Intro: This is a short story about Barett when he was first in the Motorcycle gang in Tahoe, having just parted with his brothers, although they had lots of training, combat was limited, and distantly impersonal at this point in his life. This event takes place in late october in the Sierra mountains foothills, just southeast of Lake Tahoe. It is about his first real Kill, his first step into the dark world of gangs, a world of violence and deception he had not dealt with before.
He sat in the back of the old pickup truck as it bounced down the rutted dirt road, huddled low againest the rusted out wheel well. The cold morning air stung his bare face and hands, the dust from the fine dirt kicked up by the tires irritated his eyes, and made them tear up. It was still dark, at least another hour before the first rays of light would creep over the eastern sky, the coldest part of the night it seemed. His leather bikers jacket and hooded sweatshirt at least provided some protection and warmth for his core, but his shaved head and thin leather gloves leaked what little heat he could generate, out into the dark night. One other gang member sat in the back with him, a pencil thin gray cat mix, his green eyes staring intently into the warm cab of the truck where the three senior gang members sat drinking coffee and smoking hand rolled cigarettes, as they bounced along the road. They all called the gray cat "Stick", and that is what he went by, Barett never knew his real name. Stick wore a beat up black leather jacket as well, but only a t-shirt underneath, his dirty jeans more holes than denium, canvas high tops held together with duck tape covered his "small for his height" feet. He turned to look at Barett across the bed of the old chevy truck. His shaved head tucked down into into his jacket as far as it would go.
"You want a smoke ?" Stick said his teeth chattering from the cold.
" No, thanks though..I'm just fine." Barett tried to looked out through the windshield of the truck, hoping to see where they were going.
" Shoot yourself man, it will warm you up."
Stick slide out a pack of hand rolled cigarettes and attempted to light one up, ducking down behind the rusted white tool box in the bed of the truck, as it rattled loosely on the siderails. He almost had it lit up when they hit a deep rut in the road, Sticks head slammed into the tool box and knocked the lid open. He raised himself up onto his knees, cussing and ranting, holding the back of his head with both hands. The guys in the cab started laughing and hooting at him, which only caused him to curse louder. When he brought his hands down to shut the toolbox lid they were covered in blood.
" Damn man, now I'm bleeding.....pull over man...I need to clean up" He yelled to the guys in the cab.
" You'll be fine, we are almost there.......we need to be quiet from here on out, so keep it down...and do your part....or we'll make you walk back." Said the Dark haired driver as he leaned over his shoulder and spoke through the back window of the truck. Unlike the rest of them he had his long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a beat up straw cowboy hat on, a large canvas barn jacket covered his wide chest. Every one just called him "Hoss" but his real name was Greggory, the old truck was his, the gangs makeshift tow truck for when bikes broke down, which they often did.
Hoss turned the lights off and slowed the truck down to under 20 mph. Turning off the well worn dirt road he headed up a small hill to the left, the tall dry weeds clicking off the axles of the truck. Barett could tell that the trail had some use, but not a lot. The main dirt road turned to the right and vanished around a corner. They slowly crawled sideways and slightly up across this hill for another 3 miles before stopping just shy of the top.
Hoss opened the door slowly and closed it quietly, the other two in the cab did the same on the opposite side, jacking rounds into their guns as they stomped out their cigarettes in the sandy dirt.
"Ok, here is the plan," whispered Hoss", Stick you stay with the truck, keys are in the ignition....if anything goes wrong come and get us right away. Jimmy and Hog you take the house and kill everyone, I'll take "newbie" and go to the barn...when I give the all clear sign..... Stick you will drive down to the barn and start loading up the cargo. Any questions.........No...then lets go, ....and do it quiet."
Hoss hunched down low and started for the top of the hill, Jimmy and Hog went to the right and started around the bend in the hill quickly disappearing into the dark, before they had gone 30 feet Stick was in the cab of the Truck trying to warm himself up. Hoss just kept moving forward never looking back, working his way through the tall weeds and sagebrush, amazingly quiet for a guy his size.
The farm was really a small time "Mary Jane" operation, run by a rival gang that had stolen some of their stuff a long time ago. The house was no more than a small one room log cabin at the edge of the tree line, the barn a metal prefab garage covered in netting to hid it from planes in the sky, 60 feet away in the aspen trees up the hill from the house. They grew the "Weed" in the trees and hills, harvesting and fertalizing as the plants grew. The intel seemed good, two guys ran the place most of the time, and others came in to help with the harvest blindfolded....the place was supposed to be secret. Hoss had tortured a man to death a few weeks back, he said, and got the location out of him.
Barett grabbed the cold steel barrel of his single shot 12 gauge and stalked through the grass and weeds after Hoss, keeping back a few yards, trying to keep an open eye on the trees and the other on the log cabin.
