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The beautiful thing about bikers is, they aren’t fucking subtle.
Harleys grunt and snort down the back roads toward Chicago. Their engines growl and announce them long before they arrive, and it’s not hard for my men to follow them at a safe distance. All they need to do is keep their fucking ears peeled.
Another beautiful thing: they tend to use their own product. Which means these bikers are a bunch of meth-head morons with few brain cells and even fewer teeth.
But the downside to that is, they’re absolutely psychotic. Gregory, despite being a grade-A piece of shit, is actually calmer and more subdued than other bike MCs I’ve come across.
The Bullethole Boys are on the opposite end of that spectrum, from what I’ve heard.
Corn fields spread out in all directions. It’s late in the day and the sun’s low in the sky. It’ll be dark in the next half hour, which is exactly what the Boys want—they’re aiming to do this deal at night with as few problems as possible, probably because theywant to make sure their patch over into the Righteous Servants goes as planned. Though how the fuck Gregory thinks he’s going to tame these wild assholes, I genuinely don’t know.
“Two minutes,” Niall says from his position further out in the field. We’re on foot along with several dozen more guys scattered all over. Three trucks are idling nearby, empty save for their drivers. “Everyone in position?”
“Everyone’s ready,” I confirm. The squad leaders already sent in their confirmation texts, and I have to trust my guys to know their business. We’ve gone over this plan half a dozen times already, but in the heat of the moment, there are always a thousand different ways something like this can go wrong.
Stealing meth isn’t our normal business. The Hayes Group thrives on imports from Ireland. Our drugs are good and they’re inexpensive, and we have a very solid smuggling network established already, which makes us one of the more reliable sources for drugs in the country. We don’t bring in too much, and we don’t mess with the really bad shit like fentanyl. Mostly, the money’s in cocaine.
The sound of motorcycles gets louder as they approach. “Got to love these country fucking roads,” I murmur as I take out my phone and ready the signal. “Perfect for ambushes.”
“Now I know what my grandfather must’ve felt like during the Irish Rebellion.”
“More like your great-grandfather, you ass, and yeah, probably. Except instead of killing British, we’re stealing drugs from a bunch of idiots.”
“Taking candy from babies?”
“If babies had guns and a lust for killing, that’d be very apt.” I hit the send button and the message goes out through our encrypted chat. As the bikes come around the corner, the trucks jump into action.
Three big, black vehicles block the street as the motorcycle gang approaches. They’re riding deep this evening: twelve of them surround a truck with a tarp covering the bed. Not exactly subtle.
At first, they don’t know what to do. The whole squad slows as they approach. Instead of the smart thing, which would be to turn the fuck around and get out of there, one of the guys in the lead starts shouting and gesturing like he’s going to try to ram his way through.
I send another message. Niall nods at me, draws his gun, and we move forward through the stalks.
The bikers start to realize something’s going down when twenty armed men appear on the edges of the road, materializing from their hiding places in the corn. One of them starts shouting about turning around, but it’s way too late for that. Ten more of my soldiers are standing in formation behind them with AR-15 rifles aimed in their direction. My scouts arrive in their SUVs and add in six more bodies aiming pistols and using their doors as makeshift barricades.
The bikers don’t know what the fuck to do, and this is the moment when everything can go to shit. They’re cursing and shouting and waving their guns in the air, but they aren’t organized yet.
This might break down into bloodshed if I don’t defuse the tension right now. I step forward, gun held up, barrel aimed atthe sky. “Where’s Rotgut?” I almost grimace, saying that stupid name.
The truck in the middle of the biker formation goes quiet as the engine shuts down. A man steps out, tall and lean, with a slouchy frame and blond hair cut short. He’s got blue eyes and a lopsided grin, and he walks toward me wearing a Hawaiian shirt, beat-up jeans, heavy boots, and a chain from pocket to pocket.
“I’m Larry Blood,” he grunts at me with a strangely deep voice. He’s shouting over the sound of his crew’s bikes. “Who the fuck are you?”
Larry Blood?Seriously? These guys have the absolute worst fucking names I’ve ever heard in my life.
“Tell your boys to turn off their engines.”
Larry’s mouth pulls into a snarl. “I said—who the fuck are you?”
I lower my gun and aim it at his face. Larry’s clearly not a bright guy, but at least he’s got a bit of common sense. He cringes back, hands coming up in the air, before he shouts at his men to shut down. The grunts and growls of the bikers slowly come to a halt as their riders kill the engines.
“That’s better,” I say, not lowering the gun. “All right, Larry. We can do this easy, or I can leave your corpses for the farmers to clean up. Your call.”
“Guess that’s not much of a choice,” he says, glancing back at my line of high-powered rifles. The twenty men with pistols are one thing, but those AR-15s will tear his men into pieces. “Not gonna tell me a name, huh?”
“You’ll hear it soon enough. Tell your guys to get off their bikes. I want them over in the ditch on the side of the road and on their knees. Do it now.”
Larry hesitates. He doesn’t think I’m serious about killing them all. He’s doing meth head math in his drug-addled brain, weighing pros and cons, trying to figure out the risks and the likely outcomes, and I can tell the numbers are skewed in the wrong direction. The dumb asshole’s thinking I won’t risk a slaughter.
