Skids muttered slamming on the brakes. “Why can’t they put up a sign?” He started to backup, but a truck was approaching so he put the van back into gear. “I’ll go around the block.”
Whiteshirt chuckled, but Skids was right. A sign would be helpful. They toddled down Rockefeller, Whip ridding up beside Skids and making comic hand gestures about missing the ramp until Skids gave him the finger, causing Whitehirt to chuckle. They made a hard left onto Independence, the truck turning with them.
“That truck is still on us,” Skids said, watching in the rearview.
“Maybe he’s lost, too.” Whiteshirt suggested with a grin.
“Ha, ha, fuck you,” Skids growled, as he turned right, jostling across some tracks into a large parking lot.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking.”
Whiteshirt watched the Bronze colored Dodge turn behind them. “Okay, now it has my attention. Keep going. See if there’s another way out of here.”
“Go!” Whiteshirt barked as the truck surged forward, brothers scattering to prevent themselves from being run down as the truck rapidly closed.
Skids floored the van, but it was far slower than the Dodge and the truck was on them in a moment. The two vehicles raced across the broken pavement of the parking lot, Skids continuing on when the pavement ended, the two vehicles bucking and jittering hard as they sprinted down a narrow gravel path that paralleled the railroad tracks.
“There! There,” Whiteshirt pointed frantically to the right, back across the tracks as the road arced toward the rails. “No! Left, left, left!” he cried, spotting the heavy bar blocking the entrance to the tracks on the other side.
Skids blasted through the narrow opening, the van lurching hard as they hit something large and unseen in the thick overgrown grass. The van slew around out of control before crashing into a thick hedge of vines and small trees. They were still shaking off the crash when the van lurched again as the truck crashed into the side. Skids floored the throttle, the van howling as it dragged itself along the front of the truck before breaking free.
They raced through a coal dump then down a narrow gravel road, the Dodge close on their heels. They had nowhere to run except straight ahead, with the Cuyahoga on their left and a thick row of hedges and trees on their right, with railroad tracks on the other side.
“Get us out of here, Skids!” Whiteshirt muttered as they plunged into an area filled with huge piles of sand and gravel.
“Working on it!”
“There!” Whiteshirt called, pointing. Up ahead was pavement, and that probably meant a way out.
Skids nodded, but the much faster Dodge raced up beside them and shouldered into the rear of the van. The van began to spin, unable to hold its line in the gravel. Skids might have saved it had they not hit the hedge row, the van whipping around like a carnival ride, bouncing on its springs as it spun to a stop in a cloud of dust.
Whiteshirt and Skids began to scramble to get out of the van as the two men in the truck ran toward them, their pistols out. They could hear the sharp reports of gunshots in the distance, but of more concern was the two right in front of them. They ducked behind the dash as the men opened fire, glass from the ruined windshield falling on them, the bullets pinging and popping against the van.
Whiteshirt popped up, intending to fire back through the windshield to try to drive the men back, but before he could, his door was yanked open. He fired blindly and the man fell back just as Skid’s weapon roared, two, three, four, five shots in quick succession as he fired through the door, and he saw the man fall.
“You okay?” Whiteshirt asked.
“Yeah, I think.”
Whiteshirt stepped out of the van. His man wasn’t dead, but he solved that with a single shot to the head then wiped the glass off himself.
The two men looked the van over. It was a mess. Both sides were caved in, the front not only smashed, but shot all to hell as well, and the windshield crashed and full of holes.
“Jesus! Good thing you bought the extra insurance!” Skids muttered.
Whiteshirt began to chuckle, then heard the roar of approaching Harleys. He and Skids moved to put the bulk of van between them and the approaching riders, but relaxed when they recognized the Knights.
“Where you guys been?” Whiteshirt asked as the Knights pulled to a stop.
“Your friends here had help.”
“Where’s Club and Nickel?”
“Nickel’s down. Club is staying with him,” Hammer explained.
“What a cluster-fuck,” Whiteshirt snarled. “Anyone else hurt?”
“Just Nickel. He took it in the knee.” Hammer shook his head. “It’s bad. He may never walk again.”
“Goddamnit,” Whiteshirt muttered. They’d found their mole, but at the cost of another brother. “Let’s start getting this shit cleaned up! Skids, see if this fucker will run. We might as well use it if it will.”
***
“It’s Honey,” Whiteshirt growled from the phone. “Honey, or someone she talked to.”
Ironside felt a chill. “Were you hit?”
“Yeah. Nickel’s down, shot in the knee. Three Saracens dead, at least one more wounded. We’re performing the cleanup now.”
“Knights!” Ironside called to bring his men out of hiding, then turned his attention back to the phone. “We’ll deal with her when we get back to the clubhouse.”
“No! I’ll deal with her,” Whiteshirt snarled.
“You got it, brother.” He knew how Whiteshirt felt. If the Saracens had shown up here, he would personally fuck Peyton up for her betrayal.
“I’m sorry. I was wrong about Peyton.”
“Yes you were, but you might have been right. There was no way to know.”
“We’re good?”
Ironside grinned even though Whiteshirt couldn’t see him. “Yeah, brother. We’re tight.”
“I’ll meet you back at the clubhouse as soon as we deliver some cargo to Ellison.”
“Hang tough, brother,” Ironside encouraged, hearing the disheartenment in his friend’s voice. I’m sorry about Nickel, but it wasn’t your fault.”
“Yeah. I’ll tell Sloane that,” he said before ending the call.
“They were hit?” Jinx asked.
“Yeah. We’re going back to the clubhouse while they perform cleanup. When we get there, find Honey and sit on her until Whiteshirt arrives.”
“She’s the mole?”
“She is, or someone she talked to. Either way, we start with her.”
***
“Fuck!” Ironside snarled, rushing into the Knight’s clubhouse and kneeling over Tinker as the rest of the Knights pulled weapons and fanned out through the building. Tinker was lying in a pool of his own blood and was obviously dead. He rolled him over, grimacing at the two bullet holes in his chest.
“It’s empty!” Lolly called as the men began to return to the main room.
“Those fucking Saracens!” Ironside snarled. While the Knights had been setting the Saracens up, the Saracens had taken advantage of the trap to spring one of their own. The Knights didn’t kill women, but for this, he was going to make an exception. Honey, or whoever the mole ultimately turned out to be, was going to die.