Chapter Twenty-Two
Nash
We wait till nightfall.
Nerves on edge, guns cocked and loaded, every single one of us recognizing the fact that tonight is a night that could break our club if the chips fall wrong. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs, we won’t allow that to happen. All of us on our bikes except for Rog, who’s behind the wheel of his truck, a titanic machine — the kind usually driven by men with cocks the size of pinky fingers.
He looks proud to be driving that truck. Normally, I’d give him shit for it. But there’s too much at stake to badger Rog about his possibly-small cock.
I’m still stinging from sending Roxanna away like that. It hurt me deeper than I want to admit. But what she doesn’t understand is that each and every man in this club is a brother. They’ve seen me at my worst, when I was a piece of shit coming out of the Marines, disillusioned with the world after a few tours in Iraq and Afghanistan and ready to die. They saw me at my lowest, they knew what I was going through, and they picked me up and provided me what I was lacking the most: family.
Sending her away was the right thing to do. She’s too good to be mixed up in this shit. Even though this is for the survival of my family, I know it’s not good, in any sense of the word. When I tell my little girl about the things I’ve done and the kind of life the boys and I lead, I’ll leave this part out.
“Get ready,” Gunney says. “Remember, no witnesses.”
The impound lot isn’t much to speak of. Dirt field, chain-link fence topped with razor-wire, a few dogs, and a handful of security guards. Though, knowing what kind of cargo they stole and knowing the shitheels we’re dealing with, I’m certain there’s more than a few Devils waiting for us in there, somewhere.
Our truck waits for us near the middle of the lot, sandwiched between a Dodge Dart and a late 60’s El Camino.
Gunney gives the signal. One flick of his wrist and Rog springs into motion, gunning the engine of his truck and speeding straight to the gates.
Steel screams and razor-wire snaps as collides with it, breaking through the gates with ease.
We hit them like a storm. Bikes thundering, guns ready, smiles on our faces.
Raiding this place is going to bring even more heat on the club. But it’s our only play. We lose the cargo, and we’ll have some powerful customers take payment out of our hides, while the Devils finish off whoever remains.
That can’t happen.
We tear inside.
Someone screams — we’ve been spotted.
A security guard comes charging out of a corrugated steel office building, with a look on his face like he’s about ready to piss himself. He gets halfway to raising his gun before Preacher blows a hole in his face with a sawn-off shotgun.
Shouts come from three other parts in the lot and there’s the unmistakable bark of guard dogs.
I almost feel bad for what’s going to happen to the dogs.
Bullets fly through the night, cutting through the stillness and tearing towards us with a vengeance. They barely miss us as we take cover.
“Flank these bitches,” Gunney shouts, motioning for the team to split up.
We move out, breaking into groups of three and tearing through the yard on our bikes.
Ozzy, Gunney, and I get up on the guards first. Ozzy, with dead aim, takes two out before I even squeeze my trigger. The third goes down with two of my bullets in his chest.
“Nice job,” I say to Ozzy. “You’re a natural at this.”
Rapid gunshots — one after another with no hesitation between — rip through the night air and three more dead men and however many dogs hit the ground. Another group of guards that’d been sneaking up behind us.
“You’re welcome,” Preacher calls out.
“Beers on me, later,” Ozzy shouts back.
Certain we’re clear, we circle back to the cargo truck.
Leaving Grease to watch the gate as a lookout, the rest of us join Rog by the cargo truck.
“Jynx, get this fucking truck open. Now, you maggot,” Gunney shouts and Jynx digs a prybar out of the back of Rog’s truck. “Ozzy, take a couple of the prospects and head into that fucking office. Burn it the fuck down. I don’t want any security tapes getting out. And you find anyone hiding in the can, kill them.”
The night’s quiet, but, in my head, I can already hear the approaching sound of sirens. I want this job over. I want these guns back in the hands of my club.
I want my daughter back.
Jynx rips the padlock off the back of the cargo truck with his prybar. The rolling steel door flies up. Gunney shoves his way forward, eyes locked on the back of the truck.
Jynx curses.
Gunney whips out his gun and blasts a fury of bullets aimlessly into the back of the truck. It’s empty.
“What the fuck?” Jynx yells.
Gunney turns to me. “Are you sure about the intel?”
“Positive,” I say. “The prick had no reason to lie. It makes sense for them to keep the cargo here — it’s secure, and no one in their right minds would go after law enforcement like this.”
“Where the fuck are our guns?” Rog says, leaning out the window of his truck.
All of us look to Gunney. The prospects and even some of the patched riders like Jynx and Grease look nervous. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
It goes quiet in the yard. The only sound the distant crackle of the fire in the impound yard’s main office.
“Something’s wrong,” Preacher says.
“You think?” Gunney snaps.
“All this for bugger all?” Ozzy says, peering into the back of the truck. “The hell is going on here?”
Some of the guys murmur their agreement. I keep my eyes locked on Gunney, silent. I may not like where this is headed, but, he’s our President, our commanding officer, and, in a combat situation like this, you work as a unit and follow orders.
But there’s this nagging doubt in me. Our enemies are a step ahead of us.
I start to think about Roxanna — fuck, I hope she’s somewhere safe — and my daughter. That sweet little girl is out there, somewhere, waiting for me.
Even before Gunney orders us back to the clubhouse, I’ve got my bike started. And I’m not the only one. Every hair is standing on the back of my neck as I hit the road.
Something is very wrong.