Page 25 of Rags's Awakening
Tank leaped up, nostrils flaring. “We find out if these wannabes have a clubhouse, then we riddle it with bullets until no one’s left.”
“Fuck yeah!” several brothers yelled.
Banger brought the gavel down. “We’re pissed as hell, but we gotta plan.”
“Besides watching their families pick out their coffins,” Hawk muttered.
Guffaws filled the room, then the brothers began chanting, “Insurgents forever, forever Insurgents.”
After several minutes, the members settled into their seats as Banger took control. “No one wants a war,” he said, “but we’re not gonna let this shit slide.”
Rags sat a few seats down, elbows on the table, jaw tight. Puck had told him about the Devil’s Reign, and he’d heard some talk about them over the last few weeks, but he thought they were puny-assed wannabes. Claiming Colorado was suicide. He rubbed his jaw, eyes flicking to younger members down the line, anger and excitement mixing on their faces.
“Rags,” Banger said, turning his attention his way. “You still got a guy who ran with these assholes before they formed a club?”
“Used to. His name was…” He snapped his fingers.
“Pigeon,” Throttle said.
“Pigeon,” Rags continued. “We did a job together years back, before they formed a club. He’s big on brotherhood. He just liked to ride. I can reach out, see what’s what.”
“Don’t make a big deal of it,” Banger said. “Just find out if they’re on their own or backed by someone.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised if the Deadly Demons are involved,” Puck said.
Hawk frowned. “I don’t think Reaper wants to start shit with the Insurgents. Besides, they’ve got a stronghold on New Mexico. These guys could be gang types, low-lifes trying to act big. They can be dangerous because they don’t know when to be scared.”
“Hawk’s right. The dumb shits are the ones who make things fuckin’ messy,” Rags said. “We gotta see the setup, decide timing, and hit hard when we do.”
Low murmurs of agreement moved through the room.
Banger looked around and pointed. “First, we do a quiet look and see how many they’ve got, their weapons, who’s comin’ and goin’. Rags, Puck, Diesel, Tank, and Smokey ride tomorrow. Take the cages to stay off the radar. Count bikes, see if club girls live there, who’s runnin’ it. Figure out if these fuckers are real or pretend.”
“You got it,” Rags said.
“We’ll get the info,” Smokey said, and the others nodded.
Hawk added, “We got the Fall Festival next weekend. Word is these assholes might show up and flash colors to make noise.”
“Fuck that!” Chas slammed the table. “It’s our deal on Elmer’s land. They aren’t comin’ in.”
“They don’t have the right,” Axe said. “It’s private land.”
“Damn right,” Animal growled. “The festival isn’t the time for bullshit.”
Banger raised a hand and the room quieted. “It’s a family event. Keep your heads—no drama, no fights, unless they start it.But if the fuckers come on that property, they get turned around, or carried out. No citizens get hurt.”
Hawk’s nod was curt. “We don’t start shit, but we don’t let disrespect stand.”
A rumble of agreement moved through the room, low and unified. Rags leaned back, feeling that old spark of adrenaline stir as it always did when business blurred with threat.
“That’s it for church,” Banger said. “They’ll be another one in two days to get a full account from the brothers heading out.” He lifted the gavel and struck the block.
Church broke with the scrape of chairs and a low rumble of boots. Men shuffled out, some still cussing under their breath, others pounding fists into open palms, too wound up to let it go. Black T-shirts, denim, and leather spilled into the main room, and the air loosened. Music thrummed low through the speakers; heavy smoke hung thick in the air. The prospects had each member’s drink waiting on the tables, cold bottles sweating in the light, amber liquid in shot glasses reflecting the sun rays from the window. The club girls sprang off the couches, hips swaying, smiles painted on, moving to their men.
Rags took a long pull from his beer. Diesel dropped across from him; Puck, Smokey, and Tank joined them.
“So, how’s this gonna go down?” Smokey asked, running a hand through his hair.
