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The area around it was overgrown, and the shelter was leaning dangerously. The wood rotting and well on its way back to the Earth from where it originally came.
It had been the perfect spot to store the guns. The only problem was that the night was dark, the temps down to nutsicle weather and the location wasn’t very close to The Barn and the farmhouse.
Trip considered the distance as a good thing. He wanted to draw the Shirleys as far from the club’s home base as possible. He figured if everyone set up in the woods, they might be able to draw the inbred goat fuckers into the open field. Then they’d have no problem picking off those motherfuckers, even in the dark with only the light of the moon and glow of the fresh fallen snow.
Of course, nothing ever went that smoothly. Even so, they’d still do their best to stick to that plan.
“Everyone make sure your AR, shotgun or whatever I handed you is loaded and ready to fire. Safeties off. Fill your pockets with extra ammo. This needs to be over and the casualties cleaned up before daylight. Shade brought the van so we can load up any bodies and take them immediately to the crematorium to get rid of any evidence of their existence.”
“Hey,” Sig called out. “Castle just texted me. He saw some other vans he didn’t recognize. Didn’t look like Shirley vans. They didn’t come off the mountain, either, but were hoverin’ nearby.”
“More black vans?” Judge asked.
“He couldn’t tell what color but they were dark and windowless.”
Trip and Judge exchanged looks.
“Could be feds,” Judge guessed, tugging at his beard with one hand while holding a sawed-off shotgun with the other.
“Who the fuck would call in the fuckin’ feds?” Sig growled. He glanced around the half-circle. “None of us.”
Oh shit.
Trip tugged his baseball cap lower. “They never cared about those uncle-daddy fuckers before, why would they care about them now?” He glanced at Judge. “Think someone tipped them off?”
The club enforcer shrugged.
What. The. Fuck.
Besides the Fury, who else knew what was going on up the mountain? According to Jet, Max Bryson had given his piglets the order to stay away from the Shirleys. They hadn’t seen any state oinkers sniffing around, either.
“What reason would the feds come ‘round unless they were given a heads up?” Sig asked, a sharp edge to his voice.
“I don’t know,” Trip answered, “but after tonight, after this is over, we need to dump these guns. We don’t need a fuckin’ raid.”
Judge jerked his chin up at Deacon. “Did the women and kids get to Mansfield okay?”
“Yeah,” Deacon answered his cousin. “Checked with Reese. They’re all there and they’re all good.”
Trip raised his voice. “Like I said when we went over the plan the other night, we don’t shoot first. Let’s try to draw them into the field, if possible. If they take cover, this fight will last longer than necessary. Let’s also try to take out as many as possible using stealth. You all should have your knives on you. Shade, do what you do best. The rest? If you can get close enough without dyin’ or gettin’ injured, take ‘em out as quietly as you can. Once the gunfire starts, expect shit to hit the fan. Keep to cover. Stay low. Be careful of crossfire. You ain’t gonna be able to live with yourself if you shoot one of our own.”
“Think more of us need military backgrounds,” Cage whispered to Rook.
“Yeah. Thank fuck for Trip,” Rook answered under his breath, trying to picture Jet in a Marine uniform and being stationed in the middle east or somewhere in an active combat zone.
He wondered if she ever killed anyone. He’d have to ask her. But right now, he needed to concentrate on the shit going down in their own combat zone.
“Phones on silent,” Judge ordered. “Communicate by text. If any of the prospects spot the vans or Shirleys on foot, they’re to send out a group text with the number of bodies and the direction they’re headed.”
“Thinkin’ they’ll park off the farm somewhere and sneak in,” Shade murmured.
Trip continued, “Right, which means they’ll hit the farmhouse and bunkhouse first, assumin’ we’re sleepin’.”
This type of situation was the exact reason windows weren’t installed on the first level of The Barn or the bunkhouse. It had been a tip Trip had received from Zak, the president of the Dirty Angels, during one of their meets. That club had a lot of experience dealing with people who’d wanted to steal their women and kill their members. Even take over their territory.
“Shade, Ozzy and I will head back up there. Got my four-wheeler parked near The Barn. It’s loud, so it’ll catch their attention. Will head this direction and hope they give chase. Shade and Ozzy will take out as many as they can before they get to the field.” Trip held up his hand and took a breath. “Look, this sounds more organized than what it’ll be. Once they arrive, things will go sideways quickly. This ain’t a military maneuver, but we fuckin’ got this. Our brotherhood survived goin’ into their territory twice to save our own, so I’m figurin’ we got ‘em by the balls by havin’ them where they don’t know the terrain as well. They’ll be in our backyard now, not their own.”
