Undercover Angel
A Satan’s Angel MC Tale
By, Six Shooter Sally
Copyright 2011
Smashwords edition, License Note
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold. If you would like to share this e-book with another person please direct them to my Smashwords author page (https//www.smashwords.com/profile/view/sixshootersally)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locals is coincidental.
Synopsis
This is the tale of about an outlaw motorcycle club set in the San Fernando Valley in California and the attack they suffered at the hands of their rivals. It’s about revenge and loss, payback and grief. It’s about their world on their terms without apologies.
Undercover Angel
A Satan’s Angel MC Tale
“Three may keep it secret if two of them are dead.”
Benjamin Franklin
Chapter One
Every August the motorcycle swap meet was setup in the parking lot of the fairgrounds in Chatsworth. The event was put on by the local chapter of the Satan’s Angeles. Over the years it had become very successful drawing larger and larger crowds. The Satan’s Angels policed their own event and did a good job too. This helped their public relations and helped sooth the friction with the local police. Naturally nothing different was expected this year.
Rapid gunfire pierced the morning air as the wounded prospect crawled over the already blistering asphalt. His right arm was bleeding profusely. He could hear more gunfire in the distance but could not ascertain its direction. His ears were ringing. His heart was racing as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He crawled towards the row of parked cars and trucks seeking their safety. It was hot even at this time of the morning as sweat mixed with blood and tears trickled past his quivering lips.
He was shaking now trying desperately to slow his heartbeat trying to calm himself. He slowly inhaled then exhaled the same way. His right arm was numb he knew the bone was shattered. With his left hand he undid his belt buckle then began tugging at the leather belt from around his narrow waist. Once he’d freed it he synched it tightly around his bleeding arm trying to slow the flow of blood. He knew he needed help yet he was too afraid to move out from the safety of his hiding place.
Rocky was the newest prospect of the Satan’s Angels. He hadn’t been back from his tour in Iraq for more than ten months. He closed his eyes trying desperately to slow his breathing trying to utilize what he’d been taught in the military. At this point he couldn’t feel the pain anymore and his fear had waned. Lying there under the car he thought about the girl he’d loved in high school. He tried hard to picture her pretty face. In that moment he thought “this is it”. Here he was twenty-three and this would most likely become his fate. Rocky passed out before the sound of sirens filled the air.
More rapid gunfire could be heard. Heads turned as people panicked and began running or diving for cover. Behind the concession stand Joe listened carefully. Instantly he realized there were at least ten guns firing at will. His stint in the army and tour in Iraq during Desert Storm told him there was a forty-five hand gun, at least two nine millimeters, a couple of AK’s and a fully automatic Mac-10 somewhere on the fairgrounds. In addition he’d heard at least two maybe three shotgun blasts in all the ciaos he couldn’t be certain. From his vantage point near the center of the swap meet he figured out the attackers were lined up across the back and sides of the event lining the perimeter. It appeared the front was open and safe. He mass texted all his brothers from his cell phone: “Front exit safe Joe”.
He also realized the 357 tucked in his belt wouldn’t do him much good now. The important thing was to survive this. Without question he knew who was behind it. He understood that before he caught a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye. That was when he saw the Mongrel dive under the Chevy pickup caddy-corner from his position. Logic told him to stay put to keep his head down and live to fight another day. However, the rage that boiled up inside him said no fucking way.
Joe crawled slowly at first back tracking looking for the perfect vantage point. In the ciaos the Mongrel had become preoccupied. His attention was focused on their new prospect Rocky. Rocky had hidden himself under a parked car. It looked like the Mongrel had only wounded him and now his sights were set on finishing him off. Joe crawled on his belly like a snake covering ground as quickly as he could. He watched as the Mongrel took aim with the AK pointing it. He was trying to aim directly for Rocky’s head. Fortunately in that instant Rocky moved before the Mongrel could squeeze the trigger.
Joe’s eyes scanned the crowd while following his victim’s movements. The Mongrel’s blood ran cold as he felt the hard metal barrel press firmly against the back of his head. Instantly the hair on his neck began to prickle as the click sounded in his ears. He didn’t have to wait. Joe angrily pulled the trigger as he yelled “your headed straight for hell you bastard”! The 357 did its job. Being that close the Mongrel was nearly headless. Joe rolled under the car wiping the bloody barrel off on the dead man. As he moved on he thought “one down just nine or ten more to go”.
Meanwhile Fast Eddie wasn’t fast enough. He heard the shot at the same time that it spun his six foot four, two hundred and twenty-five pound frame in a dizzying spin. All while the forty-five caliber bullet coursed through his chest raking havoc in its wake. Falling backwards arms flailing, mouth open yet silent as he continued on his path ending in a crumpled heap on the hot black asphalt. His last thought as his eyes saw the last flash of blue sky was “those mother fuckin bastards”!
The event was set up like a straight angled horseshoe. On the left side of the venue covering the entire expanse was the actual bike swap meet. Under the tarps and sun shelters were civilians and Satan’s Angels alike. All were trying to sell off their old bike parts. Six Satan’s Angels were manning their part of the booth. Kurt, Zeek, Dirty Dave, Bob, Doug and Whiteman each of them know more about motorcycle parts than the other. Between them there was a wealth of information.
There were approximately twenty civilians manning their private section of the booth. Shots rang out in rapid succession. The AK-47 barked bullets sending everyone diving for cover. It was mayhem pure and simple. The two shooters fired directly into the back side of the blue tarps that made the rear wall separating the booth from a narrow walkway that bordered the event. They couldn’t see the gunmen.
Later Dirty Dave would say that all he remembered was the smell of gun smoke, blood and fear. That was what he was thinking before the bullet ripped into his thigh nicking his femoral artery. Doug and Whiteman all suffered life threatening bullet wounds. Only Bob and Zeek’s wounds were superficial. A bullet barely creased Zeek’s left arm and Kurt got away clean.
Civilians in the booth weren’t so lucky either. Three were critical, one with a bullet to the left side of his head. Another was gut shot and screaming loudly as he bled all over the place. The last had a bullet lodged in his right lung. He barely made a sound. The pair of Mongrels who fired wildly from behind the tarp were found dead. They'd keeled over in the exact spot where they had once stood. The smoking AK’s still clutched in their gloved hands.
Wild Bill wasn’t lucky that day either. He’d come face to face with the small brown man who popped up from behind a parked car bordering the swap meet. Instantly he recognized the double barrel sawed off twelve gauge that the shorter man was wielding. They were less than six feet apart when the small man pulled both triggers. As the blast impacted Wild Bills chest and abdomen he died. His lifeless body was torn wide open. It continued moving backwards before finally slamming into a small ticket booth. There had been no time to think or to react. There had been no time for him to be afraid or to make amends. There was only time to die!
Top Notch was following closely behind two young tight assed blonds. He was admiring their assets when the first few shots rang out. The shorter blonde directly in front of him began falling backwards collapsing in a heap of bloody blonde hair. Her friend was screaming although strangely he couldn’t hear her. He could however see the panic written all over her face as see looked directly at him. Suddenly he began feeling very calm. He watched as people ran in all directions around him. Without warning he dropped to his knees. It wasn’t until that moment that he looked down. There was a small red hole directly in the center of his chest. “Bull’s-eye” he thought before dropping face first onto the dirty asphalt.
Cry Baby was thusly named because of all the bitching and complaining he had done as a prospect. Much to his chagrin the name had stuck. He stepped over the red ropes separating the bikes that were entered in the contest which was scheduled for later that afternoon. That venue was directly at the back of their event. Most of the public had not yet made their way back that far. With one leg still in the air, his other foot flew out from under him as the Mac-10 unleashed ten rounds into his body. The shooter sprayed shots from head to toe. Each of the nine millimeter bullets that ripped into his flesh created damage that was beyond repair. Cry Baby was just thirty years old. Fortunately he hadn’t seen the shooter and he only heard one of the ten shots ring out.
Reckless, Sweet Mike, Todd and Reggie were all together when the ciaos began. They were running the large booth located in the center of the very last isle. Their job was to sell the assortment of bikes the club had up for sale. Sweet Mike causally looked at his wrist watch noting that it was eleven am. His girl should be arriving shortly, he thought. An older couple was paying serious attention to the blue, 1994 Evo Tour Glide Classic. Then the crack of a Mac-10 ripped through the makeshift tarp walls and into the bodies of everyone in the booth. The shots were sprayed so randomly by someone not very accurate with the weapon.
Reckless was hit in the shoulder. The shot was through and through. A bullet grazed Sweet Mikes head as he dove for the ground but he was ok. Todd is shorter and was slower to react. He was hit in his right arm while Reggie’s ankle bone was shattered. All four men returned fire instantly. Each pulling their throw away guns from their hiding places. The pair of shoppers did not fair as well as the club members. The woman took one in the abdomen while her husband bled out. A bullet struck his left carotid artery he didn’t stand a chance.
Giant was an easy target standing head and shoulders above the crowd at six foot nine inches tall. He’d heard every tall joke ever invented and knew them by heart. Today he was a different kind of target. Giant walked casually towards the rear or the venue heading towards the last isle when he thought he saw someone hiding or maybe trying to sneak in without paying. He strolled over to investigate; oddly graceful for such a large man. His presence startled the slender man crouched down behind the unoccupied booth. His surprise blended with fear caused him to fire a wild shot from his Ruger nine millimeter. The lucky shot entered Giants left shoulder.
There was an actual reason the club called him Giant and it had nothing to do with his height. In a single heartbeat Giant disarmed the smaller man. He paid no attention to the fact that he had been shot. Then nonchalantly as could be; he placed three rounds into the smaller man's head. He dropped dead like the sack of shit that he was. Giant’s cell phone chirped alerting him of a text message.
Fat Sam and Big Jim were senior members of the club and had been around for more shit than most people could imagine. They sat inside one of the clubs many booths that sold support t-shirts meant for public consumption. The short run of sales tired the two senior members whose old asses rarely left the comfort of the white plastic chairs. They left the actual work of selling the t-shirts to the lowly prospect they had been assigned. Just moments before the pair sent Stinky their prospect as he was affectionately known to fetch them a couple of cold bottled waters. Suddenly their ears were filled with the sound made by an AK47. With that sound ringing in his ears Big Jim slumped forward in his chair dead. He never saw it coming.
Fat Sam reached down trying to contain his intestines as they spilled relentlessly onto his lap. Blood was everywhere pooling beneath his chair. It looked as if someone had knocked over a can of red paint. The returning prospect stood frozen in horror. The blood in his veins turned to ice as he took in the gruesome sight before him. He did not have time to scream or cry or even run for his life. Before the forty-five slug sliced through his forehead instantly turning his lights out forever.
The scene the officers and first responders found as they arrived at the fairgrounds was pure mayhem. It seemed there were downed and bleeding bikers everywhere. Paramedics rushed towards the bleeding assessing who needed what first. In all there were nine in critical condition, several in serious condition and six more with minor gunshot wounds. Besides that there were hundreds of people with miner cuts and abrasions. Many remained in a state of panic and shock. At first count they discovered six dead Satan’s Angels along with the bodies of two civilians. In the final sweep the dead bodies of four attackers were also discovered. The paramedics knew that the final death toll depended on those in critical condition.
The captain of West Valley’s Gang Enforcement squad arrived on scene barely believing his eyes. He stood there surveying the scene shaking his now graying head. He knew instinctively without hearing a single word from his officers and without interviewing a single eyewitness who had done this. In addition he understood that each and every Satan’s Angel wounded or not, would answer his questions in exactly the same way. They would all tell him they’d seen nothing, heard nothing and of course had no idea who had done this!
Fifteen years on the force had taught him one thing with ultimate certainty. He understood all too well that hell was coming to his town and the body count was about to rise. “Oh shit!” He thought as a cold shiver crawled slowly down his spine. This was going to be bad very bad. Hell was coming alright. It would be wearing Angel wings dressed in black leather, roaring like thunder out to seek their revenge!
