Puffing out his chest, Bruno turned his bulldog on. “Turn around and look at me,” he barked an order.
Marco stopped and turned then opened his mouth to say something but when he saw his expression he closed it.
Bruno flicked his gaze to the clubhouse and pointed a big, angry finger in its direction. “Those men, they use words like honor, code, and loyalty as a goddamn punchline! They know nothing of the sacrifice it takes to honor those words. Men like us, who WE are, we use those words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. I havezerotolerance for so-called men who rise and sleep under the blanket of protection that we provide and then turn the middle finger on our authority. This isn’t about a beer can hitting your window, this is about preserving what we’ve worked our asses off to be...everything we are, and everything we represent. Don’t know about you, but I don’t live a life of discipline, sacrifice, and unwavering loyalty to be disrespected by anybody….least of all to a bunch of bums on bikes. For the choices they have made, those guys will pay. In this life and the next.”
Marco swallowed heavily. “Okay, Bruno. I’ll stand watch out here and cover you. If any more of them try to come in I’ll blast their wheels with bullets.” He still had concern in his eyes but he took a step back. “If shit goes down in there, you call out and I’ll bust you outta there, Capiche?” He insisted firmly.
Bruno shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Marco didn’t understand. Bruno may have never met the men in that clubhouse. Nonetheless, he saw them for what they really were. And that gave him an advantage that could not be beaten by any amount of manpower. Undoubtedly, those bikers in Dragons vests …. supposedoutlaws…were just like every other tough guy Bruno had ever met— no matter how mean and ugly they looked, they would only ever be men who had adopted a life of darkness.
Bruno was born in it, molded by it. And there is no amount of evil that could win against darkness itself.
The big man turned and in his usual fearless as fuck style, stomped right into the compound, glancing around. He wasn’t stupid, he knew the threat within was very real but he’d survived enough nightmares to know he could handle it. He glared directly at the makeshift clubhouse for a moment, preparing his mind to bring the Castillo family some justice.
A huge sign above the door read, NO DOGS OR MEXICANS ALLOWED.
He raised a brow. Considering his own feeling about the Cartels, this was something he didn’t hate them for.
Keeping both eyes on the clubhouse for any signs of movement, he felt in his pocket for a cigarette. In one slick flick of his wrist, he drew a smoke from its packet and flicked it up in a sideways helicopter spin to land between his teeth. Taking a deep draw, he raised his eyes to the gleaming black Harleys and studied the immaculate specimens….nothing like the rough and rugged men who rode them. His first thought was that these guys had money. That, they couldn’t hide. His next thought was that hewouldfind out precisely how they were getting it.
He studied the wooden clubhouse and cabins a hundred or so yards ahead.Only bikers would construct their hideout like a motherfucking house of sticks.
Anyone could tear this place up without any problems. Or set it on fire and blow the place up.Now there was an idea to sit on for another day.
Cigarette between his lips, he circled around to one side of the rickety old main building and looked for a way inside. Although windowless on the street facing front of the clubhouse, at this side, he could see a small square window above his head. Looking around for something to stand on, he jogged over to one of the wood cabins and carefully dragged out one of two steel trash cans that stood in front of the doors. Positioning it below the window, he climbed on top feeling the domed lid compress into boot-sized impressions of his shoes. He tugged a tissue from his pocket and wiped away the dust, then looked inside.
The inside appeared to be condemned to a perpetual twilight. He couldn’t see much. What he could see were people ...two large tables of men eating and drinking, passing plates and drinks back and forth between and adjoining room.
He could hardly wait; soon they’d be tasting all flavors of remorse and regret.
Filled with vicious thoughts, Bruno narrowed his eyes and smiled wickedly.
There’s no hiding in the shadows from the man who’s darkness himself.
Hopping down, he snatched his cigarette from his lips and stubbed out the tip on the crushed lid of the trash can and set his mind to covertly getting inside. Wandering towards the rear of the clubhouse in search of a back entrance, he stopped abruptly in his tracks. Something wasn’t right. He shot his eyes from left to right and noticed that the door to the cabin from which he’d tugged away the trash can was now ajar. Quickly and quietly, he snatched his handgun from his belt and backed into the shadows of the cabin wall. He couldn’t hear anyone but the signals from his instincts told him enough. Instincts honed to precision through years of training.
On the count of,one...two...three,WHACK! The big man’s foot made a wreck of the door as he kicked it wide and took stock of what he saw through the crosshairs of his gun. Three rusty bikes. Bales of hay in the left corner. Hay? This wasn’t a goddamn barn. Bruno disappeared inside, hunting for answers.
The room was silent all but the shuddering cracks of the plywood floor as the soles of his shoes struck the old panels. When the drum of his footsteps stopped, he huffed. A tendril of irritation sent his foot slamming into the sturdy bale and he stepped back when the ply crate that sat on top, toppled down. As it hit the ground, its landing sounded with the uncertain clunk of loose floorboards. Hauling two enormous bales aside, he crouched to his knees and glancing for a moment at the open door, he leaned forward and placed an ear to the hardwood flooring then knocked three times.
Hollow as a biker’s skull… just as he’d suspected.
Not wasting any time, he jumped up and swiped a screwdriver from the ground beside the bikes. He laid back on the ground, then rammed the flat edge deep into the gap between two wood panels. Levering it upwards, he used his other hand to tug the board up. Taking out his flashlight he shone it down into the hole and smiled cruelly.
Well, shoot the fucking sheriff… I’ve hit the motherfucking jackpot!
He flashed the beam of light at a stash of knives and blades that were packed into two beer barrels, their tips stupidly facing upwards like pencils in a pot ? sharp and eager to be used. A further four barrels were full to the top with guns of all kinds, different sizes, from different countries, and none of them matching, as if the bikers had created an armory out of police seized weapons. Then against the back wall, Bruno saw a great mound of black kevlar vests.
Weapons….so that’s their trade.
Not for long. Not in my town.
The firm tapping of a foot sounded from the open doorway.
When Bruno looked up, he squinted from his place in the darkness to the bright light of the outside to find three fine-looking women filling the gap.
For a second, Bruno stared at them.
