Page 13 of Bishop

Tiny and two of his Nazi-scum friends exited the stalls as if we were all living out a really bad movie script.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Tiny asked, a field of broken and missing teeth showing like a jack-o'-lantern’s as he grinned at his good fortune. “Looks like fresh meat is on the table tonight, boys.”

Chapter 6

Bishop

Forester, the man to Tiny’s left, cracked his knuckles as he sized me up and down. “We got ourselves a pretty boy, Lieutenant. Some no-good biker trash who thinks he’s tough shit.”

Jesus, they’d actually given each other ranks? What a fucking joke. There was nothing organized about these cocksuckers. They thrived off the chaos and pain of others. Kind of the opposite of any military institution I’d ever known.

“That’s right. Just some pretty biker trash,” Tiny agreed, licking his dried and cracked lips. “What do you say we teach this little cunt a lesson.”

This was clearly a setup. Becker was getting back at me for running to Evie’s defense earlier. The guard was a fucking disgrace. Corrupt. Cowardly. And, based on how Evie had had to defend herself during our culinary lesson, a filthy sexual predator. I’d make him pay later. Right now, I had to pay attention to the three men in front of me. The absolute last thing I needed was to lose focus while tussling with these jackals.

I snorted. “Did a group of Nazi scum, who probably all came from the same inbred trailer park, just call me biker trash? Fucking hilarious!”

All three men turned alternating shades of red. Forester shook his head and sneered. “You don’t know how to keep that loud mouth of yours shut, do you, Wilmont?”

“That’s okay,” Tiny interjected, squeezing the crotch of his jumpsuit. “I got something that will keep him silent all night long.”

My eyes scanned the room for anything I could use as a weapon. Being in prison, they don’t just leave dangerous shit lying around for the inmates to beat each other to death with.

I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to take all three of them down, but I knew who I'd be aiming for first. The leader of their rag-tag gang. If I toppled that giant, Tiny, I figured the other two would fold and run.

I was also really hoping Becker was only trying to scare me. If he was willing to let these fucking scumbags gang rape a prisoner he’d fed to them, he was more of a low-life piece of shit than I thought.

Having fought professionally for so many years, my fingers instinctively assumed a curled position in anticipation of what was to come.

“Tiny, how many times I gotta tell you, man?” I said with a dark grin, though it came out more like a snarl. “I’m not afraid to take a few punches because chicks dig scars.”

“The only bitch I see right now is the biker trash standing in front of me about to get his ass beat,” Tiny returned, taking a predatory step forward, his minions covering his flank.

I might be pretty, but I knew how to fight. I’d learned on the streets of my old neighborhood. Though I’d never told my mother or sisters, it was how I’d managed to keep our family afloat during the hard times after my dad had died.

I’d started at sixteen in the back alleyways of bars where we'd sneak beers and hold MMA-style matches. After I’d defeated all the boys my age, I’d begun to challenge full-grown men. I’d taken my beatings over the years. But eventually, I was taken under the wing of a local gym owner who taught me how to fight for real. And that's where I'd met German, our Road Crew Master, who introduced me to the rest of the Devil's Riders at a Club party.

These want-to-be Nazi scum might think they were tough, but I knew tough. Tough was being brought up poor with no food to eat for several days on end. Tough was looking your little sister in the eye and telling her there were no Christmas gifts the same year she’d lost her father to a heart attack and her childhood home to the bank. Tough was beating a man twice your size and age in a bare-knuckles fight in the cellar of a crack den to feed and clothe your family. I knew tough. These men weren’t tough. They were bullies. Assholes who exploited others weaker than themselves for self-gain. Well, I wasn’t weaker than them. And I was about to teach these cunts all about what happened when you picked on the wrong person.

The first to lunge at me was Mute. I’m not sure if he actually was one or not, but the skinny fucker never talked and had legitimately earned himself the moniker. The man weighed less than your average preteen, but he was a wiry bastard who was as ruthless as an entitled chihuahua named Princess. His go-to move was to get a man on the ground, bite him in the neck, and rip chunks of flesh off with his artificially sharpened teeth.

Tiny’s beady eyes narrowed as he watched Mute do his thing. Lucky for me, the man wasn’t a good fighter, just crazy. I waited until the last second to move to the side, grab Mute by the shoulders like a skilled matador, and propel his head into the porcelain of the sink.

Life isn’t like the movies. Most fights start and end after only a few well-placed blows. Mute crumpled unconscious to the ground as soon as his skull made contact with the blunt edge of the sink.

In the mirror, I saw that Forrester was shooting his shot. Throwing the dumb prick off his balance, I took a knee and used the momentum of the man’s own body to hurl him at the mirror. The glass didn’t shatter, but it did web brokenly along the length of the wall.

Somewhere between awake but unable to move, the Nazi bastard lay stunned on the floor, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish that had suddenly been dragged ashore. Dazed, he wheezed pathetically and coughed up a mouthful of blood and spit that dribbled pathetically onto the lapel of his jumpsuit.

I whipped around to deal with Tiny then, who undoubtedly would attack while my back was turned. Unfortunately for me, my assumption was correct and it was too late to stop the enormous fist sailing toward my face.

I was able to deflect it some, but not completely. Stars exploded behind my eyes as bone and flesh made contact with my right eye.

Scrambling blindly backward to get out of reach, I used Mute like a human shield and stopped Tiny’s next strike by bodily holding the man in front of me. The crunch of broken ribs told me I’d made a sound decision as the man's limp frame literally bent double.

Enraged, Tiny screamed and kicked Mute out of my arms like a human football. The man’s body skidded out of sight across the polished floor under one of the stalls. He was going to feel that in the morning.

Dropping his three-hundred-pound body angrily down onto the tile, Tiny straddled my waist and started using both fists to rain blows down onto my torso and face.

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