Brigands M. C. (29 page)

‘OK, OK, I’ll come,’ Nigel said. ‘But I can’t bring my brother. He’s left already.’

‘Him then,’ Woodhead said, pointing at Julian.

‘I didn’t agree to this,’ Julian said, sounding stressed. ‘This is serious crime. I’m
way
out of my depth here.’

‘I appreciate your honesty,’ Woodhead said. ‘But I need bodies tonight and you’re all there is. I’ll pay you the four hundred, plus Nigel’s four hundred. And since you like a smoke I’ll throw in a couple of ounces of the finest shit you’ll ever lay eyes on.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Julian said, audibly trembling. ‘This isn’t my style.’

Woodhead turned towards Nigel. ‘You’d better try persuading your friend, because if you’re
not
both on that boat with me, you’re the one who’s gonna get seriously mangled.’

‘I could ring around,’ Nigel said. ‘Get someone else.’

‘Great bloody idea,’ Woodhead shouted. ‘Why don’t you put a card in the newsagent’s window while you’re at it?
Gun smuggler required, suit teenager, some heavy lifting, applicants with criminal records considered
.’

‘Julian, you’ve gotta help me out,’ Nigel begged. ‘With my share and the dope that’s more than a grand for an evening’s work.
Please
.’

‘If I help tonight, I want it to be the last time I’m involved with anything like this,’ Julian whined.

‘You got my word,’ Woodhead said. ‘I’ve got no beef with you, Julian. It’s this little mother who’s made me promises he can’t keep.’

With that, Woodhead lunged forwards and punched Nigel hard in the stomach. ‘Dumb kid,’ he shouted, as Nigel groaned in agony. ‘You’re out of your depth and after tonight you’d better keep out of my face. Now I’ll see you on the fishing wharf at Kingswear, eight o’clock sharp. Boat by the name of
Brixton Riots
.’

Nigel gasped and retched as Julian helped him back towards the red Fiat. The audio quality improved as their voices got picked up by the bugs in the roof of the car.

Julian sounded deeply upset. ‘What the hell have you got me into here?’

‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Nigel said, as Julian started the engine. ‘You saved my arse back there. You can have my two hundred from yesterday and you can have all the weed you can smoke from me for two months.’

Julian pounded on the dashboard. ‘What if we get caught on this? What if that crazy bastard McEwen springs up again?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nigel said desperately as he buried his head in his hands. ‘McEwen left me a card. I could call him and tell him what’s going on.’

‘I don’t trust him,’ Julian said. ‘I don’t know who he is or who he really works for. I say we do what Paul wants us to do, then we keep our heads down and stay the hell away from the Brigands, the Monster Bunch and all the other crazy bastards.’

The Führer led his band up the fast lane of the M5, locked on the 70mph speed limit with no one daring to overtake on the inside. The procession had been joined by the North Devon and Plymouth Monster Bunch chapters and a friendly Cornish gang called Branding Iron.

James found himself amidst a kilometre-long train of bikes, topped and tailed by a ragtag fleet of breakdown vans and coaches. Horns blasted, kids waved from their parents’ cars and the highlight of James’ morning was a team of hockey players squishing bare breasts against the windows of a coach as the bikers roared past.

Riding a motorbike is more physically demanding than driving a car. James had no farings on his ER5 to keep the wind off and the sun gently roasted him inside his helmet, gloves and thick leather jacket. He was grateful to pull into Stoke Gifford service station with half of the three-hundred-mile ride to Cambridge under his belt.

Parents held their children close and nervous arrivals headed straight for the exit gates as two hundred motorcyclists steamed through the automatic doors to queue in the gents and pile into the restaurants. As the Führer entered he was met by the waiting presidents of the Cardiff and Bristol Brigands and six dark-tanned Brigands from Valencia in Spain.

James joined a huge melee of shouting bodies in Burger King, but the counter was swamped and he realised he had no chance of getting served as higher-status Brigands and Dogs of War pushed in front. James was harder than most of them, but he couldn’t start a fight with a whole gang so he gave up and headed to the confectionery shop.

Again, the counters had a massive queue but here the bikers had the option to pilfer. It started with a couple of riders pocketing Polos and opening cans of beer, but soon turned into a scrum with more than thirty riders guffawing as they stole food and drinks while pushing, shoving and knocking down display racks.

James felt bad for the two women behind the counter. One of them screamed for help as a crash-helmeted Dog of War bundled her to the floor and tossed armfuls of cigarette packets into the crowd. James desperately needed a drink, and his lowly status meant that stealing was the only way he’d get anything before they all had to remount their bikes.

He left the shop guzzling from a half-litre bottle of Sprite and holding a king-sized Mars Bar and a tub of mini Pringles. He stepped over a streak of urine where several Brigands had given up on the toilet queue and pissed over the cash machines.

A coachload of scared pensioners were being herded out through a chirping fire door, while another group of Brigands jeered the man serving in Costa Coffee, and the manager of Marks and Spencer earned a bloody nose after trying to stop a Cardiff Brigand from making off with a bottle of freshly squeezed orange and rasberry.

James was alone and wore no gang insignia. This made him easy pickings if the cops arrived and started arresting people, so he decided to head out to his bike and maybe top up with petrol if the queue wasn’t too bad. But as he stood in the automatic doorway he saw twenty-five men charging towards the doors waving clubs and lengths of bike chain. A shout of ‘Brigand wankers’ went up as they began pouring inside.

James dived back into the shop as men came through the door and immediately chain-whipped a Dog of War queuing for the toilets. Blood sprayed several metres from a deep cut running from the biker’s ear to the side of his nose.

‘Vengeful Bastards,’ several people shouted at once.

James had heard the name: the Vengefuls were a small but fearsome gang, founded by two Brigands who’d been expelled for breaking the club’s strict rules banning members from using heroin. Now with six chapters, the Vengeful Bastards were the Brigands’ sworn enemies.

James’ Sprite bottle got knocked from his hand as members of the Brigands and their support gangs piled out of the shop, the toilets and the restaurant armed with whatever came to hand. A full-patch biker was expected to fight bravely for his gang. Cowardice was grounds for a severe beating, followed by expulsion.

As James backed up into the shop he watched Teeth disarm a Vengeful, sending his bike chain flying towards him. James grabbed the chain, while Teeth lifted his opponent and smashed him head first into a stone pillar.

The twenty-five Vengefuls seemed outnumbered and were getting a pasting. James crouched down, surrounded by cardboard boxes near the till with two female clerks clutching each other and sobbing under the counter.

James pulled on one of his leather riding gloves, then wrapped half the chain around his padded hand. This made a knuckleduster that doubled as a whip if he needed some extra reach.

‘Is there a place to hide?’ James asked.

One of the terrified clerks answered. ‘Our manager’s locked himself in the stock room.’

The fighting outside subsided as Vengefuls were knocked down or ran off, then resurged as a second wave arrived. Some Vengefuls came through the front doors, but a second group poured out of an upstairs restaurant where they’d apparently been waiting in ambush and had missed their cue to pile in with the first wave.

As fists, clubs and boots flew, James watched as a man with a bread knife sticking out of his back staggered into the shop. For a second James thought it was his riding partner Orange Bob, but it was a Vengeful Bastard prospect barely older than himself.

James considered first aid, but before he could do anything the fighting came into the shop. Two fat Vengefuls held the South Devon Brigand Dirty Dave by his arms. They bundled him into a glass rack stacked with souvenir playing cards, china figures and other tat. As the ornaments smashed on the floor a ginger-bearded Vengeful pulled out a hammer with its end sharpened into a vicious looking spike.

As the hammer lunged, James lashed out with the chain, hitting the ginger Vengeful’s hand. He then punched the man in the face. As the Vengeful staggered back, Dirty Dave freed himself from the other one and sent him clattering into an open-fronted cooler filled with soft drinks and sandwiches.

James grabbed a large brass model of the Clifton Suspension Bridge, belted his ginger opponent around the head with it and then knocked him cold with his chain-wrapped fist. Dirty Dave was tussling with the other man, but James prioritised grabbing the sharpened hammer before someone else got hold and used it on him.

As James reached down and grabbed the hammer another Vengeful Bastard charged into the shop and swung a punch at his head. James’ vision blurred as the big fist knocked his head against a glass shelf, but he swung the hammer and the pointed end sank deep into the man’s knee.

James ripped the hammer out, causing a spurt of blood. He dived out of the way as the biker crumpled, smashing through two glass shelves and moaning in pain. Another Vengeful charged in as James stood up. This man was smaller, and James threw an uppercut, plunging his chain-wrapped fist into the man’s chin, smashing his jaw and sending him crashing on to the newspapers and cigarette packets spilled across the floor.

While James floored three men, Dirty Dave was still struggling with his original opponent. They had arms around each other’s necks and were throwing weak punches. Although James wasn’t really on the Brigands’ side, he certainly wasn’t with the Vengeful Bastards after three of them had attacked him.

Buzzing with fear and shock, James kneed the fat Vengeful in the stomach. The blow doubled him up, enabling Dirty Dave to break loose and punch him in the face. James finished him off by bashing his head against the inside of the fridge so that it buckled a metal shelf.

James looked outside and saw injured men strewn across the tiles. The Brigands and their puppets seemed to have won the battle, but the cost had been heavy and with so many knives and weapons flying about a lot of men would be on their way to hospital, or dead.

Teeth, the Führer and several Brigands from other chapters stood in the doorway shouting orders. The floor around James was covered in blood, the shelves were shattered and there was hardly a piece of stock left on the shelves.

‘You did great,’ Dirty Dave said, giving James a massive grin and slapping him on the back. ‘Saved my arse.’

James knew his fingerprints were all over the hammer, so he took it with him and carefully avoided stepping in any blood as he left the shop. He followed Dirty Dave outside, where the Führer and the Cardiff president had taken charge.

‘I want our bikes riding out of here in formation,’ the Führer shouted. ‘If anyone gets arrested, don’t say a word unless our lawyers tell you to.’

‘What about injuries?’ Teeth asked.

‘If they can walk, stick ’em on a coach. If they look bad leave ’em for the ambulance.’

As the Führer said this a Vengeful stepped through the shattered glass in the automatic doors clutching his stomach. Teeth backed up and knocked him cold with an explosive kick to the head, as two Monster Bunch members arrived carrying an armful of VHS tapes.

‘Good work,’ the Führer grinned.

‘Found the manager and gave him a kicking,’ one of the Monsters explained. ‘He says this is all the surveillance footage. Do you want me to burn them up?’

‘No,’ the Führer said. ‘They might be useful. Take off your colours and ride to the nearest post office. Send those tapes by Special Delivery to Burnham, Smith and Greaves Solicitors, one-three-three Salcombe High Street.
Don’t
let the cops grab the tapes or I’ll slit your throat.’

‘Gotcha,’ the two Monsters said, before jogging off towards their bikes.

As James heard all this he looked around the car park. There were a few scuffles and a lot of Brigands smashing up Vengeful Bastard bikes.

‘Roll, roll, roll,’ road captain Vomit shouted as he came out of the doors with nearly thirty bikers in front of him.

James looked at Dirty Dave. ‘What about the formation?’

‘Just ride,’ Dirty Dave said urgently as he followed the Führer and the rest of the bikes over to where all the Brigands had parked. ‘We have to get out of the county before the police get their act together.’

James unwrapped the bloody chain from his riding glove and stuffed it inside his jacket as he ran. Quite a few bikes had been tipped over or vandalised and several Brigands’ Harleys had been mashed into a wall by a tow truck, so James was mightily relieved to find his bike intact. He grabbed his helmet from the storage box behind his seat and saddled up.

James rolled forward, then gave way to let Vomit, the Führer and several other Brigands through, but Dirty Dave stopped and waved James’ bike in out of respect for what he’d done inside.