The Rack & Cue Page 6

  He saw it as a chance to finally ice Barker, the Highwayman’s leader. And not just Barker, but some of his generals and foot soldiers. Plans were in place. A bloodbath drawn up. Boas’ interests had to be protected. Not to mention their guns, cocaine, capital and respect. If the other outlaws in Britain saw a weakness, they’d have your bollocks in knots before you knew it.

  In a little over three hours, the Manchester police were going to be knee deep in dead bikers and civilians. Hot lead and hatred was going to rip that city apart. The streets and roads were going to run red with death.

  All this played over in Diesel’s mind, as he rode his bike down the deserted motorway. They hadn’t passed a car or lively building in miles. His patience for some attention and drink was starting to wear thin. It was always the same when he’d been on the road for too long. The extensive hauls did nothing for him.

  But he’d do anything Dutch asked of him. He thought of his charter leader and all out president of The Boas as a brother. Someone he could look up to and respect. Dutch had brought Diesel in at a very, very young age. He’d started him off as a lookout, runabout and general dog’s body until he proved his worth.

  That worth had come in the form of putting a bullet into the back of a dirty cop’s head. A dirty cop who’d got too big for his boots with Dutch, after demanding more money for his protection and information. The assassination of the man had been assigned to Ollie at first, Dutch’s right-hand man and vice president. But Diesel had stepped up to the mark, asking to do it under Ollie’s supervision.

  After breaking into the copper’s house, he’d dusted the whole household: Dirty Cop, Dirty Cop’s dirty wife, Dirty Cop’s dirty kids, and Dirty Cop’s dirty dogs. A silencer had been used. Six head shots in total. Not one bullet misused. Not one bullet too many spent.

  A quick, callous and brutal kill.

  A mission which earned Diesel a lot of respect from his biker brothers and leaders. It also helped him climb the ranks within the gang, soon achieving the ‘Sergeant at arms’ patch.

  The bodies of the family had been dumped in a quarry pit. The cop himself had been chopped into tiny bits and posted off. With the bent cop gone, another replaced him. One who was only too happy to take on the extra cash. One who was only too happy to feed Dutch and the boys all the information he could get his hands on. One who was happy with The Boas’ policy of keeping as much filth out of Cardiff as possible.

  Even if it did mean bodies turning up every now and then.

  It went with the territory.

  After spending three years as Sergeant at arms, Diesel finally moved up the ladder again to captain. This left him one place behind vice president. This position was, and currently is, occupied by Ollie. Dutch and Ollie had led The Boas through thick and thin for many years, having taken leadership from the club’s co-owners years ago.

  There was no way Diesel was going to go any further up the ladder just yet, and he was more than fine with that. He was happy being captain to the charter, a highly regarded rank in the underworld of outlaw biker gangs. It meant he couldn’t be touched or rubbed out by other gang members on a whim.

  One day, maybe the post of either president or vice president would be passed down to him. If not, he didn’t care. He was where he was most happy. Where he felt he belonged. With a family.

  He hadn’t had much of one growing up. His mother had gotten pregnant with him when she was just fourteen. His dad had stuck around until just after the birth, and then split on Diesel and his mother, by going into the army and never returning. Whether he died on some battlefield fighting enemy soldiers or on a mountain or in a village combating terrorists is unsure.

  Hell, he could have survived his tours and come home safe and sound, before fucking off to another part of the world. Nobody knew.

  Diesel continued to keep his ear open for the man’s name. For one day, he might come across him in a pub somewhere, all Gin-soaked and old. That’s the picture he liked to paint of the man, if he was alive, of course.

  His mother had tried to keep him on the straight-and-narrow, of course. But it had been hard for her. What with living in a shitty area in south Wales, with bad families and even worse children, it was never going to happen. Plus, she had very little money and her parents had given up on her the day she’d told them she was carrying. Fucking pricks, Diesel thought.

  Fuck ‘em!

  Badness and crime was inevitable. Society and a rotten family had let him down. But he’d loved his mother. Still did. Her untimely death had struck a chord with him; had pushed him further into the underbelly of the crime world.

  It wasn’t long after this he’d run into a pack of Boas outside a pub in Cardiff. Diesel had been on his way to the doss house, when he’d slammed into one of them just outside of the Queen’s Vault pub.

  Ollie had been with them, but hadn’t interjected. The huge man was always on the lookout for new talent, and when he saw the way in which Diesel had dealt with four of his crew, he’d been very impressed. So impressed, he’d taken Diesel back to the clubhouse that evening to meet Dutch.

  He’d finally found a home.

  “Hey! Diesel!” the man at his side yelled over at him.

  Diesel turned to face Slicks, a Boa if you ever did see one. Half his mouth was missing his natural teeth and was filled instead with fake ivory and gold. He also had a huge, mother-fucking ZZ Top beard, which made him look like a mean assed son-of-a-bitch.

  He wore no tee – just his cut. Whether it snowed or hailed he never wore anything under his cut. Ever. A fucking typhoon could rip through the place and he’d still be bare-chested. He was a fucking monster, Diesel thought.

  The man had a head the size of a melon, which sprouted long, dreadlocked hair. His face was hard. Mean. Time and weather had taken a very hard toll on Slicks, but he gave not one fuck.

  Slicks saw himself as a warrior of the road.

  A soldier of death, destruction and drugs, with a bit of AC/DC thrown in. Not forgetting a box of Jack Daniels and a satchel full of beef jerky. He was crazier than a fucking shithouse rat, Diesel thought, smiling. But he loved Slicks for it.

  “Yeah?!” Diesel yelled back, so Slicks could hear him over the roar of six motorbike engines.

  “Over there!” Slicks called back again, nodding to the right.

  Diesel followed the man’s nod and noted that in the distance there was a very large building. Its roof edged above the trees and sported two very impressive chimney stacks, which were pumping out black smoke and polluting the air as they did so.

  Even though that was all the detail Diesel could make out of the building from the distance – and that was a task in itself due to the weather – it gave him the fucking creeps. How the hell had Slicks managed to see the place? The rain was coming down in sheets.

  “Aye, I see it!” Diesel shouted. “And?!” What the fuck did he mean, ‘and’? Only a short time ago, he was gagging for booze and women; to get his throat and dick wet. He’d have mugged his granny for a place to stop, rest, and fuel his body with sin.

  Did the look of the place scare the fuck out of him?

  No. Fucking. Way. Fuck all scared him. Nothing. He’d hurt men much bigger and bat shit crazier than himself. He’d survived long spells in various prisons which had housed opposing gang members.

  Shivved twice. Shot four times. Beaten relentlessly.

  Nothing could hurt him. Nothing gave him the willies.

  Except this place.

  What in the fuck was it doing out here in the middle-of-nowhere?

  Had they passed it on the way up? He couldn’t recall.

  Now that Slicks had pointed the place out, Diesel couldn’t take his eyes off the building, which he felt was looming over them. Almost threateningly. He knew danger when he saw it.

  “And?” Slicks half yelled. The confused look all over his chops said it all.

  Diesel shrugged his shoulder.

  “Are you fucking shittin’ me, dude?!” You’ve
been busting to stop all the way home. We need a fucking rest, man,” he said, flicking his head backward to indicate the rest of the boys following behind. “We can’t make it all the way back without a pit stop, amigo,” Slicks concluded.

  “Yeah, I guess so. But we don’t even know if it’s a pub, man!” Diesel protested. What the fuck was up with him? He never got the heebie-jeebies. Never.

  “Of course it is. We passed it on the way. Remember?!”

  Diesel shook his head. He really could not remember passing a pub. Not out here, anyway. The road was a bone yard for yesteryear – the surface all buckled and beaten. Most of the way along it, the tarmac was ripped up with weeds and trees pushing their way through.

  Nothing travelled up or down here any longer. The road was dead. Literally.

  “Yeah, vaguely,” Diesel lied. “We’ll make a stop. Let the rest of the boys know.”

  He watched in his side mirror, as Slicks slipped back behind him. The man nestled his bike in between the other four Boas, and filled them in on what the score was. They were stopping. They were going to soak up some booze and hopefully some pussy, before hitting the road home again.

  Diesel had to admit, even though he didn’t like the look of the place, he was busting a bollock for a stop. To recharge his batteries. This would do nicely, even if it did turn out to be the Munsters’ fucking weekend cottage.

  A rest was a rest, and he and the crew were due one. They’d gone all the way up to Manchester without a stop and were now on the way home. It was sheer madness to do so many hours on the road without relief here and there.

  The place grew closer and closer. Now it really was starting to loom over them. And, on much closer inspection, it looked ever creepier and fucked up. The building appeared to him more like a fortress than a pub. It was monstrous, not just big. It subjugated the surrounding area with its mass. The stonework looked harsh, with sharp jutting corners. Four floors, maybe more, made up the building’s height, with windows all over the place. Some of the top windows had been cemented over, which suggested the higher parts of the pub were no longer in use. The old slate roof looked worn and well used, but the chimney stacks puffed away unconcerned.

  A single light burned in one of upper windows.

  Diesel thought he saw a face peep out at them, as they parked their bikes in car park. They drank the place in, as the light of day started burning out faster and faster. Soon it would be pitch black out on the road.

  “Maybe they’ll have a few rooms to spare, Diesel?” Slicks said.

  Diesel turned on his fellow biker with a scowl. “What the hell for, dude?”

  “For bunking down. No way are we going to be able to go any further in this weather. It’d be suicide, bro.”

  “Bunking down? Suicide on the roads? This coming from a brother who never, ever wears a fucking tee? You’re fucking nuts, Slicks, dude,” Diesel said smiling.

  “Nuts and sensible all at once,” he said, and spat rain water as he spoke.

  “I ain’t liking this place,” Diesel said.

  “Why? Don’t be a fucking pussy, bro. It’s just a fucking building,” Slicks said, dismounting his bike. His gut was big, but solid. And, for a tubby guy, Slicks could move. He’d rip your fucking face off in a fight and piss on you whilst you tried retrieving it, Diesel thought. “Come on, puss,” Slicks continued to chide, as he pushed past Diesel. The Sergeant at arms was in a playful mood, which amused Diesel.

  “After you, dog shit,” Diesel retorted, as he watched Slicks pull his sodden jeans up his arse to cover his offending, pimple-covered cheeks.

  “Well?” Slicks said, turning to see the others just standing there watching him.

  “What do you reckon, Roadblock?” Diesel said, turning to one of the prospect of the bunch.

  “Seems okay.” Roadblock’s voice was as deep as a ravine, and twice as thick sounding. He wasn’t called Roadblock for nothing. The man was mountain-sized, with a six-six height and a frame of over two hundred pounds. He constantly blamed his size on his family, as they hailed from Samoa. Roadblock would often say he ate too much as it was the Samoan in him.

  He was bulky, because it was the Samoan in him.

  He was aggressive, because it was the Samoan in him.

  He was over friendly, because it was the Samoan in him…

  The list was endless.

  He had bones through his nose and Samoan tribal tattoos all over his face. He was as scary to look at as he was big and bulging. How he got on his bike was beyond Diesel. The guy hadn’t been with The Boas that long – maybe two months. Roadblock was labelled a ‘prospect’ due to being a beginner, but it wouldn’t take the man-mountain long to earn his colours.

  “Cool,” he told Roadblock. “And what about you three?” Diesel said, addressing two more prospects and an old-hand by the name of Gutbust, who’d been shot more times than he cared to remember. Gutbust often joked that he shit and pissed lead every time he went to the toilet.

  He was a small man. The smallest in this posse, anyway. His hair was long and lank, and most of his body was covered in tattoos. He also looked painfully thin and was useless in a fight. But, Gutbust was a shit hot scout and navigator.

  “Looks fine to me. I can’t see why we’re standing out here in the pissin’ down rain, when we could be warming our arses inside that place,” Gutbust said.

  “I fucking second that,” Slicks shouted over. “Come on, for fuck’s sake!”

  “When we get in there, I want you to check the place out, Gutbust. You hear me?”

  “Got it, cap.”

  “If we do end up staying here, I want to know what type of fucking place we’re dossing at, guys. Comprende?”

  “Aye,” Gutbust said, whilst nodding.

  “What about you monkeys?” Diesel said, addressing the newbies of the bunch.

  “Of course. We’ve got your back, captain,” they said, almost in unison.

  Diesel nodded, turned to face Slicks, and then beckoned the four at his back to follow.

  “What the fuck has got you so spooked, dude?” Slicks asked Diesel.

  “We just got to be careful. Who the fuck keeps a shithole like this open out here? There’s fuck all here, bro! Nothing. Even the cows have fucked off from the fields.” Slicks looked about him. He saw many fields around him. Some had corroded barns standing in them. Others had shells for buildings. A cold grew inside him.

  “You’ve seen too many horror…”

  “You think so?” Diesel said. “I’d call it street-smart. We watch our arses when we get in there. We could be walking into another gang’s hive. Who’s to say this ain’t a cookhouse? A crank farm? A fucking pimp house?”

  “I never thought about that. Don’t The Flying Skulls have a crew stationed around this area?” Slicks pondered out loud.

  “Yes, they do. And you know how much of a cutthroat bunch they are. Are you carrying, Slicks?”

  “Always, brother. Always. You?”

  “No. Well, I do have my hunting knife down my boot, but no gun.”

  “What about Gutbust and the prospectors?” Slicks asked.

  “Possible. Let’s just get in there and scope the place out.”

  Gutbust and the three prospectors joined Slicks and Diesel at the front door.

  “I’ll go in first,” Gutbust said. “See if I can…”

  His sentence was cut short, when a young female opened the door to The Rack and Cue. “Ooh, more people,” she smirked. Alcohol had clearly started to fog her mind. “Come in and dry off,” she beckoned them. The bikers followed the young woman into the pub single file, with Diesel right on her shoulder. He had his eyes glued to her perfect arse and desperately wanted to give it a good, hard smack. “My name’s Mandy,” she told Diesel, while stealing a glance back at him. She caught him eyeing her rump.

  “Diesel,” he said. “This is my crew.”

  “Hi, Diesel. Hi, crew,” she said, waving back at them but not looking. She let slip a small giggle, w
hich enticed a burp to follow.

  When they entered the bar area, they saw there was another man there, along with another woman. They were sitting around a table which was filled with empty bottles and glasses.

  A private party, Diesel thought, or can anyone join in?

  He raised an eyebrow as he watched, trying to figure out just what was going on here.

  “This is Grace,” Mandy said, and went to the other woman. She put her arms around her. “My good friend.”

  “And him?” Diesel said, nodding at the suited guy who didn’t look as though he belonged.

  “My name’s Charlie, mate,” he said, offering a hand to Diesel who shook it.

  “I see.”

  “My car took a spill just down the road. I headed here for help,” Charlie added, taking a sip of his lager.

  Diesel nodded. “And you two?” he asked Mandy.

  “We were camping in the area and got caught in this awful rain. And, just like Charlie, we stumbled on this place.”

  “Cosy,” Diesel said, taking his eyes off the group of people and resting them on the roaring fire. “Slicks, grab that table over there,” he said, nodding to the fireplace. “I’ll get the drinks.”

  “We’re staying?” Slicks asked.

  “Damn right we are. The party’s just getting started, my friend.”

  Chapter 8

  Danny sat in the passenger seat of the expensive Ford Transit Van, desperately trying to see where the Boas had vanished to. How could this be? They’d been right on their fucking tail, he thought. Well, not immediately on their tail. They’d hung a mile or so back, just keeping them in their sight.

  But still.

  “Where the fuck have they gone?” Danny barked.

  It was a straight road. No on/off ramps. No turns. No diversions. No short cuts back to the main motorway. So where in fuck had they disappeared to? This wasn’t the fucking Bermuda Triangle. This was the fucking Midlands, for Christ sake, he thought.