Cottonwood, I’ll let you know so you can call the prospects,” Smokey told Animal.
“Sounds good.”
Silence fell over the group. Before an attack, it was important to focus and clear the mind of everything but the objective. Detached coolness was necessary, and could be the difference between life and death. Nothing mattered at that moment except for carrying out the mission.
By the time they’d reached the outskirts of Cottonwood, the rain had stopped, and the rapidly falling night obliterated any lingering light. Trees and shrubs, smudged like charcoal, lined each side of the road.
“We’re approaching Cottonwood,” Smokey said, breaking the silence.
Animal pulled out his phone. “I’ll call Skinless.”
A low ring came from the back seat, and from the rearview mirror, Smokey saw Tank putting his phone to his ear.
“It’s Chas,” he informed Smokey in the mirror. “Puck wants to know where we’re at. They’re already at the designated spot.”
“Tell him we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Smokey turned right onto a small dirt road.
The prospects, and three of the brothers—Hawk, Wheelie, and Helm—had scouted out the place for a few days. They had also found an abandoned shed, where the prospects had been staying at for the past three days, making Molotov cocktails while watching the comings and goings of the rival club. Several large oak trees shielded the shed from all sides, thus making it the perfect place for illegal activity.
When Smokey pulled in front of the shed, he saw Puck’s and Shadow’s SUVs parked to the side of the storage unit. Killing the engine, he eased out of the vehicle, stretching his arms over his head, loving the way his tense back muscles relaxed.
As he approached several brothers, he heard Wheelie say, “Four pit bulls is all.” He joined the group, listening to the last-minute details as he slowly rolled his shoulders forward and back.
Rock pointed a finger at Shadow. “Once I give the signal, you”—he then pointed at Puck— “you, and”—his elbow nudged Smokey’s arm— “and you, will get the cars and bring them to the fuckers’ clubhouse. Once we’re done, we gotta haul ass. The prospects will make sure there’s nothing left at the shed. They’ll take off when you guys get the cages. The goal is to hit hard and fast. We want to be out of there as fast as we can.”
“Are we gonna air condition the place?” Blade asked.
“We don’t know who else is in the clubhouse. The pussies may have kids in there,” Smokey said.
Rock agreed. “He’s right. We don’t wanna hurt anyone but those fuckers.”
Air conditioning a rival’s clubhouse meant riddling it with bullets. If they knew for a fact that the only ones in the club were the members, they wouldn’t have an issue showering the place with bullets. The Insurgents had no problem showing their strength, but they tried to avoid hurting innocent people as much as they could.
“What did the prospects say about it? They’ve been on surveillance for the last three days,” Wheelie said.
“Cruiser and Hubcap spoke with them, and they said there are definitely club whores inside, but they didn’t see any kids, old ladies, or hangarounds,” Rock answered.
“Based on that, it looks like air conditioning the place is a no-go,” Smokey said.
“Looks that way,” Rock replied. “If we spot any fucker outside, we’ll take them down. Otherwise, we’ll go in through the front and back door with brothers stationed at the east and west side windows. Remember, we wanna go in hard and fast.” The men murmured their agreement. “Okay, then, it’s time to rock ‘n’ roll.”
It took almost thirty minutes for the men to reach the Rising Order’s clubhouse, a bright yellow ranch house amid a group of small warehouses. The name of the club was painted across the front of the house, along with the word Private in large red letters. Painted on the door was a replica of the Rising Order’s patch, with the bottom rocker displaying Colorado as the club’s territory.
“I’m gonna destroy that fuckin’ door,” Smokey muttered.
A chain-link fence surrounded the place, with several Beware of Dogs signs dotted throughout. There was no activity outside, but a heavy bass beat radiated from inside.
The Insurgents scattered into the blackness for cover, and to wait until Rock gave the signal to move in. The crescent moon, and the dim spattering of stars in the sky, did little to lift the impenetrable inky blanket concealing them. The minutes ticked by. The tension was so thick, a knife could cut through it. Smokey’s adrenaline was