table.
Wrath placed a forkful of mole chicken enchilada into his mouth, waiting for Drago to continue.
“Do you know where their residence will be?”
Nodding, he took a long swallow of beer. “We understand they will be east of here. This is not good news, Drago.”
He pointed his fork at Wrath. “Their leader cannot be trusted.”
Wrath wanted to ask if he meant Zeus, the national president, or the man Grayson believed would open the local chapter, Big T. For now, he’d wait until Drago spoke their names.
“You know him?”
Drago shoveled food into his mouth, swallowing it down with beer. “We have met. It was many years ago, but he was a force even then. He must not get a foothold in our territory.”
Wrath nodded, already knowing it could be almost impossible to stop the Disciples once they were established. With twice the membership of the Night Devils and a much broader reach, Zeus had forged alliances over many years using threats and elimination of adversaries.
Setting down his beer, Wrath looked around the restaurant, noticing all but three tables were empty. It was time to discuss Drago’s talks with Armando Quintero.
Before he could open his mouth, a firestorm of bullets shattered the front windows. The six men at his table dropped to the floor, drawing weapons, while those at the other tables froze in fear.
“Get down!” Wrath began crawling toward the front, repeating his words as another blast of gunfire splintered the wood doors and window frames.
Glancing up, he saw blood pooling under two of the men, another putting pressure on a leg while scooting toward the wall. Others found shelter behind upturned tables, three holding pistols trained at the front door. Their grips told him they had experience of some type.
“Stay down,” Wrath hissed at them as one more blast of bullets flashed through the broken windows. "Rock. Ghost.”
“On your order,” Ghost answered.
“We need to flank them from the rear. Drago. Are you and your men good in here?”
In answer, Drago got to his knees, lifting a .45 revolver. Pacho and Snake did the same, their faces rigid with anger. “You go ahead. We will take care of the front.”
“Ghost and Rock. Go!” Wrath got to his knees, firing out the front, Drago and his men joining them as Ghost and Rock went through the back to the outside. A moment later, Wrath followed, yelling at the restaurant staff to stay inside. Instead of listening, the owner yelled to his employees in Spanish and rushed toward Wrath, holding a sawed-off shotgun with both hands.
“Can you cover me and my men?”
“Sí. I will do that.”
Hearing more gunfire from the front, Wrath headed out the back door, plastering his back to the outside wall. Ghost and Rock were already positioned at the corners.
“Can you see anything?”
“Four men are in sight from my position,” Rock answered.
“Two men from mine,” Ghost added. “Neither of us have a clear line-of-sight to the front. There could be as many as ten tangos.”
“On my go, take out as many as you can, but do not change positions. Be prepared to take cover inside if they return fire.” Wrath moved toward Rock, who’d counted four tangos.
“Three…two…one. Go!”
Dropping to their knees, the three aimed and fired. Rock and Wrath took out three before the fourth took cover. Ghost hit both of his targets. Staying low, the three retreated to the back, disappearing through the back door.
Shouts came from the front, where Drago let loose with his .45. Wrath was certain the deafening discharge of the formidable revolver could be heard in the next county. Shoving through the swinging doors from the kitchen, the three Brethren stopped at the sound of bikes roaring away from the restaurant.
Moving to join Drago and his men, Wrath looked out the front. “How many did you count?”
Shrugging, Drago continued to look outside. “Four rode away. I will need to count those we took down.”
“It’s a fuckin’ bloodbath, Prez.” A smile formed on Snake’s face, pleased at how it had all ended.
“Rock and Ghost. We need to find out if any are alive and who sent them.”
The three headed outside, checking each man. Two were dead, the others wounded. Pulling off the ski masks, Wrath didn’t recognize any of them. Drago came up beside him, shaking his head as he studied the faces.
“Rock. Have the owner call 9-1-1, and you call the sheriff. Tell him we need to get out of here before anyone arrives. He’ll understand.” Pulling out his phone, he took pictures of each man.