Red Beard pushed back. Miracle he didn't put a fuckin' bullet in Dust's brain. They scuffled, rolling against the wall, the other guys around them anxiously fingering their guns.
Prez wasn't lying about a potential bloodbath coming. My eyes flicked through my boys. Joker, Skin, Sixty, Crawl, and the prospects were all lined up against the Torches.
Our crews were roughly equal in numbers. Nobody had a solid position, an advantage, and that sucked serious balls.
Every man here had an equal chance at putting a few holes in the sorry fuck across from him, and receiving a few in turn. Sharp smiled across from me, just itching for a chance to let his rounds blow my ribs apart.
“Alliance is over, fuckface. We'll deal with the Deads on our own,” Red Beard growled. “Whether or not you cough up the guns we settled on and Jimmy's cunt daughter is what's gonna decide whether or not we start killing Pistols, too.”
“No!” I shouted, stepping right into Sharp's muzzle. Fucking thing drove against my chest like a tank, so close to death I could feel every hair on my body standing on end.
I was tempting fate, and I fucking knew it. But that 'cunt daughter' meant Cora. I'd die to keep her safe. Some mad dog redness clouded my vision, mad and primal shit fiercer than all the times it had ever went through my veins before.
“You'll get your guns, asshole,” Dust thundered. “Just as soon as you lower yours and send your men back to their bikes. You already broke standard operating procedure, showing up here instead of the fucking clubhouse. This is our goddamned business – civilian biz. Too fuckin' public for an exchange.”
“Shut up!” Red Beard slammed Dust into the wall, his beer gut helping pin the Prez down. “You fucked us over, and you goddamned know it! We had a good thing going on. We were trading, fighting, sharing intel on the Deads. Now, all that's fucked, and it's your fault. Not ours. I'm not gonna stand here while you try to fuckin' tell me otherwise, shithead.”
When I heard the familiar click of a switchblade opening, it took everything in my power not to start a shooting war that'd get us all killed. Fuck.
Had a sudden flashback to the mountains outside Kandahar. Me and my guys were pinned down, taking a Taliban mortar attack straight up the ass. A couple troops next to me got their arms blown off, and one man lost his head. Fuckers were behind the rocks, shooting at us while their bombs exploded everywhere. All we could do was lay, wait, and put down suppressing fire 'til the cavalry came.
Airstrikes took the terrorist pukes out a couple minutes later. I'd been helpless then, just hoping for a miracle.
This day, this shit...this was worse. Watching Red Beard shove his knife against my Prez's throat fucking gutted me.
Joker moved first. Wrapped his rough hands around another Torches' throat, holding him in a brutal headlock, the kind that'd choke the fuck totally to death if we didn't diffuse this shit quick.
“Rawdog!” Sharp yelled, pulling his gun outta my ribs and turning around. “Prez, that asshole's gonna kill him!”
“Not if I do Dusty first,” Red Beard snarled, his hand gripping the knife like the handle of his bike, one flick away from ending Dust's life. “We're way past heart-to-heart bullshit. I want our cut of the fuckin' guns. I know they're here – you moved 'em when you heard we were rolling into town. Gonna give you one more chance to bring 'em. Right fuckin' now. Do it. Before I decide to push this hungry dagger straight through your goddamned throat.”
“Prez, just say the word,” Skin said coldly, his gun aimed at Sharp's face. “We'll go down fighting, or we'll give these fuckers what they came for. Your choice.”#p#分页标题#e#
The crown had never been heavier for our fearless leader.
Every Prez in an outlaw MC dealt out life and death, heaven and hell, plus everything in between like fucking cards. Dust would either order us to our deaths, or he'd give these fuckstains what they wanted, buying us the time we needed to figure out how to kill 'em good and proper.
I expected to hear the Prez bark, the string of words that would either end this rough ass rocket ride I'd called a life, or else let me breathe the biggest sigh of relief since Afghanistan.
Instead, the crazy fucker did Plan C. Pistols and Torches alike nearly shat their pants as we watched our Prez push himself into Red's blade, blood pouring out around the crack where his throat connected with the knife.
“What the fuck?! You lost your mind, you dumb sonofabitch?” Red Beard roared, falling backward in shock, his hands shaking. The knife dropped outta his hands and clattered on the busted concrete.
He wanted to threaten us. He didn't want to kill the Prez in front of us and trigger the shooting that'd get us all killed.