by Tom Benson
“To the A3, the south-east and Valencia,” she said, in a comic dramatic voice. Her grin widened as she depressed her right foot and felt the comfortable backrest of the BMW 5-Series against her back.
3. Brotherly Love
.
Wednesday 3rd March
Jordanhill, Glasgow
Scotland
The powerful engine rumbled as the Triumph Tiger slowed and rolled down a snow-covered ramp. It was 8 am when Joe Bremner rode into the underground carpark. Joe removed a gauntlet and punched in the four-digit entry code. It was an upmarket apartment block.
The elevator would have been silent on its ascent if it weren’t for the sole occupant humming the classic heavy metal number, Paranoid by Black Sabbath. The muscular, six-footer unzipped his leather jacket, removed his distinctive dark metallic blue helmet and ran a hand through his long, unkempt ginger hair. Joe’s beard bore no signs of trimming. The growth had a windswept look cultivated by many bikers through neglect.
Even in his riding boots and leathers, Joe walked along the corridor on the fifth floor with stealth. If unseen, it would be hard to say he was there at all. By the time he arrived at the door with the gold number twenty in the centre, he was ready to make more than one rapid entry.
He pressed a forefinger against the tiny doorbell and dimples parted his whiskers as he heard the multi-chiming bell within. Anticipation created intense heat deep inside as Joe’s body reacted to mental images. There was a pulse behind the zipper of his well-worn ‘originals’.
The door opened after a second ring. Standing inside the apartment was a tall, blonde woman in her late twenties. Her right arm raised as she held the door open with slender fingers. Long golden tresses hung over her bare shoulders and contrasted with the diaphanous black baby-doll that barely reached her thighs.
Joe sneered and lowered one hand to rub the front of his jeans before he spoke. “Are you Stephanie?” He appraised the beautiful body from head to toe.
“Yes,” she whispered and arched an eyebrow. “What do you want?”
“Are you alone?”
Stephanie nodded and glanced down at the bulge in the biker’s jeans.
In response, Joe’s whiskers parted. He licked his lips and grinned.
Long dark lashes fluttered as the woman’s blue eyes scanned her visitor. Stephanie’s glittering, crimson lips trembled, and after a gasp, she worried her lower lip with her bright white teeth. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.
Big Joe stepped forward, wrested the door from the beautiful creature, and then closed it quietly. Joe placed his hands under Stephanie’s arms and lifted her bodily from the plush carpet as he carried her into the apartment. In the centre of the spacious room he stopped and placed her down again.
Stephanie teetered on the three-inch heels of her fur-trimmed slippers and lifted her hands up across her nightdress and ample breasts. Her eyelashes fluttered.
“Take it off,” Joe growled and threw his riding gauntlets onto a nearby chair.
“Please,” Stephanie pleaded, and her hair hung lower as she inclined her head forward a little.
Joe’s massive hands played with the top section of the flimsy black garment. He looked into the young woman’s eyes for a few seconds as his strong fingers gripped the material. The delicate ribbon securing the baby-doll snapped, and the garment fell open to give a view of the magnificent body within.
Joe cradled Stephanie’s pretty face in his large, rough hands. Stephanie’s lips felt the pressure of Joe’s as he sucked on her sweetness and molested her mouth with his tongue. The kiss ceased only to allow the assault to move to her slender neck. There were gasps as soft shoulder flesh was bitten deep.
The blonde trembled with delight as Joe sucked hard on the succulent flesh of her neck, shoulders and breasts. He slurped and sucked at her, causing whimpers and moans. Joe lowered his right hand and caressed the tender body until his fingers reached the moist junction of her parting thighs.
There was a squeal as one finger thrust inside and then slipped out. Stephanie found herself leave the floor as a strong hand cupped her between her thighs. Joe’s other hand went behind her, and he carried her into the bedroom.
Stephanie landed on the large bed without ceremony. As she got up onto her elbows and looked at her assailant, she saw him undoing his broad leather belt and pushing his jeans down.
There was no underwear to prolong the moment, so without further warning, the woman was looking at the biker’s engorged cock. It was throbbing and standing upright, ready for use. The dimensions of Joe’s manhood were of similar scale to the remainder of his body.
Stephanie parted her thighs and sighed. She looked up wide-eyed at the whisker-covered mouth lowering to assault her lips once again. In a simultaneous motion, she felt the biker’s tongue invade her mouth as his massive tool thrust between her legs, burying itself to the hilt inside her, in one swift motion. She gasped.
As Joe’s hips thrust back and forward in a steady rhythm, he gorged himself on Stephanie’s mouth, neck, shoulders and breasts. He held a nipple between his teeth and rolled his tongue across the firm bud of flesh.
Stephanie whimpered and dug the fingers of both hands into the duvet. She let go the bedding to grip Joe’s leather jacket. She used her strong, slender fingers like talons and called out. “Fuck me, you big bastard!” She threw her head back, her mouth open in ecstasy. “Harder—fuck me harder—faster!”
Joe knelt on the bed and lifted Stephanie by her buttocks. Her long legs wrapped around his waist and locked at the ankles. Soft, rounded buttocks were cupped and gripped by large, strong hands, and the two people joined in a ritual that went back to the earliest of their ancestors.
The woman accepted the treatment as a special favour, and the man performed like an animal intent on enjoying every moment of the coupling. They both rose admirably to the challenge. One moaned and sighed while the other grunted and snarled.
It was fifteen minutes later when Joe and Stephanie lay side by side on the bed. They were both enjoying a post-coital cigarette, but there was no conversation until Stephanie turned and dug a long red fingernail into Joe’s hairy chest.
“Joe, you are fucking incredible.”
“Yeah, I suppose I am.” He laughed. It was a sound like happy thunder.
“As soon as we finish our smoke, I’ll undress you, and you can let me see how tender you can be.”
“You know I don’t do fuckin’ tender,” he said and half-turned to look at her face.
“Don’t worry—I enjoy it when you’re trying.”
At 11:15am Joe threw his right leg over his bike and settled onto the saddle. There was a folded piece of paper jammed between the dials. Joe’s brow furrowed as he first looked around the underground carpark and then lifted the note.
‘If you want to save your brother’s life—meet me at the Balgray Reservoir south of Barrhead. At noon, he’s a dead man. You’re being watched. No phone calls and don’t try to get help at Byres Road.’
Joe gritted his teeth as he crushed the note and thrust it into a jacket pocket. When the bike left the concrete ramp and skidded on the snow-covered roadway, it didn’t faze the rider. It struck Joe, his journey might not be as rapid as he would like—but it would be fucking rapid.
Traffic in and around Glasgow was moving at a snail’s pace. In many places, there were drivers out arguing about blame for a collision. The southbound roads had a layer of fresh snow. Visibility decreased as the pretty, but treacherous flakes increased in number.
It wasn’t good weather to be on two wheels, even if the rider was experienced and courageous. The M77 motorway southbound was hazardous; so one lane was in use. It remained the case until a lone motorbike rider appeared in everybody’s offside mirrors.
At 11:30 am, after a hair-raising exit from the city centre, Joe found himself behind a line of vehicles. They were trailing a snowplough that made it dangerous for anybody to pass. Joe decided to take his chances on the mi
nor roads, knowing they wouldn’t be clear.
The exit down onto Nitshill Road had a breeze blowing that created a sloping white ramp along the length of one lane and forced all traffic to use the other lane. It became a ramp of deep slush.
The bike did not ride well on several centimetres of snow, and a boot shot down regularly to keep rider and machine moving forward. At the Rouken Glen roundabout, Joe fought to stay upright. He took a right and headed south at a slow, but steady speed. He was moving and made no effort to check time.
Joe negotiated the slippery road surface, fighting and countering every skid. His arms and legs ached, as strong as they were. When he tackled the next two roundabouts, he caught glimpses of the reservoir to his right. He stopped focussing on the road and the hazards, and started thinking about who would be hard enough, or stupid enough to threaten his brother Max.
At the Newton Mearns roundabout, Joe felt his machine slip away from under him, but he got a strong leg out and steadied himself. When the bike was upright again, he kept the revs low and followed the short strip of the minor road towards the reservoir. He was on high alert, but there didn’t appear to be anyone around.
Is this some sick joke by one of the guys, he wondered.
“Over here!” a man shouted. “Over here, Joe!” A man in black leathers was waving frantically, one hundred metres ahead, near the water’s edge. There were groups of bushes around the area, but most of the foliage was white, thanks to the snowfall. It was a remote spot but overlooked from the motorway flyover, two hundred metres distant, now behind Joe.
Joe kept the engine ticking over to avoid falling in the deeper snow. As he went forward, he could only see one person. The man in leathers wasn’t wearing a helmet, and it wasn’t his brother.
Could another biker have found Max?
As Joe concentrated on the deep white, slippery surface, he steered into a single track made by a bike recently. There were deeper; wider tyre marks made by a four-wheeled vehicle either side of the single bike track.
When Joe was twenty metres from the stranger, he stopped his bike and dismounted. He turned away from the machine to flick the stand down. He removed his gauntlets and left them on the saddle. His right hand moved down and back, to undo the stud of his scabbard. Joe turned and walked forward, eyes narrowed, scanning the immediate area. The guy in leathers was wearing shoes, not boots.
The broad back wheel of a bike was standing out from between the snow-covered bushes. It was a Triumph, just like Joe’s and bore Max’s number plate. The bike had a thick layer of snow covering saddle and rear mudguard.
“Where’s Max?” Joe continued forward and moved his right hand around to his blade.
“He’s just here.” The stranger moved his left hand. A rope appeared which had been held up behind him. It led into the bushes. The other end of the rope looped around the neck of a big dark-haired man in leathers who was lying on the snow in the bushes.
He edged forward on his left arm and left leg. He had a gag stuffed into his mouth, held in place with his red neckerchief. His right hand pressed hard against a bleeding wound in his right thigh. His wrists were bound. His right eye was open and bulging, and his nostrils flared as he breathed. The left eye was purple and closed.
Joe’s blood boiled when he looked at his older brother’s battered and bloodied face. Max’s mouth and nose had bled recently. Bruises coloured his jaw and cheekbone.
“You’re a fuckin’ dead man,” Joe said to the man in black and unsheathed his knife as he advanced.
“I don’t think so.” The stranger raised his right hand and aimed an old Army revolver at Joe’s head. “Do you remember a phone call a few days ago?”
Joe kept walking. He had felt his feet slide, therefore running would serve little purpose. He focused on his enemy’s face and ignored the firearm. Joe was intent on murder, gun or no gun.
The man said, “I told you to keep away from my wife you arsehole, but no, you’re too fucking hard aren’t you—well you’re not as hard as a fucking bullet.”
“Ah, so you’re the dickhead that spoke to me on the phone.” Joe shook his head. “Steph is your ex-wife you prick.” Joe walked faster. “Don’t you know what that fuckin’ means?”
“You don’t even know my name do you—fucking greaseball.”
“I do know your name,” Joe said. “Your name is dickhead.” Only four metres to go, Joe thought, and then he’s fuckin’ mine. Joe lost his footing.
“Well, respect should be considered for the man about to kill you, so maybe you should address me as Mr H.”
“Maybe you should shove that old gun up your arse.” Joe continued trying to walk in the deep snow.
Mr H, as he referred to himself, squeezed the trigger and his arm leapt upward.
There was a loud ping, as the bullet ricocheted from Joe’s helmet. He ran, ducking left and right as he slipped on the snow. He got to within two metres of his target and raised his knife. The second bullet ripped through Joe’s throat at close range. The snow directly in front and behind him stained red.
Joe’s features contorted, as he fell forward on his knees, grasping his torn throat with his left hand. Blood gushed between his fingers, chilling as it oozed over his hand. A fresh warm spray burst out between his fingers. As the final seconds of life drained from him, Joe turned to his brother, already severely injured and tethered.
“He can’t help you, Big Joe.” Mr H drew back his right foot to kick his dying adversary.
Joe threw the knife to Max with the last of his strength. He gazed at his brother’s face and mouthed the words, “Kill him.” Joe didn’t see what happened next. A black leather toecap connected with his face and he fell forward. The deep, fresh snow accepted Joe’s weight like a soft foam mattress.
When he kicked Joe, the man in leather slipped and fell onto his back.
Max’s head filled with a torrent of emotion as he watched his courageous brother fall. Max let go of his bleeding leg and dived forward to grab the knife from the snow. As he pulled his arms back together to throw, he saw the murderer lying in the snow aiming the pistol.
“No witnesses big bad Max.” Mr H squeezed the trigger. There was a click from the old weapon. He looked at it in disbelief and tried to fire again. Another click came from the ageing Webley. The cowardly assassin scrambled to get to his feet and fell to his hands and knees. He was four metres away from the injured biker.
Max the Knife was the biker leader’s name in the club. His skills with a blade would be severely affected by having the use of only one eye, and both his wrists bound, but he’d still try. When the handgun failed, Max made a lightning assessment. He took a quick breath and forced himself up to one knee for a few painful seconds.
As Mr H fumbled with the gun, he ignored the threat of the knife for a second too long. He looked up and managed to turn away when he saw the blade fly towards him. The weapon missed his throat but sliced deep across his right cheek lifting a flap of skin.
Blood poured from an open cheek and torn ear, and there were screams of pain. Mr H got up and ran forward to kick Max in the face. Max grabbed the man’s foot and pulled. The killer landed on his back and realised that even when tethered, the biker would win the fight.
Max’s face took two hits as his desperate adversary kicked and shouted.
“You’ll fucking freeze to death here you greasy bastard.” Mr H repeatedly kicked for his life. He clamped a cold hand to his bleeding, stinging face as he scrambled to his feet.
Max managed to pull the gag from his mouth and gasped for a decent breath. He untied the neckerchief and retied it around his damaged and bleeding leg.
“You’re a fuckin’ dead man,” Max shouted as Mr H crawled and scrambled through the bushes. Max had stared at the clean-shaven face and grey eyes during the brief struggle. He memorised his enemy for their next and final meeting.
A black 4 x 4 came around the bushes and steered towards Max, but he rolled out of the vehicle’s path. Tw
o wheels of the large car bumped over Joe’s dead body, pressing it deeper into the snow. Joe’s bike was hit next and fell over into the snow. The engine died.
Max looked at his younger brother’s body again. For the first time since childhood, tears rolled down Max’s cheeks. “I swear it, Joe, I’ll find him and fuckin’ kill him.” Max’s vision was blurring, and he had difficulty breathing. “I swear on my life, Joe—”
Loss of blood and extreme cold took over. Max’s good eye closed, and he lay down.
4. Hello and Goodbye
“Hey, big fella!” the young woman’s voice shouted. “Wake up for me.”
Max’s right eye flickered, but the left eye was purple and sealed by bruising. His face showed signs of severe punishment. The right eye opened fully. When Max moved, he winced and reached down to grip his right leg.
A young woman with neatly trimmed brunette hair squatted beside him. Snowflakes glistened on her black leathers, as she continued winding a heavy bandage around the blood-soaked neckerchief on the biker’s wounded leg.
“Joe,” Max gasped and moved his head side to side. He tried to look around the crouching woman.
“If Joe is the other guy in Mental Riders colours, I’m sorry mate. You’ve lost him.”
“Who the fuck, are you?” Max said and swallowed. He recalled Joe falling.
“My name’s Rachel,” she said, ignoring the venom in his tone. “The most important thing now is to get you to a medic.”
“No fuckin’ hospitals—”
Rachel stopped working with the large dressing. She turned. “I didn’t say anything about a fucking hospital.” She held his gaze for a moment longer and then held up her gleaming blade before she leant forward to slice through the excess binding. “I said, fucking medic.”
“Right.” Max gritted his teeth.
