Revved Up Soul

Chapter 39

Luke

The morning dawn shot fingers of golden light against the sky so clear – Luke was feeling anything but. Shooting down the S curve on the road, mighty sprawling trees at either side of him, he came to a slow and eyed the dirt road that would lead him to the club's base of operations. He couldn't shake the feeling deep in his bones, the utter disgust and anger – he had wanted to do more to the piece of shit, but the light of reason had gotten the better of him. Were Able's last words really enough to convict the man? Gabriel himself had said it had to be someone on the inside; every day that passed without something turning up only proved the fact more and more, much as Luke hadn't want to entertain the idea – it seemed the only answer now.

As he was pulling up to the front of the club, he could hear a couple of engines already idling; the host of Knights at the ready just outside the club. Luke slid over to Allen Knight and came to a stop.

Allen sized Luke up, "You're late," he admonished, "seen Rob? We gotta start this shit – we're behind."

Damn, the guns. A flash of anger went through his body; no, no, now's not the time for this – shit. I'll have to bring this up after, just find your Zen, he reminded. "Sorry I was at Robert's," true, "he had called me drunk as a skunk," total fabrication, "so I went over and tried to get him up. Wouldn't budge." Christ, either way there's gonna be hell to pay.

The President gave his customary, toothy grin, "Bastard, if I had a dollar for every time that boy made me want to punch him." Got you covered, did way, way more than that.

"I'll get my stuff and we'll get this over with I guess," Luke eyed the man before hopping off of his bike and collecting everything that was necessary.

***

The roar of Luke's bike was only one of many on the highway; Allen, Benny, Sexton and a couple of prospects helped make up the convoy. As the cacophony of engine and steel grew, something gnawed away at Luke's insides. The only thing that was keeping him focused, still keeping him sharp, was the soothing caress of the road.

It was Luke and Allen leading the pack; several black corrugated boxes were attached to the rear of their bikes, packaged tightly with tape. This was their usual method. They were headed to Port Angeles, where Project Restoration would be eagerly awaiting their monthly shipment.

As the band of brothers moved down along the highway, kicking up dust at their side, engines screaming, they rounded a corner that was protected by a guard rail, the rocky golden crag at their side standing a silent watcher.

Some minutes later as they continued onward, they moved along a bend in the road – black cottonwood trees on either side of the convoy. Glimpsing something to his side, Luke turned his head for the briefest of moments. Shit, was that—

Sirens wailed above the sound of rubber peeling against dirt. Blue and red lights flickered behind them as the two cars went hard in the paint to catch up to the convoy. In the distance, another two cars pulled up, blocking off the road.

Five-o, guess they finally got tired of sitting on us.

Luke, as well as the rest of the riders, rolled to a stop and parked on the shoulder of the road They killed their engines and waited as the cars pulled in; several officers from the back and front exiting their vehicles.

Allen turned to Luke, his customary grin on his face, "This should be fun," he whispered.

There was one cop that was unlike the others. Sheriff Martine Freeman. He was a notorious hardass, always seemed to have a bone to pick with the Club. The Sheriff walked over, the golden sun behind him, and stopped in front of the convoy. He smiled, not a wicked smile but a truly delighted one; he lived for this.