I’m less than a mile from the Steel Infidels’ clubhouse on my bike when I realize the MC is in trouble. A Fox News truck with a tall antenna is poking along in front of me. The driver keeps hitting his brakes, obviously searching for road signs or mailboxes with street addresses.

I wish them luck since Bardsville still relies on an old route system. The mail carriers know everyone by heart, so street addresses are non-existent. My address is a simple Route 3, Bardsville, Georgia. The system works well so nobody has ever felt the need to change it.

The news team will be driving around all day trying to find the MC’s clubhouse if that’s what they’re after unless one of the locals decide to help them out, which is always a distinct possibility too. After all, we’re small-town heroes.

The takedown at the mall will be the biggest news to hit this town in ages. It wouldn’t occur to anyone that the Steel Infidels might want to hide from the media.

I pull back on the throttle, duck my head down so the news crew can’t see my face, and roar past them without glancing over at the driver. Immediately he speeds up and tries to tail me.

Trying to follow any guy on a motorcycle is a better prospect than driving around on country roads all day. It takes me only a couple of seconds to lose them on the curvy road. I’m almost to the cutoff for the gravel road where our clubhouse is located when I spot the second news van. I recognize the letters from a television station in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I ignore it. When it stops, then starts ringing a second and third time, I pull it out of my pocket and glance down to check the caller.

Sam.

Must be urgent, whatever it is.

I’m almost at the clubhouse when I see the dreaded media storm has beaten me there. The fenced perimeter of the industrial warehouse is surrounded by a caravan of media vans. Reporters with microphones and men with huge cameras are milling around outside their vehicles.

Waiting for something.

Or someone.

They’re waiting for me.

Damn!

They have the driveway to the clubhouse blocked as well as to the metal entrance gate. How am I going to plow through this mess and get inside?

Then I see them.

Two of the MC’s Sweet Mamas are standing right inside the closed gate. They’re waving their arms in the air, motioning for me to keep on driving toward them.

Good God Almighty.

Who had the harebrained idea to put the Sweet Mamas out front to guard the gate instead of one of the Steel Infidels’ crew members? Now that I think about it, it’s not a bad idea since they’re the toughest women I know. They would just as soon give a reporter a nasty beat-down as to not.

All of the crew are halfway afraid of them, though it’s not something we ever like to talk about. We call it respecting the Sweet Mamas, when in reality they scare the living shit out of us.

I slow down and try to maneuver my bike between the vehicles. Suddenly the crowd of reporters and cameramen rush me from both sides. A young Asian woman with a microphone jumps in front of me to block my path.

What the fuck!

Is she insane? I grab the brakes to keep from hitting her. Flashbulbs go off in my face, almost blinding me.

Shit!

I’m not prepared for this. Everyone starts yelling questions at me all at once.

“Toby! Over here!”

“How does it feel to be a hero, Toby!”

Do they really expect me to stop and answer? The crowd swells around me, pressing tighter. I’m walking the bike now with the heels of my boots on both sides. The Asian reporter is walking backwards in front of me, talking rapidly in a foreign language into a microphone.

Chinese? Korean?

Hell, I don’t know.

For the first time, I realize the shooting has made international news. A man shoves a microphone in front of my helmet and I push it away. Sweat breaks out on my forehead and trickles down into my eyes. The panicked feeling of claustrophobia sets in. The reporters are so close they’re brushing my thighs with their coats and banging my shoulders with their cameras.

I do not need this right now.

Keep it together, man.

This isn’t a fucking war. There are no bombs about to explode. Or shooters to watch out for. I remember telling myself the same thing yesterday.

Jodi keeps waving frantically at me. “Come on, Toby!” she yells. “Don’t stop! Run over that bitch! Keep going! Break her leg! Gas it!”

For a split-second, I seriously consider doing just that if the gal doesn’t move the fuck out of my way. “Move, lady!” I yell. “I’m warning you.”

She is babbling non-stop and gesturing with her hands. She probably doesn’t understand English.

Behind me, I hear the rumble and roar of several motorcycles, and I glance back over my shoulder.

Thank you, Jesus!

Here they come now. The whole crew of the Steel Infidels. Everyone except for me. I guess I didn’t get the memo. Then I remember the numerous phone calls from Sam.

Maybe I did.

No wonder the Sweet Mamas are guarding the gate. They’re the only ones at the clubhouse. I feel a surge of affection for the two older ladies. Standing out here in the cold trying to protect the Steel Infidels. Their boys, as they call us. The first thing I’m going to do is hug both of their necks when I get inside.

I hear the threatening sound of the Steel Infidels revving the throttles on their bikes behind me. Next thing I know, the crew are clearing a path straight through the reporters. They’re riding two-by-two except for Jesse, who is leading the way.

His face is full of steely-eyed determination. He means business. He’s a tough badass, and the reporters seem to know this instinctively. Jesse wouldn’t hesitate to run right over a reporter and break an ankle or an arm if they stood in his way.

When Jesse doesn’t slow down or appear to even notice their presence, the group of reporters quickly jump aside to let him through. It’s like watching Moses parting the Red Sea. The other crew members follow close behind him.

When he gets within shouting distance to me, he yells and motions me ahead of him, “Go, Toby!”

The Asian reporter still standing in my way takes one look at Jesse and her eyes widen. Oh, so now she’s worried. I definitely need to work on my badass biker image.

“Move it!” I say again, and she jumps to the side.

Maybe she understands English after all. I gun it and drive past her. The Sweet Mamas slide open the gate and we all quickly roar inside. Jodi slams the gate shut and locks it behind Rocco, who is bringing up the rear. We don’t slow down until we pull around the back of the clubhouse out of sight of the reporters. I park my bike beside Sam and tug off my helmet.

“What the fuck was that zoo all about?” I say.

Sam laughs and slides off his bike. “What was your plan back there, Toby?” he asks. “Man! You should have seen the panicked look on your face. Put you in a mall with terrorists and you’re cool as a cucumber. Put you in a crowd with a bunch of reporters and you freak the fuck out. What’s up with that?”

I frown at him. “What are you talking about? I wasn’t freaking out. They caught me by surprise, that’s all. Someone should have warned me. You obviously knew they were here. I drove straight into a hornet’s nest. Those assholes were swarming all over me. There should be a law against that kind of crap. I wouldn’t be a celebrity for ten million dollars if I had to put up with that every day. Makes me feel sorry for those poor little Kardashian girls.”

“I called you a hundred times this morning,” Sam says. “You might want to try leaving your phone on if you want to know what’s going on. Don’t blame me if you’re in the dark. Where were you anyway? Why didn’t you answer?”

“Still at home. Maggie, the reporter from yesterday, showed up at my door this morning. Said she wanted to thank me for saving her life. Can you believe that crap?”

“I can,” Flint says, walking over to join us. “Don’t talk to her. You know what Jesse said.”

I hold up my hands. “Don’t worry, I won’t be talking.” I grin. “I’ll doubt she’ll be coming back around anytime soon. Not unless she wants a piece of this.” I grab my crotch.

Sam hoots in laughter. “Maybe she does,” he says. “You’re packing down there like a giant beast. What did you do to her?”

“Met her at the door wearing nothing but a towel and then planted a big, sloppy kiss on her. And I grabbed her ass. Which is very nice by the way. Just the right size to fit in my hand.”

“What?” Sam says in surprise. “How did you manage to work that in? I always thought I was the one with the smooth moves in the MC.”

“It was a piece of cake,” I say, shrugging as if it were true. “She said she wanted to thank me, so I said ‘come here and give me some sugar, baby.’”

I pucker up my lips for emphasis.

Sam gives me a doubtful look. “You really did that?” he asks. “And it worked? I’m finding that very hard to believe.”

“Okay, so it didn’t exactly go down that way,” I admit. “You get the idea though. I made her uncomfortable enough that she probably won’t be coming back around.”

“Don’t count on it,” Flint says. “This is big news. All the major networks are here. We’re prime time and there’s no avoiding it at this point. Let’s go inside before someone spots us. It wouldn’t surprise me if the press is hiding out in the bushes behind the fence. They could be anywhere.”

“Wait! Does anyone else hear that buzzing sound?” Sam asks, looking toward the sky.

“A helicopter?” I ask. “I don’t hear anything. Then again, I’m half-deaf after having a grenade go off near me in Afghanistan. My ears rang for weeks afterward.”

“You would have to be completely deaf not to hear this,” Sam says. “It’s coming from behind the pine trees over there.”

He points to a wooded area of trees that goes on for acres behind the clubhouse. We all look up to where he’s pointing.

“Oh shit!” Flint yells. “It’s a drone with a camera! Everyone inside the clubhouse now!”

We hear him, and yet we all stand there like a bunch of idiots with our mouths hanging open watching a drone with little legs suddenly pop up over the treetops. It flies unsteadily our way, wobbling back and forth as if it’s about to fall out of the sky any second.

“Toby, take it out!” Jesse yells from behind me. “You’re our sharpshooter. Kill that son of a bitch now!”

That’s all I need to hear.

When Jesse gives an order, I don’t hesitate. I pull my gun from my holster and line up the shot. The drone is still quite a distance out, but I can hit it easily. No problem for a Marine sharpshooter.

“Wait!” Flint yells. “Shooting down a drone is a federal crime. I don’t think this is a good idea. We’re on camera right now, and we don’t know who the drone belongs to. They’re probably streaming live video.”

“All the more reason to kill it. Do it,” Jesse orders again.

I’ve never been caught in a showdown between Jesse and Flint. It’s an uncomfortable position, and I don’t like it. When push comes to shove though, Jesse is the Prez and his word stands above everyone else’s. Even if Flint has the book smarts and a legal degree. I lift my handgun and fire. The drone splinters into pieces and falls straight to the ground.

When it hits, Sam bursts out laughing and slaps his leg. “Well, that escalated quickly,” he says. “You were all so serious there for a minute.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Flint says. “This can’t be good. Let’s go inside.”

Sam can’t stop snickering. I’ve known him forever and once he gets a case of the giggles, he’s hard to calm down. His laughter is contagious and the whole crew starts cracking up at the ridiculousness of our situation.

I shake my head.

“How did we end up in this mess?” I ask.

“That was hilarious,” Sam says. “I hope they send up another one. This is going to be one fucked-up day.”

“You can say that again.”