Guardian Angels

A Hell's Angel tears along the highway ignoring the speed restrictions because he has other things to consider.

 

Blade Connor hammered along Route 54 on his Harley Davidson disregarding the speed limit and the patrol car parked up ahead.  The semi-reclined position and the windblown hair gave him a casual appearance which was misleading.  His mind was racing like his bike’s engine.

‘Sheriff ... it’s Joey,’ the young patrolman radioed, ‘a Harley chopper just passed here doin’ ‘bout eighty an’ it looks like your man.’

‘Rider description?’ Sheriff Raynor asked.

‘Big white guy, maybe mid-thirties, long blonde hair tied with a red bandana an’ he’s wearin’ the local Chapter’s colours,’ Joey paused before asking hopefully, ‘d’ya want me to chase him ....’

‘No,’ Raynor replied.

‘But sheriff -,’    

‘Joey,’ Raynor interrupted, ‘let him go son.’

Ten minutes after passing the speed trap Blade eased his machine off the hot Arizona tarmac onto the sand outside a remote building.  ‘The Iron Bar’ was the clubhouse of the Sandstone Chapter of the Hell’s Angels Motor Cycle Club.  Already parked were 61 bikes of varying vintage, but they were all Harleys. 

Blade parked in a space close to the entrance and rapidly dismounted.  As he reached the timber building he nodded to the dozen riders standing on the porch.  They followed him as if they had been sucked inside. 

A man of Blade’s age and build, but with long dark hair and a beard strode between his leather-clad brethren.  His expression remained impassive as he extended his right fist at shoulder height to greet his leader.  Blade’s fist rose and the two large scarred hands met briefly knuckle to knuckle.  On the back of their hands both wore a tattoo of a winged ‘82’. 

‘Talk to me,’ Blade said.

Mad Dog Mitchell nodded and turned to lead Blade to a prepared briefing.  A map was spread on a table, held in place by full ashtrays and empty bottles.  Blade looked down and was reminded of his final bloody mission in Iraq in ’91.  A select team of eight from 82^nd Airborne had gone in to rescue a diplomat.  They got the man out, but of the team, only Blade, Mad Dog and one other survived.  Their survival was thanks to Blade. 

Now in present day Sandstone things were different.  Blade made the rules.  The primary one being that he rarely gave quarter to an opponent.  He watched as Mad Dog used a thick red marker to draw crosses on the map then circle one building.  

Mad Dog said, ‘He’s got her in one-oh-two, on the second floor of this hotel.’

‘Preparations ?’ Blade asked without looking up. 

‘I got twenty riders workin’ in pairs.  They’re coverin’ every road in our out o’ town, an’ I got two riders outside the hotel entrance an’ two out back.’

Blade nodded, ‘Good work.’

‘One more thing,’ Mitchell said, ‘the Sheriff’s Department has a car parked across the street from the hotel entrance.’  The two bikers made eye contact. 

‘Anybody in it?’

‘Raynor,’ Mitchell said.  His beard twitched as his lips curled. 

Dimples appeared in Blade’s cheeks and he raised his right brow. 

Ten minutes after Mad Dog’s briefing a mass of man and machines roared along the highway as 62 bikers sped towards Sandstone.  Two lines of mean machines, ridden by equally mean men, travelling side by side.  They passed a parked patrol car on Route 54. 

When the noise died down and the patrolman regained control of his lower jaw he lifted his handset.  ‘Sheriff ... it’s ... Joey ....’

‘Go ahead,’ Raynor said.  He listened to the report and said, ‘Thank you Joey.’

Joey stared at his handset, opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it.  To the surrounding desert he said, ‘That guy has balls o’ steel.’ 

Sheriff Raynor’s vehicle was the only one parked within a hundred yards of the Carlton Hotel.  The Sandstone Chapter arrived on the main street and parked in front, behind and opposite Raynor.  Blade parked outside the hotel entrance.  He entered, nodding to the two bikers at the door. 

At reception, a pretty blonde in her twenties eyed the approaching hulk with more of a personal than professional interest.  She put down her nail file and displayed even white teeth.  ‘Good morning sir, how can I be of service?’  In this case it wasn’t only rooms that were available.  Blade glared down into her blue eyes as he withdrew his billfold.  The girl’s teeth slowly disappeared behind quivering glossy lips. 

‘That’s for the carpet cleaning,’ Blade said as he placed a hundred dollar bill on the counter then turned towards the staircase.  Taking the stairs silently, two at a time, he reached the second floor and made his way to Room 102.  He stood one pace back, facing the door, flexed his fingers and armed himself. 

Out on Main Street, Mad Dog was observing the sweep hand of his Rolex.  He raised his right arm in the air briefly.  Mad Dog’s arm flashed downwards and 60 powerful motor cycle engines revved in unison.  It lasted for fifteen seconds, during which several things happened simultaneously.  Sheriff Raynor squinted up at the window of Room 102, a Starbucks customer lifted his Espresso before it danced off the table and an old lady lost control of her spaniel and her bladder. 

In Room 102 of the Carlton Hotel an unshaven man in his 40’s parted the drapes to look down at the street.  Behind him, 18 year-old Sally Connor was gagged and tied to a wooden chair.  Sally narrowed her eyes then opened them wide before launching herself and the chair to the floor.  The kidnapper turned with furrowed brow.  Two seconds later the door flew open and the man found himself looking down the business end of a Magnum .357.  His brow relaxed, eyes opened wide and jaw dropped. 

The kidnapper was still staring down the approaching barrel when the hunting knife was buried to the hilt in his abdomen.  His eyes screwed up tight and his teeth clenched together.  He looked up silently at his assailant through misting vision.

‘Unlike you,’ Blade growled, ‘she has a guardian angel!’ He twisted the knife before removing it, as he had been trained to do.   

Blade stepped out onto the street with his right arm around his sister’s shoulder.  Whilst Sally climbed onto the motor cycle Blade looked across the street directly at Sheriff Raynor.  The lawman touched the brim of his Stetson with his right forefinger.  A tattoo of a winged ’82’ was visible on the back of his right hand. 

 

The end

Author's Note

Previously written as a poem purely to see if the plot worked. Now I'll find out if the short story works. A lot of the original Hell's Angels were disaffected war veterans who took to the road.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

Wow! This romped along in a strong, straight line, has raw language, real tension .. the characters were/are distinct, dialogue bang on ( I imagine) and the ending made sense and consequently tied up the entire piece with real skill.

And yes, some of those veterans know the business and how to go about it .. all around the world.

A great write, Tom.

[anne p. murray- LadeeAn..]

Tom, this was a fantastic read. The only problem...I wanted to read more, it was very engrossing. No wonder sheriff kept telling Joey to 'let em go son'. He was one of them. More times then naught, vigilantes offer better protection than the police.