We made our way back to the shop and grabbed our rifles, a trip so quick that we barely spoke. I didn’t even kill my bike’s engine as the three of us all headed inside. I almost let Patriot or Father Marcellus stay on their bikes, but, well, paranoia was still a little high for me.
The three of us then roared down the road, driving past Brewskis, the last place where it was neutral territory. As soon as we went over to the other side, we were square in Fallen Saints territory, and it was understood that anything and everything could go down.Hopefully, it’s a few Saints who go down.
We made our way to the shop of the Saints, which was less of a shop and more of a dilapidated warehouse that barely had any functioning signage. No customers went there. The police rarely visited either for obvious reasons.
“Alright, here’s the deal,” I said. “Drive by, rain some bullets down, and get out of there and call it a day. Got it?”
“You weren’t kidding about the hit and run, huh?” Patriot said. “You really want to make this quick.”
“If I had any balls, honestly, I’d have us just drive through the building and cause some real damage.”
I’m not sending anyone in to die. And though I’m trying to be a better leader, I’m not trying to be a suicidal one.
“But for now, yes, that’s the plan. As soon as you have gunfire back at you, you better get the hell out. Understood?”
Patriot and Father Marcellus both nodded. I gave the thumbs-up, revved my engine, and roared up with the two of them behind me. The warehouse, up close, looked as dead as roadkill, but I knew better than to assume anything about the building. The Saints like to make things look dead, themselves included.
I pulled up right to the window, dimming the headlight on my motorcycle. I hoisted out my rifle, lined it up to the window, and laid out nearly a full clip’s worth of fire. I didn’t stop until I had depleted everything.
Which, I realized upon dumping all of my ammo, was a little too strange of an occurrence, considering that the Saints had not so much as fired back at me.
“Patriot! Marc!” I yelled behind me.
I looked back. Both were still there. Both had laid fire upon the building.
We had either struck the luckiest hit in all of our rivalry’s history, or...
“Not a muscle, Lane!”
Fuck me.
It’s Lucius.
“Drop the gun, hands up, get off the bike, now! All of you!”
I could hear the sounds of multiple guns clicking into place behind us. I felt unsettling sure that this wasn’t the police or the work of Angela to get us arrested for “safety” reasons.
I dropped my rifle, raised my hands, hopped off my bike—making sure to keep it between me and however many Saints were behind me—and turned around.
Sure enough, about two dozen Saints lined up in front of us. I looked over to my left and saw Father Marcellus and Patriot also raising their arms, their face grim with determination. I felt horrible for them—I’d let them right into a death trap.
I let my emotions and my need for retaliation get in the way of my decision making. Being a leader just doesn’t mean puffing your chest up. It’s making smart choices.
And now that decision is going to cost me the life of the chaplain and my best friend in the club.
“Lane Carter, you are one devilishly stupid boy,” Lucius said. “Why the hell did you think this would be a good idea?”
He hopped off his bike and stepped forward. He had thick, intimidating eyebrows, long hair that was black but graying by the year, and a bushy beard. Even in the dark, I could see several scars scattered across his face, the sign of someone who had engaged in more than his fair share of battles.
He was also the only Saint to have a red cut—the rest of the crew wore black ones with the Fallen Saints logo, but true to Lucius’ form, he liked to have a special one to distinguish himself.
“Hmm, silent, are we?” he said. “Very well. Kill the white one.”
“No!”
But I had yelled too late. A single bullet from a beefy, burly man hit Patriot, knocking him to the ground, where he remained motionless.
“You fucker!”
