Page 27 of Throttle

Fuck. Was I? This dude who's covered in art, like the rest of us, is giving me relationship advice. His fingers bear tattoos of brass knuckles, and the special markings are not a mystery. Guy did time—heavy time.

Right as I'm about to inquire of his skeletons, a noise emerges from beneath the hill.

I flick my cigarette away and lean forward, hoping it will enhance my ability to see.

Two burly, menacing figures emerge from the garage, making a beeline for the van.

“Should we start up? Get ready to follow them?” our prospect asks me, clenching the bars to his bike.

“Not yet. They’ll hear our bikes.” I study them. “I don’t know how much of a positive or negative this is or not, but I can’t spot any club cuts. At least not on these two goons.” Pipe’s MC or another could have hired regulars to do their driving or perhaps they aren’t wearing their leather. But it’s not likely.

“Looks like they ain’t involved, yeah?”

“No, it doesn’t mean shit.”

Just before getting into the driver's seat, the guy pauses, tosses a whistle to his friend, and gives me and Brass a nod.

Shit.

“Fuck.” I lean back. “Not good.”

We were far enough for them to miss the chance of spotting us. It's simply a strange coincidence that they are looking up the hill behind the van or it is possible that they have a lookout man posted somewhere.

“Fucking shit. We gotta roll. Come on,” I say, not having to tell him twice.

We rev up our bikes and race away as fast as we can.

Side by side, our Harleys roar at the sound of thunder emanating from our pipes. The only thing I care about is getting back to the club in one piece and being alive.

The rear is lit up by headlights. Beginning from a distance, then gradually approaching. We're being trailed and they're about to catch us. Fast.

“Yo, Throttle,” Brass yells to me.

“Yeah, I see it!” Fucking too close. “If you wanted to ride my ass, why didn’t you just say so, fuckers?”

“I feel like now isn’t the time for jokes,” our prospect bellows.

We have a van directly on our tail and all I see is the blinding glare from its headlights.

I curse under my breath, then motion to Brass and indicate the upcoming side road on our right.

We pick up the pace, going faster. Until we make it around the bend without dropping our bikes.

While maintaining a vigilant eye on my mirrors, I notice the person in the passenger seat leaning out and brandishing a firearm at us.

Fuck!

“Brass. Gun! Get down now!”

The noise, like that of a pistol, was nearby. Brass speeds up along with me, swerving and ducking with each shot. Every dent on my Harley makes me angrier and angrier.

POP. POP.

They maneuver around, and I lock eyes with the assailant. Beard with a tattoo under his left eye.

I give him the finger and he responds with a smirk. Should have kept my piece strapped to me.

The man once again takes aim with his gun, this time not directed at me. He targets my front tire.

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