In front of the repaired, fortified log house—once again armored and weaponed for war—was a broken concrete drive and parking area. The mega-gun that was once visible through a gunport was now hidden behind a pretty stained-glass window which was totally out of place on the fortified walls. The red glass roses below the HA’s skull-and-wings emblem stood out like a threat. I wasn’t certain the weapon had been repaired or replaced after our attack here not so long ago, but if so, it was a clear advantage to Marconi.
Yeah. I got why McQuestion was pissed that I gave away the cabin fortress.
In the center of the parking area, an open-air tent had been erected with a round table beneath it. There were six chairs, all but one with a man sitting in it. Cigars in their mouths. Liquor in shot glasses, even this early in the day. Five important leaders from the largest motorcycle clubs in the country. In the world.
I had never seen OMW and Hells Angels talking. There had been parleys in the past, but most had resulted in bloodshed and the Hand of the Law showing up. This was new and dangerous. Especially so because the vice president and warlord, McQuestion himself, was on-site instead of the talking-head prez of the OMW.
In the OMW, the so-called prez was a PR specialist. The real power was the second-in-command—the VP, the warlord, always referred to as McQuestion to keep his identity secret. But the VP, Roy Gamble himself, was up front and not hiding. And Marconi was sitting next to Charles Whip, prez of the HA, showing just how much power Marconi now had as a regional prez. Definitely number two in the organization. Besides the people I recognized, there was a fully patched made-man of the Boozefighters and a made-man of the Black Sabbath, sitting to either side of the Hells Angels’ contingent.
HA, Sabbath, Booze, and OMW. Black bikers sitting with white bikers at the same round table, all unarmed. Something mythologic about that. Or not. My stomach roiled, and I thought I might hurl, but I held it in.
There were motorcycles parked in groups everywhere. War bikes, pre-war bikes, chopped bikes, some crotch rockets built for speed, and groups of people, all segregated by organization, race, and gender. That segregation would never do.
Not joining any group, I pulled my bike at an angle so they could all get a good look at me, and powered down. Behind me, the big rig eased in, the jake brakes sending a juddering reverberation through the front parking area. Through my orange glasses, I studied the men at the table.
I hadn’t seen McQuestion since my father’s funeral, a decade ago. Roy looked good—fit, still red haired. Charles Whip was the current national HA president stationed in Durham, North Carolina, and former chapter prez out of Berdoo Charter in San Bernadino, California. Back before the PRC landed and the Mara Salvatrucha began their hostile takeover of the Hells Angels, Berdoo was the most prestigious house in the HA.
Last Harlan told me, there were twenty or twenty-five chapter houses left, the rest having been taken over by the MSA. What remained of Whip’s organization would soon be taken over by Warhammer; he just hadn’t admitted he was losing yet. Whip needed all the numbers he could get, which had to be the reason he had promoted Marconi. Probably gave him control over several chapter houses and territory beyond Charleston.
Mateo said into my earbud, “The Booze is Henry Thibodaux, out of New Orleans. He has to be a new prez. The Sabbath is J’Ron Walker, out of Old New York. Also a new prez but Cupcake uncovered his story. He shot his way to the top and was voted in as prez unanimously. Both are augmented, toes to teeth. In a fight, they’ll rip your arms off with their bare hands. You’re walking on eggshells here, Shining.”
Walking on eggshells? More like walking on eggs filled with TNT.
Each organization’s made-men were standing in well-defined camps behind them, armed of course. Most wore war patches, showing that they were warriors seasoned during WWIII. None of them was drinking. Their Old Ladies and any female made-men were relaxing behind the muscle, near the bikes, also separated into groups.
Behind Marconi’s chair stood three of his children: his psychopath daughter—and not-so-secret weapon—Mina; and two of his sons, Lorenzo and Enrico, who, by the longing look he sent me, was still my thrall, though not desperate enough to cross club lines and come to me. Interesting. A strong authority figure was keeping Enrico where he belonged, with his family. McQuestion’s daughter, Camilla, was standing with them, but as far as possible from Mina. Something in her body language suggested that the time she’d been forced to be with Marconi’s bunch had been difficult.
Jagger was standing at point behind McQuestion, and he glanced my way out of the corner of his eye. He had the best shooting vantage, but his fancy new armor would also take the first hit if shots were fired. And he hadn’t engaged his helmet, making a head shot a sniper’s only choice. Marconi’s son Jacopo, the hostage in McQuestion’s camp, stood with Jagger and the OMWs, facing his father and family.
The Booze and the Sabbath were watching me behind sunglasses. Evaluating the person who had assigned Cupcake the job of calling and arranging this little meeting.
Marconi lifted his shot glass and sipped. McQuestion kept his back to me, probably thinking he was putting me in my place. Everything said and done here would have multiple purposes and meanings. I’d need video to study later. Softly, I murmured, “You getting this?”
Jolene said, “Sure ’nuff. Multiple angles because I hacked into Marconi’s and McQuestion’s security cams.”
I chuckled. The sound of my laughter finally made McQuestion turn around and look at me, which felt like a win. But I had no idea what to do now that I had made my grand entrance.
The cats exploded out of the truck cab and leaped from the flatbed in clowders of three or five or seven. They scattered silently, racing under cars or into the fractal shadows of bikes. No one seemed to notice them. Yet, all the cats turned toward me; all the cat eyes were on me. Waiting.
I fought a shiver and dismounted my bike. Wanda stood behind, covering my six. I spotted Cupcake and Amos, who had maneuvered fast, standing under the tent, behind the empty chair at the round table. Them standing there was an emotional gut-punch.
In my deepest heart, I had expected one of two possibilities: to address the group while standing to one side, as befitted my gender, to give them my intel, lay out my suggestions, and then be sent away like a child while the boys talked; or to have to fight my way to even being listened to. But Cupcake had always had higher aspirations. Now I had a strange feeling that her plans had come to fruition, and the chair was mine. That McQuestion was allowing me, a female made-man, to sit at the table with him.
This was . . . interesting. To my knowledge, it was unprecedented. And it was definitely dangerous.
Which Cupcake had to know. Yet, her eyes were wide with excitement, and she made the tiniest of movements toward the chair as Amos pulled it out. The two were like some kind of romantic bodyguards—both of them weaponed up and wearing the same model armor that Jagger wore. All this could be sending a message that I was aligned with the OMW. Which I was, by vows and spilled blood. My place at the table made me number two in the OMW . . . or it made me something else entirely. Perhaps a traitor, someone who had walked away from the club and the vows that bound me—an enemy, if McQuestion chose to see it that way. This kind of ambiguity was perilous to my staying alive.
I tossed the too-small kutte over my shoulder to indicate I wasn’t an enemy to the OMW, but wasn’t siding with them either. I walked languidly, as if bored, to the tent, my boots crunching gravel in the oddly silent clearing. Walked into the shade. And stopped beside the empty seat. When I was a kid, there had been few parleys of biker clubs and none I had actually attended because of the potential for violence. There had also been no female made-men then. I didn’t know the current protocol for a meeting like this, but Old Ladies didn’t sit unless asked to.
However, I wasn’t an Old Lady; I was Little Girl. Rules didn’t apply to me. I probably wasn’t supposed to speak either, but Cupcake and I had discussed early on that I had to talk with confidence, had to draw the lines, establish my position.
So I sat, and when a shot glass was put into my hand, I sipped.
Holy mama.Excellent tequila. It went down smooth.
Cupcake said, “Shining Smith. One of the few who came back alive after putting a nuke into a Mama-Bot. The only one of the Mama-Bot raiders still alive today. One of the first female made-men of the OMW. War hero, survivor, and the made-man who could have been owner of all you see around you, this fortification, by right of . . . military acquisition. Instead, in an act of good will, in hopes for this meeting today, to keep it from falling back into MSA hands, and in thanks for the help of the Hells Angels chapter prez of Charleston, West Virginia, when she took this house from Rico “Three Fingers” Garcia Perez, top man of the MSA, she gave it to Old Man Marconi.”
The men around the table stared at me, looking me over. Their regard was heavy as a lead blanket.
