Rebel punk, Oscar Bradley, discovers that his party friend, Max, is the prince of Kingsport's Irish Mob; fierce rivals of the biker gang that's served as Oscar's surrogate family. With Max quickly pulling him deeper into his luxurious but deadly wor...
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The flashing orange lights and barricades signaled the road work just ahead, along with the backed-up line of headlights and tail lights tightly packed together, since all but one lane in either direction were closed.
Oscar had to make a sharp, last minute turn, ramping up onto a sidewalk, zooming past pedestrians to squeeze through an alley that came out on the parallel street. He didn't see any of the other bikers until a few minutes and several turns later, when he spotted one of the familiar leather jackets veering off the surface street onto the gravel that ran alongside the train tracks.
The gravel wasn't great to drive on, but it would have been nearly impossible for a car to follow. Stacks of railroad ties, empty trailers, and various other hindrances made the area beside the tracks an obstacle course. He had a pretty good idea now of where the other Reject was going.
After another block, they'd officially crossed over from downtown into Commerce City and Oscar followed the biker into an old metal structure right on the edge of the rail yard.
Before the biker could get the door shut, Oscar came skidding into the garage, and now Oscar could see that it was Bill he'd been tailing.
"Oscar?!" Bill said as Oscar killed the engine. "Shit, man, where you been?"
The punk's mind drifted to the gun in his jacket, but Bill's inflection alone told him that it wasn't necessary.
"Stuck between the ass cheeks of the fucking mob," Oscar snapped back lazily as he swung his leg off the bike. "Where the hell do you think I've been? Vacation?"
That was when Bill's expression changed. He recognized the bike. It wasn't Oscar's, and now his one brain cell was working overtime to decipher what he was seeing...
Bill's hand could move considerably faster than his head, and when he pulled his gun, Oscar did the same.
"Where's Greg?" Bill demanded.
"Right where you left him," Oscar answered.
"What the fuck is going on?"
"Funny, I had the same question," Oscar said, licking his lip as he realized he'd left the fucking safety on.
"You'd know, if you showed up every once and awhile, instead of pissing around with the goddamned mob! What's next, going to go to the cops?"
"That's just fucking disrespectful," Oscar spat as he pulled his gun back and held up his hands. "You drew on me first, ya dumb ox!" Bill was mean and dumb, but Oscar knew he wasn't a killer...or at least he was sure enough to risk putting his gun away.
"Wull, what am I supposed ta do? Ya get involved with the mob, and disappear and then Vick goes off his nut and starts working with the Italians and the Cartel-"
"Wait, Vick's working with who?"
"Shit, you really have been out of the loop for a minute..." Bill exhaled and finally tucked his own piece back into his belt. "Yeah, Vick made some sort of deal with the Italians and now the fucking Cartel are crawling all over the west side, and he isn't doing nothing to stop it. Just says ta keep our distance."
