THE REAPER'S LAST RIDE

The Reaper hadn't been out of that nice little semi-detached in his colours in seven months since he settled down and married Peggie-Jean Farlow, and bought that nursery on Wilson Road. He found out that it made a nice change from trying to collect at those meth labs and grow-ops from guys who were either stoned or lazy or just plain stupid. When he wasn't working or riding around in the second hand Dodge pickup e'd bought, he was at home repainting and working on the house.

It had been easy getting into the Devil Dogs. He'd done seven years in the Army learning motor skills and also learning computers and Spanish. He'd also been pretty good with a gun. And he'd met corporal Laurence Hampton.

He'd been the one to make the introductions at the steakhouse in Cincinnatti. And he'd prospected with the Dogs. He'd already owned a Harley Soft Tail and a Suzuki as well as his own second-hand Silverado pickup.

It was thanks to the Dogs he picked up a small arsenal of 9mm and .357 Magnum weapons, and shotguns and knives. He liked the knife. If you did it right, it wasn't too messy. He hated messy.

For seventeen years he'd prospected with,and then ridden all over America and Canada with the Devil Dogs, as they had become a bigger part of organised crime. He'd run errands, fixed bikes, tended bar at parties and collected money for them and then he'd gotten into car theft, heroin and meth dealing and no longer ere they insignificant compared to Hell's Angels or the Bandidos.

But after his last job, taking out those college frat boys who'd gotten careless operating the grow op and stealing chemicals from the lab at school for the meth lab, he'd left a hundred thousand in cash with Sam Kittridge and driven the customised Vengeance chopper to Doyle's storage facility, and Peggie-Jean had picked him up in the 2000 RAM 4x4.

That weekend they'd married in the backyard at her parents' house. Red Farlow had been a bar tender most of his adult life and he knew trouble when he saw it, but the Reaper had hung up his leathers and left a hundred and fifty thousand in cash in Red's basement, and he'd treated Peggie-Jean right.

The strawberry-blonde with the 37Cs bulging through a halter top, had a nice smile and a freindly way about her, even when she'd had a couple of beers. And after they'd been together a while and the police had showed up, he was surprised when she kept her mouth shut.

Red was anxious at first, but she told him that she was getting married whether he liked it or not, and that he had better get used to it.

So he gave his blessing. And Peggie-Jean had been losing weight, working out and now working at the nursery. She had even done a couple of favours for the other bikers' squeezes when they'd gotten in a bit of trouble and needed to pay off parking and speeding tickets. Nothing really serious.

It was late in May that he'd heard from Carnie Bob that two of the guys had been killed in a house fire. The guy had been a strung-out meth addict for a while and had lost his job running the Midway. But he'd straightened out right and now the Reaper trusted him. He had often carried a bike for him to be picked up somewhere and shared a motel with him.

He figured it was just an electrical fire that had killed them in their sleep. But then a few days after that, one of the women who'd known Ninja Dave came into the nursery, and told him that someone had gunned him down behind his bungalow outside of town. One of the prospects had found him and called the boss on a cell phone and asked what to do. He did as he was told, pulling bags of crank and cash and a few guns out of the house and then he called from a pay phone outside a gas station and left an anonymous message with the 911 service.

It was as he was settling down after helping Peggie Jean with the dishes that he saw the news. And he turned up the volume.

"The attorney general had little else to say after the coroner's report except that the FBI and DEA and the RCMP would be more vigilant than ever in the hopes of preventing this new development from turning into a full-blown gang war. This is the first time in five years that a member of the Devil Dogs has been involved in a shooting and apparently it has all the law enforcement experts scratching
their heads."

And then Peggie-Jean was behind him, with a hand on his shoulder.

"Is there anything I can do honey?"

"I don't know hon. I may have to go out on the road and deal with this. But you know I'll be careful. I wrote out my will when I got married, and Sam will take care of things. I promised your
Dad that I'd do right by you and I meant it. I just want to find out if my freinds need someone at their back."

And the next day he left early, with a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches on the passenger seat beside him in the RAM. He had the Suzuki and his old Heritage Soft Tail on the trailer. And in addition to the pair of .357 magnum revolvers in his duffel bag, he had a shotgun under the box of tools in the box of the pickup.

When he pulled into Columbus, Ohio, he used a pay phone and called the cell number that Sam had given him at the bachelor party.

"Sam? It's me. What do you need man. I'm in Columbus. At the gas station near where we bought those parts for my bike. "

"I know the place. I'll come by in half an hour. It's a shitstorm. We lost Barney and Lisa this morning. Someone used a baseball bat on them."

"Fuck me."

"Watch your back. There's something nasty out there gunning for us."

"I'm prepared for it. "


His boss rode up twenty-eight minutes later while the hitman was checking the shocks on his Suzuki. He hadn't had it out much in the last year. But it should hold together just fine.

The head of the Dogs was only about five foot nine, but he still bench pressed two hundred pounds every chance he got and had shaved the last of his greying hair. he'd started to look like a real idiot with that long pony tial and not much else. Under the leather jacket he was probably wearing an SIG P-220 .45 like he usually did. The Reaper gassed up the truck and refilled the windshield wiper reservoir, before strolling in to buy some donuts and pay for the gas.

"Haven't seen you in a long time Dwayne. Haven't seen you since that ride out to Sturgis in oh three. You hear that Martha, Big Jim and Eric Du Champs were kiled this morning? Someone run them off the road. A damn shame the way some people are burning up the road."

"You can buy me a burger tonight and we can toast our old freinds. That place on Morrison Street is supposed to be good."

"Sure thing. That Suzuki of yours still holding up? A damn shame you have to use somehing like that."

"Oh it gets me across town. And doesn't scare the neighbours too much. Even thought of getting a couple of new ones for me and Peg."

"Wel I've got something you might like. i'll show you at dinner."

And the Reaper paid his bill and strolled out. If they were meeting at the bar on Morrison Street then almost everyone would be there. Whenever the Dogs were celebrating or it was a wake, they'd have it at the Black Dog. Tom McFarlane still ran it.

His son had died in prison after beating to death a large Mexican who'd raped his sister. On the way home he'd been pulled over for speeding and the cop had seen a bag of pills on the passenger seat and Duncan's tattoo was a typical biker insignia.

Duncan had been a Dog prospect for only three mo So the kid had been cuffed and eventually convicted of possession, but word had gotten around the the Mexicans in prison. They had strangled him in the shower.

He'd been a good kid and hed bought everyone a couple of hand-rolled Cohibas when Sam's nephew had been born. A smart kid. They'd cut the Mexican to pieces in prison with his own razor.

All day he rode over town, leaving his pick up at the motel. And he found the policewoman who owed him a favor. She'd been hurt in the line of duty and they supplied her with pain killers and she had told them about the collge kids.

"I'm not absolutely certain, but I think it's to do with the acident last year. The trucker was on pills and some kids were coming back from spring break. The trucker went through an intersection too fast and hit the Cavalier. Killed three of them. Remember the Sixty Minutes piece about impaired driving? Well that trucker was found about four months after that. Someone had used a cigarette lighter and then a knife. He must have talked to someone. Since then, someone's been asking questions about pills and dealing. And I don't think it's a Fed. I think someone has been trying to get even. I checked the kids who were killed and another one is in hosital. One girl has a father in the Navy Reserve but he lives in Bremerton. They go to church a lot. And the Russian kid's parents moved back to Saint Petersburg."

"You hear anything, then you call the Black Dog and ask to speak with Sam or maybe Stan."

And the red haired woman nodded. She looked scared to death as she eased herself out of the barstool and he reached into his pocket. But she held up her hand.

"My boss already knows I've been taking pills. I'm not going to be much use any more. I won't talk. But I think they might be watching me. Just disappear. That's the best advoice I can give you."

And Dwayne nodded, and turned to go, and then whipped around and grabbed her by the back of the head. Her head slammed into the counter so fast and hard that the cartilage in her nose was driven into her brain. She hit the floor with a faint thud.

He used the bandanna to wipe the fingerprints from the dorknob, and then he left. He still had short hair and the leather jacket he wore didn't have any biker patches on it. He could have been
a dentist or anybody else in that leather jacket on a Japanese bike.

The ride out to the Black Dog was quiet, and he kept checking over his shoulder. But there were no cops following him. He saw an Oldsmobile Alero a couple of times, but it was a common enough car, and it turned off a few miles before the Black Dog and went into the Krispy Kreme. Some guy must have been in the mood for coffee and donuts.

The Dog was full of men and women who knew him and a few who he didn't. A couple of guys wore pistols tucked into their waist badn and one fellow wore a .44 magnum revolver strapped in a shoulder holster. But most of them looked like typical Dogs with a mug of beer in their hand and a cigarete.

He nodded at them and went and stood in the corner, trying to look as inconspicuous as a six foot five man of two undred and fifty pounds could look. And then Sam stood on the table. There was one kid who was checking all over with an electronic wand of some kind. Must have been checking for wiretaps and bugs.

"You've all heard the news. Someone has betrayed our brothers and sisters out there. Someone has been hunting us down. Well I've confrimed with a brother who knows the cops, that someoen has been asking questions about us. And I'm pretty damn sure that it isn't the feds because they have no fuckin idea what is going on.

It isn't the Families in New York 'cause we've made them so much money with the product we delivered and sold for them and the bars we've partied in and we've stayed away from their turf when they asked us to. So I have to ask each and everyone of you if you have any idea why anyone would want to hunt uis down? It's been our best year ever for product. We take care of each other and we haven't been too public. It's not the other biker gangs cause this ain't their style. So what the fuck is going on?"

And everyone was quiet for a bit, and then Lenny Hasselbeck slowly raised his hand. The long ginger hair felow down around a horse-faced guy who wore blue flanel shirts and blue jeans under leather chaps. And he had a Glock holstered on his hip.

"I only know we didn't lose anyone untill those college kids died in Pittsburgh. And I hate to say it but maybe we pissed someone off who was told about our business. Maybe some idiot stoner told their freinds or family where they got the shit. I know security's been careful. But who knows what those idiots told anyone."

"Then the fuckin feds would be all over us. Wouldn't they?"

And then Lenny nodded, but then he took a breath.

"Well there was a guy at the one college kid's funeral. I watched it on CNN and he wore a uniform. Marines I think. And he told Larry King that the bikers were only delivering the product that so many people need. I don't know, but the look he gave the camera scared me. He said something about how they should do all the junkies with a bullet through the head like they do in China with all the heroin addicts. I saw that look in his eye. And I've been through the tough times like everyone. But that guy was a stone cold killer. Maybe he decided to find out what his brother was involved in."

"That's a bit wild, but I suppose if it was my brother I'd want to put a bullet in them. From now on we watch our backs like never before, and we stay away from the usual business dealings. I think-"

And then there was a sound like breaking glass and a whump from above, and then there was a shout from upstairs.

"The roof is on fire? Someone just threw a Molotov on the roof. Shit! Here comes another one. It's some guy across the street with a big bike! Looks like one of those Victory bikes.I think he's got a shotgun!"

"Kill that bastard now! The man that takes him down gets a new bike and fifty thousand cash!" roared Sam and he hauled the SIG out of his waistband holster. Skinny Red charged out the door and he was followed by Bob the Hangman Farley and Eric Skullfucker Haley. There was silence for a moment, and then they were firing their handguns. But it was a second later that there was a whoosh and a groan from the woman upstairs.

"The gas tank of that van just went up. Doesn't look like they hit anything except the van. Christ he's moving!" and then there were two blasts of the shotgun and the sound of breaking glass upstairs. And Dawyne hissed before he pulled out the pair of revolvers and headed towards the back door. It couldn't be more than one guy out there. And he was probably to angry to think straight. He just wanted blood.