Saint’s suddenly a madman, spurred into action, trying to get back into the clubhouse, but he’s made himself a target, and I take his would-be killer down.
Getting close to him, I grab hold of his shoulder, yanking him back as I yell, “She knows what she’s fuckin’ doing.” Mentally, I cross my fingers that she and the brothers inside can repel the attackers, else it’s my woman and son’s lives on the line.
Some of the brothers stay out front to stop more wannabe MDMC members from coming in, while Saint, Stalker, and I move around the back, where the breach must have occurred. We see another man attempting to get in via the kitchen entrance. Stalker throws a knife and, with an agonised gurgle, down he goes.
Saint almost falls to his knees when Pippa comes back on the line. “Clubhouse secured. Bullseye, watch your fuckin’ back.” After her words, another gunshot fires.
“Prez still standing,” Bullseye confirms into his mic.
“I’m staying here,” Saint tells me. “You and Stalk get back out the front.”
It’s an order. As much as I want to stay to protect the occupants, we’re too few against too many, and I’m needed elsewhere. He reads the agonised glance I send toward him, thenI’m rushing back into the fray, and immediately taking a bullet to my left arm for my pain.
I must be fuckin’ dreaming, hallucinating, or something.My ears tell me, I hear motorbikes approaching. But it can only be wishful thinking. Our nearest King’s chapter is five hours away, and Bullseye could only have called them when the attack started. Nah, what’s coming are reinforcements for the fucking MDMC. While this fight seems to have been going on forever, it’s not the hours New Mexico would have needed to reach us. If so, it would already be dawn.
But the roar of engines grows louder, and our attackers, rather than pressing an advantage, start to retreat, sending worried looks over their shoulders.Is it a mass illusion or something?
No. It’s fuckin’ real, I think as I slash my Ka-bar into a distracted enemy’s throat. They’re not MDMC backup, I realise at last.The cavalry has arrived.And it’s men wearing Kings of Anarchy cuts, who immediately throw themselves into the fight.
Our enemies are trapped between us, and don’t know which way to fire. With Winchester, Rat, and Woody picking them off from the upper storey of the clubhouse, we start shooting them like ducks in a barrel.
One raises his hands to surrender, but I send one of my last bullets into his head without any regret.No way would you have spared me, my woman, or my son if you’d gotten into the clubhouse.
Within moments, it seems, all the fuckers are down, though the night is punctuated by groans from those wounded, and begging for mercy, which they don’t get.Nobody fucks with the Kings and lives to tell the tale.
I take my fair share of doling out our kind of mercy, the ones that send them to meet the Devil in Hell fast.
As the sound of shooting fades, Words and Knight emerge from the clubhouse.
Stepping forward, the funeral director looks around, then complains loudly, “How the fuck is my cremator going to deal with all this?”
“Yeah, and I haven’t even brought my murder van with me, so I can’t help,” Jester, one of our saviours from New Mexico, states ruefully. His prez, Bigfoot, a man I’ve never been so pleased to see, snorts.
For some reason, Words’ and Jester’s drily delivered comments have us cracking up. Soon, all present Kings, from both chapters, are doubled up laughing. We’re hysterical with the relief of tension.
I’m chortling as loud as anyone else, but am one of the first to sober. We’ve fucking won, but we’ve still to count the cost, starting with finding out what happened inside the clubhouse when the intruders made their incursion, and how many casualties we’ve got.
