Page 23 of The Trust We Broke
For now, we’re just helping an old lady out.
But given the people are Rebels, our nemeses, there’s a conflict of interest.
We killed a high-ranking member of their club, recently. Well, Wraith did. The man killed his wife and child, after all. And right now, we can’t guarantee that this isn’t a response to that.
“I’m calling in reinforcements,” Catfish says. “Just in case.”
There are six of us and ten of them. Even with the lack of balance, I still rate our chances as high.
What I don’t like about the whole thing is that there are a shit ton of patrons in the bar. “Do not kill anyone,” I remind my brothers. “Too many witnesses.”
When we step into the bar, Ember is waiting for us. She hurries over to Atom and whispers something in his ear.
He nods and turns to me. “General disrespect. Breaking glasses, broke a pool cue, harassing women.”
“Then, let’s clean house.”
Atom and I walk to the first of the bikers sitting at the bar, who have yet to notice us. We take them by surprise, grab them by their cuts, and drag them to the exits.
“What the fuck?” the guy I’m hauling out yells. He stumbles, tripping over his own feet. But I don’t stop; I drag.
People part out of our way as the men scramble to try to get their feet back under them. I glance at the cut I’m pulling on. Says his name is Pitbull, and he’s the club secretary.
“What part of ‘no colors inside’ do you not get?” I ask.
“It’s a free fucking country,” Pitbull yells.
“And this is a private establishment with its own rules. You aren’t welcome here in this town. This is our territory. This bar belongs to one of our old ladies. And you need to get a long way from here.”
He finally finds his feet outside and takes a swing at my jaw. “Fuck you.”
I manage to bob and weave out of his reach before landing a punch on the side of his head. While he’s down and dazed, I reach for his weapon, empty it, and toss it down the street.
The last thing I need is to be shot like Butcher was.
“Stay fucking down,” I say.
Atom throws a second guy out. As a rancher, Atom can toss hay bales all fucking day without breaking a sweat. This guy is light weight compared to that.
“Get out, and stay the fuck out,” he says.
Leaving the two of them on the ground is a really bad idea, but Ahmed is right there on the sidewalk, and there are more to remove in the bar.
When I step back inside, Catfish is practically wrestling with a biker the size of a small house. From where I’m standing, the thug is winning.
Gulch, the Rebels’ sergeant at arms, is big. But I’m bigger.
Catfish notices me step up behind him and shoves Gulch right into my arms.
I put him in a chokehold. His attention goes from fighting Catfish to trying to break the tight hold I have around his neck.
“Show up in my town,” I say, “you’ll always be met like this, you fuck.”
His stubby fingernails claw against my leather jacket, and he slaps at my hand as saliva drools from his mouth.
Catfish nails him three times in the ribs, and I feel every one of them as Gulch shifts back against me.
Cameras are out. I see people recording, and I wish I’d thought to cover my face. Butcher once told me that being president puts a whole different target on your back.
