Shooter (Burnout) (44 page)

“Preacher.”

“Shooter.”

Jack looked around the lot. Chris couldn’t tell if he was appraising the place or just stalling to create tension. Probably both, Chris thought cynically.

“Heard you had a nice vacation,” Prior said.

Chris only nodded.

“Well, now that you’re back. I got something coming up. And I wondered if I could get your assistance.”

Chris remained stoic. It wasn’t as though this was actually a
request
. “What?”

“Got a shipment of merch coming down from the border. Gonna pay for it in hardware. And I’m not sure how well some of my guys can handle themselves in a crisis.”

Chris and Jack spoke earnestly for a few more minutes until Prior nodded. He mounted his Harley again, saluted jauntily, and fired up the motor. As he rode away, Hawk, Tex, Doc, and Easy came up behind Chris.

“So,” Hawk said, “what’s the deal?”

Chris sighed. “The deal’s a deal.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Well, it seems the Buzzards are buying themselves a ridiculous amount of BC bud. And they are paying for it with an equally ridiculous number of illegal weapons.”

“Oh. So nothing hard then,” Hawk countered.

“Are you fucking kidding?” Easy replied. “Caught trafficking guns
and
drugs? Yeah, the hard part is dodging Bubba in Federal Prison for the next 50 years.”

“What kind of guns are we talking about?” Tex asked.

Chris shook his head. “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Tex?” Chris said.

“Lieutenant?”

“We need to talk.”

********************

Hayley gaped at Chris and the other men and refused to set down the beers on the dining room table. “You’re what?”

Chris grimaced at her. “You heard me.”

She looked around as though someone was going to pop out and tell her that it was all a big joke. “You- you can’t!” she declared.

“It is what it is, baby,” he told her.

“No. No, fuck that!” she cried. “You’re
not
doing this!”

Hawk scowled. “Starting to see why MC’s don’t tell their old ladies the details of their shit.”

“Well, we’re
not
an MC,” Chris replied angrily. “And I don’t hide things from my old lady. Just like she doesn’t hide anything from me. She fucking deserves to know, Hawk. It’s not like this is Iraq. No cop’s going to pull out her fingernails to make her give us up. She’d never do that.”

Hayley sighed and set down the drinks. “I’d never turn you in. I’d go to prison first.” She stated it so matter-of-factly that no one dared argued with her. “But I want to be there.”

Chris sighed. “Not happening, baby.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “This is all because of me, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”

Chris shook his head. “Slick, you have no skills.” Hayley was so surprised she nearly spilled the beers. “Sorry, baby,” he told her. “Now, I don’t have a big problem with women,
trained women
, in the hot zone, but I’ll be
goddamned
if
my
woman is going to put herself in danger. Especially when she can’t handle herself. You can’t even shoot a gun, Slick. I’m sorry but you’re staying home, where you’re safe, and that it all there is to that.”

She sighed. “I don’t like this.”

“I don’t either, baby. But it is what is, and we’ll deal with it and move past it.”

********************

Hayley took the empties to the kitchen, which Chris normally told her not to do. But he let it go this time because he didn’t want to burden her with more details of his plan.

“Women in the hot zone?” Easy asked when she was far enough away not to hear.

Hawk rolled his eyes. “They’re getting shot at anyway, kid,” he pointed out. “They might as well get paid for it like the rest of us.”

Easy frowned. Hard to tell whether it was the idea of women getting combat pay or them getting shot at that darkened his mood. Chris wasn’t interested in guessing.

“Let’s go over it again,” he said, just wanting this to be over and done with and he and his boys having come out on the other side unscathed.

The next day, the boys, minus Tex, gathered at Burnout and headed toward the Badlands Buzzards clubhouse across town. Each was strapped with their Desert Eagle .44’s. Chris could almost feel the metal disk of the unit insignia on the grip pressing against his back. The clubhouse was really a warehouse surrounded by a chainlink fence and topped with razor wire. A prospect opened the rolling gates and they motored inside the compound.

Prior was already gearing up, giving last minute orders to the twelve or so other members of the MC that were gathered in the lot. “Thought you were bringing all your boys,” Prior said, making note of Tex and Doc’s absence.

Chris raised an eyebrow. “You really want a cop in on this deal?”

Preacher grinned. “That boy ain’t no cop.”

Chris ignored him. “And the other one’s busy.”

Prior grunted. “Gimp’s not a liability?”

To his credit, Easy didn’t flinch at Prior’s insult. God knew he’d heard enough from his old man growing up that it took a lot more than that to get a rise out of him.

“Didn’t lose his trigger finger,” Chris replied, meeting Prior’s sarcasm with some of his own. Now was not the time to educate Prior on the finer points of manners and it would’ve been a waste of time anyway.

“Suit yourself,” Prior finally declared.

Jimmy had been taking out a bike that had been taking up space in the shop for a few weeks now. It hadn’t gone well at first, but he’d slowly become accustomed to using his prosthetic. It was slightly smaller than Chris’ own Super Glide and Hawk’s Street Bob but it was temporary until he saved up enough from working at the garage to get his own wheels.

Prior nodded to everyone, got on his own bike, and headed the caravan that would make its way to the interstate. A white, nondescript panel truck lumbered after approximately one half of the procession and six or so bikers brought up the rear. On the highway, though, they were staggered and inconspicuously spaced so that it was not obvious that they were escorting the larger vehicle.

They took a right at Spearfish and motored up 85 to Teddy Roosevelt Park just over the borders of the Dakotas. Prior turned them onto an access road off the Interstate and just beyond the second curve, Chris could make out a group of about 25-30 bikers all pulled off into a clearing, surrounding an identical white panel truck. Prior signaled everyone to pull up short and kill their engines. Chris frowned at the uneven odds.

Preacher got off his bike, nodded to his second and to Chris and the three of them headed toward a spot half way between the two groups. The President of the Buzzards shook hands with what was apparently the Kamloops Kings, according to their cuts. Canada didn’t have that many MC’s and Chris certainly hadn’t heard of the Kings. It was a wonder that in such a short time they’d managed to assemble such a large club, but then again the weed industry in Canada was a siren call to anyone who wanted to prosper from the boom. A modern day gold rush, as it were.

Their Prez brought two of his own men to the midway spot. Chris planted himself to Prior’s left. The way Chris saw it, if Prior was along for the deal, he wasn’t planning any blackmail since there could be no way to implicate Chris and his unit without also implicating himself. He didn’t know precisely what Prior’s angle was, other than the added firepower and knowledge of tactics was obviously in their favor. Chris knew it wouldn’t be worth his time to even guess at Prior’s motives. The realization, though, that he was on a county road with what amounted to trafficking levels of drugs and guns was a sobering thought. He couldn’t help but be thankful that he hadn’t chosen this life even though he’d been born to it.

He wouldn’t have his unit. He wouldn’t have his garage. He wouldn’t have met Slick. And, frankly, at some point down the line, Preacher Prior was going to end up dead or behind bars the same as their old men. Chris’ old man had died behind bars and Prior’s, though released, had ended up permanently drunk and disabled and living in a trailer on the edge of town.

Chris never talked much about his decision to enlist. He signed up two weeks after Hap Sullivan had been shivved in the yard of South Dakota State Pen. Everyone attributed Chris’ enlistment to being in mourning for his old man. But the truth was, Chris had seen where that life led and hadn’t wanted a goddamn thing to do with it. Here he was, though, years later, standing beside an MC Prez, but he vowed that the first time would be the last time.

“Preacher!” the younger man called out, a large smile on his face. As he got closer Chris realized just how young the guy was. The man to his immediate right was probably only slightly older and to his left was the oldest, more like Chris’ age.

“Fishtail,” Jack acknowledged. Jack nodded to his second who slid a backpack off his back. He opened it and pulled out an AR-15.

Fishtail whistled. “Right down to business,” he observed.

“That’s pretty much how I do things,” Jack agreed.

Fishtail nodded and took the assault weapon. He inspected it, looking like a kid on Christmas morning. Chris really didn’t want to think about the amount of damage this ‘kid’ could do with a crate full of AR-15’s.

The Buzzard’s second took the demo model back when Fishtail handed it to him.

“Well now,” Fishtail said. “Got your payment right here.”

Jack bid his second and Chris to follow him and the six men parted the sea of Kamploops Kings like the Red Sea in order to get to the back of the panel truck. Fishtail opened the back himself and Chris saw bricks of weed stacked on pallets.

Prior nodded his acknowledgement of the enormous amount of marijuana and Fishtail smiled again as Prior handed him the keys to the truck they’d escorted up from Rapid City. Fishtail handed over the keys, presumably to his truck. “Been a pleasure, then, Preacher.”

“Have to say I feel the same,” Jack replied.

Fishtail turned to close the door to the panel truck and that’s when Jack “Preacher” Prior, who was obviously no Preacher in any sense of the word, pulled out a glock from his waistband and fired one round into the back of Fishtail No-first-or-last-name’s head.

Before the younger man’s body could hit the ground, everyone went for their guns. Chris spun around, back to the truck and brought up his Eagle. Amid the shouting, the Buzzard’s second slapped a clip into the AR-15 and leveled it at the group of Kings directly in front of them. Remarkably, the King’s own second pulled out a 9 mil but before he could aim it at Prior, the King’s third man shot his co-hort in the neck. It was then that Chris realized that while every single person from the Buzzards and the Kings had a weapon at the ready, approximately two-thirds of the Kings were pointing their guns
at the other Kings
.

“Alright listen up!” the third shouted. “We got a lot to discuss.”

No shit, thought Chris. He risked a quick glance at Hawk and Easy both had weapons drawn.

“Now, I started this club,” Number Three announced. “It was me that got us the clubhouse, me that secured the deal with Montreal. You fuckers turned on me and voted this piece of shit,” here he kicked the limp body of poor Fishtail, “in as Prez. Well, I’m taking my club back. Right now.”

He nodded at Jack. “Got a supply line opened up. Ain’t gonna be no one-time deal. The Buzzards give us hardware, we pay in bud. Don’t gotta deal with that cartel shit on either end. And we got us a source supplying us to move east and start takin’ over territories.”