Page 8 of Indie

Bright white lights illuminated the carpark like someone had just switched on floodlights. Behind me an engine purred, almost Harley like. But this was no Harley, despite the sound it tried to mimic.

“Fuck, Indie. They’ve made a right mess,” Fury noted, stepping down out of the pimp-my-ride truck. “We know who they are?”

“It’ll be The Notorious. My money’s on it,” Sicknote pushed.

“Probably,” I agreed.

“So why don’t we just hit them straight back? Right now. They’ll not be expecting retaliation right this minute.”

Fury looked at me, quirked an eyebrow, then turned to the prospect.

“And who we’re gonna send to do the job, eh? You two? You looking to earn those patches quicker, Sicknote?”

“Nah…I just thought it would be a great idea.”

“Reckon you should just leave the military strategizing to the vets, mate,” Fury grinned and even in the dark, Sicknote’s cheeks coloured. “Although I want to see those camera feeds,” Fury continued.

I nodded, tipping my head, and he followed me towards the garage and round to the steel steps that led up the side of the building.

We crowded round the boxy monitor that sat on a shabby wooden desk, grainy images moving on screen. The cameras had picked up some movement, but they were old, long past replacing.

“Shit, Indie. These images are crap. We’re replacing these cameras of yours next,” Fury complained from the side of me.

“There!” Sicknote blurted, his forefinger just skimming past my nose as he pointed at the screen we were all looking at.

I turned and glared, and he quickly wrenched his arm back to his side, the Adam’s apple of his scrawny throat bobbing with a tense gulp.

“Fucking idiot,” I breathed, not quite under my breath.

We could all see the same images. The same low-res video output of a truck, a car and another singular spot of white from the headlight of a bike. It didn’t take a clear image from my cameras to know that this was the same trio of vehicles I had seen pass me moments earlier. The CCTV images were too shit to get a clear look at the people who slunk about in the shadows, never mind the registration plates of the cars. And they’d made no attempt to conceal themselves, other than the balaclavas on their faces.

“Reckon you know who they are, Sicknote?” I taunted.

“It’s difficult to tell.”

“Uh-huh. You still wanna point the finger at the Notorious?”

Nothing. His lips thinned.

“Still could be them.” Fury shrugged.

“But enough to go retaliate?”

“Who else would target the garage, Indie?” Fury pushed a hand through the long-dark hair that fell down to his shoulders.

“Probably is those fuckers. But if we get it wrong…”

“We could have done with the number plates.” The prospects stood quietly behind us.

“They’re probably cloned or summit. Pity my cameras are shit.”

“Aye, mate,” Fury slapped me on my back. “Guess you should have paid me for the decent ones I’ve been putting up everywhere the last few weeks.”

Fury and his fucking cameras. He got a boatload of the things. Fell off the back of a wagon, he told the club. But he was selling them to anyone who stood still long enough and members’ businesses were resembling something from Big Brother.

Cameras.

“Wait.” Three heads turned towards me. “These fuckers passed me earlier.”