Page 27 of Rags's Awakening
The men laughed, and Rags let their banter roll around him. He forced himself to listen, to nod at the right moments, to look like his head was back in the game. But under it all, the tug for Casey still lingered, the one he couldn’t drink, fight, or ride away from.
He took another long pull from his bottle, jaw set. Tomorrow was for business. Casey had to stay out of his thoughts.
***
The next dayrolled in clear and sharp, the kind of fall afternoon where the air felt clean enough to bite. Rags, Diesel, Smokey, Puck, and Tank met out back by their cages. Since there were only five of them, they decided to take Smokey’s SUV which could fit them comfortably.
Diesel handed out burner phones, one to each of them. “Keep it short and clean,” he said. “No club names, no chatter.”
Puck zipped his hoodie and looked toward the open highway. “How far out’s Henderson?”
“Forty-five minutes if we keep it steady,” Rags said, opening the front passenger door. “We’ll stop about a half mile out, stash the cage between the trees, and walk in from there.”
Smokey jumped into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. The engine roared, the sound rolling across the yard like thunder building under the sky. Hawk stepped out and walked toward them.
“You all set?” he said.
“Yep,” Smokey said. “We got kill switches, metal enough to rip three clubhouses, and I got my dagger.”
“I’m set with my bowie knife and Glock,” Rags added.
Hawk nodded. “If shit happens and you’re outnumbered, get the fuck outta there. We’ll regroup, go back, and air condition their fuckin’ ‘clubhouse’.”
Air conditioning a rival’s clubhouse meant riddling it with bullets. When someone crossed the line or showed the Insurgents great disrespect, they had no problem showing their strength.
“Remember, try to stay off the radar. The club girls aren’t part of this, so if shit happens, try not to hurt any of them, but if it’s a life-or-death situation and you can’t get away, do what you need to do.” Hawk lifted his fist in the air. Rags and the others followed suit.
Smokey pulled out of the lot, and soon they were on the back highway, driving through open stretches of pine and rock. As they got closer to Henderson, Smokey turned down a dirt road that narrowed between the trees. He pulled the cage in a small enclave of evergreens, then switched off the engine.
Rags scanned the horizon. “From here, we walk,” he said. “No colors, no noise. Let’s see what we’re dealin’ with.”
“I’m taking the grenades… just in case,” Tank said, stuffing them in his pocket.
They started toward the renegade clubhouse, sheltering themselves among the trees as they went. The clubhouse came into view: an old repair shop on the edge of town, enclosed by a rusted chain-link fence and a half-dozen bikes parked out front. Music drifted faintly through the trees, along with bursts of laughter.
Rags crouched near the tree line, studying the scene. “There could be more bikes out back and inside,” he muttered.
Diesel adjusted his binoculars. “Couple of girls in the yard. They look like they live there. Someone’s cooking, and it smells like shit, all grease and smoke.”
Smokey nodded. “Yeah, they’re settling in. Not just passing through.”
Rags narrowed his eyes, watching a man step out the door wearing a vest withColoradostitched across the bottom rocker.
He felt the slow burn of anger in his chest. “They’re making a statement,” he said, voice low and rough. “And they sure as hell know what it means.”
The Insurgents stayed low, shifting positions through the trees to get a better angle. The place was busier than they’d expected: more bikes behind the building, a beat-up pickup, and a couple of tents strung along the back fence like someone was camping out there.
Diesel raised his binoculars again. “Seven, maybe eight guys total,” he said under his breath. “Two outside, smoking. The rest inside, I can’t see ’em, but can hear ’em.”
Rags listened. The music was old-school rock, the bass thumping steady. Then voices: muffled but sharp enough to catch pieces.
“…interest rate’s killin’ ’em…”
“…Colorado boys ain’t gonna like it…”
“…Don’t care. We ain’t bowin’ down to nobody…”
Tank glanced over, brow tight. “You hear that?”
