Chapter Five
The thunderous roar of a number of Harley engines announced the arrival of the escort contingent from the Priests MC. This was the beginning of Paul’s first run from the Priests’ side of the fence and the first time he would be seeing his former brothers in a little more than a month. They were completing the handover of escort duties for this latest run. This was a big one, twenty people and a large enough amount of drugs to ensure at least a couple of decades in a federal prison if they were caught. So they were taking plenty of precautions to make sure they didn’t get caught.
The association that was the Rojas family, the Rabid Dogs and the Priests, had a number of friendly truck drivers on their payroll. When the package was larger than could be split between saddlebags, it was moved by some of the largest vehicles on the road. The driver would make sure to break his route at a truck stop near the Mexican border. He’d have a bite to eat, and while he was enjoying his donut and coffee the people and drugs would be hidden in his rig, which would be parked conveniently near the edge of the lot or in a dark corner. The contingent from the Rabids would keep the truck in sight, but would not ride too close. Instead they’d keep their loose formation around a decoy van, something a lot smaller. The police were usually on the lookout for the smaller trucks and vans, so they’d often stop the decoy or the bikers themselves, but never the rig.
Depending on whether the trucker was nearing his allotted eleven hours of daily driving time dictated where he stopped once he was over the border. The escorts would stay at whichever motel the trucker did. How close it was to Absolution dictated whether or not the guard detail from the Priests met them at the motel in the early hours before the rig got underway, or whether they stayed over themselves. They’d make a little pantomime of transferring some boxes between decoy vans and then wait for the truck to leave before following it.
This transfer was taking place relatively close to home, so the four members of the Priests were blowing away the cobwebs in the hours only just past dawn. Terry was riding point, and Paul, Tag and Dean would be behind him. Sinatra was driving the decoy van. It would be a full day’s ride to the drop point in Florida. Once the package was released to the representatives of the Rojas family, they’d find somewhere to spend the night before heading back home the next day. It was a hell of a trip, even over two days. Paul suspected that alternating the runs between Samuel and Terry had less to do with the precaution of always leaving one of the two highest ranking officers at home and was more about their limited physical capabilities. Since the runs happened once a month, they could swap and give each other a break.
The runs were well beyond the amount of time that Fletch and Kong were now able to accommodate in the saddle; the van was driven by a Prospect and outlier duties were shared between Dizzy, Chiz, Dean, Tag and Paul. The extended hours in the saddle were well beyond Crash’s ability as well, and knowing that he wasn’t able to help the club in this way made him an irritable bastard for a couple of days either side of each trip. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that Chiz and Dizzy shared the runs as well, with one always remaining behind to watch the back of the president or VP. Since Chiz was still beholden to his crutches, Paul had stepped into his role.
Giles, Cross, Rabbit and Garfield were all waiting outside the motel, leaning against their bikes, either smoking or drinking take-out coffee or both. The thunder throttled down to a dull rumble as the four members of the Priests pulled up to a stop in front of them and ceased entirely as they cut their engines and dismounted.
“Morning brothers. All good?” Terry asked as he unclipped his helmet.
“It is. Sleeping Beauty’s still sawin’ wood. You quiet down you can hear him from out here.” Giles replied. All eight men were silent for a moment and indeed the faint hawking snores could be heard from a nearby room.
Dean looked around the lot. “Where’s your van?”
“We sent Sloth out for breakfast. Figures with that fat bastard makin’ all that noise we had time to eat.” Garfield answered.
Almost before he’d finished speaking, the plain, dark blue van pulled carefully into the lot and parked by the bikes. The door slid open and Sloth jumped out, pulling two paper sacks bearing a distinctive red and gold logo with him. He handed the bags to Garfield, who started sharing the breakfast burgers around, and reached back inside the van for the trays of coffees that he’d balanced in the foot well before passing those around too.
“Figured you guys would be here by the time I got back.” He explained as he handed paper cups full of steaming, mildly flavored hot water to the members of the Priests.
They were in the middle of eating and chatting when the sound of doors slamming replaced the sound of snoring.
“That’s our call, ladies.” Terry said as he screwed up the wrapping from his burger. He was casting about for somewhere to deposit it before Sloth held out the now empty sack for him to throw it into. Sloth collected the leftovers and trash from the other men before depositing the bag back in the foot well of the van he’d been driving and then heading round to open the roller at the back. While he was busy, Sinatra repositioned the Priests van and they began the transfer of fake packages, just in case anyone was watching.
“Really, My Little Pony. You couldn’t have found boxes from chainsaws or somethin’ half fuckin’ decent,” Paul griped as they moved the rainbow colored boxes from one van to another.
The pretence completed, they mounted their bikes, ready for the trucker to exit his room and set off.
As they were clipping helmets into place and getting comfortable, Giles came over to where Paul was already sitting astride his bike. “How’s it goin’?”
Paul knew he was asking about more than his ability to fit in to the new club. “Good. Still gettin’ settled into the house. Takes some time, you know, to get comfy. Gotta get to know a place.”
“Sure, I know what you mean. It’s not been so long. But I know you, Mr. Adaptable. I’m sure you’ll be feelin’ like you’ve been here years in no time.”
“Yeah, I’m sure I will.” Paul muttered as Giles returned to his own ride. He knew damn well he’d just been put on notice that Jimmy was getting impatient for a real update or for action. Jimmy would just have to wait. Paul hadn’t seen any sort of opening yet that could be exploited without a higher than reasonable risk of investigation from some official party.
His irritated musings were interrupted by the opening of a door to one of the motel rooms. A man wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, carrying a battered rucksack and scratching a significant paunch, meandered over to a rig on the edge of the lot. He was yawning obscenely and paid no attention to the bikers whatsoever. Paul wondered what the people hidden in the back of the rig had done for food and facilities, and then decided he didn’t want to know. After a minute or two, while the driver got settled in the cab, the rig pulled out of the lot in a black cloud of diesel fumes. Four riders and a maroon van followed him in one direction, while four riders and a blue van turned in the opposite direction and headed back to Texas.
It didn’t take long for them to get onto the Interstate. Sinatra hung back from the rig. Terry stayed in between the van and the truck, Paul and Tag flanked the van and Dean brought up the rear. Despite having to keep to formation instead of riding freely, nothing dimmed Paul’s appreciation of the open road. There was nothing like that feeling of freedom, of possibility, of opportunity. On his bike, with the highway lying out in front of him like a tarmac invitation, he felt like a king.
In the few weeks he’d been a member of the Priests, Paul thought maybe that he’d found space in his new home. He’d been surprised by how easy it had been to find that space, and he still didn’t know what to make of that. His new ink had healed well. He was proud of it. The artist based in Absolution that did the majority of the ink for the patches had done a quality job. Paul had slipped into the same easy rhythm with Chiz that they’d enjoyed as kids, and he’d found that he enjoyed Dizzy’s c
ompany almost as much. Chiz was his partner in crime for drinking sessions after Friday Church that were already becoming legendary. Dizzy was a reflection of Paul’s more quiet and methodical side, the side that made him the go-to guy when his club wanted someone to do their dirty work. Whether a body needed to quietly disappear, or whether a poignant message was required, Paul was known for being able to make either scenario happen with minimum risk to himself or his brothers.
He’d found an easy respect with Samuel and Terry. Samuel was a strong leader, a good leader, and Terry was the perfect complement, supportive yet not afraid to disagree. He’d spent less time getting to know Dean and Tag, other than time spent on club duties and the usual socializing in the clubhouse. Dean seemed a little distant, and Tag even tested the nerves of the brothers that had known him years. Crash had been visiting his old man in prison on the night of Paul’s patch party. It wasn’t a trip he could do in one day, given his limited riding ability, and Paul hadn’t held it against him. Paul thought maybe it would have been easier to get to know Crash before his accident. He was still getting used to making room for the mood swings, but Crash had a quick wit and was a loyal bastard, two traits that Paul appreciated the hell out of. He’d spent some time chatting with Fletch and Kong. It was impossible to talk to them both at the same time, it’d give a body whiplash, but they were chronicles on the history of the Priests and more than happy to share their stories. The Prospects still seemed to be pretty intimidated by him; whether that was size or reputation or a combination of both he didn’t know and he didn’t much care.
Ashleigh Carter had definitely been the surprise element of his transfer. Paul didn’t know what he would have been expecting if someone had told him the daughter of an MC President was a hot blonde, but he sure wouldn’t have been expecting Ashleigh. For someone who looked like she did and who had the entire club wrapped round her little finger, he might have expected her to be a prissy bitch prone to tantrums and foot stomping, except she didn’t seem to know that she looked like a bombshell and could control a gang of hardened one-percenters with little more than a bat of her baby blues, or if she did she didn’t use that advantage at all. She followed the same pattern of behavior as any other woman around the club who wasn’t there solely for a patch’s pleasure. She was never anything other than respectful, but there was a spark of something. He’d seen it in the way her eyes flashed when she was pissed off. Her mother and Terry’s Old Lady both had a knife-sharp sense of humor. He’d bet that Ashleigh did too, but it was buried under a shy reservation. He’d heard the gossip about her divorce; maybe that was responsible for it. Apart from the day of his patch party, he’d only seen her a couple of times. He hadn’t wanted to ask after her too much, hadn’t wanted to set tongues wagging, but when he had casually inquired the word was usually that she was busy with work.
She’d been at the clubhouse the night that he’d gotten his club ink. That hadn’t happened the night of his patch party, as Quaid had been out of town at a convention. The delay had given him some opportunity to carefully consider how he wanted his club ink represented and where he wanted it. It was a matter of personal choice for all patches, the only requirement being that it be unmistakably relevant to the club, but they had all chosen to have either the club name or the club patch or both inked somewhere on their body. Paul had followed his gut instinct and had had the club patch, praying hands holding a rosary, inked in the center of his chest. Taking the nature of his illicit mission into account, it was a bold choice. Once his task was completed it would need to be covered up or blacked out and that would likely make a hell of a mess, but he’d known it was the right thing to do; it had just felt right. He’d been reclined on a hastily cleaned, plastic chaise lounge that had been dragged into the main room from a closet somewhere, lost in the burn of the needle of his skin, but not so lost that he couldn’t see the glances that Ashleigh kept shooting his way in between keeping up with her kitchen duties again.
It was still a really, really bad idea. She wasn’t just the president’s daughter; she was the whole damn club’s daughter, it seemed like. He’d been trying not to glance right back, but the outfit she’d been wearing had been distracting, even though it didn’t look like she’d intended it to be. She’d been wearing a white beater with black jeans that lovingly hugged every curve, and a colorful scarf wound round her neck that she must have thought would disguise her chest but really just drew his eyes back to that block of real estate over and over until he’d had to find something else to look at so that he couldn’t be accused of staring. Knowing that her eyes were on him made him feel warm in all the right places, or all the wrong places if you considered he was surrounded by her father, her brother and a host of other men who considered themselves her blood family. Imagining unwinding that scarf and what he could do with it and her was a thought best kept for a time when he was alone.
There’d be a party when they got back to the clubhouse from this run. Paul wondered if Ashleigh would be there for this one. It’d be a Saturday night, maybe she’d make it. He didn’t think veterinary practices opened on Sundays as standard. Moira and Dolly would definitely be there, two mother hens clucking around, mother hens with razor blades cut into their spurs. The club girls would certainly be ready to welcome their boys home and would be more than willing to help them all work out the strain of the long run and then exhaust them some more. The change of flavor of pussy buffet had been interesting, but Paul had found himself choosing the curvy, blonde Katie over the anorexic brunette Leah or any of the other girls.
The ride to Florida took the better part of the day with a brief stop for lunch. Eventually their final destination loomed into view, and they followed Terry’s lead and pulled into the gravel lot of the truck stop, still following the rig. It was early evening and it would be a while before the cloaking darkness came. Mindful of the daylight, the truck driver pulled up in the furthest reaches of the lot. The contingent from the Priests parked within sight of the truck, but a distance away from it. The truck driver ambled into the diner, leaving his cargo unattended. Two vans pulled out of the interstate traffic into the truck stop. One parked next to the rig, the other next to the Priests’ van. Again they made a show of moving several boxes between the vans, but in reality the four riders were keeping a close eye on the other transfer taking place as two men from the second van herded the illegal immigrants who slithered out of a gap in the truck’s siding from one transport to the other and ensured that all the disguised packages of drugs were safely relocated. Once both the real and fake transfers were complete, the next links in the chain didn’t hang around and took off into the traffic.
Leaving the now completely legal cargo in the truck to the rest of its journey, Terry led them all back onto the Interstate in the direction of home, but only as far as the nearest motel and diner. Paul swung off his bike. Now that they were no longer on duty, he took a moment to work a few of the kinks out of his muscles after the long ride, and noticed that his brothers were doing the same. They headed into the diner, which smelled like every other truck stop diner Paul had ever been in, a miasma of sweat, coffee and grease. This particular establishment looked like it had been absorbed by a franchise. The interior was color-coordinated, slick and clean; it was completely at odds with the familiar aroma and, in Paul’s opinion, utterly soulless.
The exhausted men slid into a booth, wincing at the lime green, solid plastic bench seats. They were confident now that the day had been successful. If they had been found out, the police would have stopped them by now. They tried to get comfortable on the hard seats, but they were fighting a losing battle. Even more disappointing than the furniture was the waitress who looked a little like a female version of Kong and who was obviously coming to the end of a long shift and made it clear that she did not want to speak to anyone, let alone any customers. All five men were pleasantly surprised when their order turned up without a long delay, and figured it was highly likely that everything on the menu, in
cluding the coffee, was freeze-dried and microwaved. Their suspicions were confirmed by the plastic texture of the tasteless food, but at least it was warm.
Terry was the first to finish his generic, rubberized burger. “Fuck me. That was so bad Maguire could have made eatin’ it a form of fuckin’ torture.”
Sinatra left half of his food uneaten and wiped his mouth with a wince. “Who’s Maguire?”
Terry took a sip of what they’d been told was coffee. “Maguire was the Rabids’ pet psychopath.” His look of disgust turned into a wry smile as he looked at Paul. “I heard he taught you everything he knows.”
Paul pushed his empty plate away. “Yeah, well, I had a strong stomach and no one else wanted in.”
Dean was incredulous. “Strong stomach? The story of that guy you cut up into little itty bitty pieces is somethin’ they tell kids this side of the border to keep ‘em in line. Behave or the bogeyman’ll come ’n’ slice ‘n’ dice you.”
Blood in the Water (Kairos) Page 12
