Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (22 page)

“This is Slate,” Mason responded proudly, “our newest and best prospect.” Andy looked at him in confusion, and Mason continued with a hard laugh, “Just named the fucker; take a look at his face, Bones, knocked him senseless. Slate—it’s a hard fucking rock, takes a fuckton of abuse without breaking. Joining an MC is also a chance to begin again, so you are officially a clean slate as of today. Write your own fucking story, Slate, hard and unbreakable. It’s a good name, brother. Write your own story.”

***

It had been a tough year-and-a-half for Slate, since he walked into Jackson’s for the first time. Tough, but exciting, and if he would admit it, it had been fulfilling too. Moving through the ranks of the club from prospect, to member, and then now as a trusted confidante of the national president—every step forward just worked to validate his decision to keep moving for so long. He’d finally found what he’d been looking for…where he belonged.

Sitting in the waiting area of Ink Me, a tat shop a couple of blocks up the street from Tupelo’s, Slate ran his hands through his hair distractedly. Tupelo’s was a neutral bar owned by Rebels; he’d been working there for the past couple of months. Located on Cicero Avenue, it was in a part of town where it was necessary to keep a guard posted in the parking lot to ensure everything stayed where it was supposed to be.

He was there for the last session on his back piece, ready to ink the final bits of color into his commitment to the Rebels. In addition to completing the patch design
that was being etched into his skin, complete with rockers, Slate had asked the artist to work up a sketch to go across his lower back, hip to hip. Framed with a faintly French-flavored fleur-de-lis design, he wanted the words, ‘Bleed with me and you will forever be my brother’.

“Yo, Slate,” came the high-pitched call from the back of the shop. He climbed to his feet, walking the hallways between the private stations until he arrived at the last one on the left.

“Silly, you ready for me, baby?” he teased.

“Always ready, big guy.” She nodded her neon head; if her hair color was any indication, she must be feeling a little frantic today, because that particular shade of green looked like it should be buzzing. It looked striking against her dark, Hispanic coloring. She held out her hands, flicking them under his nose. “Lookie, Slate, aren’t they pretty?”

He pulled back his head, focusing with difficulty on the dermal piercings she had on the backs of her moving hands and fingers. “Roses, Silly?” he asked, not quite sure he had made out what the design was.

Her response was a shrill, “Yeaaahhh,
look
—orange and lavender roses. Orange means desire and enthusiasm, and lavender means enchantment. I’m enchantingly enthusiastic and desirable.” She admired the backs of her hands, squealing, “Aren’t they pretty? You know, I thought about a day of the dead skull, but the roses were so
pretty
!”

“Sylvia, they are definitely beautiful, just like you,” Slate said solemnly. Taking off his cut and shirt, he hung them up carefully and unfastened his pants, pushing them down barely off his hips, giving Sylvia plenty of room to work on the back piece. Straddling the chair, he leaned forward and cushioned his head on his folded arms, waiting.

She slapped his ass hard, laughing when he jumped. He was looking at her, watching carefully, and laughed silently to himself when he saw the transformation from silly-Silly, to work-focused-Sylvia. She pulled out her portfolio book, refreshing herself on the requirements before beginning. Her hands stretched out for the machine and ink, her foot automatically pushing the pedal into position as she readied the colors needed for his tattoo.

He saw her retrieve a piece of paper from the table, and took it when she wordlessly offered. It was a sketch of the tattoo for his lower back. “That’s perfect, Sylvia. Can we do that today after you finish up on my colors?” He was pleased with her work so far, and already had a half-dozen more ideas floating around in his head. He knew she’d do each vision justice.

Her voice had dropped two octaves, sounding raspy and whisky-filled; this was definitely her alter ego, Sylvia. “I’m ready, Slate. Get still and hold the fuck on, man. We’re gonna ride, so let’s get this party started.” He heard the buzz of the machine and relaxed into the sting on his skin as his eyes drifted closed.

Later that evening, he was standing near the back wall in Tupelo’s, his back burning pleasantly, reminding him he shouldn’t lean against anything. As a neutral territory bar, they had their share of regulars who came in to meet with friends patched into other clubs. Tonight, however, he’d seen quite a few men come in he didn’t know, and even more unusual—he didn’t recognize their patches, and they didn’t introduce themselves. That meant they were either gypsies from off, roaming and looking for places to start a chapter, or new clubs in the area, who were unaware of protocol when coming into the bar for the first time.

Slate moved his position to halfway between the door and the bar, barely getting there when the door opened. Looking up, he grinned. “Bingo, son of a bitch, it is
good
to see you.” They clasped wrists, pulling into a one-armed hug, and Slate winced as his raw back was pounded by Bingo’s fist.

“Oh fuck, man, you had your colors done today, didn’t you?” Bingo apologized as he beat Slate’s back again in painful affection. “Sorry, man, I forgot. How’d I forget? That’s the reason I’m back this weekend. I’m a forgetful fucker sometimes, I swear.” He struck Slate’s back one last time, releasing him to stand back and give him a wicked grin.

Slate laughed, wincing still. “No worries, brother. How’s your family in the Fort?” He’d visited once, checking the set-up of the clubhouse in Bingo’s hometown. He knew the sister had died; her kids moved in with Bingo, and he was raising his nieces and nephews as if they were his own.

“Kids are great, man. Fucking kids can bounce back from anything. Hell, Tyler broke his arm playing football a month ago, and I caught him trying to cut his cast off yesterday with a hacksaw,” he said proudly.

Slate laughed again. “Tough fucker, man.”

Bingo moved to stand next to Slate, and together, they surveyed the crowd in the bar. “How many different patches you got here tonight, you think?” he asked softly.

Slate paused for a second, thinking before he answered. “I’m tracking fifteen right now, but I am missing one guy, who was at the bar...maybe he had to piss. Yeah, he’s coming back out now, so...fifteen patches. It’s a mix of RC and MC. We don’t get many MAs in here; it’s too coarse for them usually.” He narrowed his eyes towards the pool tables; there were voices raised in an argument for a moment until they saw his focus on them. Without even moving a step, he calmed that shit right the fuck down, and turned to see Bingo grinning up at him. “What?” he asked innocently, and then laughed.

His and Bingo’s phones buzzed, as did a few others in the room, and each looked up at the others with alarm on their face; incoming texts to multiple members were seldom good news. Pulling his phone out, Slate saw,
Machos on cicero abt 50 - help inc
, and heard a far-off roar of bikes as he finished reading the text.

“Fuck me,” Slate whispered to himself before yelling to the crowd, “
Machos! It’s war! Fucking war.
” He watched the bikers and customers scramble and scatter as they heard the first gunshots down the street. Running behind the bar, he grabbed a spare 9mm and a half-dozen loaded magazines from the locker on the floor. Turning, he shouted at a waitress, “Tara, lockdown,” and saw her nod as she began gathering the employees, using words and motions to sweep them towards the panic room in the back. “Rebels, arm your-fucking-selves,” he yelled, pointing to the now-open armory Bingo was coming out of, his hands filled with weapons.

Shades trotted up. “Skeptics stand with Rebels. You got guns for us?”

Slate nodded, jerking his head towards Bingo. Positioning himself behind a stout pillar about thirty feet from the front door, he listened as the roaring of bikes peaked close by, and then died off, leaving no echoes.

He looked behind him, and saw a green patch trying to sneak into the bar from the back; the door must have failed. He pointed at Bingo and then the door, and heard the thwack of the knife without ever seeing it pulled and thrown. The Machos member went down soundlessly, the hilt of the knife having hit him hard in the middle of his forehead.

Shades saw the action, and he cautiously went into the back to secure the door; he returned in a minute with a second man, also unconscious. He piled his guy next to the one already on the floor, and placed himself behind the bar, waiting.

The quiet didn’t last long, and Slate gritted his teeth, hearing screams he assumed came from his Rebels who had been positioned outside,
and then the silence that meant they were at least beyond pain. This was the first attack the Mexican club had made in retaliation for the deaths at the strip club. The Rebels had been waiting for this shoe to drop, because the Machos’ brutality was well known. “Shades,” he called quietly, “can you see if the back is open? I want to flank them if we can.”

“No way, man. They’ve got two guys on that door, Slate. I’ve got it locked and blocked, but it’s not a way out right now,” Shades delivered that unwelcome news.

“Fuck me,” Slate breathed. “What are they waiting on?” His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out; the number was unknown, but given the situation, he answered it readily, saying gruffly, “Yeah?”

“Nearly there,
brother,” came Mason’s voice, and Slate all but sighed out loud in relief.

He started giving Mason the rundown. “It’s quiet outside now, but pretty sure they’ve killed Buzz and L.J.; I have six brothers in here, and another five Skeptics who stand with us. Girls are in the panic room, and we are staged in the main room with the backdoor locked. We have two unconscious Machos in here. Tell me what you need, Mason. Tell me what to do.” He heard, “Just hold, brother,” and the connection was cut. “We hold,” he called out to the room, looking at his men and nodding confidently. “We got this. We hold.”

There was a scuffling noise from the front of the building, and they heard bikes being started. Slate remembered he’d installed closed circuit security cameras after a customer’s bike was trashed, and he ran behind the bar, ripping the sliding door off the cabinet.

He punched the monitors on and stared at the four screens that showed up. There were about forty men spread across the parking lot in front of the building, and then he could see another ten in the back alley. There were two men he focused on, standing between their bikes and the bar door, confident in the protection their club status afforded them. He knew that one of the men would be Estavez, Carmela’s uncle. He had brought war across the border in a big way.

He saw several bodies lying a few feet from the outside door. It was hard to tell on the black and white screen, but one of them looked a lot smaller, maybe female. The killing must have pulled in civilians, which would make this a much more difficult thing to contain.

They felt the low rumble before they heard it; there had to be at least a hundred bikes coming from multiple directions, because the noise and vibration was everywhere. Outside, the men in Machos’ colors scattered to their bikes, looking as if they were ready to evacuate.

On the monitor, Mason was clearly visible on his motorcycle as he led a double column of bikes into the camera’s view, and Slate broke for the front door. He pointed at Bingo and called, “Stay with the greenies in here,” as he pulled the door open, striding into the open with his gun held low by his side.

Mason pulled within inches of Estavez, idling to a stop as the two men stared each other down. Slate couldn’t hear what was said, but Mason’s face swung his way for a moment, then back to the Mexican. The male bodies piled in the parking lot all had on club cuts. They were laid out in such a way that he couldn’t see the patches, but none of the men looked familiar. Scanning the lot, he saw Buzz and L.J. leaning up against the outside wall of Tupelo’s, their wrists and ankles secured by zip ties, and he whispered, “Thank fuck.”

Stalking over to the stack of bodies, his steps slowed and stopped as he recognized the hair on the lone female figure. His chest hurt, and it became difficult to pull in enough breath. He looked over and saw Mason shaking hands with Estavez, and his brain froze for a second at that sight. Mason climbed off his bike and motioned for Slate to come over to him.

He looked back and forth between that bright green hair and his chosen brother, between his friends. This was insane. How could Mason be standing so casually with the man who killed Silly? Slate walked halfway and then stopped. Pointing backwards to the still forms, he asked, “Sylvia?
Silly
? Fuck, Mason, what is going on?” Mason motioned him over again, irritated, and Slate took another few steps to stand equidistance between Mason and Estavez, forming a triangle.

“Listen for two minutes, brother,
and then you tell me what we need to do.” Mason stepped back a pace, leaving Slate to face Estavez alone. Running his hands through his hair, Slate waited for the man to begin talking, and caught the calculating gaze that swept him up and down.

“Andrew Jones, I have wanted to meet you for two years,” Estavez stated with a pronounced accent, but his English was spoken plainly enough to be easily understood. “In Juarez, you aided me with a serious problem, without any knowledge of the assistance provided. You did my family a great service, and for that, I am trying to repay your family here in Chicago.”