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Authors: SD Hildreth

Making the Cut

 

 

 

MAKING THE CUT

 

S. D. Hildreth

 

 

DEDICATION

When I was a child of roughly eight years old and living in San Diego, I saw my first motorcycle gang (back then they were called gangs). We were entering the freeway, and as we merged, a thunderous roar from behind the car caught my attention. I spun around and looked. Motorcycle after motorcycle passed us as we sped up to get on the freeway. After literally dozens of bikers blew past us, I sat in awe; staring at what would later become my first love….

“What was that?” I asked.

“Hell’s Angels,” my father responded.

“What? Hell’s what?”

“Hell’s Angels. It’s a biker gang,” he said over his shoulder.

And, at that moment, I knew one day I would have to find out what it was all about.

 

This book is dedicated to the one percent.

The Outlaw.

 

 

 

 

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION.

All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction in all regards. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.

 

MAKING THE CUT 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth

 

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at
[email protected]
. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

 

Covert art by Jessica
www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com

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AVERY

I turned to the side and peered over my shoulder. No two mirrors ever give the same reflection. Some provide an accurate likeness; like the really expensive ones in the mall or the one in my doctor’s office. Others, including the ones in college bathrooms, don’t. I ran my hand along my stomach until it came in contact with the bottom of my bra.

I have no tits.

I twisted my hips as I bent at my waist a little, pointing my butt slightly toward the mirror. My ass looked flat and similar to the hipster boys who wore the neon colored pants in my Psych class. I looked like a sixteen year old boy; a sixteen year old boy who was almost six feet tall. The only problem was the fact I was a twenty-two year old woman.

Yeah, she’s got no tits and no ass, but she’s got a really cool personality, I think you should meet her…

“These mirrors suck. Hurry up,” I sighed.

“I know, they make me look fat,” Sloan’s voice echoed through the empty bathroom.

I glanced at my reflection, wondering if they truly were the mirrors which added five pounds. If so, what did I
really
look like? I stood and stared blankly into the mirror wishing I could see myself through the eyes of an honest person. Well, an honest person with perfect eyesight. Frustrated, I pulled a section of paper from the towel dispenser and wadded it into a ball. I glanced at the trash can on the opposite end of the row of sinks. It was easily fifteen feet away. I bit my lower lip slightly and tossed the ball of paper toward the opening. It landed against the leading edge of the can and fell inside.

Yes!

I pulled another foot long piece of paper from the dispenser and wadded it up in my hands. As I lifted my right hand to my shoulder, the door opened. A girl wearing sweats, sneakers, and a loose fitting Henley smiled as she made eye contact with me. As she tossed her book bag beside the sink, I forced a smile and clenched the paper in my hand as if embarrassed.

“Hey,” she breathed as she turned toward the stall.

Holy shit, I wish I had your boobs.

I tilted my head her direction, “Hey.”

As she stepped into the stall, I studied her body. Her butt was small but perfectly rounded. She looked like a hippie version of a Victoria’s Secret model. She was further proof God had a sense of humor, and I was the joke of this century.

Butterbody.

She’s got a really pretty face, butterbody looks like a fucking boy.

“I’m never eating at that gross Thai place again,” Sloan huffed as she emerged from the stall.

My fist still clenched, I stood and stared blankly at the floor as she washed her hands. As I considered the cost of butt implants and what I may receive for my first
real
tax return, I grabbed my book bag and followed her to the door. While she opened the door and held it for me to pass through, I turned around, pressed my non-existent butt against the door, and raised my right hand into the air.

“Come on, we’re going to be late,” she complained.

The trash can was at least twenty-five feet away.

“For the championship,” I said under my breath.

“No freaking way,” she muttered.

I tossed the ball of paper into the air and immediately swung my hips to the right, opening the door for Sloan to witness the feat of accomplishment. A masterpiece of a toss, I watched as the brown blur reached its apex and began to fall toward the receptacle. Magically, the paper disappeared into the center of the can. Satisfied, I released the door and followed Sloan into the hall.

“I can’t freaking wait for the Fifty Shades movie to come out,” she said as she hurried down the hallway.

As I adjusted the book bag on my shoulders and attempted to catch up to her, I rolled my eyes. I didn’t care about some ridiculous movie about billionaires and airplanes. Red rooms of pain and
laters baby
weren’t for me. I dreamed of a
real
bad-boy. One I couldn’t introduce to my parents. I wanted the type of man they couldn’t make a movie about. Not unless it was rated X.

Finding one who liked smart-assed skinny girls would be the trick.

 

 

 

 

AXTON

Otis looked over his shoulder as he reached into the refrigerator, “A hundred is a hell of a lot to get gathered up in the next three weeks, Slice.”

I glanced up from my notes and pressed my hands into the edge of the table as I flexed my forearms. I knew I didn’t
need
to flex on Otis, but it had become habit when someone questioned me. Throwing my size around was second nature, and I was a rather intimidating son-of-a-bitch to most people, Otis included. As he twisted the lid off the bottle of beer and tossed it into the trash, I began to stand from my seat.

“Well, that’s what they asked for and I sure as fuck can’t change it. So, what’s your recommendation, Otis? Give ‘em fifty? Seventy?
Fuck that.
We’ll look like a bunch of incompetent twats. Get a hundred of ‘em found. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you have to run an ad on Craigslist that says
AK-47’s wanted: will pay top dollar
, find a hundred of ‘em and get ‘em in here,” I said as I tapped my finger on the notepad sharply.

“In three weeks?” he asked as he sat down across from me.

I nodded my head and lowered myself into my chair, “Yep.”

“God damn, Slice, that’s a huge order. We ain’t got any AK’s right now. Jesus. I’ll get Hollywood on it, we’ll see how it goes,” he paused as he raised the bottle to his lips.

I shook my head from side-to-side, “No, we won’t
see
. Not on
this
deal, you’ll make it happen. Corndog gets out in six weeks. And these guys are serious players. They’re
Sureños
. More specifically, if I even need to say it, a bunch of ‘em are from
Calle 18
, mostly from Los Angeles. These motherfuckers are all about respect. They’re not an MC, but they operate under the same principles and they even have fucking bylaws. If you’re in the gang and fuck something up, they don’t shun your ass, they
kill
you. If we do this deal and it goes as planned, we’ll be set with these bastards for good. If we don’t, Corndog loses his credibility in the joint. Hell, they’ll probably kill him. These sons of bitches don’t fuck around. They’ll cut a motherfucker’s head off just for principal. Hell, I’ll do about anything to some prick if I don’t like him, but cut off a head? Yeah, I’m thinkin’ not.”

He pressed his beer bottle onto the table, lowered his head, and peered over the top in my direction, “You mean those MS-13 motherfuckers? This is who you’re talking about?”

I nodded my head, shrugged, and grinned, “That’s them. The
notorious
MS-13. You know those poor motherfuckers started down in Salvador or somewhere. The fucking cops don’t even fuck with ‘em, they just let ‘em run dope. Poor sons of bitches don’t have any money down there, so they turned to dope. Now, they’re the entire reason we can’t go to Mexico and drink coconut flavored drinks with little umbrellas in ‘em on the fucking beach. Well, not if you’re white anyway. They’re cutting off heads of their
own people
in the street. Fuck that, I’ll stick around in the good old US of A.”

He stood from the table and faced the door. After a short pause, he turned to face me and pressed the web of his hands into his hips, “For fuck’s sake, Axton. I hate this shit. We make a good damned sum of money selling guns to everyone else who buys ‘em from us. And those MS-13 fuckers are some crazy assed Mexicans. They’ll kill an entire family just to prove a point. Do we really need to do this?”

I stood, cleared my throat, and spoke with a tone of authority, “We may not need to for
money
, and we sure as fuck don’t need to for
credibility
, but we’re gonna do this for Corndog. Did you forget what he’s done for us? For the fucking club? Huh Otis? And since when was it
your
fucking place to question
me
?”

He stood silently, narrowed his gaze, and slowly raised his hands to his face. It was a habit he’d had since he was in his early teens when we first became friends. If he was getting ready to agree to something he didn’t
naturally
agree with, or when he was preparing to make a move, he always raised his hands to his face first. As he encompassed his temples in his palms I smiled, knowing if I had him on board
mentally
, this deal was in the bag.

Otis was a rather large man by anyone’s standards, and outside of a one-on-one meeting with me, he didn’t take shit from
anyone
. Our club was large enough that we had small cliques within it of fella’s that ran together, but Otis sided with no one except me. He stood alone and he stood tall. At 6’-7” and 275 pounds of muscle, he wasn’t someone to argue with. If Otis said to do something, the men never questioned him, they simply moved in the direction he pointed. His size alone was one reason he was the club’s
Sergeant at Arms
. Well, that and the fact he was as mean as a fucking snake. Keeping order in the club and protecting or defending the members was as easy as breathing for Otis.

“I didn’t forget, and I wasn’t questioning you, Slice. I was
thinking
. Fuckin’ Mexicans? And MS-13? Son-of-a-bitch. Yeah, I’ll get Hollywood on it. I’ll have a hundred AK’s in
two
weeks, and that’ll give you some wiggling room. Hell, even if we’ve got to steal ‘em, I’ll have ‘em in time,” he sighed as he lowered his hands and pulled his chair from the table.

As I heard the door hinge creaking, I immediately stood from my chair and faced the doorway. As it slowly swung open, I saw Cash standing in the narrow opening between the door and the frame.

“Hey Otis, I got a question,” he said under his breath.

“Does that fucking door have a sign on it that says
come on in
?” I growled.

Cash shifted his gaze from Otis to me, “Sorry, Slice. I needed to ask…”

You stupid little cocksucker.

Before he finished speaking, I interrupted him, “I asked you a fucking question, Prospect. Does that God damned door have a sign on it that says
come on in
?”

Cash slowly shook his head from side to side.

“God damn it, Prospect,” Otis breathed as he began to stand.

I extended my arm and raised my hand in Otis’ direction to silence him from continuing. A Prospect needed to understand we had rules in place for a reason, and they need to be followed at all times. If he couldn’t follow orders during a simple twelve month initiation, he damned sure couldn’t be trusted to stand up for the club and it’s brethren under any and all circumstances afterward.

“Hold up, Otis. I asked this simple minded little prick a question. Now answer me,” I barked.

“No, it doesn’t have a
come on in sign
, Slice” Cash sighed.

I shrugged my shoulders and continued to stare in his direction, “But it
does
have a sign on it,
doesn’t it
?”

He closed the door momentarily and slowly pushed it open again. As he opened the door, he peered around the wooden frame toward where I stood, “Yes, Slice. It sure does.”

I inhaled a long breath and raised one eyebrow, “Tell me what it says.”

“Knock before entering,” Cash said softly.

“Big red and white motherfucker, gets your fucking attention kinda like a God damned stop sign, huh? Being big and red with huge white letters and all?” I asked in a sarcastic tone.

He nodded his head.

“It’s pretty fucking hard to miss, unless you’re a stupid fucker or blind. And you know what? I ain’t lookin’ to add any dumb asses or cripples to this club. You’re never gonna make it, kid.
Now fucking knock
,” I growled.

The door closed. Three sharp taps immediately echoed into the room.

“Go the fuck away, we’re in a closed door meeting,” I shouted as I sat down.

As his steps faded down the hallway, I turned toward Otis and shrugged. He had vouched for Cash, who grew up with a bike between his legs, and was a friend of Otis’ family. I called him a kid, but he wasn’t young. He was thirty years old and an auto mechanic, having him around would bring some benefit to the club, but everyone had to pay their respects and prove themselves through twelve months of being a Prospect. Cash certainly had his shortcomings, and not knowing when to keep his fucking mouth shut was one of them. I was often able to see what others couldn’t, and although everyone seemed to warm up to him quickly, to me he seemed weak.

Maybe that’s why I was in charge.

“I know you vouched for that little prick, but the kid’s got diarrhea of the jaw. I don’t trust his little ass any further than I can toss him,” I said as I turned around to face Otis.

“I know you don’t. He’s got six more months, though. He’s still learning the ropes,” Otis explained as he lifted his beer bottle.

“He’s thirty fucking years old, Otis. He acts like an immature kid,” I shrugged.

“And another thing about something you said a minute ago, right before shit-for-brains interrupted us. Joking or not, I need to make this clear, you’re not
stealing
any guns, we straight on this?” I asked.

“Yep,” he nodded.

Six years prior, Corndog had purchased fifty Beretta 9mm pistols. Unbeknownst to him at the time, they were stolen. After selling a few of them, a customer decided to use one in a murder. Local law enforcement traced the firearm back to Corndog, and questioned him on the sale of the weapon and the location of the remaining stolen weapons.

He didn’t budge. He lied, stating he found them on the side of the road. Had he provided the information to law enforcement regarding where he obtained them, he could have walked away without so much as a slap on the hand. The club’s exposure on the crime was nil. The asshole who sold him the weapons was the one who stole them, and he was the person the cops wanted. Ninety nine out of a hundred men would have given the thief up and walked free.

Not Corndog.

In fact, he refused to tell anyone in the club who sold them to him. He looked at it as something he needed to take care of himself. I always believed after he was prosecuted and sent to prison, he’d say something to one of the members, but after four and a half years, he stood firm on his promise to resolve it himself. Corndog was an old school biker, with old school biker values. In his opinion, he made a mistake by buying the weapons and not knowing they were stolen. He felt as if he had jeopardized the safety and integrity of the club by being under investigation. In his mind, this was something he needed to resolve on his own, and after settling it
,
he’d w
ithout a doubt walk back into the clubhouse as if nothing ever happened. Many of the newer members could learn a lot from him in matters of protecting the club.

Now in prison and almost done with his five year sentence, he had made a deal with a Mexican prison gang to supply guns to their outsiders on the street. Small groups of Mexican gangs had cropped up in the Midwest since the latter 1990’s, and most originated from southern California. Drugs were the primary focus of these gangs, and they didn’t interfere with our ability to do what we needed to do, so we allowed the drug traffic to proceed without any issues. 

Most MC’s in this day and age made the decision not to mess with drugs; as the risk is far too great. If caught and convicted, a kilo of cocaine under the RICO act would provide every member of the MC a thirty year sentence. This was damned sure a chance the
Selected Sinners Motorcycle Club
wasn’t willing to take. Not on my watch.

Our club chose the Midwest due to the soft state gun laws. Our first chapter developed just south of Wichita, Kansas. The second chapter formed in Oklahoma City five years later. Three years after that, a chapter in Austin, Texas followed. We were of the opinion as long as our focus was
legal
firearms, prosecution would be by
state
officials, and not
federal.
Federal crimes and MC’s didn’t mesh well, and typically a member of a MC would have the RICO act punishment tacked onto his sentence if he committed a federal crime. The
Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations
Act, or RICO as the Feds called it, was developed to thwart organized crime. A criminal didn’t have to do anything
extra
to get the additional time on his prison sentence, all he had to do was be in a
gang
and commit a federal crime. The Feds considered an MC a
gang
. We knew as long as the crime committed wasn’t a federal offence, we’d never have to worry about the Feds knocking on our door. A state crime for firearms was typically a twenty-four to sixty month sentence in prison. A federal crime with the RICO act attached was typically ten times that amount.

So, in the Midwest we had become an extremely powerful presence. Semi-automatic assault weapons, high capacity pistols, and riot shotguns were our focus. Machineguns, silencers, short barreled weapons, and sawed off shotguns were federally governed, so we stayed away from them.

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