Page 15

AJAX

This rich asshole, well-known in Richmond by the name of Donald Turner, made his fortune in the steel industry. He was in his mid-fifties, balding, and as corrupt as us outlaws. He played dirty games with local politicians and rich business-fucks with bribes, extortion, and money laundering. Donald had an addiction to high-stakes gambling and had his puppet, Calvin Spade, reach out to Diezel for a meet.

It was a cloudy morning when Diezel, Jagger, Mace, and I parked our bikes and stood in a vacant parking lot on the docks of the James River not far from the clubhouse. A shiny white Cadillac approached, parking several yards away. A tall, skinny man with thinning black hair climbed out and walked toward us.

"Is that Donald?" I asked Mace beside me.

"No. He must be Donald's gopher guy."

Go for this, go for that. The man did Donald's dirty work.

The man offered Diezel a handshake.

But Diezel crossed his arms over his chest. "Donnie doesn't have the balls to meet me face to face to discuss business?"

The man lowered his hand. "For Mr. Turner to be seen talking to you would ruin his reputation. I'm Mr. Turner's attorney, Calvin Spade. Mr. Turner is my only client, and I handle all things regarding his business transactions and those that are, shall we say, on the seedy side."

"Well, Calvin, what does Donnie want with my club?"

"The Death Angels MC does the dirty work regarding money, bringing in a good amount of wealth for Mr. Turner. He doesn't want that to go away."

Diezel went from annoyed to angry at the mention of the Death Angels. "Oh Yeah? Well, I don't give a flying fuck! We don't recognize those Death Angels. They're a bullshit club, and we'll take their rags and piss on them! Each and every one. Virginia and Maryland are Berzerker territory, so tell Donnie Turner that if he wants to do business, he talks to me."

“There's a vacant warehouse a few miles out of Richmond on Hudson Road. It's on property that belongs to Mr. Turner.” Calvin sighed. “It's where bets are placed on underground illegal fighting on Sunday nights, and the Death Angels are the ones who recruit men who want to fight. There's lots of money in it for your club, but you'll have to take it from them. How about a fight to the death for seventy grand? One of your men versus one of Death Angel's men?"

There was a moment of silence, making Calvin feel confident that Diezel would even consider such a deal.

"Fuck off, shit for brains! I'd never sacrifice a Berzerker brother to die for fucking money!" Diezel barked and shoved Calvin, who staggered back. He was lucky Diezel didn't knock him the fuck out.

Calvin cleared his throat. "Mr. Turner will be disappointed with this news."

When Diezel backhanded Calvin across the cheek, he stumbled back, regained his footing, ran back to the Cadillac, climbed in, and shut the door.

Jagger, Mace, and I followed Diezel when he marched over to the Cadillac, his hands clenched in rage. He hiked his right leg and kicked the driver's side window with his booted heel, and it shattered.

"You sick piece of shit!" Diezel roared at the shattered glass.

The back tires of the Cadillac spun, burning rubber on the asphalt as Calvin sped off.

A plan was set to take out our new enemy, the Death Angels MC. We were going to obliterate them the Berzerker way, and as Diezel said. “We’ll burn their clubhouse to the ground, take their rags, their women, their money, then kill them all!”

Mace gathered some intel on this sack-of-shits MC who did business with that rich and shady fucker, Donald Turner. They used teenage runaways to do some of their real dirty work. Lindsey was one of those teens considered property of the one with the eyepatch they called Uno. She gave us enough information about the other Death Angels, some of the members' names, including their President, who she called Warlock. And that their clubhouse is a few miles outside the city, near the vacant warehouse Calvin Spade mentioned, where they hold the underground fighting and gambling.

On Sunday night, while Diezel and Mace drove in an old, rusted-out van to the Death Angel’s clubhouse to burn it down with Molotov cocktails, I headed to the warehouse alone to scope things out. Diezel didn't think it was wise to go alone, but I wasn't wearing my rags and I drove Lou’s car. My hair was tied back, and I wore a dark blue sweat jacket and baseball cap. I looked like any other civilian, blending in with the crowd of a few hundred men who sat on benches or stood in a large circle surrounding an old abandoned boxing ring lit from above by one stage light.

Two men were fighting as shouts from the spectators filled the warehouse. The muscular, lean man was losing, his face covered in blood and his left eye swollen shut. His opponent was a foot taller and broader in the shoulders, his face just as bloody. When he threw a hard left hook, roars and cheers echoed as the leaner man's teeth and blood spewed from his mouth. Four men wearing Death Angel rags stood on the opposite side of the ring from where I was.

Uno.

My eyes shifted to the right, and that’s when I spotted Erwin staring at me. His brows narrowed, then turned to maneuver through the crowd of shouting men.

“Shit,” I whispered and ran after him.

Erwin ran through the crowd, through the large warehouse, and outside. I was much quicker and caught up before he could reach where cars and trucks were parked. I shoved him hard from behind, and when he fell face down in the mud, a gun fell out from inside his jacket, landing a few feet away.

A fiery rage engulfed me watching Erwin crawl away, a blubbering piece of shit scrambling to get the gun. Standing over him, I stomped with my booted heel on his hand. He cried out in pain as I reached down, grabbed a handful of hair, then punched him in the temple. He yelped again when I turned him over, sat on his chest, and pounded my fists into his face.

Time seemed to stop as I slammed my right fist, then my left, into Erwin’s bloody face until he went unconscious. I was going to kill him right there in the mud, but a searing pain shot through me as something hit me on the back of the head.

Then I blacked out.