Riding rough – chapter 2, part 2

Tonight had turned out to be a regular fuck fest. Heavy moved down the alley, keeping an eye on things that could jump out of the darkness. He pulled the .45 from the lining of the jeans and removed the safety. Shoot first, ask questions later.

The broad had unnerved him. He had wanted to drag her back with him after her defiant attitude. Not back to the Narrow, but back to his own pad for his own enjoyment. Head in the game, he silently reminded himself.

The street in front of the Narrow was quiet. No police. No by-standers. A couple of the bikes had been toppled. Heavy glanced at his own, parked on the opposite side of the street, because he had hoped to leave the Narrow early.

Inside, the bar was in shambles. Tables and chairs were overturned. Glass was everywhere. Heavy nodded to the bikers, getting their bearings back.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’

Prez was so enraged that spittle flew from his mouth as he roared. Looking around and realizing that two of the dead were brothers and affiliates, Heavy understood Prez’ sentiment, but no one talked to Heavy that way.

‘Hit one coming in from the alley. Checked the alley afterwards.’

Prez nodded. Heavy’s tactical actions were beyond reproach. His military background was evident.

‘You clocked him straight between the eyes, brother,’ Prez said, giving Heavy a slap on the shoulder. A couple of the others nodded their praise.

By Heavy’s count, there were three casualties among their ranks or affiliates and a number of wounded. Two bodies near the door were unknown to him. Cook, sporting a gash at his temple, was checking their pockets.

‘Dmitri Aleksandrovich,’ he read from the driver’s license he found.

Everyone knew what that meant. The Russians thought they could encroach on Lost Legion MC territory and the tension was high, since the Lost Legion began cutting down the Russians’ dealers. One a month for the last three months. This was apparently how Russian fury presenting itself.

‘Heavy, I want a plan for retaliation to be executed within a week.’

Heavy eyed the Prez and nodded. Every biker in the bar was fighting the desire to ride straight to Sergiev Imports to wreck havoc, guns blazing, but they all knew that would be dumb-ass.

Heavy rested the gun against his lower back again. He was too pissed off to think clearly. His fists itched for a fight. He surveyed the bar, taking in the damage, memorizing the details.

From the placement of the bodies, Dmitri had fired wide towards the bar itself, going for confusion and chaos. The other guy had double-tapped Red, who had guarded Prez and Ricky Small, who had hesitated in his response. The last casualty was Mona towards the back of the bar.

Heavy recalled the squeeze she had given him after getting him off. He had been disgusted with her – and himself after he had seen the expression of the classy broad. Her startled stare had brought him closer to the edge than Mona ministrations ever could.

Heavy stepped over Mona’s body and looked down the hallway. A jacket laid outside the ladies’ room, where the broad had dropped to the floor as he fired over her head. Heavy rummaged through it and found a small handbag, complete with a cellphone and a wallet full of information. He smiled to himself. Madigan Gardner, 3154 Richards Ave., apartment 6 wasn’t lost to him after all.



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