Iron Angel

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

Iron Angel copyright @ 2014 by Kay Perry. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

IRON ANGEL

There are days when you just have to ride.

Sometimes you ride because your life has turned to shit and everything is going down in flames. So you rev up the Harley and it’s just you and the open road as you reflect on times past and consider your options for the future. Usually, life slowly gets better as
miles of concrete pass beneath your wheels.

Sometimes you ride because everything is golden. You are on top of the world, so you ride in glory. The sun on your face and the wind through your hair celebrate a glorious day with you as you scream down the highway and watch the mountains grow larger in the distance as the miles pass.

Sometimes you ride because the club is riding. Then you ride whether you are happy or sad, whether you want to ride that day or not, whether you are getting anything out of it or not. You ride because the club is a living body, and you are a part of that body. When that long line of bikes snakes its way through the traffic on the open road or roars through the center of town, you are a body riding together as one.

And sometimes you ride because you need a time and place to think. Sometimes, you need a place totally by yourself so you can sort out your thoughts and weigh your next moves very carefully. There’s no better place to be alone than on a Harley roaring down the road.

Maddox Robinson was on the road today because he needed to think. The rumble of his engine and the whine of his tires were a background concert that drowned out everything but what was important. What was important right now was his next move to achieve presidency of the Iron Angels Motorcycle Club.

There was a time when such a move was just a matter of power and nerve. Like lions on the savannah, when you thought the time was right, you challenged the president of the club, and the survivor of the fight was the new leader. Now, it was more like
Survivor: Motorcycle Club Edition
. You had to make the right alliances well in advance and carefully win the respect and loyalty of the members before you could even begin to act.

Maddox knew how the game was played today. He had laid the groundwork carefully and had gained the respect, and probably the loyalty, of most of the club. He had also formed his alliances very carefully. His strength and personal power helped him make some of those alliances. His good looks, charm, and muscular body aided him in forming others– most importantly his close alliance with Carol Malone.

Carol was the primary reason for his scheming and planning to begin with. She was everything he had ever wanted in a woman. She was smart and beautiful and her sexuality heated up a room just by her being present. Carol Malone was a very powerful woman and, if she had been a man, could very well have been president of the Iron Angels.

But she was a woman. A powerful woman... but a woman. And she was a woman with a weakness. That weakness was power itself. She was girlfriend and chief advisor to the current Iron Angel’s president. The power that she could not claim for herself drew her close to him. That power, which she made her own as her influence grew, kept her close to him... until she betrayed him.

Maddox knew that once he had that power, he would also have Carol. They had planned Burke’s downfall together. It was simple: set things up so that Burke would be carrying either a large quantity of drugs or illegal weapons, and then somehow let the cops know when and where. The rest would take care of itself.

Everyone knew that Johnny, the bartender at the Wheel Horse Bar, was an informant. It was just a matter of saying something when he could hear it. Once Burke went to prison, his reign as president would end.

Again, there had been a day when the president of a club could rule from inside a prison, but those days are also gone. Loyalty to a fallen leader is a thing of the past. Today, if you go down, you’re out. The club 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 to hear anything in the alley above the music, but it was relatively quiet tonight and the juke box wasn’t playing. Maddox could clearly hear voices. They weren’t speaking, but what those voices were telling Maddox was very clear. He was hearing David and Carol having sex... loud, wild, heavy sex. Carol was always a bit loud when they made love, but he had never heard her like this. She was yowling like a cat in heat and screaming, “Harder! Harder! Harder!”

Maddox restarted the Harley and tore out of the alley, knocking over a garbage can near the entrance and sending it flying into the street. His first impulse was to roar out of town and ride until morning, or at least until he could figure out his next move. But someone from the club would see that. They might discover what was happening and that would be a total loss of face. All of his plans and schemes and alliances would be for nothing. He may even be seen as weak and possibly blamed for what happened to Burke.

That could be fatal, so instead of allowing his anger to simmer and flare, Maddox let his feelings go immediately beyond hot until his mind was almost cold as he pulled his bike around to the front of the bar and parked it with the line of Harleys already there on the street. Then he walked into the bar as if nothing had happened.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do once he got inside, but several doubles of Yukon Jack seemed high on the list of probabilities. There were a few open spaces at the bar. He chose one next to a dark-haired girl in a close-fitting white pullover blouse and tight, tight black jeans.

“Double Yu, neat,” he told the bartender, and when his drink arrived, he held up his glass in a toast to the dark eyes that were now watching him. There was something about those eyes... and that face... and those lips. Something was tugging at his memory. He
knew
her.

She wasn’t a tourist, but she wasn’t part of the club. He’d seen her somewhere before, possibly around town in Iron Creek. But if that were the case, he
definitely
would remember her—of that he was sure. She was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen.

“What’re you having?” he asked her.

“If I let you buy me a drink, does that mean I have to let you fuck me?” she asked bluntly in an almost musical voice.

“Uhhh,” responded Maddox in surprise. Then, recovering, he said, “That depends on how many drinks you like to start with and how willing you are.”

“Honesty,” she replied. “I like honesty. What’s your name?”

“Maddox, Maddox Robinson. What’s yours?”

“Aimee,” she replied. “Aimee...”

“Wells,” he interjected. “You’re Jake Wells’ kid.”

“Not exactly,” she answered. Her voice was flat and sounded hurt... and angry. “But that’s a long story that would require sitting in one of the booths and ordering a couple more rounds.”

“Make mine a coke and Jack...” she yelled to the bartender. “Double on the Jack.”

***

Aimee Wells’ anger flowed from the death of her father. More precisely, it had simmered for a long time–perhaps her entire life. Her mother had died while she was in high school. She had cancer, but they carefully hid that truth from Aimee until she was hospitalized for the last time. But her simmering anger toward her father at last bubbled up like lava at the reading of Jake’s will.

About four months ago, Jake died of liver failure–not uncommon for someone who drank as heavily as he did. He had promised Aimee that he would quit. He had
assured
her that he had quit. Her brother, James, even reported to her regularly that their dad was staying on the wagon. Then came the call that he was dead.

Jake Wells had collapsed on the street one night, severely intoxicated. He died the next morning in the hospital. The cause of death was listed as “acute liver failure brought on by years of heavy alcohol abuse.”

James only comment to her was, “He didn’t want me to tell you.”

In other words, her mother lied to her up to the day of her death; her father lied to her all her life; and all along, her brother was part of those lies.

The day for reading Jake’s will arrived next. James was, of course, the executor, but a lawyer read the will to both of them as they sat in his office in Denver. It was an old will and had been written while her mother was still alive, but it was still good and legal. With her mother dead, everything was essentially split between her and her brother. There wasn’t much, but what was there was divided evenly between the two of them.

The terms of the will were not the source of her anger. It was the preface to the will which read, “We acknowledge our love for our adopted daughter, Aimee, and declare her to be a full and complete heir and equal to our true child, James, for the purposes of this will.”