Seventy-seven Brothers isn't riding hard, just leisurely sliding into view. Doesn't surprise me. What's the rush, right? They are more than a match for us. If they wanted to mow us all down, they could. I'd make sure they lost a lot of blood first, but it would be inevitable.
At the helm is a man with three 'V' shaped sergeant stripes on the front of his vest. Sergeant at arms then. I don't look for their President. Believe it or not, most of the time you never see the stupid fuckers. Austin, Kent, Tray – they're anomalies. Presidents of clubs too small to matter much. When you've got a club this big, the President is kept behind locked doors. Besides, why get your hands dirty when you got others to do it for ya?
The bikes pull up in front of us, a much more cohesive unit than our mixed bag o' tricks. Everybody looks perfect, polished. Their rides are so fuckin' clean, they look like they belong in a Goddamn showroom. And they're all American built choppers. Every last one of them done up in silver, white, and blue. Hot damn.
I glance over at Austin, but his face is neutral, carved from stone into a pleasant enough expression. Shoot, he looks like he's about to take a stroll on the damn beach.
The men in the other club cool their rides down, pausing right there in the center of the road. God help anybody who comes down here now. We ain't movin'.
“Are you Austin Sparks?” the Sergeant at arms asks, climbing off his ride and pausing in the sunshine, dark hair reflecting back the sun like a mirror. His cool, blue eyes sweep the group, and a smile lights his face. It's not entirely unpleasant, but there's something creepy about it, too.
“I am,” Austin says, taking a step forward and holding out his hand. The man looks down at it and moves forward, grabbing hold tight and shaking firmly. “What can I help y'all with?” The sergeant at arms takes a step back and glances over his shoulder, letting his eyes move down the row of men straddling their choppers. None of the others bother to climb off. I take it they don't plan to stay long. That's a good thing, though. I sniff the air and taste a hint of violence on the back of my tongue. If we stay calm, handle this thing well, maybe we'll be alright. I take a wide stance and wait with my chin up, a slight smirk on my face.
“Well, you see. We're here to ask you a few, small favors. Now, it's up to you to decide if you're going to do them for us. You say no, we say okay. But then there's a game changer. See, then the favors become fervent requests. And after that, well. You don't really want to know what comes after that.” The man smiles with his small teeth. I don't like the look of 'im. Not one fucking bit. He's got pale blue eyes and a sense of entitlement. In another life, this man would be an ex-frat boy, working a nine to five and cheatin' on his wife. He hardly looks like he could be the Sergeant at arms for an MC as big as this one. Guess looks can deceive.
“We'll see what we can do. What exactly did you have in mind?” Austin asks, keeping his stance relaxed. His sandy hair ruffles a bit in the breeze but otherwise, he's completely still. The man facing him glances over his shoulder again, takes another look at his men.
“It's real easy,” he says, turning back again, letting his attention fall to the Triple M'ers on either side of Austin. “Hand in your cuts, gather your people and take a hit.”
“Excuse me?” Austin asks, dropping his arms by his sides. Aw, shit. I move forward, but not a lot, just enough to make the other side nervous but not spook the crap out of 'em.
“Take a hit from me to make up for the disrespect you've shown us by coming through here without permission, for committing thefts against communities we consider ourselves a part of, and for the deaths of the men you've taken on your way here. Three simple things is all we ask. And when you're done, you can leave.”
“You have got to be motherfucking kidding me?” Austin says, his voice this frigging close to violence. “You want our jackets? You want to fucking punch me? In front of my club?” Murmurs and snarls break out on our side. Respect. It goes a long way in this life, especially for people like us, people who choose to view life from a different angle. We don't collect fancy cars or houses, horde money, make investments. We travel the road, collect sights and sounds instead. Respect and pride are practically currency here. And now we're being asked to pay a massive debt?
I lick my lips and get ready for shit to start. They aren't going to kill us, not unless we take it to that level, but this is going to hurt.
“What's it going to be, Mr. Sparks?” the Sergeant asks, lifting his chin up and waiting in the peaceful silence of a summer afternoon. I look over at Kimmi's stern face, let my gaze move back over to Mel's stoic expression.