will protect you inside—they will get revenge if something happens to you in prison. You might even be able to reclaim your position when you come back out, but while you’re inside, someone else rules. And Maddox– with Carol’s help– had set everything in place so that he was going to be that “someone else” when Burke went inside.
Everything went down as planned — well, not quite as planned. Burke was carrying enough on his person and on his bike to put him away for a long time. That part of the plan worked perfectly. The police were able to surprise him in the middle of a deal. That part also worked. What didn’t work so well is that no one expected him to try to shoot his way out.
No one, that is, except the SWAT team backing up the drug unit. Burke got off one shot before crumpling to the ground. Each of the three backup snipers could claim a kill shot. All three hit in vital zones.
There had been over a thousand bikes in Burke’s funeral procession. Clubs from several surrounding states came to pay their respects to a fallen leader. Now the problem facing Maddox was how to make his claim for the presidency. Taking over for a leader dumb enough to get himself arrested in a sting operation was one thing, but replacing a leader who went out in a blaze of glory was something else. Maddox knew he would have to move very carefully or there might be backlash. If he moved too quickly, someone might even think–not incorrectly–that he had something to do with Burke’s demise.
After hours on the road, Maddox had considered several possible plans, but he was unsure that any of them were the best. Finally, he decided what he really needed to do was meet with Carol and plan out their next move together. He pulled a screaming, leg-down U-turn across the highway, just to prove to himself that he could still do it, and headed back home.
The sun was starting to get low in the sky by the time he got back to Iron Creek. Iron Creek was an old gold mining town. Some people think that the Iron Angels are named for the town, but the name was just a coincidence when the Angels moved there from Denver in the 1970's. Back then, Denver was getting too civilized, and Iron Creek still had the ambiance of “old west freedom” hanging heavy in its dusty streets.
Now Iron Creek was a biker town with everything the name alluded to in a place like Colorado. Civilization eventually caught up with Iron Creek but the bars, tattoo parlors, and other shady establishments that surround the biker world consistently threw mud in its eye. Tourists were welcome in Iron Creek, or at least they were tolerated, but bikers ruled and had done so for over forty years.
Carol Malone owned and lived above The Iron Angels Bar , a primary meeting place and unofficial clubhouse for the Iron Angels. She had purchased the bar several years ago and renamed it for the club. The building itself dated back to the Wild West era. Her apartment was upstairs with an old-fashioned, wooden stairway running up the back of the building. It was her night off, so they would have plenty of time to talk... or engage in other activities.
Maddox pulled his bike carefully into the alleyway. It was a narrow alley and there wasn’t a lot of room. You had to approach the steps just right to get that big Harley into the small parking place beneath them.
He was lined up perfectly, but his bike wasn’t going to fit. That was because there was already a bike sitting there. The custom Maltese cross wheels and the Iron Angels skull and wings on the tank told him the bike was David Arnold’s. David was perhaps the second most powerful member of the club, or at least he used to be.
Maddox killed his engine and sat silently in the alleyway. The inner door at the top of the steps was open and light streamed through the screen door. Sound also carried into the alleyway from above. On a busy night at the bar, you wouldn’t have been able
Everything went down as planned — well, not quite as planned. Burke was carrying enough on his person and on his bike to put him away for a long time. That part of the plan worked perfectly. The police were able to surprise him in the middle of a deal. That part also worked. What didn’t work so well is that no one expected him to try to shoot his way out.
No one, that is, except the SWAT team backing up the drug unit. Burke got off one shot before crumpling to the ground. Each of the three backup snipers could claim a kill shot. All three hit in vital zones.
There had been over a thousand bikes in Burke’s funeral procession. Clubs from several surrounding states came to pay their respects to a fallen leader. Now the problem facing Maddox was how to make his claim for the presidency. Taking over for a leader dumb enough to get himself arrested in a sting operation was one thing, but replacing a leader who went out in a blaze of glory was something else. Maddox knew he would have to move very carefully or there might be backlash. If he moved too quickly, someone might even think–not incorrectly–that he had something to do with Burke’s demise.
After hours on the road, Maddox had considered several possible plans, but he was unsure that any of them were the best. Finally, he decided what he really needed to do was meet with Carol and plan out their next move together. He pulled a screaming, leg-down U-turn across the highway, just to prove to himself that he could still do it, and headed back home.
The sun was starting to get low in the sky by the time he got back to Iron Creek. Iron Creek was an old gold mining town. Some people think that the Iron Angels are named for the town, but the name was just a coincidence when the Angels moved there from Denver in the 1970's. Back then, Denver was getting too civilized, and Iron Creek still had the ambiance of “old west freedom” hanging heavy in its dusty streets.
Now Iron Creek was a biker town with everything the name alluded to in a place like Colorado. Civilization eventually caught up with Iron Creek but the bars, tattoo parlors, and other shady establishments that surround the biker world consistently threw mud in its eye. Tourists were welcome in Iron Creek, or at least they were tolerated, but bikers ruled and had done so for over forty years.
Carol Malone owned and lived above The Iron Angels Bar , a primary meeting place and unofficial clubhouse for the Iron Angels. She had purchased the bar several years ago and renamed it for the club. The building itself dated back to the Wild West era. Her apartment was upstairs with an old-fashioned, wooden stairway running up the back of the building. It was her night off, so they would have plenty of time to talk... or engage in other activities.
Maddox pulled his bike carefully into the alleyway. It was a narrow alley and there wasn’t a lot of room. You had to approach the steps just right to get that big Harley into the small parking place beneath them.
He was lined up perfectly, but his bike wasn’t going to fit. That was because there was already a bike sitting there. The custom Maltese cross wheels and the Iron Angels skull and wings on the tank told him the bike was David Arnold’s. David was perhaps the second most powerful member of the club, or at least he used to be.
Maddox killed his engine and sat silently in the alleyway. The inner door at the top of the steps was open and light streamed through the screen door. Sound also carried into the alleyway from above. On a busy night at the bar, you wouldn’t have been able
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