Tread: Biker Romance (Ronin MC Series Book 1) (25 page)

Suddenly, the Caprice shot to the right, pinning my brothers legs between the cars and his bike. Alt immediately started shooting out the back window, and our guy was able to fall back.

Sand shot up as the heavy road hog plowed through. A small bump sent him flying up and to the rear of his bike. As he hit the ground, he cart-wheeled head over heels until he finally smashed into the ground.

First, his body hit and then he head butted the ground, either breaking his neck and killing him, or at the least knocking him out.

Someone from the rear fell back to check on him while everyone else turned their attention to the fuck head in the black Caprice. Alt shot up the back window again while Mac, who was just in front of the accelerating Escalade, turned a sawed off towards the front windshield and let it rip. Knowing Mac like I did, I knew he would have slugs loaded first, then buckshot then back to slugs.

Sure enough, the slug penetrated the windshield, leaving a gaping hole. You could see a figure of a man slumped over and leaning on the passenger side door. Mac opened his vest for a grenade then pulled the pin, releasing the spoon at the same time.

A two second count passed before he tossed it back towards the Caprice. It missed the opening of the windshield as it bounced off the hood. It blew above the Caprice. I gritted my teeth as I watched through my rearview mirror, my view of Alt obscured by the explosion.

I hoped he was watching what Mac was doing. Through the black puff and shrapnel, the Caprice lurched forward, swerved side to side for a second, and returned to keeping pace with the Escalade. The Escalade’s windows were cracked, but the ballistic windows held up. Alt came over the net.

“Close but no cigar, Mac. Thanks for the heads-up, you motherfucker.”

I could see a smile of relief spread across Mac’s face as I peeked in my rearview again. I had to start focusing. Our turn was coming up.

“Get ready for a right,” I announced on the net.

As I slowed, the convoy slowed. As the convoy slowed, the Caprice slowed. The rear driver’s side window opened and a sawed off shotgun appeared. They shot the Escalade’s cracked rear passenger window. It held, but by the looks of the powdered glass coming off the window, it wouldn’t hold for another.

The Escalade made a maneuver I had been waiting forever for. It swerved right and hit the Caprice. It swerved back and the shotgun reappeared. Before it let off another shot, the Escalade smashed the shorter vehicle again. The guy must have saved his arm and weapon, because as the Escalade slid back left, the shotgun emerged again.

Alt let rip a handful of rounds from his sidearm, missing, but enough to get the guy to pull it in.

The arm reemerged with a bottle with a rag hanging out. A lit Molotov cocktail. The driver of the Escalade swerved again, causing the Caprice to move over or get hit. The guy with the Molotov cocktail dropped it to protect his hand from getting smashed.

The Molotov broke and fire spread around the road just behind the Escalade. Two brothers drove straight through it while subsequent bikes swerved around. Fuck. Royal and Harvey were next to me at the front, all of us cursing as we navigated into a more unpopulated area, and watching the action behind us.

The back of the Escalade caught a small fire, but the men behind it didn’t fare so well. As they slowed down to put themselves out, one of them dumped his bike and rolled down the freeway. The only perk to that was most of the flames went out. I saw the other man dive for the sand to douse his flames as the view of him became obscured.

“I got them,” Hendrix came over the radio before peeling off the back formation.

“This shit has gone way too far,” Royal shouted. “Alt, end it!” he called over the net.

Alt leaned back on his seat and fumbled with his saddlebag. Only an experienced biker in a jam would attempt to ride with no hands, and retrieve something from his bags. Mac was on point beside the car with his shotgun.

He fell back slightly and blew buckshot into the man in the rear driver’s seat. He pumped one handed and shot a slug into the back window before throttling up and away from the car.

Alt popped back up and grabbed one handle bar, with the other he wielded a M320 grenade launcher. He took aim—John Wayne-style—one handed. He slowed down slightly to ensure there was enough distance between him and the car.

If he was too close, the grenade wouldn’t activate due to a built in safety in the munitions. He thumped it.

I turned my attention back to the road, our turn was coming up fast.

“Right turn!” I shouted on the net.

A satisfying, all be it terrifying, sound thumped louder than the pipes on our bikes.

The windows from the Caprice shot outward, intermixed with shrapnel and a small explosion. Every time I saw it, I would always think of the overly ridiculous explosions in the Rambo movies.

The Caprice was a ghost riding forward as the convoy slowed for the turn. I came to almost a complete stop as I watched the dead Caprice roll by.

Inside was a pretty damned gruesome sight. The driver’s face seemingly imploded from the overpressure inside the car. His arm was severed around the bicep, the arm was still attached to the hand at the wrist and the hand was still firmly gripping the wheel.

The Caprice continued to roll into a dead stop at the side of the road as a small fire grew larger, engulfing the whole car eventually.

I looked back and Royal was off his bike, so I shot off mine and jogged to catch up.

“What are you doin’ brother?” I yelled.

He ignored my calls. As he approached the Escalade, the driver door popped open. Royal gave it a firm kick, shutting it closed again. He gave the rear passenger door a jerk, popping it open. Royal reached inside as I got to the front of the Escalade.

He jerked the high priority target out and flung him to the ground. He drew his Springfield 1911 and planted the barrel in his forehead. His blond hair was a mess from his helmet, and his face was flushed with rage. Dude was pissed.

The Mexican entourage poured out of the car, bringing the rest of the brothers into the action.

I caught the driver unaware and grabbed one arm, pinning it behind his back and slamming him to the hood. Drawing my pistol from my vest, I held it to the back of his head.

“No mueva, cabron,” I shouted.

Glancing back to Royal, he had four men wielding MP5s at him. Harvey and Mac were outnumbered two to one.

He didn’t give a fuck. He was too busy screaming into the face of our pizza.

“Who the
fuck
were they?! Who the
fuck
were they?! I’ll blow your goddamned head off right here, right now!
Who
the fuck were
they
?!”

“No sé, no sé!”

“Yeah say, motherfucker. Right now!” He pushed harder into the man’s skull with his weapon.

“La Familia Diablo! La Familia Diablo!” Mr. Suit shouted with tears welling up in his eyes.

“Who the fuck is the Devil Family?! Who?!”

“Cartel. Cártel de la cocaína!”

“Oh, fuck no,” I interjected as I turned my head to look at Harvey.

He was walking up, sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, glock down by his side. “Get off him, boy. That’s half a mil you’re threatening right now.”

“Half a fucking mil? When were you going to share that information!” I yelled, my words filled with contempt.

“Tread, your fucking job is the road. Not numbers. Shut your fucking mouth and mount your bike. Royal, you get the fuck off that cargo before his boys pump you full of lead.”

He used his command voice and it almost didn’t click for me. I could have shot him I was so mad. At least beat the piss out of the old man.

I released my grip on the driver, who immediately rubbed the pain away from his arm as he hopped back inside the cage.

He didn’t like me. Fuck him.

Royal let loose Mr. Suit, and his entourage stowed their weapons like good little puppets. They all mounted their truck without another word.

“We’re gonna have a little talk when we get into town, Pops!” Royal shoulder checked Harvey as he walked by. I didn’t like the blatant disrespect he showed Harvey in front of hostiles, and it was bad for the crew to see. Even if I felt his sentiments exactly.

We mounted our bikes and kept the convoy rolling. There was a noticeable gap between the Prez and VP in the line-up.

HOURS LATER, WE PULLED UP
to a fancy gated driveway. Harvey dismounted his bike and pressed the buzzer.

“Pizza delivery,” he said flatly.

A buzzing sound emerged from the mechanism on the gate and it parted way. The rest of the crew waited outside while Harvey, Royal, and the Escalade rolled in. I popped my helmet and flung it, somewhere, anywhere. I didn’t care.

What the fuck was Harvey thinking? Getting the MC involved in the hardcore cocaine game? Was his retirement worth the death of his MC?

This shit was so frustrating it was hard to see, the edges of my vision blurring. I needed a cigarette. Maybe that would bring me back. I pulled out my smoke, lit it, and deeply inhaled.

When I blew it out, the only message I could get out of the chaos in my head was ‘this motherfucker.’ Nothing good ever came from crossing the cartel. The stereotypes from the movies were a damn understatement. These guys were funded, well-equipped, and while corruption ran rampant in Mexico City and the Mexican Army, they wouldn’t ever be stopped, unless by a rival cartel.

And we just killed a few of the fuckers. I closed my eyes, imagining the bounty, watching dollar amounts floating over my head, over Alt’s head, over Mac’s, and Royal’s.

I knew the so called Devil Family cartel would be getting the information that they just lost a few members of their crew, and one of the pockets they paid heavily to line was now in upstate New Mexico.

Fuck.

My mind jumped into a scramble as I flung open my saddlebags and removed maps.

I fell to my knees and spread the map out on the ground.

I pulled my red sharpie from the inside of my vest and got to work. The cartel knew what route we took from the border. For all we knew, they knew our likely avenue of approach to go back.

I plotted bug-out spots, rally points in case we got separated, hideouts if we needed to get gone real quick.

There were a couple caves that weren’t too far out of the way. I had an idea, though, and I whipped out my phone and went to one of those ‘geocaching’ forums. I recorded a grid to a place I knew we would never be found. It was about seventy-five miles West of Roswell, New Mexico. I only knew of this place because of the character in which my battalion took its call-sign from: Geronimo.

Geronimo hid from soldiers in a cave that supposedly only had one way in or out. After days of waiting Geronimo out, soldiers entered the cave, only to find it empty. The cave was in the Robledo Mountains, and it was the opposite direction of home.

I felt like sweat was pouring down my face and neck as Harvey emerged from the gate. The anticipation was getting to me. I wanted to leave, right now, speed at one hundred miles per hour in the direction of Roswell, and deal with whatever followed.

Now. Right now. Not later. Now.

I wanted this over. I wanted it to go down without any hiccups or any more wounded Ronin.

“Boss, come here!” I hadn’t intended that to come out as a command and Harvey was taken aback by my tone. He looked around as if looking for a fire roaring his way, confirming he took it as a command. “Sorry, I got something you should see, now.”

“What’s up, Tread?”

“I got a bug-out plan that’s going to take us to a set of caves so we can lay low and lose any unwanted tails following us back home.” I didn’t give a shit what Harvey said, we were running out that way in order to lose our tail. It was the only thing that made sense. We had to have a tail. If we didn’t, I would be greatly disappointed in this cartel. Somehow, I had a feeling I wouldn’t be disappointed.

“Yeah, you briefed them before we rolled out.”

“No, no. Those were garbage. I didn’t know we’d be dealing with the fuckin’ cartels.”

Harvey let out a sigh, as if disappointed that pissing off a cocaine cartel was getting to my nerves. What did he expect? I didn’t do surprises. None of us did. “Lay it on me.”

“Okay, so we shouldn’t go back anywhere near the direction of home. It means we shouldn’t touch the 85 to I-25 at all. I’m thinking east on I-40 to Moriarty, then south on bumfuck roads to Corona, South to Carrizozo, then east again ’til Lincoln. That’s our major landmark. From there—”

“Wait, wait. Hold the fucking phone, damn it,” Harvey interrupted as he waved his hand in a wide, overhead sweeping motion for an overdramatic effect. “This plan sucks, man. There’s no reason to go this far out of the way for a shitty tail. We take ’em out like we did back there.”

The fuck? We just lost four of our guys to one goddamned car.

“Cocaine cartel, old man,” Royal interrupted as he came to study the maps I had sprawled out on the ground.

“Yeah, cocaine, an eight billion dollar a month industry. An industry that this asshole—” I pointed towards the Mayor’s house “—has dealings with. And we rode with him from Mexico City to fucking Albuquerque.”

“What’s the time lapse of this snowballing idea of yours, Tread?”

“Let’s see.” I punched through menus on my wrist Garmin. “I’d say an extra day, maybe two, depending on trouble and traffic. We haven’t stopped to do more than piss in twenty-four hours. We have to hole up somewhere for the night, anyway. It’s too dangerous, otherwise.” I paused to study the man, his brow furrowed. I could tell he wasn’t going for my idea. I stifled the urge to shake my head. I barely recognized the man I had known my whole life standing before me. He always erred on the side of caution and safety of our brothers, our hometown.

My eyes cut to Royal. He met my gaze, and I knew he could see it, too. “I say we hold a vote,” Royal interjected.

“Fuck that. Let’s go with Tread’s plan, boss. Our kids and families are in that town. I’d rather not see them for a couple days then lead the cartel back to our doorstep and never see them again,” Auggie threw in his rare input.

That seemed to pull Harvey’s head out of his fifth point of contact.

“All right, continue. I’ll miss the Cardinals play on account of ol’ Auggie’s children,” he tried to joke, but it fell on already ruffled feathers.

I turned back to the map. “All right, so outside of Lincoln there’s an intricate cave system, the same one Geronimo used to escape the US Army and Mexican Army after the Massacre of Casa Grande.”

“Yeah, yeah, history is cool. Cut to the chase.” Harvey rolled his eyes at Royal, who didn’t even blink as he stared him down. Harvey turned back to the map.

“Basically, we’re going to hide out in those mountains and see who enters and leaves Lincoln after we arrive. It shouldn’t be hard to spot cartel goons, even when they’re playing at being incognito. Once we’re sure we have no tail and aren’t being followed, we head home using country roads.”

“Fine, fine.” Harvey did his wacky-inflatable-waving-arm-tube-man impression again. “Let’s do this shit, but on the way home we’re going direct. Highway or no damn highway. I got shit to do.”

After everyone parted ways and I gathered all my shit back in my saddlebags, Royal approached me. “Good going, brother.”

“Thanks. Better to suck the mean weenie in the mountains than in our backyards, right?”

“Yeah, I woulda made sure we took a roundabout home, but I don’t know if setting up an observation post in the mountains would have occurred to me.”

“Geronimo saves the day again.”

“You know Geronimo was a racist prick, right?”

“Fuck you, white man.”

We smiled then mounted and cranked our Harleys. With the new route, I was going to lead us out of this shithole. I eyed the time, an hour ’til rush hour. That would both save us and fuck us at the same time.

Nowhere to run-in traffic, however, it would be insane for the cartel to try to hit us amongst all of those civies and the police.

What was I thinking? This was the fucking cartel. They literally gave zero fucks.