Tempest sits up straight and launches into a report. “All brothers have their sidearms, but I want rifles issued to everyone. Woody, you’ll have your sniper rifle?—”
“Rattler’s not bad at long-range shots,” Woody reminds us.
Said brother preens, and everyone ignores him.
“Hey,” Winchester speaks for the first time. “I run the fuckin’ shooting range. Don’t underestimate my accuracy.”
Tempest raises his chin toward him, while Piston scribbles that down. All the while, Bullseye sits, listening with a smirk. There’s a reason he earned that road name, and it’s not because he can’t hit a target. But as we all take it for granted, nobody points it out.
“Hopefully, we can avoid close combat, but we’ve all got to have knives at hand. Especially you, Stalk.” Tempest remarks.
Stalker salutes the sergeant-at-arms. He demonstrates his throwing skills as party tricks, and his accuracy is pretty impressive.
Tempest continues, “We’ve got grenades, enough to take quite a few of the attackers out. And, the enforcer here can make up some booby traps if he’s got time.”
“I can run trip wires at any weak spots in our boundaries,” Freak states. “Already been talking to Genie about areas where we are blind.”
The brothers are all in, and suggestions and offers of services abound. Me? I’m handy enough with a shotgun, automatic rifle, or almost any weapon handed to me. I won’t hesitate to take any of these fuckers down. And if any get close enough to me, I’m big enough and skilled in street fighting to relish the thought of using my fists.
We discuss lookouts and where we should all be positioned.
Paint, who’s obviously been thinking about his sister and niece, wonders aloud whether the non-combatants should be housed in the bunkhouse, but his idea is quickly shot down. Although it might be a pain to rebuild it, protecting the bunkhouse as well as the clubhouse would spread us too thin. It’s lives that matter, not buildings.
So, it’s decided, starting tonight, everyone stays in the main building, which is going to be one hell of a squeeze. And won’t be without its complaints.
Piston takes point, jotting down ideas of who’s going to be bunking with who, seeing as it’s only the top officers and me who have rooms in the clubhouse. Saint leads the charge in making sacrifices, offering to let Paint’s sister and niece stay in their room with Pippa and him. With his sacrifice, others offer to share too. There’s a brief spurt of laughter when Tempest suggests he’ll share his bed with Trixie and the rest of the club girls, too. There follows the obvious comment, he’ll have no energy left to fight if they take him up on his offer, oh, and more than a few nudges and winks too.
Ace will obviously share with Freak, but when that comes up, Freak seems undecided. “I’m thinking of having Ace go stay with his grandmother. He lives with her most of the time anyway.”
“Surprised you haven’t brought her in,” Words comments.
Freak barks. “You wouldn’t be if you met her. Her house is sealed tight like Fort Knox. She sleeps with a shotgun beside her. And if the cops ever raided her house, they’d find enough hidden guns to supply an arsenal.” He considers for a moment, then shrugs. “Kid’s here, so that’s where he’ll stay tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll take him to stay with my mom.”
After that, it’s decided that the rest of the brothers exiled from the bunkhouse and the prospects will bunk down in the clubroom, unless they’re on surveillance. A rota for that soon gets sorted out as well.
“What about the girls?” Tempest asks. “Seeing as you don’t want them to stay with me.”
“You can have my old ma,” Words puts forward with a grin.
Fuck, we forgot about her. Tempest sighs deeply. “Alright, it’s not like I haven’t slept rough before. I’ll grab a sleeping bagand stay in the clubhouse. Words’ ma and Paint’s girls can take over my room.”
Once everyone knows where they’ll be sleeping, and we’ve got the solid basis of a plan sorted out and agreed, Prez brings church to an end by banging the gavel. Then, after looking earnestly around, he states loudly, “Nobody fucks with the Kings.”
It’s a sentiment and battle cry that erupts around the room.
