On Broken Wings (45 page)

"How about tonight?"

Despite all, she laughed. "Can I finish my coffee first?"

"Don't take too long. I might lose my nerve."

Yeah, right.
"Okay. Now, about this invasion?"

"The key is to seize the offensive for yourself."

"What? With only a third of the numbers of the attacking forces?"

"It's not that hard. What's hard is thinking of yourself as the attacker." He reached for a pencil. "The lakes will help. You do it this way..."

Boomer returned to the kerosene stove and went back to sleep. Outside, the snow continued to fall.

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Chapter
40

January was harsh; February was harsher still. The snow flew continuously, on bitter, piercing winds propelled by the inexhaustible energies of the Great Lakes. Temperatures dropped to record or near-record lows several times. Blocked roads were more common than open ones. Power outages were frequent. Central New Yorkers endured it as they'd done for ages: husbanding their energies, traveling little, planning few ventures, and keeping their loved ones within eyeshot whenever they could.

It was a way of enduring winter the Cro-Magnons would have recognized, apart from the lack of caves.

***

Five large motorcycles in a tight one-two-two formation roared eastward on the New York State Thruway, cutting through the chill air of the mid-March afternoon at seventy-five miles per hour. All five riders were young. All were tall, broad-shouldered, and well built. All wore jackets of thick black leather, each of which had a cloth depiction of a bloody cleaver pop-riveted to its back. All the other traffic they encountered on that great highway moved aside to let them pass.

In theory, they weren't going anywhere in particular. They'd wandered the Northeast for six months. They were supposed to be looking for a place to make their home base. They were half-afraid they'd find one. Wandering suited them; it was part of why they were together.

Pete Gottfried and Al Marshall rode at the back of the convoy. They were both twenty-nine, and had already lived the road life for more than a decade. To be in motion was the sum of their desires. To be at rest was a torture beyond anything else they knew. Wherever the leader pointed, they would go. Whatever he commanded, they would do.

Mac Swanson and Carl DeShaies were in the middle. For them, the road life was both means and end. Twenty-six year old Mac was wanted in his home state of Montana for a murder he'd committed in the course of a convenience store holdup. Twenty-seven year old Carl was notorious among the citizens of Orem, Utah for his ways with their little girls. They had met in flight, had crossed the country seeking a haven, and had pledged their allegiance to Tiny and his Butcher clan together more than six years ago.

Rusty McGill rode alone, about fifty feet ahead of his diminutive pack, his shoulder-length red-brown hair whipping in the wind. At twenty-five he was the youngest of the group, but he was the undisputed leader. Since they first bonded, he'd become the least talkative as well.

Rusty's plans for his little pack were only half-formed. He knew they needed a base; the winter they'd just passed had tested their ingenuity and their slender resources many times. He'd struggled to keep them fed and sheltered. Having donned a leader's mantle, he fully intended to discharge the responsibilities of the position. He wasn't willing to surrender his personal, never-discussed goals, but he didn't think he'd have to.

Rusty was tired, and he was sure the others were too. They'd come all the way from the southwestern border of Pennsylvania that day: about five hundred miles. Rusty signalled that they would take the next exit. When it arrived, the five moved smoothly off the Thruway and onto the local roads of Onteora County.

About two miles later, with the sun sinking fast, Rusty steered them into the parking lot of a gin mill that styled itself The Black Grape. It was large enough to have a kitchen, but small enough and far enough from the main roads that the barkeep probably wouldn't mind their patronage. He might allow them to crash on his floor from closing time to the arrival of morning, if they minded their manners. And if not, perhaps there'd be some women, lonely enough and pliable enough to use for a night or two, although if he had his druthers they'd avoid that.

***

It turned out that The Black Grape was a neighborhood saloon. It was small, clean, and didn't have anything that would pass for "decor." It did have a kitchen, but the bartender-proprietor was also the cook, so when the bar got busy you'd have to wait a while for your order. Its patrons lived in the immediate area, came there regularly, socialized with one another and ignored any unfamiliar presence. Rusty and his riders blended into the background without undue effort.

They were about three hours into a quiet evening when Rusty, who was sitting alone at the bar with a beer before him, felt a hand descend on his shoulder. He turned to find Hans behind him. The big blond was shaking his head in disbelief.

"Jesus motherfucking Christ, I was right. That is your Sportster out there. When did you roll in here, Rusty?"

Rusty controlled himself, forced his voice to stay low and casual. "Just today, Hans. What's shaking with you?"

Hans gave a half shrug. "Not a lot. The pack's at the barracks, Tiny's workin' on some capers. You know, the usual." He perched himself on the stool next to Rusty's. "Buy you a drink for old times' sake?"

"Naw, let me buy you one." Rusty signaled to the bartender, who set up a stein for Hans and moved back to the far end of the bar.

Barkeep's smart. Or he knows something I don't know. Something I'd better find out about, maybe?

They drank, swapped pleasantries and biker small talk for several minutes before the inevitable subject arose.

"Like having your own pack, Russ?"

Rusty sipped from his stein and set it on the bar. "Beats the previous arrangement. Why?"

"So what the hell are you doing here? Tiny would swim a sewer pipe to get his hands on you. And it ain't like this was your favorite place."

Rusty scowled. "It's nothing, Hans. We're just passing through. Probably headed down to West Virginia, look up some buddies down there." He leaned back, the better to look the Butcher lieutenant in the eyes. "You telling me we're headed for a rumble if we hang around?"

Hans's expression was unreadable. "Couldn't say, Bubba. I know Tiny wouldn't like hearing you were on his turf again. Specially wearing Butcher colors."

Rusty's eyebrows went up. "Funds are low, Hans. This is the gear we've got." He sipped at his beer, took a moment to swirl it around his mouth before swallowing. "Right now, Tiny don't know we're here. So if you don't tell him, and he don't come here tonight, there ain't no issue, 'cause we're hittin' the road come sunrise."

Hans nodded. "I figure that's best. He's got a major hard-on for you, y'know. You humiliated him in front of two whole packs."

Rusty couldn't suppress a chuckle. "He thought he could take me. He was wrong. He don't like being wrong, that's all."

Hans's shadowed look was enough to make Rusty wonder whether there'd be a rumble that night after all. "He don't like being defied, Rusty. He wanted your skills and your strength, but you gave him too much lip. And Goddamn, boy, couldn't you have done a little more to cover up the shit with Rollo? You damn near waved it in his face."

That took Rusty aback. "Rollo was four months dead when Tiny and I locked horns. He didn't have a problem with me and Rollo, or we woulda gone at it a whole lot sooner."

Hans shook his head. "Wrong, Bubba. You never bothered to learn anything about the man. You pledged your allegiance to him and then you stayed stupid. There's nothing he hates worse than a faggot. He left you alone as long as you toed the line in all the other ways. Once he had a reason, he went for you right away."

And you gave him that reason, didn't you, Hans? I'd give my right nut to know why. What the hell did you get out of it, anyway?

"Hans," he said, keeping his voice pleasant, "it ain't important now. Like I told you, we're hauling ass at first light, and I don't want no trouble. So tell me true,
old buddy,
" he said, lowering his brows, "are we gonna have trouble anyway? 'Cause I got responsibilities now, and I figure you'd appreciate what that means."

Rusty's gaze flicked to a point over Hans's shoulder. Hans turned to find Pete, Carl, Mac and Al standing in a loose semicircle around him. The Butcher lieutenant grinned, reached for his beer stein and drained it.

"Can't see how we have to, Rusty. But stay smart. You hang around here too long, trouble'll come to you whether you want it or not. Got me?"

Rusty nodded. Hans rose from his stool, nodded to Rusty's riders, and made his exit.

"There gonna be trouble, Boss?" asked Mac.

Rusty scowled. "Call me Rusty, Mac. I ain't Tiny. But no, there ain't, 'cause we're gonna practice the art of defense through mobility." He dismounted from his stool, slapped a five dollar bill on the bar and waved farewell to the bartender. "Let's find somewhere else to dip our bills, and we'll talk it out in the morning. "

When they were on the road again, Rusty raked the interview over in his mind.

Hans'll tell Tiny he saw us, sure as shit, but unless we get really unlucky, we won't collide again tonight.

Sergeant Avery always said timing was everything. I came here looking for trouble, and it found me before I was ready. Well, maybe timing ain't everything, but nothing else works right without it.

Next dive, we're parking behind the building.

***

Tiny's surprise was considerable. "The little faggot actually came here?" His voice rang in the empty barracks.

Hans nodded. "Bought me a drink and everything."

The Butcher chieftain shook his head in disbelief. "Does he think he's got some kind of safe conduct from God or something? I told him to stay the fuck away from Onteora, didn't I? I told him I'd grind his ass to hamburger in front of the whole pack!"

The cocksucker must've really meant it about not being done with me.

Rollo must have been some righteous fuck.

Hans was as solemn as Tiny had ever seen him. "He probably don't think you can do him. But one way or another, it ain't gonna go away, Boss. You and him are gonna have to rumble again. And you're gonna have to put him down once and for all."

"I know, champ, I know." The biker boss rose from his cot and paced his room, hands driven deep into the pockets of his chaps. "But not tonight, eh? The rest of the pack is scattered all over the county. As good as we are, I don't relish two of us going up against five of them."

"So what do we do?"

Tiny paced and thought.

We've got a lot to lose now. We're rich and secure. Hell, we've got a Goddamned bank account! We're part of the power structure here...

Tiny's mind recoiled from the memory of the price of admission.

...but only as long as we can keep up the right sort of appearances.

He knew the Lawrences would never tolerate a pitched battle between the two biker gangs in their domain, no matter which one emerged the victor. Ray Lawrence would marshal the whole police department against them, and root his new allies out like a rotten tooth.

Win or lose, that little faggot could spoil a lot more than he knows. But I still want to get my hands around his throat.

"We tote up our strengths and theirs, and we do what the balance says is right. What else? We've got numbers, a home base, police protection. They've got mobility and concealment. So we don't go after them. They can track us without much trouble, because of our numbers and fixed base, but they can't afford to meet us head on, or give us any advance warning. They have to snipe." Tiny grinned. "So we force them to do their sniping under the worst possible conditions for it."

Hans wore a puzzled frown. "Why, Boss? Why let 'em get even one shot off?"

"Because we know what they're here for, and we can use it." Tiny dropped back onto his cot. "Think it through, Hans. It's good practice in case I ever kiss the grille of a truck. They're here because Rusty wants my balls in a jar. The others don't have any reason to be here, and Rusty doesn't have any other reason to be here. So we use that against them. If Rusty thinks he can make them follow him for long on his personal revenge mission, he's fucking nuts. I give it two weeks at the outside before he's down to two side boys, maybe one, maybe none. Then he'll try a kamikaze play, and we'll be rid of him for good."

"So how do we set up?"

"Like a fort." Tiny swept an all-encompassing wave at the Butcher barracks. "We dig up our arms caches and make this place into an arsenal. We set watches. At least two guys awake and standing watch at any time. We travel in groups of six or larger. Make that eight, surprise might give him too much of an edge." A sense of mischief came upon him. "Maybe we notify our official friends about our little nuisance, see if we can get them to help out. On the QT, of course."