Page 80 of Biker's Tribute: Property of Bear

One eye makes it harder to shoot, but it's still possible. Not good enough for the army, but it's good enough for Ethan Shaw.

If I ride recklessly, I'll get to Ludlow Street – the one with all the fancy condos on Google Maps – in twenty minutes. Let's hope one of the other boys gets there first. I only have a couple guns loaded up in the Indian Scout. I sawed off my shotgun, so it's easier to fit in my cut. But it's a fucking mess to bang a bullet out and the shit jams up all the time because Ruger was high off his ass on meth when he assembled it for me.

The ride starts off smooth, easy enough to push fifty, even fifty-five on the side streets and I don't run into any cops. For the first ten minutes, my ride is so smooth, I get suspicious. You don't get much good in life before the bad comes and whacks you on the ass.

Just as I turn onto the street Ethan sent me, I recognize the problem. A blocked off street. Without thinking, I stop the bike, pull my shotgun out of my cut and fire at the "look out" before he realizes what's happening. Element of surprise always works on an unprepared enemy. Sun Tzu shit.

I don't get him in the head, but I get him, because the Chrysler roars to life and the window rolls down as the front wheels turn. I don't have time to sit here and fight. I hear more bikes, which means Ethan's back up must have materialized and I won't be alone firing bullets for long.

With one eye and adrenaline coursing through me, it's harder to aim. I steady my hand and let instinct take over. My body feels the depth of the Chrysler's tires and with one hand, I shoot. The kickback nearly dislocates my fucking shoulder. Pain sears through me, but it was all worth it to disable the vehicle.

The guy in the front seat leaps out of the car and I can't tell if he's firing at me or not because I can't hear shit. I race for the condo door and pull it open. I almost shoot the man in the hallway, before the flash of red hair functions like a stop sign.

Reed?

“Don’t shoot, asshole! Magnum’s on the way.”

Reed Hollingsworth is one of those men that just looks mean. He has narrow, amber eyes and freckles all over his face that match his thick head of red hair. He was always taller than average, so he didn't get teased too much because of his hair.

If he hadn't torn his ACL after McGraw, he would have been drafted by the Cardinals as a wide receiver. His athleticism puts him at a distinct advantage when Southpaw sends us off to work a job together. He's a lot easier to get along with than Gideon or that crazy motherfucker, Ruger.

"I won't shoot. How far is Condom?"

"Are we really doing this?"

"Sticking to the rules? Yes."

Southpaw gave us specific instructions about how we're meant to conduct ourselves when on a job. You never know if there's some fancy ass camera or microphone somewhere... We need nicknames to keep ourselves safe and keep the upper hand during any potential prosecution.

It's not like it's impossible to get into trouble. Look what happened to Sinclair...

Ruger gave me a new patch with my club name "Zeb" when I finally patched-in last summer. It feels good to finally make this official. I never thought I would find a place amongst civilians when I got home from Libya. The club is as much of a family as the Army with just as much drinking, but a lot more fun and fucking around.

Reed rolls his eyes. "Condom is about five minutes out. Think we should bust in there?"

"The cops might be on their way."

"Not with all the protests going on these days."

There's always protests going on these days, it seems. Nothing ever changes. It's still $7 for a dozen eggs. I still have to fight with the VA to get proper treatment for the missing eye. It's not a one time thing to lose an eye. I've had to change everything about my life.

Shit, that bullet might have taken out a piece of my brain for all I know...

Hog shrugs. "So what? We let these guys bleed out?"

Condom beats the clock. Hog and I only get a chance to wander around the cars checking out the scope of the damages before Magnum's bike wheels around the corner. He looks pissed before he takes his helmet off. The man has anger issues, I swear.

It doesn't help that California has been on fire for a whole week and he lost at least 15% of his properties to the burn. Scary shit happening out there.

"I tapped a police radio," he growls. "Someone reported gunshots around this area. Was that completely necessary?"

"They got Bear upstairs," I respond to Magnum. Best if I handle the dialogue with Magnum and not let that redhead's temper enter the conversation. Magnum strides closer to me, forcing me to inhale the strong stench of whiskey as he peers into the Chrysler's front window.

"Who the fuck are these people?" he growls. "I need to get started on the drive to LA."

I shrug. No clue. If I had to guess, I would say they were mobsters. But I'm not an expert on any of that Godfather shit. The guys we shot just look like stereotypical guidos.

Magnum grunts disapprovingly and runs his hand through his hair. Frustrated. Nervous. Not drunk enough. I can't really tell. Reed's dumb ass responds with idle conversation.

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