“Yeah, that’s the shit plain and clear,” Apache Dan said. “We’re Disciples so let’s get it on, baby.”
So that pretty much took care of that.
Slaughter figured he had to throw that out there just to be fair on things. Even though he was in charge as the club president of Pittsburgh and nobody disputed the fact, the Disciple Nation had always been a democracy and every patch had his say, every member voted. But Slaughter knew they wouldn’t let him down. It was inconceivable for the men they were. Once you were patched-in to a club like the Disciples, the club and its members always came first. First before wives, girlfriends, family, jobs and your own well-being. First before even God. That’s the kind of connection there was. It wasn’t easy to earn the three-piece patch of the Devil’s Disciples, prospecting for them could be three shades of hell, but once you were part of it, once you were patched-in, you were part of something bigger than yourself and you took care of that and it took care of you.
“All right then,” Slaughter said. “We all agree. So I call a war council and we plan this shit out.”
Once war council was called, everyone yielded to Moondog, the war lord, even the president, because Moondog was the guy who was responsible for the safety of the club, the security of its members, and carrying out raids and retribution against enemies of the Disciples. Moondog, whose real name was Mike Spector, was cut from the same cloth as Slaughter himself: both were ex-Marines. But whereas Slaughter had seen some action in Iraq with the 15th Marine Expeditionary, before he was sent stateside and spent most of his enlistment in the brig, Moondog had been a member of an elite Scout/Sniper platoon and a demolitions expert. There wasn’t much about weapons or explosives, night-fighting or surveillance that he did not know.
So when Moondog spoke, even the baddest boys of the club listened and listened good.
“While you girls been having your hen party, I been scratching down some items we’re gonna need. First off, we all need bikes. Second, we need guns and I’d like some C-4 and det cord just in case. Grenades would be nice. White phosphorus…”
His list was long and detailed.
His strategy, based on Brightman’s map of the NORAD fortress, was sketchy. The fortress was surrounded by a high chainlink fence. That would have to be breeched. There were six doors leading into the structure itself. One or more would have to be blown. Other than possibly the use of several diversions to draw the rats from their den, he had no solid plans and wouldn’t, he said, until he scoped out the place and knew the numbers of the Red Hand, their weapons, what kind of security they were running. Most of the Ratbags at the fortress were ex-military. They were commanded by Colonel Krigg himself, the leader of the Red Hand. Chances were, things would be tight.
“All I can tell you right now is that it’s gonna be fucking hairy,” he said. “That and the fact that I want explosives. Lots of C-4.”
This whole ride into Indian country was going to be one for the books, one to go down in the annals of the Disciple Nation, one to remember.
If any of them survived it, that was.
Chapter Eleven
Three days later, they were ready.
Although Brightman was an asshole and the bikers had absolutely zero respect for guys like him, they had to give him one thing: he got things done. Everything they wanted, they got. If it wasn’t on base, and most of the things they asked for weren’t, Brightman had it flown in—weapons, gear, and motorcycles. Slaughter’s hardtail was ready and waiting for him, but the other six had no scoots. Brightman had fixed that. A variety of bikes were flown in (“liberated” from the Outlaws clubhouse in Milwaukee, apparently). Apache Dan found himself a chromed-out FXR that he fell in love with, Shanks and Fish both chose black ice Screaming Eagle Road Kings, Jumbo grabbed a custom ‘54 Panhead, and once Irish sat in the saddle of a sweet green flame Softail lowrider, you couldn’t get him off it. It was a serious improvement over the variety of ugly, patchwork, Frankensteinian ratbikes he’d thrown together over the years.
There was one bike that nobody touched because they knew it would be Moondog’s: a Boss Hoss 375 Horse with a deadly 100-HP nitrous boost. It was ceramic black with a red spider on the gas tank, a road monster with so much meat that nobody but Moondog wanted to tangle with that lady.
“That’s her,” he said when he saw it. “That’s the Widow.”
Brightman also got them an olive drab school bus to stow their supplies, bikes, extra fuel, and to take cover when needed. It was customized with a fold-down ramp in the back to run their bikes up, bunks for the boys, and a radio with which Slaughter would contact Brightman when he made the grab of the bio. Anytime a club went on a road ride for any distance, they brought along a chase vehicle like the bus. But under Moondog’s precise instructions it was more than a chase vehicle, it was a War Wagon riveted with ¾” steel plating cut with narrow gunports and impact-resistant black one-way plexiglass for the windshield. Neither the steel plating nor the plexiglass would stop a heavy round like a .50 caliber, but would give them protection against 9mm and the like. He also had a V-shaped cow-catcher made out of scrap metal and rebar welded to the front end.
“It’ll come in handy,” he said, “in case we have to plow through wrecks or anything.”
Once the bikes were dialed in, they leathered up, got into formation and Moondog said, “Keep the dirty side down and watch your asses.”
Then they throttled up, hungry for pavement.
The Army base was roughly an hour from the Minnesota border, so within sixty minutes, the Disciples crossed into the land of the buffalo… and the undead.
They rode into the wind, high and tight, Slaughter out front as chapter president with Apache Dan at his side as road captain. Next came Shanks and Irish and Jumbo. Moondog was the sweep, the backdoor. As warlord and probably the best rider outside of Slaughter himself, he needed a clear view of the entire column so he could see any trouble long before it happened. Fish trailed in the War Wagon. They all carried walkie-talkies so they could remain in contact with the Wagon.
The pack took the road on their iron horses mile by mile with a collective thunder of six purring hogs and other than a few wrecks, there was nothing to get in their way. Not like the old days when you had citizens in their General Motors cages clogging up all that free space. Slaughter only wished it was the old days when they took to the road with thirty or forty bikes and made a deafening roar, an army of hardriders, invincible, hell-bent and horny, looking for a fight, a rumble, a bare knuckle contest to keep their edge, pussy and booze, fast times and stoned nights.
Those were the days.
But even with some of that maudlin bullshit softening his brain, nothing could take away how he felt to be riding with his brothers and nothing could take from them the thrill, the charge, the brotherhood of being together and not just for a road ride or a field event, some three-day orgy of booze and broads and blood, but a mission, a barbarian campaign. Nothing got their hearts pounding and the red stuff in their veins burning hotter then the idea of an engagement, and this little party was going to be the end-all.
You’re going to lose these boys and you know it, Slaughter thought to himself as the wind blew into his face and his mirrored sunglasses showed him a world that was plucked and pitted like an old rack of bones. Either all of them or most of them. You’ll lose them or they’ll lose you. No way you’re getting out of this pissing contest intact. It’s gonna be dark. It’s gonna be ugly.