stood out more, and there were no nearby apartments from which to surveil the club’s daily operations. Neil hadn’t made his final decision, but he was very seriously considering also moving the primary hub of his operations to Porter.
The only problem was Miles Chaplin. Miles hated all motorcycles and anyone who rode them. He considered the bikes themselves to be vulgar and noisy, and the people who rode them to be nothing but low-life, low-class trash.
Perhaps his hatred stemmed from the fact that they reminded him too much of the poverty from which he himself had arisen. Miles wasn’t born rich. He was Texan pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps rich, and motorcycles and the people who rode them were everything that Miles had struggled to leave behind in his climb to success.
And then there was the problem of motorcycles trespassing on CPE right-of-way easements. Service roads ran beneath the miles and miles of high tower transmission lines owned by CPE. A couple of times each year a bulldozer would lumber down those roads and clear away boulders or scrub brush so the path would be clear for line trucks when needed. All power companies posted signs that the roads were private, but for other companies that was just lawyer talk to help prevent lawsuits. For Miles, though, it was personal. Those were his roads, and no one but his people were going to use them.
That’s why he had gates blocking the service road at regular intervals. The gates prevented anyone who didn’t have the pass code from driving a car or truck along the towers. But Texas is cow country and the lines crossed huge ranches, so the gates had to be designed to let cattle pass through. At regular intervals, there was a solar-powered electric gate directly across the road. Evenly spaced alongside that gate, heavy steel posts extended out many feet in either direction so a car or truck could not easily go around. Problem was, anything a steer could walk through, a motorcycle can ride through, and even before the Reapers came to town, local motorcyclists had enjoyed riding through vast stretches of Texas landscape beneath the tall towers of Consolidated Power Enterprises.
***
The smell of sausage and eggs greeted Raina as she came down the steps. So did her mother’s voice: “Breakfast is ready honey, come eat before it gets cold.”
“Good morning,” she said to her mother as Raina entered the kitchen. Then she gave her father a perfunctory peck on the cheek and also greeted him with, “Good morning.”
He replied, “Good morning, Princess.”
Miles always called her Princess. That’s how he thought of her. He was the King, and she was his Little Princess. She would never know hunger or want as he once had, because he could—and would—provide her with everything she could ever need.
Raina hated being called “Princess.” It had taken her several years to get Daddy to drop the word “Little” in front of it. Each time he had called her “Little Princess,” she would pout and say, “Daddy, I’m grown up now, in case you haven’t noticed.”
After he switched to just “Princess,” she tried to push him farther, saying “I have a name. It’s Raina.”
But her father would always respond, “You will always be my little Princess.”
Finally, she gave up and tolerated the term… but only from her father.
Her mom had just set her plate in front of her when her father’s cell phone squawked with a sound very similar to the fire alarms at the office.
“Damn,” he said, reaching for his pocket. His only words were, “Where?” and then, “How many?” He said “Damn!” again and returned the phone to his pocket.
“You’d better hurry, Princess,” he said as he gulped down the last of his coffee. “Storms took out four towers on line seven and another three on line nine and at least two on line six. We’re going to have to calculate the re-routes before
The only problem was Miles Chaplin. Miles hated all motorcycles and anyone who rode them. He considered the bikes themselves to be vulgar and noisy, and the people who rode them to be nothing but low-life, low-class trash.
Perhaps his hatred stemmed from the fact that they reminded him too much of the poverty from which he himself had arisen. Miles wasn’t born rich. He was Texan pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps rich, and motorcycles and the people who rode them were everything that Miles had struggled to leave behind in his climb to success.
And then there was the problem of motorcycles trespassing on CPE right-of-way easements. Service roads ran beneath the miles and miles of high tower transmission lines owned by CPE. A couple of times each year a bulldozer would lumber down those roads and clear away boulders or scrub brush so the path would be clear for line trucks when needed. All power companies posted signs that the roads were private, but for other companies that was just lawyer talk to help prevent lawsuits. For Miles, though, it was personal. Those were his roads, and no one but his people were going to use them.
That’s why he had gates blocking the service road at regular intervals. The gates prevented anyone who didn’t have the pass code from driving a car or truck along the towers. But Texas is cow country and the lines crossed huge ranches, so the gates had to be designed to let cattle pass through. At regular intervals, there was a solar-powered electric gate directly across the road. Evenly spaced alongside that gate, heavy steel posts extended out many feet in either direction so a car or truck could not easily go around. Problem was, anything a steer could walk through, a motorcycle can ride through, and even before the Reapers came to town, local motorcyclists had enjoyed riding through vast stretches of Texas landscape beneath the tall towers of Consolidated Power Enterprises.
***
The smell of sausage and eggs greeted Raina as she came down the steps. So did her mother’s voice: “Breakfast is ready honey, come eat before it gets cold.”
“Good morning,” she said to her mother as Raina entered the kitchen. Then she gave her father a perfunctory peck on the cheek and also greeted him with, “Good morning.”
He replied, “Good morning, Princess.”
Miles always called her Princess. That’s how he thought of her. He was the King, and she was his Little Princess. She would never know hunger or want as he once had, because he could—and would—provide her with everything she could ever need.
Raina hated being called “Princess.” It had taken her several years to get Daddy to drop the word “Little” in front of it. Each time he had called her “Little Princess,” she would pout and say, “Daddy, I’m grown up now, in case you haven’t noticed.”
After he switched to just “Princess,” she tried to push him farther, saying “I have a name. It’s Raina.”
But her father would always respond, “You will always be my little Princess.”
Finally, she gave up and tolerated the term… but only from her father.
Her mom had just set her plate in front of her when her father’s cell phone squawked with a sound very similar to the fire alarms at the office.
“Damn,” he said, reaching for his pocket. His only words were, “Where?” and then, “How many?” He said “Damn!” again and returned the phone to his pocket.
“You’d better hurry, Princess,” he said as he gulped down the last of his coffee. “Storms took out four towers on line seven and another three on line nine and at least two on line six. We’re going to have to calculate the re-routes before
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