Page 11 of Iggy

“These aren’t kid bikes, Iggy. These bad boys require a skilled rider. We don’t mind lending you a bike but don’t wreck it. You’ll owe your life to us,” he smirked.

“Got it, sir.”

“Wait, you’re not seriously going after them are you?” asked Olive.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” said Gator. “We are going after them.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“No! No, you can’t,” yelled Olive. “These are the kind of people who will kill indiscriminately. Just look at what my own mother did. She was the one who didn’t want me, not my father! What kind of woman does that?”

“Honey, she might have been forced to give up the search for you by her father or the club. Who knows what was behind all of this?” said Ham.

“I don’t care! I care about all of you. You’re my family. You’re the ones that gave me a life. Fed me. Clothed me. Educated me. Loved me!”

Moose stepped closer and hugged the young woman. She’d spent a lot of nights at his home having sleep-overs with Jennifer. He thought of her as his own daughter.

“I can’t let all of you get hurt for me,” she whispered.

“I hate to interrupt this tender moment, but we’ve got twenty bikes parked in front of the diner. They got through the hidden road,” said Hiro.

“Call Team Big to the front,” said Gator. “The rest of you, follow me. Olive, you’re staying here.”

“But…”

“No, buts!” growled Gator turning sharply. Olive jumped back and Gator shook his head. “I’m sorry. But you are not to leave this office. Iggy, you stay with her. Romeo, Kai you stay as well. The rest of you are with me.”

Miss Judy was working the counter at the diner, smiling at her regulars and pouring coffee refills, when she heard the rumble of a heard of Harley-Davidsons. She knew that sound. When it got louder, she also knew it was more than the bikes she was used to. And the bigger question was, how did they get on the secure road?

Immediately, she pushed the button below the counter and looked up at the cameras.

“AJ? We got trouble. Twenty bikes and they don’t look friendly.” She didn’t need a reply. She knew that AJ heard her and that help would arrive soon. Judy stared at her regulars at the counter and pushed them toward a booth near the back of the restaurant. The rest of the tables were empty.

When the bell above the door rang a small group of men walked inside. They were all wearing leather cuts with the emblem for Graveyard Saints. They were road dirty, some bandaged along their arms and faces.

“Morning fellas. Take a seat and I’ll get you some coffee,” said Judy as friendly as she could. The first five took their seats, then the next group entered. This group had a woman in the middle.

“Welcome, welcome,” she said in a happy voice. “Take a seat anywhere you like.”

The group stared at her, mostly curious as to why she wasn’t afraid of them. The woman turned to look at her, the patch on her chest telling Judy something she never thought she’d see. President. Their club president was a woman. And this was a woman that looked as if she could kick ass on any man in the room.

She had dark hair sprinkled with a few grays. It was braided down her back in one long braid. Her skin was olive, or dirty, Judy couldn’t tell which. She had lean muscular arms and two distinct scars. One was straight across her forehead, the other was along her jawline.

“You seen this girl?” she asked showing Judy the picture. Judy picked it up, frowning but genuinely looking at it.

“Sorry, no. She looks like a lot of girls in the bayou. They all have the dark hair like her, looks like she might have darker skin too.”

“She ain’t black!” snapped the woman. Judy just smiled at her.

“I didn’t say she was. Creole and Cajun people have a mix of Spanish, Caribbean, French, and black heritage. They just tend to have darker skin. We see it a lot here. Now, what can I get y’all.”

Whoever these people were, they hadn’t noticed that a dozen men had walked around the bike shop, jumped on their bikes and pulled in behind those in the parking lot. Their heads turned at the roar of the motorcycles, the rumbles so loud, the windows rattled.

“Who are they?” snapped the woman.

“Those are the boys that own Patriot Cycles,” said Judy with another small grin. She poured the coffee, then stepped into the kitchen. “Let me make a fresh pot.”

When the bell above the door chimed, the bikers turned to see who was entering. In their minds, it didn’t matter. They were just fresh meat to wipe the pavement with. Except these men didn’t look like fresh meat. One by one goliaths entered the diner.