The Filthy Few (Iron Disciples MC) (19 page)

Suddenly the doors to the inner room explode outwards in a
cloud of bikers, smoke, and gunshots. I jump about two feet when a bullet
strikes the counter in front of me and skitters off to the side. Groups of
leather clad bikers spill out into the common room shooting and ducking. Even
above the sound of the automatic weapons I hear shouts and screams of pain.
Prospect Red points his weapon, fires three times in quick succession before
throwing an arm around mine and Stacy’s shoulders and dragging us both
painfully to the hard floor.

I turn to Prospect Red whose ear is inches from my mouth. I
can’t resist getting in a quick barb. “Looks like mom and dad are getting a
divorce!”

He just looks at me without replying and turns back to the
battle in progress. I cannot believe what I’m seeing. It’s fucking war and I’m
suck right smack in the middle. My heart is in my throat nearly choking me and
pounding away like a fucking jackhammer. If it doesn’t return to normal soon
I’m that shit’s gonna choke to death. I’ll be the first old lady in biker
history to die from her heart in her throat during a shootout. Not the kind of
headlines I would have wanted.

Prospect Red is joined by another biker who is making signs
at us to move. Prospect Red nods and turns to me to relay instructions. And
that’s when I see it. The other biker had a cut on but it was different; not a
lot different, but different nonetheless. I take another look and there it is.
Instead of a Filthy Few patch on his left just opposite the side his heart is
on is a different patch; Men of Mayhem. Probably means the same, but he is
not
one of us!

Our eyes lock for the briefest instant and his eyes widen as
he realizes what I have seen. I grab Prospect Red by the cut and force him to
look at me. He does, just a fraction of a second before my vision goes red! It
takes me a few second to realize what just happened. I can barely see anything,
and what I can see has a blurry red haze in front of it. I can feel hot liquid
running down my face and down my neck where it disappears between my tits. I
wipe my face with my forearm but it does little good. I grab the bottom of my
tee and use that to wipe my face down. Lying in front of me with his face in my
lap is Prospect Red. I look up and the man who obviously shot him is crawling
away from me and firing ahead of him. Abruptly I realize I still have a gun in
my hand. That douchebag who shot Prospect Red either didn’t notice or guessed I
wouldn’t use it. Soft hands grab my shoulders, pushing me down to the floor. I
allow Stacy to push a little but if I’m flat on my tummy I don’t think I’ll be
able to shoot this thing. I extend both arms, gripping the gun as tight as I
can. I have no clue what I’m doing so it’s gonna be pure luck if I can actually
do this thing.

My heart is still hammering away, my breath is coming in
ragged gasps, and my hands are shaking like a leaf in a stiff breeze. I hold my
breath, point the business end of the gun at the douche’s back and yank the
trigger twice. Not a fucking thing happens! I look closely. There are a couple
small buttons and levers. One button is right by the base of the trigger so I
push it. The magazine falls into my lap.

“Fuck!”

Suddenly I am showered with glass and booze! All around me,
mixing in with someone’s blood is someone’s next bender; well, would have been
had it not just got all shot to hell.

I grab the magazine; give it a quick wipe with the hem of my
tee shirt it and unsuccessfully attempt to shove it back into the handle of the
gun. First attempt I get it backwards. Second try yields results. I grab the
top of the gun. I remember seeing in movies where you can push the top part
back toward the hammer and it’s supposed to load a bullet into the barrel. I
grab it and shove it back and cry out in pain as the palm of my hand is raked
over the sharper surfaces of the gun when my hand slips. This time I grab
tighter and I actually do pull it back with a metallic click. I’m pretty sure I
have just loaded my gun. I look up just as douchebag turns around to face me
again. Clearly by the look in his face he didn’t know I had a gun and cannot
believe I am actually pointing it at him.

Casually he brings his gun up and starts to point it at me.
I can hear Stacy hissing in my ear.

“Shoot the fucker Morgan, shoot him!”

In an obvious reaction to Stacy shouting in my ear I yank on
the trigger again. To my complete amazement there’s a loud boom, the gun kicks
back in my hand causing me to drop it on the floor. I look up at the man in
front of me and his eyes are bugging out. He was sure I wouldn’t shoot him. He
also looks unharmed.

He gives me an evil look and mouths two words. “You’re
dead!”

His head explodes in front of me, showering me again in
blood and brains. This time it hits me and I lean to the side and start heaving
over and over again until my stomach aches and there’s nothing left to spew
out. I feel Stacy’s arm around my shoulders and her other hand attempting to
keep my long blonde hair out of the widening pool of blood and vomit. I realize
my hands are empty. I look around but when I don’t see the gun right away I
decide to just leave it here. Over the next several minutes I notice that
sounds of gunfire are slowly being replaced by the sounds of men in agony, men
in hot rage, and women keening over the fallen. I dare glance around the room
and immediately wish I hadn’t. The place is a fucking war zone. All around the
room are men dressed in their coveted cuts; either that of the Iron Disciples
or the enemy club, the Outkasts. My ears are ringing so loudly I can hardly
hear anything else. My throat is dry and burns from all the smoke from the
guns. I still have the taste of blood fresh in my mouth and it’s making my
stomach revolt again. I wonder how long I’m going to taste blood.

Pretty soon I start hearing the authoritative voice of Cade
booming out across the clubhouse. My hearing is still fucked up from the
gunshots so I can’t really make out what he is shouting about. He appears to be
pointing and directing. Standing attention at the clubhouse doors are two men
holding what I believe to be AK-47’s. They look like they’d love to use them
too. A couple minutes later three women dressed in blue scrubs begin checking
out the wounded. Stacy and I scoot out of the way and eventually find an empty
spot on a couch that isn’t covered in blood or a bloody biker. I sit down and
Stacy sits right up against me and grabs my hand in hers. Once glance into her
face and it’s obvious she is totally freaked out! She is definitely not cut out
for the biker lifestyle. I on the other hand am getting one hell of a fucking
initiation to the outlaw lifestyle and what it’s like to be an old lady.

A few minutes later Cade spots us and makes his way over. I
stand to greet him and once his arms are around me I nearly collapse in relief.
He holds me tight, and then begins to gently wipe my face clean. I had
forgotten how much gore is covering my face, hair and chest. I can feel my
stomach roiling again and I’m seriously hoping I don’t vomit on Cade’s boots.

It feels so nice to have him fussing over me; I’ve never had
that before. After a bit he steps back again to look me over. Not only do I
look better I’m sure, but some of the awful smell is gone. I do need a shower
though. Suddenly I notice he is bleeding. Here I am unwounded being cleaned up
by my man who has been shot in the leg.

“Oh my god Cade, you’ve been shot! What the fuck happened at
your meeting? Where’s a nurse? You need medical attention.”

“It’s just a flesh wound.” He says. The slug went in about a
half inch deep into my thigh and passed completely through. It burns a bit but
is perfectly harmless.”

“Yeah I’ll be the judge of that.” I reply, moving to
unbutton his jeans.

“Oh no you won’t, especially not here in front of everyone.
Now see if you can scare up a drink for you two and the second I can break away
I’ll come check on you again but it’s likely to be hours, and then I can only
stay a minute. There’ll be work to do tonight; dirty ugly work to do.”

And just like that he’s gone back into the middle of the
clubhouse where he continues directing the masses. He does leave me with two
clean hand towels and urges me to work on Stacy. She too is a mess. I kneel
down in front of her and dab one end of the towel into a large mug of clean water
that someone was kind enough to leave at my side. Pretty soon the white towel
looks like someone washed it in hot water along with a pair of new pink
panties. Every so often I use the time and close proximity to sneak in a kiss.
Now that she is her beautiful brown self she is more desirable than ever. I try
my best to just focus on her and not the chaos around us but it’s hard. I am
dying to ask Cade what happened in the meeting and why everyone just started
shooting each other. And the bigger question is, is his brother responsible in
some way. Even though the other bikers were wearing Outkast’s cuts, maybe his
brother enlisted in their help somehow.

The Clubhouse Attack From Cade’s Point of View

The moment I walk into the meeting room I know something is
wrong. I can’t put a finger on it, but I know in my gut something is wrong with
this picture. It’s like a sixth sense or something you develop from years of
eating, breathing, and living violence. Your body has a natural alarm system
that picks up on things that your conscious mind cannot. Even before I noticed
people fidgeting around I know something is up. The second I enter the room my
hair on the back of my neck is standing up; that and the hair on my arms. I
know without a shadow of a doubt that something is wrong. Shit’s gonna go down;
I just don’t know what and where. This sixth sense has saved my life on more
than one occasion so I listen to it and I trust it until the rest of me catches
up to what my psyche has already picked up on.

I know the guys sitting around the table; I know them well.
They have been my brothers for more than a decade. We’ve partied together,
fought together, and bled together on more than one occasion. The bond between
us is solid and before today I would have thought, unbreakable. There is
nothing like the bond that develops between men who risk their lives for each
other. There’s nothing quite like it. And that is why I am mystified by the
feelings that are swirling around in my head.

I take my seat between Shooter my Sargent at Arms and my
beloved brother Eddie who is our VP. On one side is my most trusted officer and
brother while on the other is my actual brother who is the man here that I
cannot trust one bit. However, there’s no fucking way he’s gonna try anything
at this table with my brothers present in force. So why the fuck do I feel this
way. It’s the reason after two minutes that I excuse myself claiming need to
empty my bladder and hurry to my office to throw on my Kevlar vest. I almost
never wear the thing, and certainly not in my own clubhouse. So why the hell am
I putting the damn thing on now?

I put my cut back on and return to the meeting in progress.
No one seems suspicious about my brief absence, not even my brother. The topic
on the table the moment is our current problems with the Outkasts MC. My
sources tell me they’re on a patch-over binge. Over the last four months they
have successfully patched over two small clubs and one fairly sizeable one.
From what we can tell, they have just grown their ranks by about 90 members.
That’s a pretty fuckin’ sizeable increase. That’s just an estimate. We don’t
know their current roster, but with these new brothers they’ve added to their
ranks, they have to be getting close to our own numbers.

The current debate is about what to do about it. Shooter is
advocating going at them directly. By attacking small groups of the newly
patched over members we may get some of them to rethink their decision to join
the Outkasts. It’s not a bad move and one we have used successfully.  Right now
we have the guns and the cash to take them on in a small scale. A long war
would be extremely tough.

The other idea on the table is to go on a patch over binge
ourselves. There are several smaller clubs we could probably pressure to become
the newest Iron Disciples. That would certainly be the easiest way even though
these pressured patch over’s often end up with hurt feelings at best and many
opt out all-together. Not every club forcing a patch over will allow the other
club’s members to opt out. Many outlaw clubs still enforce the blood in blood
out in for life attitude.

Rather than having a blood in blood out way of conducting
club business the Disciples just make the process to getting patched in the
most difficult and longest period as a hanger around and prospect. Nine out of
ten prospects fall by the wayside before they’ve put in the usual three year
time period. It’s a difficult three years at that. You are basically at the
beck and call of any fully patched members 24/7. You gotta really want it!