“Your Griz was our Skunk,” the leader spits out.
“What?” My oh my, Winchester’s and Paint’s exclamations of horror are so well matched and synchronised, I can’t help but be proud of my brothers.
Irate, I start to step forward, only stopping when I reach the barrel of a gun. “You saying what I’m thinking? You put a plant in our club?”
I get a smirk as well as an answer. “Nah,” he blatantly lies. “Fucker wanted a change of scenery and to be closer to his mom.” Yeah, that was the excuse he’d given to us as well, though, as it turned out, his mom wasn’t even still breathing. His eyes take on a sly expression as he adds, “He couldn’t continue using his road name when he stopped riding with us. That’s why you knew him as Griz.”
It would be a halfway plausible explanation if Pippa hadn’t managed to discover their plan, and of course, we’d tortured the truth out of him. With six guns pointed my way, however, this is not the time to tell them I last saw his brother bleeding out and begging for death. Or, at least that’s what I remember.
Trying hard to keep my face neutral, though it’s hard to hide my anger and disgust, I ask, “So why look for him now?”
“Just got a hankering to check up on our old brother, seeing as he wasn’t answering phone calls. He wasn’t out bad, just left in good standing. No reason why we shouldn’t want to keep in touch.”
Yeah, like that adds up. They could simply have turned up at the clubhouse and asked for him. I call them out. “Sounds suspiciously like you put Griz, Skunk, or whatever his fuckin’ name is, into the KOA to spy on us.”
Suddenly, Winchester’s on his feet. “You fuckin’ bastards?—”
His earlier pistol-whipping was nothing compared to what comes now. Stumbling, he attempts to shake off the effects of the vicious blow. Unsteady, he loses his hold on his gun as it’s wrenched away from him.
As if that was a signal, two of them leap forward and grab me, disarming me at the same time. They also take Paint’s weapon, a useless action. Fucker isn’t ambidextrous at all, and his dominant arm is injured.
Fuck. This is getting serious.
Raising both my hands, I try to de-escalate the situation. “Look, what you’ve said is fuckin’ damning to our club. We had a potential traitor within our ranks and didn’t even know it. Might have been different if your prez had given us a heads-up that your Skunk was heading our way. And the man himself should have been up front and truthful, if he was on the up and up.” Brushing my fingers through my hair, I act like this is new news, which cuts me to the bone. “Which all goes to say you’ve given us no reason to trust you. Fuck, we might not have had problems with you before, but we sure have one now.”
“You may not, but we’re no friends of the Kings. Had run-ins with your New Mexico chapter.” Their spokesperson seems unimpressed by my outburst. “And you’re wrong. Skunk had his own reasons for leaving us and joining you.” He’s just contradicting himself. Why would a Mojave Devil, whose club was on the wrong side of the Kings, come south to prospect for the very club that appears to be an enemy of the MDMC? If the situation wasn’t so serious, it would be comical—both parties knowing the truth of the matter, but neither admitting it, andscrabbling for reasons and excuses to try and make a very wrong situation sound right.
“Look, you tell us where Skunk is, and we’ll find him and move on.”
“You better believe, I’d like to have words with that fuckin’ traitor myself,” I growl. “But I don’t fuckin’ know where to find him.” Well, I might have an inkling if I ask Words where he disposed of his ashes. Though they’ll be spread to the four winds by now, and I doubt his oldbrotherswill be able to find even a trace.
“You got to know something. Where is he?” The bald one yanks Paint up by his wounded arm, and strong as he is, my brother can’t hold back his scream.
“I don’t fuckin’ know,” I yell, exasperation plain in my voice. “And torturing or threatening to kill us won’t change a fuckin’ thing.” I wave my hands dismissively. “He’s probably somewhere balls deep in some cunt.” Slyly, I add, “If he was a plant, he was a man who lied and couldn’t be trusted. What makes you think a man like that would stay loyal to your club, when he had no problem betraying ours?” I have to admit I’m grasping at straws here.
“We can fuckin’ trust him!” he roars. “What part of out in good standing don’t you understand? It’s you we don’t trust. How do I know you’re not lying? If you’d found his connection to us, you would have killed him.”
This conversation is ludicrous, each of us knowing the truth, but skirting around it. I know damn sure Griz betrayed us. He’d admitted it out of his own mouth.
“If we found out he was working for you, we’d have come for your club,” Winchester growls. “You wouldn’t have known what had hit you. Nobody fucks with the Kings.”
“And nobody fucks with the MDMC!” The blond-haired man has clearly lost patience. “Show them what we do to Kings, Brothers. Mess ‘em up.”
As they come for us, two of the fuckers kick over Winchester’s and my bikes. I only have time to wince before they’re on me.
I suppose it’s lucky they didn’t just execute us on the spot. They come at us, fists flying, two of them to our one. Despite being outnumbered, we try to give as good as we get. I fight dirty, my foot finding balls and kicking hard. But Paint’s not up to the job, a fast jab to his already damaged shoulder has him screeching and staying down. A baseball bat appears from nowhere, meeting Winchester’s already tender head and knocking him clean out.
We’ve got our hits in, a couple of bleeding noses at least. But then the odds change, as their leader comes at me, a nasty-looking knife held in front of him. Two of his brothers somehow manage to get hold of both my arms, and no matter how I struggle, I can’t shake them.
“We want to find Skunk. Your club is dead unless we get him. Consider this as a message to your prez, to show we mean business.”
The knife comes straight for me, sliding into the right side of my chest as easily as a knife through butter. The withdrawal of the blade is almost as painful as it was going in. I crash onto my knees, leaning over, gasping for breath. Then, even while I’m down, they fucking shoot me in the leg.
I’m only vaguely conscious of six bikes appearing out of the trees, firing up and speeding away as severe pain cramps me. I try to breathe, but it feels like I’m drawing in no air. I cough, but it does nothing to help me. Though I try to fight gravity, I fall face-first to the ground.
“Short, stay with me. Stay the fuck with me.”
I hear the words, but can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs to answer.
