Page 27 of Jasper
Right as I remove the empty bottle from my mouth, I catch sight of something through the bottom of the bottle. It’s the reflection of what appears to be a biker. I look directly through the bottle with one eye. It is a fuckin’ biker, about three streets over. He’s not one of ours. That means he’s likely a fucking Hyena, though from here I can’t see the patch on his vest. I toss the bottle aside, pull out my cell phone, and zoom in with my camera. It’s a Hyena alright, with three more following close behind.
“Gotcha, motherfuckers,” I whisper under my breath as I watch them ride into a small warehouse.
I capture as much as I can until they shut the warehouse door. Then I send it to the family group chat.
Slate calls me immediately. “How the everlovin’ fuck did you find them?”
“Let’s just say I had a higher vantage point, and they rode right past my line of vision.”
“This one of those warehouses on Lightning Bolt Drive?”
“Yeah, I’m looking right at it. How about you get a crew together and scout it out?”
“I’m on it,” he says with excitement.
I don’t even realize the others have stopped working until the sound of hammering falls off behind me. The guys are lookin’ at me.
Trigger jerks his chin in my direction. “What’s going on? Is there trouble on the way?”
I shoot him a feral grin. “Reckon I found the Hyenas’ hideout. They’re holed up in a warehouse, three streets over.”
Nitro’s holding the beam that Trigger was hammering into place. “Fucking hell, you’re the luckiest bastard that ever walked the face of the earth.”
Dark glee fills every corner of my soul, ‘cause he’s not wrong about that.
“Slate’s gonna check it out. He’ll let us know what he finds.”
They get back to work, talking about how our whole club has been looking for them for days now and I found them while I was roofing a fuckin’ house. I keep my phone recording and trained on the warehouse, giving Slate a chance to get into place.
I keep my focus on the warehouse I saw them go into. Four more bikes move slowly down the road towards the warehouse, all flying the Hyenas’ colors. They don’t even bother to hide their bikes inside the warehouse. They boldly park right out in front. These bikes are different from the cobbled-together trash that ran me off the road a few weeks back. I can’t tell the quality of these bikes because they’ve all been painted matte black. One of them has got a red bandana tied to the bars. That’s all I need to see. They’re Hyenas all right, and unless I miss my guess, the one with the bandana is their road captain.
It strikes me as strange that they set up their clubhouse right in the middle of the town’s industrial district. They’re not trying to hide. They’re walking around like they own the block.
A flatbed truck rolls up while I’m watching. A couple of guys hop out and start unloading gear from the bed. From where I’m standing, it looks like cement mixers. They’re not rental grade either, but industrial size—old but serviceable.
They aren’t completely stupid. They’ve got men guarding the warehouse. Two guys are standing watch on either side of the roll-up door. One has a rifle, and the other has his arms folded and a chain looped over one shoulder. The attitude they’re throwing off makes me want to go over and punch the arrogant fuckers right in the face. I don’t though, because that’s Slate’s job and he’d get pissed if he didn’t get to do it.
I crouch low and keep recording on my phone, zooming in as tight as possible. The camera shakes a little at full stretch, but I manage to get a clean shot of the gear, then the faces, then one of the bikes with a partial plate.
That’s when I see about a dozen of my club brothers converging on the warehouse from every direction. I can’t helpbut smile because this has the same excitement level as watching sports live on television—maybe a little more, to be honest.
I tap Slate’s name and hold the phone to my ear.
“Yo,” he answers, tension strung tight in his voice.
“Four more Hyenas arrived at the warehouse since I notified you of their whereabouts. They got at least two guys on lookout by the bay doors. The one on the left has a rifle.”
There’s a pause.
“Don’t worry. I’ll put the fuckers down.”
“How many times do I gotta tell you we need hostages to interrogate, not dead bodies to hide?”
“Yeah bro, whatever you say.”
“One of the guys was wearing that faded red rag. The same one I saw on the shoulder of the prick that ran me off the road. I think he’s their fuckin’ road captain. I want him, if you can manage it.”
Slate’s voice sharpens. “I’ll make that fucker my prime target.”
