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Prior was already gearing up, giving last minute orders to the twelve or so other members of the MC that were gathered in the lot. “Thought you were bringing all your boys,” Prior said, making note of Tex and Doc’s absence.
Chris raised an eyebrow. “You really want a cop in on this deal?”
Preacher grinned. “That boy ain’t no cop.”
Chris ignored him. “And the other one’s busy.”
Prior grunted. “Gimp’s not a liability?”
To his credit, Easy didn’t flinch at Prior’s insult. God knew he’d heard enough from his old man growing up that it took a lot more than that to get a rise out of him.
“Didn’t lose his trigger finger,” Chris replied, meeting Prior’s sarcasm with some of his own. Now was not the time to educate Prior on the finer points of manners and it would’ve been a waste of time anyway.
“Suit yourself,” Prior finally declared.
Jimmy had been taking out a bike that had been taking up space in the shop for a few weeks now. It hadn’t gone well at first, but he’d slowly become accustomed to using his prosthetic. It was slightly smaller than Chris’ own Super Glide and Hawk’s Street Bob but it was temporary until he saved up enough from working at the garage to get his own wheels.
Prior nodded to everyone, got on his own bike, and headed the caravan that would make its way to the interstate. A white, nondescript panel truck lumbered after approximately one half of the procession and six or so bikers brought up the rear. On the highway, though, they were staggered and inconspicuously spaced so that it was not obvious that they were escorting the larger vehicle.
They took a right at Spearfish and motored up 85 to Teddy Roosevelt Park just over the borders of the Dakotas. Prior turned them onto an access road off the Interstate and just beyond the second curve, Chris could make out a group of about 25-30 bikers all pulled off into a clearing, surrounding an identical white panel truck. Prior signaled everyone to pull up short and kill their engines. Chris frowned at the uneven odds.
Preacher got off his bike, nodded to his second and to Chris and the three of them headed toward a spot half way between the two groups. The President of the Buzzards shook hands with what was apparently the Kamloops Kings, according to their cuts. Canada didn’t have that many MC’s and Chris certainly hadn’t heard of the Kings. It was a wonder that in such a short time they’d managed to assemble such a large club, but then again the weed industry in Canada was a siren call to anyone who wanted to prosper from the boom. A modern day gold rush, as it were.
Their Prez brought two of his own men to the midway spot. Chris planted himself to Prior’s left. The way Chris saw it, if Prior was along for the deal, he wasn’t planning any blackmail since there could be no way to implicate Chris and his unit without also implicating himself. He didn’t know precisely what Prior’s angle was, other than the added firepower and knowledge of tactics was obviously in their favor. Chris knew it wouldn’t be worth his time to even guess at Prior’s motives. The realization, though, that he was on a county road with what amounted to trafficking levels of drugs and guns was a sobering thought. He couldn’t help but be thankful that he hadn’t chosen this life even though he’d been born to it.
He wouldn’t have his unit. He wouldn’t have his garage. He wouldn’t have met Slick. And, frankly, at some point down the line, Preacher Prior was going to end up dead or behind bars the same as their old men. Chris’ old man had died behind bars and Prior’s, though released, had ended up permanently drunk and disabled and living in a trailer on the edge of town.
Chris never talked much about his decision to enlist. He signed up two weeks after Hap Sullivan had been shivved in the yard of South Dakota State Pen. Everyone attributed Chris’ enlistment to being in mourning for his old man. But the truth was, Chris had seen where that life led and hadn’t wanted a goddamn thing to do with it. Here he was, though, years later, standing beside an MC Prez, but he vowed that the first time would be the last time.
“Preacher!” the younger man called out, a large smile on his face. As he got closer Chris realized just how young the guy was. The man to his immediate right was probably only slightly older and to his left was the oldest, more like Chris’ age.
“Fishtail,” Jack acknowledged. Jack nodded to his second who slid a backpack off his back. He opened it and pulled out an AR-15.
