Page 11 of Snarl (Primal Howlers MC #9)

Snarl

T HE NEXT DAY was spent at the cabin working with the club’s younger members, including four prospects.

Although the Howlers are one-percenters, the truth was, most of these new guys had barely held a firearm, let alone used one.

Guns gained a lot more attention these days than they did back when I was a prospect.

Of course, all our officers and high-ranking members were required to have their Concealed Handgun Permit but using a registered gun for anything other than shooting rats in your barn is a one-way ticket straight to jail.

My job was to get these young bucks comfortable with handguns, rifles, and shotguns as quickly as possible.

Soon the Spiders would know neither the Howlers nor the Dogs of Fire had any intention of playing ball with them, and should they come knocking, we needed to be ready for war .

“What’s your next step?” I asked Rattle, the youngest of the prospects.

“Pull back the hammer,” he replied.

“Good. Then what?”

“Pull the trigger,” he said confidently.

“BZZZTT, wrong answer! You squeeze the trigger.”

Rattle groaned. “What’s the difference?”

“Pulling is a violent motion, while squeezing is gentle. If you’re thinking of pulling the trigger, your brain will automatically tell your wrist to get involved and pull back, causing you to miss your target.

Gently squeezing the trigger will get the job done while keeping your movement isolated on your trigger finger. Do you understand? ”

“Yeah, man. That makes sense,” Rattle replied.

“Good, because I want you to try it right now.”

I relieved Rattle of his weapon and loaded a single round into the cylinder before handing it back.

“That’s your target,” I said, pointing to a coffee can sitting on a fence post about ten meters away. “Go over your checklist, silently in your mind, then take the shot.”

Rattle nodded, then after a few moments, raised his weapon, pulled back on the hammer, and fired, missing the target by at least nine inches, much to the amusement of his classmates.

“Shut the fuck up, you idiots. You’re gonna hope he can shoot when he’s covering one of your dumb asses in a firefight. ”

“Besides, you fools are up next,” Rattle added.

“That’s alright. Take a beat, reload, and try again,” I said. I’d already given them multiple instructions on how to load and unload their guns, including tutorials using different makes and models, so before they even got to fire a weapon, they knew how to take care of one.

This time Rattle hit the can dead center, blowing it clean off the post.

“That’s my boy,” I said.

“Lucky shot,” one of the other prospects cried out.

“Yeah? How about we see about that after lunch? ’Cause you’re up next,” I said. “There’s food for y’all inside, but no beer. I mean it. I don’t want one of you fuckers getting drunk and blowin’ his foot off,” I said just as my phone buzzed in my pocket. “Dismissed.”

I saw it was Lennon calling, so I found a quiet room and answered. “Hey, beautiful.”

“Hey.”

I frowned. “You okay?”

“Yes. I just had a call from a panicked Waverly. She’s all alone out there and she thought someone was breaking in, and couldn’t sleep, which then sent her spiraling.

She’s convinced that Boneyard is going to find her and assault her again.

” Lennon let out a long breath. “She had to call out of work, her anxiety attack was so bad, and I’m stuck here unable to do a goddammed thing to help her. ”

“She’s got no one?”

“No one,” Lennon confirmed. “ Maybe I should postpone my trip and go out to Portland to spend time with her.”

“Did you ask her what she thought about that?”

“I sure did,” she said with a huff.

“And what did she say?”

“That she’d smack me upside the head before buying me a one-way ticket to Botswana.”

“Aren’t you going to Tanzania?”

“Yeah, well, she’s not so great with geography.”

“Or maybe she is and said it on purpose.”

Lennon chuckled. “Well, you’ve got me there. As long as her attackers are roaming around scot-free, she’s never going to feel safe. I just wish I could castrate those fuckers.”

I dragged a hand through my beard. “I’m sorry, Len. There’s nothing worse than not being able to help someone you love when they’re in pain.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Thank you for letting me vent.”

“Always.”

“I need to get going. I promised Granny a lunch date.”

“Okay, we’ll talk soon.”

“Bye.”

After hanging up, I went looking for Orion, finding him in the shop working on what looked like a generator that was built circa World War II.

“You know they make new ones of those,” I said, pointing to the relic.

“What? Are you fucking kidding?” Orion replied. “This old gal still runs like a top. She just needs a little love and lubrication, that’s all.”

“You’re a sick fucking man, talking about a machine old enough to be your grandmother like that.”

Orion hugged the generator and scoffed. “You’re just jealous of what we have together.”

“Sundance should have had you committed when he caught you jerking off to Popular Mechanics when you were thirteen.”

“Did you come here just to shame me, or is there something else you need?”

“Actually, I do have a question. You or anyone else in the club tight with anyone in the Supreme Riders?”

“Fuck no. Why the hell would I hang with any of those piece of shit white supremacists?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t figure you did, just checking.”

“Why are you asking?”

“Just trying to gather up some intel on one of their members,” I replied “A guy named Delbert Fisk. They call him Boneyard.”

“He owe you money or something?”

I shook my head. “Nothing like that. He hurt a friend of a friend a while back and I was thinking of paying him a visit to discuss my disapproval of his behavior.”

Orion smiled wide. “That must be some friend of a friend you’ve got there. For you to go through all that trouble.”

“This piece of shit, Boneyard, raped a college student six years ago and has been outside for longer than the time he served. I was just hoping for a little insight into this animal’s club before I made any moves. The last thing the Howlers need is to be at war with two clubs.”

“Fuck those Nazi peckerwoods. If you’ve gotta straighten one of them out, I’ll ride with you.”

“That’d piss your old man off ten times more than if I made a move on my own. Plus, your woman might have a thing or two to say about it.”

“Only if they find out,” Orion countered. “Raquel has a higher sense of duty than I do, and what Dad doesn’t know can’t crawl up his ass.”

“Then let’s make sure his ass stays free and clear.”

* * *

The next night, Orion and I drove an hour north, up to Cherry Creek to a dive bar called Otto’s Place. A known hangout of the Supreme Riders, and current whereabouts of Delbert “Boneyard” Fisk. We left the bikes at home, opting instead for one of the club’s utility vans.

“We sure he’s in there?” Orion asked.

“My guy in Denver told me Boneyard and his crew are here nine out of ten nights,” I replied. “After getting out of prison, Boneyard was promoted to Road Captain. Now he slings meth out of Otto’s.”

“Anything else ‘Deep Throat’ tell you?”

“Just not to fuck around with these guys.”

“Well, isn’t that exactly what we’re planning on doing? Fucking with them?”

“Just one of them,” I replied. “The plan is to avoid the involvement of his club or anyone else, for that matter.”

“So, how do we get Boneyard alone without attracting attention?” Orion asked.

“I have a plan to get him to come with me outside. When I do, you’ll be there to get us outta there, pronto.”

“I’m not going in with you?”

I shook my head. “Even in these civilian clothes, someone from the Supreme Riders will recognize you. I’m gonna head inside and see if I can get a private meeting with Boneyard.

You pull the van around the back, and I’ll meet you there.

Be ready to haul ass out of here whether I have Boneyard with me or not. Got it?”

“Ten-four. But how are you gonna get him outside alone?” Orion asked.

“I’m gonna tempt him with a big score,” I said, climbing out of the van. “Drive around back and be ready.”

I pulled my hair into a ponytail which I then stuffed under a baseball cap.

Even though I was a stranger to these guys, I didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself, and my hair tended to do just that.

Instead, I would walk into Otto’s place a wolf in trucker’s clothing.

In my right coat pocket was a small canister of chloroform mace spray.

One good shot of this near the nose or mouth and it was nighty night for at least twenty minutes .

My father used to say there were three kinds of bars. Ones that are good for getting a drink, ones that are good for getting drunk, and ones that are good for getting stabbed. The moment I stepped into Otto’s, I knew it was only a matter of time until knives were out.

After a quick scan of the place, I didn’t see anyone fitting Boneyard’s description, so I made my way to the bar.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

Detecting his Irish accent, I played one for the house. “A shot of Jameson and a pint of Guiness if you’ve got it on tap.”

“Would you like to open a tab?”

I shook my head and lay a fifty-dollar bill on the bar. “That’s for you.”

“Cheers,” he replied.

“Is Boneyard around tonight?”

“Depends on who the fuck’s askin’.”

“I am,” I said.

“That don’t clear things up much now does it. I don’t recognize you and I’m here every night. So, if I don’t recognize you, that means Boneyard doesn’t know you.”

“You’re right, he doesn’t.”

“So, what are you doing here and why the fuck are you asking for Boneyard?” The bartender’s tone changed to ice cold.

“Just looking to make an introduction, that’s all. My name is Keith Massey. I did time down in Florence with a mutual associate of ours who told me I should look him up when I got out. I was told he was the man who could move the kind of thing I need to move.”