Outlaws: Inside the Violent World of Biker Gangs (6 page)

Boone and the others saw their chance and slipped out of the house, splitting up and heading off in different directions. As Boone rounded the first corner, he ran into the younger of the two police officers coming the other way. Fear and apprehension were etched into the man’s face – he was clearly having trouble taking it all in.

‘Who are you? What’s your name?’ the officer asked.

‘What do you want to know that for? I haven’t done anything. I’ve been down the pub.’

‘Didn’t you just come out of that house?’

‘Nah, I was in the pub. Why, what’s going on here?’

Overwhelmed and under-resourced, the officers gathered up the scattered Pagans as best they could and took a note of all their names, not that it would do them much good as none of the gang gave a genuine one. The bikers were then sent on their way as the officers waited for the fire brigade and backup to arrive.

Thirteen may be unlucky for some but it turned out to be an extremely lucky number for the Pagans that night. None of them had been seriously injured though they knew without a doubt that the same could not be said of the Ratae. The clubhouse had been all but destroyed but at the end of the day that was just a building. The club was the important thing and the Pagans had proved themselves.

In retrospect the Ratae never stood much of a chance. It wasn’t just the layout of the building but also the attitude of the Pagans that put them at a massive disadvantage. Boone and the others had not expected to survive. They had all been terrified. Boone would later believe what made them so dangerous was the fact that none of them believed they were going to come out of it alive. It meant they had nothing to lose. Once they had accepted that fact, they had no fear; they had nothing to lose.

Instead of backup, the next cars to arrive on the scene brought the remaining Pagans whose eyes and mouths immediately fell wide open with shock. ‘Jesus Christ! What the fuck happened here?’ they gasped in unison.

As more police officers and other emergency workers began to arrive on the scene all the Pagans gathered together and met up at Boone’s house. They sat down, smoking, drinking and even laughing about what had happened, taking apart each and every moment and trying to work out exactly why things had gone their way.

All of them felt a certain exhilaration to have survived it, the same way that soldiers who have been in the midst of intense battles feel when they realise they are still alive even though their friends and colleagues are not.

The Ratae had raised the stakes and the Pagans had no
choice but to raise them in return. This time round there would be no mercy, no hesitation. In the space of a few days the violence had escalated out of all control and it was now blatantly obvious that it wouldn’t end until someone was dead. For their next move the Pagans were going to head deep into the heart of enemy territory. And once they found one of the Ratae, they were going to kill him.

The hours that followed the attack on the George Street clubhouse were filled with a heady mixture of adrenaline, anxiety and anticipation. The thirteen Pagans who had successfully fought off the Ratae repeatedly related their experiences to the fifteen or so other club members who had failed to arrive in time. With no serious injuries on their side and the police so clueless they were unable to press charges on anyone, the Pagans that had missed the house brawl were eager to see some action for themselves.

Thanks to a fledgling friendship with the Pariah MC, the Pagans knew the exact location of the Ratae clubhouse in the centre of Leicester, but had no plans to launch a frontal assault. The Ratae themselves had already proved the folly of such a move and if anything, their clubhouse was likely to be even more heavily fortified than George Street.

What the Pagans needed were the addresses of individual Ratae. That way they would retain the element of surprise and be able to pick off the members of the gang one by one. But it wasn’t an easy task. In the pre-internet age few clubs had any kind of public presence. The regular inter-gang hostilities that had erupted since the start of the eighties meant that most members were keen to keep their personal lives as low profile as possible.

When a tip came through about a lone Ratae living in a
small house in Hillmorton, Northamptonshire, the Pagans set off in a multi-vehicle convoy to confront him in the early hours of the following morning. It was overkill by any standard – it seemed as though every member of the gang wanted to be there. No one wanted to miss out on a golden opportunity to take revenge.

It took less than an hour for the group to make the journey to the small village. Having left their vehicles just outside the perimeter they armed themselves with a couple of shotguns they had managed to scare up along with some pick axe handles and Bowie knives, vaulted the fence and made their way up to the main entrance. They kicked the door off its hinges and stormed inside, only to find the whole place deserted.

Pumped up with aggression and spoiling for a fight, the disappointment was palpable for many of those there. By the time they returned to the house in Coventry that was serving as a temporary Pagan HQ, they were itching for the next opportunity to present itself.

In the meantime the police were pursuing their one and only lead from the clubhouse battle: the piece of scalp with long dark brown hair attached was being kept in a jar at Leamington police station and officers had launched a national manhunt to find out who it had belonged to.

The Pagans watched the developing story with interest but then had a lucky break that put them back on track with the real business of the day. The registration number of one of the vehicles that had driven the Ratae away on the night of the attack had been noted and, through the same friendly contact at the DVLA who had helped them out before, the Pagans had managed to obtain an address. This
time round the property was a small farm holding in Brackley, Northamptonshire, and just before dawn on the following morning, the gang began preparing to mobilise for a second time.

By now Boone, Rabbi, Dozer and Tank had been awake for seventy-two hours straight. At first the sheer adrenaline buzz had prevented them from getting any sleep; then the need to have guards watching over the properties and homes of Pagan officers in case of revenge attacks meant they had not been allowed to rest.

It was Link’s birthday so Club President Caz presented him with a large bag of premium-quality marijuana and ordered him and the others to relax and enjoy themselves. ‘We’ve got more than enough people already. We don’t need you on this job,’ he told them. ‘You can all stand down.’

It seemed like a good idea at first but Tank and Rabbi were still eager to be part of the attack. They argued the point with Switch, the club’s sergeant-at-arms and the man in charge of all matters of discipline. He backed his president, ordering the men to head home and get some rest. Still eager to get involved, Rabbi waited until Switch and Caz weren’t looking then sneaked into the back of one of the vans that was heading to Brackley.

By the time Boone and the others noticed what he had done, the vehicle had already pulled away. Eager to share in the latest adventure, the three managed to squeeze into one of the last cars leaving for Northampton. If Rabbi was going to see some more action, they demanded their fair share too.

What none of the Pagans realised was that the Ratae knew they were coming and were more than ready for them.
The resident of the farm in Brackley just happened to be a friend of a newly-recruited Pagans prospect called Shandy. Having seen the size of the force that made its way to Hillmorton, Shandy became concerned for his friend’s welfare and decided to call ahead and warn him to make himself scarce. Having stormed one empty home earlier in the week, the prospect didn’t think the Pagans would be suspicious if it were to happen again.

But instead of fleeing, the target called the one man he believed would know exactly what to do: Scout. Furious about the way the attack at George Street had turned out, the club president hastily arranged for as many Ratae as possible, all carrying as many guns as they could manage, to travel to the farm and take up defensive positions around the main approach.

Once again, the Pagans parked their vehicles on the edge of the perimeter, armed themselves, vaulted the fences and made their way towards the entrance. And as they did so, the whole sky seemed to open up. All they could hear was gunfire. All they could see were the flashes from the muzzles of the dozens of shotguns and rifles bearing down on them from the windows and rooftops.

It had all turned to shit. It was a textbook, military-style v-shaped ambush, and the Pagans had walked right into the heart of the killing zone. Rounds were hitting the ground, kicking up dirt in all directions. Fence posts and tree branches burst into fountains of splinters. Clouds of blue-grey dust and smoke drifted in the twilight air. Every kind of explosion echoed around them. In the space of ninety seconds, at least 200 shots were fired.

Caz was screaming at the top of his voice: ‘Get the fuck
out of here, get the fuck out!’ Shadows flitted this way and that as the Pagans ran for cover, zigzagged, threw themselves to the ground, pulled their friends to safety, screamed and howled at one another, trying to make themselves heard above the barking of the guns.

Boon felt a sharp pain in the back of his thigh, like an invisible fist had punched him from behind. He fell, pulled himself up and ran for his life back the way he had come, each step on legs of wobbly jelly. He made it back to where the vans had been parked and launched himself into the nearest, a jet-black Toyota model. The noise of the gunshots became quieter. His head was spinning. It was a waking nightmare.

As his eyes adjusted back to the darkness Boone could see someone on the floor beside him, groaning and holding his stomach. At first he feared he had hurt them when he jumped into the van. Then the sticky blood on the floor began to soak through his jeans and he saw the gaping hole in the centre of the man’s chest. For a split second his face was unrecognisable, twisted and distorted with agony. Then the familiar features returned. It was Rabbi. And this time there was no mistaking the fact he had been shot.

While Boone and others tried to administer first aid, keeping pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding, Shandy the prospect jumped behind the wheel and began driving to the nearest hospital. Only he had no idea where the nearest hospital actually was. None of them knew the area at all well and they had no map. They were driving blind and racing against time. The nearest large town was Northampton so they headed for that.

Rabbi had taken the full force of a 12-bore shotgun
cartridge in the centre of his chest. With a shiver, Boone realised that the hole was in exactly the same place that he had seen a shot pass through his friend two days earlier during the battle at the clubhouse. Only this time the shot had entered at a downward rather than upward angle. The van sped along the country roads. Unbeknown to those inside, the Pagans actually passed two other hospitals on the way to Northampton. The closer they got to town, the more Rabbi’s condition worsened. He began screaming, calling out the names of his three daughters, aged from six years to just eight months: ‘Don’t let me die, don’t let me die,’ he wailed. ‘I have to live for my girls, for my little girls.’

Confusion and recriminations bounced around the inside as the Pagans tried to make sense of how it had all gone so horribly wrong. There was only supposed to be one person there, not a whole army. They were supposed to have the element of surprise, not walk into a trap. They had gone there to get revenge for the destruction of the clubhouse, not to get their noses bloodied.

By the time they arrived at the hospital, Boone was convinced that there was no hope left for Rabbi. He had simply lost too much blood and his wounds were too severe. His breathing was becoming increasingly shallow and his pulse could no longer be found. Boone had known Rabbi for years and he was also close to his long-time girlfriend, Jackie. He simply couldn’t bear to be around if the news was going to be as bad as he feared. While two other Pagans and the prospect entered the hospital to await the official verdict from the doctors, Boone slipped off into the shadows.

Thirty-two-year-old Stephen ‘Rabbi’ Brookes lived a few
minutes more but died on the operating table as doctors began working on him. There was nothing they could do. Debates would rage in the weeks that followed about whether Rabbi would have survived if he had been taken to a closer hospital, but it was a pointless discussion.

The Pagans had fucked up big time. Even if they had known that such a large force was waiting for them at Brackley, they still would not have stood a chance because of the overwhelming firepower ranged against them. The operation had been completely botched from the start. Instead of relying on careful planning, the whole thing had been thrown together simply to satisfy those members who had not yet been in combat. As a result they had paid a heavy price.

Police arrived at Northampton General Hospital soon afterwards and arrested the three Pagans milling about in the waiting room. The trio refused to say anything about what they were doing there or how Rabbi had come to be shot. For Northampton police, well aware of how their neighbours in Warwickshire were struggling with their own biker-related inquiry, it didn’t bode well at all.

In the meantime, back at Brackley, Scout was celebrating his victory and ordering the rest of the Ratae to undertake a massive clean-up operation. Fence posts were sawn off to remove all bullet holes, any parts that could not be removed were simply drilled out in order to remove potential evidence. Teams of Ratae spent hours crawling across the fields on their hands and knees picking up every cartridge casing, every piece of wadding, every piece of shot to ensure that by the time the authorities arrived, there would be nothing for them to go on.