"Can we help you?" he yelled over the music.
Throttle went over to the bartender. "Turn the fuckin' music down."
"Who the fuck do you think you are? I'm not turning shit down."
"I'm the guy who's gonna kick your ass good if you don't do as I ask. We got business here."
The bartender stared at Throttle and then threw his rag down, bent over, and fiddled with something in a cupboard. The noise level decreased, and Throttle walked back over to where Hawk stood. Two Night Rebels went behind the bar on either side of the bartender.
"That's better," Hawk said.
"What the fuck do you want?" Hitler asked.
"Your bottom rocker, and then my fist in your fuckin' face."
"You're on our turf. You should think-"
"Fuckin' correction, asshole. You're on our turf, and that's the problem," Throttle hissed.
Hawk took a step toward the president. "Why the fuck you wearing the bottom rocker? You didn't get permission from the Insurgents. You're doing business in our state and our territory. Night Rebels are with us. You've been doing all kinds of shit on their turf."
Hitler sneered at Steel. "We don't recognize Injuns as anything but trash."
The tension in the air hissed.
Hawk gestured to Ace and Hoss to help the two Night Rebels members, Doc and Pokey, take the citizens to the back room. They complied, pushing the four angry people out of the main area.
Hawk pushed Hitler.
The two men with him stepped forward, their shoulders thrown back, their faces distorted and blotchy, as they clenched their fists.
Throttle shoved them, and one of them fell to the right.
The rest of the Skull Crushers came over, some carrying pool cues, all of them taking out their chains and knives. Throttle and the others kept their eyes peeled for any handguns, knowing that if anyone drew, the scene would turn from a violent fight to a bloodbath.
Most of the Insurgents and Night Rebels had thick rings with their insignia on them on all of their fingers. They provided the same effect as brass knuckles. In Throttle's estimation there were about fifteen Skull Crushers and, with the two clubs combined, there were about twenty on his side. His blood was pumping as adrenaline shot through him in anticipation of the fight. Each and every time a rumble was about to begin, he'd get a real big charge which fueled him throughout the fight.
"We're gonna let you off with a warning. Don't ever wear a ‘Colorado' bottom rocker. Just remember, next time you're all fuckin' dead."
Like lightning, Hawk punched Hitler's face.
One of the Skull Crushers slammed his fist into Throttle's back. Rage surged through him.
He whirled around, grabbed the fucker by his T-shirt, and forced him down. He could hear the rasp of ripping material. Once on the ground, the Skull Crusher slammed his brass knuckles into Throttle's shin.
He lifted his steel-toed boot and pummeled the guy with it.
Black metal music thumped as the men shoved, kicked, stomped, and punched each other. Rough hands pulled at cuts and T-shirts. From the other side of the room, Throttle saw three guys attacking Tigger as he lay on the ground.
Rushing over and leaping like a panther, Throttle landed on one of the Skull Crushers' back. He smashed his industrial flashlight over the man's head, his blood sticky and warm on Throttle's fingers.
In that moment, from the right, a fist of metal crashed against him. "Fuck!" His voice was tight with rage, his tongue soaked in the taste of blood.
He swung around and sank his balled fist into his attacker's gut.
The Skull Crusher grunted, then fell to his knees.
Throttle lifted his leg and shoved his foot into the man's face. He heard the crunch of bone. "You fuckin' asshole!"
He swung around and met the crazed gaze of a burly, tall man.
"We're going to teach you a lesson, you fuckin' pieces of trash. When we're done, we'll be wearing whatever the hell we want on our patch!" The Skull Crusher's balled fist collided with Throttle's cheekbone.
His head flailed like a branch caught in the wind. As he staggered backward, he nearly fell over the table. Red spilled out from his open wound.
The Skull Crusher came in for round two.
Regaining his balance, Throttle bent low and then came up high, clipping the burly man in his Adam's apple. The man howled, then dropped to the floor, where Throttle whacked the back of his back with the flashlight. Hard. Then he turned the Skull Crusher over and punched him in the face, snapping his nose into a mangled mess.
The fight lasted only six minutes, but the stench of sweat, urine, and rusting iron permeated the joint. Pools of red were scattered around the room, flies already buzzing above them. Throttle, bruised and cut, stumbled over to the bar where the others wiped off the remnants of the brawl.
All the Skull Crushers had been subdued and their cuts ripped from them. Jerry took them and sliced off the bottom rockers with his hunting knife. "Let's burn these."
Hawk nodded, and several members of the two clubs hollered as Jerry doused them in lighter fluid from behind the bar and lit them up. Many of the members looked like they'd been thrown through a windshield at a high speed. The swelling of cheeks, broken noses, busted lips, and black eyes began to appear.
After the bottom rockers were burned, Hawk went over to Hitler who lay on the ground, holding his battered head and face in his hands. "You ever wear a ‘Colorado' rocker again, you're fuckin' dead. You get the fuck out of this county. If you don't, we'll blow up your goddamned clubhouse."
Throttle kicked him in the ribs. "Now you've been fuckin' told."
The two clubs shuffled out of the bar. Hawk gave some money to the bartender to cover the cost of damages and cleanup; then they revved their Harleys and headed back to the Night Rebels' clubhouse. They'd need plenty of whiskey, the club girls to clean and patch them up, and the doctor on call to stitch up the wounds.
The distaste in their mouths and cores had been washed away by the Skull Crushers' blood.
They would be no more.
Mission accomplished.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
On day three of not hearing from Throttle, Kimber decided that instead of overanalyzing, she'd simply ask one of the prospects who were stationed outside her house. She hadn't been able to focus, which wasn't good for the customers or her studies, and as much as she attempted to stay positive, worst-case scenarios kept flitting through her mind.
She stepped out on her porch and recognized Puck as the one on duty. "Hi," she said casually.
He stretched his neck toward her and grunted. She wondered if grunting was one of the requirements of becoming a full-patched member. She made a mental note to ask Throttle about it after she wrung his neck for worrying her; that was if he were okay. He has to be okay.
She held out a can of Coors to Puck. "Do you want one? It's so damn hot out here."
He shook his head, his eyes darting back to the cluster of trees across the street from her. "Why don't you come inside? I know Throttle would be cool with that. I mean, you're here to make sure no one breaks in, so being in or out really makes no difference. Right?"
He didn't answer, just kept staring. Guess the answer's no. "Do you know when Throttle is supposed to get back?"
He shook his head, and she resisted the temptation to clobber him with her potted plants. "He's okay, isn't he? I mean, I haven't heard from him in three days. I'm worried. Can't you give me something to ease my mind?"
"Don't know anything."
So he can talk. Good to know. "Is there any way you can find out?"
He shook his head, jaw jutted out, then turned his chair so his back faced her. Taking that as her cue that the "conversation" was over, she walked back inside the house and put the beer in the refrigerator. Then she sat down on the couch, wishing Throttle would call or text her. An empty feeling in the pit of her stomach frayed all her nerves. She couldn't just sit around, glancing at her phone, wondering if he was going to contact her.
She leapt up, grabbed her keys, and jumped on her Harley. Swinging a right at the stop sign, she headed to the Insurgents' clubhouse to find someone who could answer her questions.
When she pulled up to the electrified gate, Blade was the member on duty. She threw him a smile. "Can you open the gate, please?"
He stared stone-faced and picked up a receiver. Her eyes widened. "Are you serious? You have to call to see if I can come in?"
"You have ties with the Demon Riders. Gotta check."
She couldn't believe her connection to Chewy a few years back put her on the "Do Not Enter" list with the club. Why she didn't just live a normal life in the citizen's world escaped her; it'd be a lot simpler. But she knew the danger and edge the outlaw world had were what attracted her. Besides, she was hopelessly in love with Throttle.