Rick Gardner sat up straighter on his Harley’s seat; it was almost time for the Desperado Motorcycle Club’s meeting to adjourn. He expected the members to come out of Crazy Larry’s pad at any moment, and no sane prospect wanted to be suspected of sleeping while on sentry by Mad Mike, the Desperado’s sergeant-at-arms and Rick’s current sponsor in the club.

Rick figured Scooter would catch pure hell for neglecting his own duties if and when he made his recklessly tardy appearance. Scooter was another prospect who’d been scheduled to be on guard with Rick, but he had failed to report in this evening. Rick slid the thick sleeve of his black leather motorcycle jacket up over the large face of the dive watch on his wrist. After a quick glance at the luminous dial he knew for certain the early evening meeting would be over soon.

Crazy Larry, the Desperado’s president, invariably made it a point to be at the Erotic club when his old lady, Mama Juggs, got off work. She would be relieved in about an hour. The reason Larry was invariably at the club when Juggs was relieved was not because of his righteous loyalty to her, or any concern for her welfare or safety.

Everyone who frequented the topless bar knew Juggs not only packed a gun, she was a shooter who could damned well defend her own person. The real purpose of Crazy Larry’s punctual trips to pick her up was to ensure he got to her tip money before she could do something incredibly stupid, like spending her hard earned money on herself!

Mama Juggs had a strict work ethic that kept her straight while she was selling either mixed drinks or her personal favors. When she got off of work, she liked nothing better than to quickly get zonked out on whatever recreational drugs she could score. With her tight connections, the list of drugs available to her included all sorts of mind-blowing shit!

Rick, or Slick Rick, as his Bros often called him, was a tall, sturdy, Vietnam veteran with pale blue eyes, which one of his two current girl friends referred to as his “Lady killers.” He’d worn his hair and beard long ever since mustering out of the military several years before. He still wore his prized Green Beret most of the time. As many of his fellow veterans had done, he’d adopted the biker lifestyle after leaving the military.

In the years after the war, Rick had found the lifestyle fit his radically altered personality like a pair of broken in, custom-made boots. When you lived the biker life, you stayed on the edge of the law, you survived by your own wits and strengths, and you relied on and fully trusted no one but your Brothers. All of this had been distinctly reminiscent of his violent, bloody years in Asia. Rick’s righteous Blood Brother, Snowman, had fallen back into life on two wheels like he’d never left it after his own earlier discharge.

The devil-may-care biker lifestyle and philosophy agreed much closer with the mindset Rick had adopted to survive in Vietnam than did the strict religious ethics and moral code his own Christian family had raised him under. Rick had learned in Nam that shit happens, you handled it and you survived with the least amount of hassle you could get away with. If you’d learned your lessons well and were good enough, you had fun while you were surviving, if it was at all possible.

A disability pension from the military and a certain discrete government agency for injuries sustained while in the line of duty allowed Rick a fair amount of financial freedom. At the moment he was alertly performing guard duty over the Desperado member’s bikes, as part of his required probationary or prospecting duties before admittance to full membership in the club.

The impatient prospect was getting bored from having waited alone through the entire meeting; he searched through several pockets of his leather jacket for a diversion. He was rewarded for his efforts when he found a half-full package of chewing gum. He pulled out a couple of sticks and unwrapped them, placing the wrappers carefully back in his pocket. He savored the sweet bursts of flavor in his mouth as he bit into them.

He’d given up smoking in Nam; he’d known the Viet-Cong troops could smell the American tobacco for dozens of yards downwind, just as he could smell the strong, pungent odor of theirs. Many of the American grunts had lacked the will power or discipline to abstain; some of them had literally died for a smoke. Rick thought he sure didn’t need a smoke right now, but he could have used a stiff drink.

He was growing more irritated and bored with the waiting; he glanced back toward the house, but he heard nothing promising a diversion from that quarter. Rick made a mental note to stash a pint of liquor in his saddlebags before the next meeting; he would never start smoking again just for something to occupy his time, but he wasn’t above taking a sip of something medicinal now and then. Thinking about the cigarette addiction he’d quit in Asia reminded Rick of one of the clever ruses he and Snowman had developed while in combat.

They’d come in one day from weeks in the field and were sitting in the enlisted men’s club enjoying their long-awaited first cold beer. They were clothed in sweat-drenched camo uniforms, which were caked with the fine red dust of the Central Highlands. One of their friends who’d been on Rest and Recuperation leave yelled at them from across the room.

He walked straight to their table and sat down; Snowman had completely mystified their friend by asking Rick a weird question. “Did you smell him?” Rick had closed his eyes and concentrated on his senses and he realized he’d detected the odor of freshly bathed skin and after-shave lotion as their friend had approached.

After that remarkable incident, the two of them had never used scented American soap or eaten anything except for rice and fish for about two days before and during a planned mission. This spartan regime had taken dedication, but by living this way they’d even smelled like the Orientals they were hunting. To the disgust of some of the other troops, they had learned to like the taste of nuoc mam, the infamous fermented fish oil the Vietnamese used to flavor many of their dishes.

The first unsubtle clue Rick had of the Maniac’s sneak attack was when the silence of the early evening was broken by a black Lincoln Town Car turning the corner at the end of the block on squealing tires. A wave of apprehension swept over Rick as the car straightened out; it seemed to take on a malevolent life of its own as it charged in his direction. Rick’s alert mind was thinking, “Uh oh, the shit’s about to hit the fan!”

His hands and body were instinctively reacting to the imminent threat. Rick drew an accurized .45 Colt Automatic from each of the twin shoulder holsters under his leather jacket. He flung himself off the seat of his Harley and to a prone firing position atop the lush, grass-covered lawn in one fluid movement.

Rick depressed the safeties of the cocked and locked twin Colts as the stark fear he’d felt changed into a carefully leashed killing rage! The windows of the car seemed to erupt in awesome bursts of flame and thunder. Rick answered the deadly hail of incoming lead with return mail from his heavy automatics as a familiar searing pain ran up his left forearm. The combat expert knew the speeding Town Car would be out of his killing zone in a matter of seconds.

He ignored the stabbing pain in his arm and the zipping sounds of several near misses to concentrate his whole being on his aim. He triggered several ounces of hot lead payback through the open windows of the car and into the upper torsos and heads of the hated shooters within!

Rick still maintained the perfect firing discipline it took to be aware of the number of rounds he’d triggered. As he squeezed off his second round from each of his Colts, the black car slowed and swerved like a wounded animal, then it hit a car parked just down the street a glancing blow. Rick caught a fleeting glimpse of a man’s lower body through the rear window as he squeezed off another couple of quick rounds. The sight and the sound of the shattering safety glass in the rear window rewarded him.

The car hesitantly picked up speed again and fled out of sight around the next corner, only a few seconds had passed since the first round of the fierce battle had been fired. The veteran warrior had learned long ago to take full tactical advantage of any lull in a firefight. When the magazine he was using was even a few cartridges short, loading fresh ammo into his weapons was Rick’s highest priority.

Rick rose swiftly to his feet; his mind was ignoring the fierce pain in his wounded forearm. He made every effort to avoid getting blood into the actions of his weapons as he switched one of his spare magazines into his left-hand .45 and re-holstered it so he could handle the other. Rick was briskly slapping a fully loaded magazine home into the magazine well of the second of his .45’s when he heard a loud noise behind him.

He whirled around and crouched lower into a solid combat stance as Larry’s screen door was literally ripped off of its hinges and thrown into the front yard of the frame house! Six and a half feet and two hundred and eighty-five pounds of Mad Mike exploded through the door! Mike had a big .44 magnum revolver in one of his ham-sized fists and he was swiveling around looking for something to kill. As if that weren’t impressive enough, he was yelling blistering profanity in his thundering bass voice.

Crazy Larry and the rest of the Desperados had their own weapons drawn. They took the path of least resistance as they boiled out of the doorway around Mike, but they slowed as they saw their own prospect was the only armed man in the yard. As he reached Rick and grabbed him by his shoulders, Larry yelled excitedly, “What the fuck was that, a drive-by shooting?” His predator sharp eyesight caught the crimson glint of the blood drops running freely off the fingertips of Rick’s left hand. “You hit bad, Prospect?”

“No, Larry. I caught one in my forearm, but it doesn’t feel like it broke the bone or anything. I got off half a dozen .45 rounds and I must have hit at least the driver because they bounced off that car down the street! The car was a late model black Lincoln and there were at least three shooters. They used fully automatic nine millimeter machine pistols, I’d guess they were Uzis from the speed of the actions.” Rick had automatically reported as he’d been trained to do and then done under actual combat conditions for many years; he’d given his superior officers as much intel as possible in the least amount of time.

He saw by the pleased look of respect on Larry’s face the president was impressed by his full and accurate report. They both knew from long experience even some hardened combat veterans would have been nervous and ineffectual for days after a bitch-hot firefight like the one he’d just participated in and survived.

Mad Mike was urgently giving strategic orders to his Desperado Brothers as they began cranking their Harleys. He wisely dispatched them in maneuverable assault squads of four to get more weapons before starting their search for the Maniacs in their usual hangouts. As in the silly comedy movie, they were out gunning for all the usual suspects.

Rick’s best friend, Snowman, gave him a slap on the back and some quick words of praise as he paused momentarily. “Hey, Slick, you alright, Man? It sounded like you were righteously kicking some ass out here when you opened up with them two big Colts!” The talented Snowman was the closest friend Rick had ever had.

He was a small man with dark complexioned good looks and a confident personality that seemed to attract most women. He had long, straight black hair, a Fu Manchu moustache, and a Van Dyke beard. He stood only about six inches over five feet tall.

“Bro, I didn’t have much warning, and the incoming fire was awesome, but I’d bet my old Harley I got some solid hits into ’em. I got at least four fuckin’ rounds out of six through the windows.” Rick’s rapidly pounding heartbeat was finally beginning to slow. This damned firefight had been some of the heaviest action he’d ever seen stateside.

“Hey Blood Brother, if you’re sayin’ you made some hits, I’d bet my life on it. Hell, I’ve done exactly that dozens of times in the past!” Rick and Snowman had been calling each other Blood Brother for years. Though they were totally unrelated, their unbreakable bonds of loyalty and Brotherhood had been forged and tempered in the bloody fires of hell!

Everyone else had been lucky in that none of the wild shots that had penetrated the walls of the wood frame house had hit them. Though there was some cosmetic damage done to several of the bikes, it was almost a miracle none of their scoots had even been hit in a vital area. Larry spoke gruffly to Rick. “That had to be some of those fuckin’ drunk and doped up Maniacs again. Nobody else we know could be that lousy a shot! You, Mike, and me have got to get down to the Erotic Club, quick! We’re going to need us some airtight alibis when the cops come looking. Come on into the house and we’ll get that bleeding stopped.”

Though the lion-maned Desperado president was a couple of inches shorter than the awesome Mike, he made up for the difference with his massive bulk. He had a bull neck and his biceps were easily as large as Rick’s thighs. His strength and capability for explosive violence were legendary among the bikers who knew him. Larry led Rick into the house. They were met at the door by “Dirty Dana,” their tattoo covered house mouse, “Clean his arm up and dress it with some strips of clean sheets or somethin’. We’ve got to haul ass before the cops get here.”

Rick quickly pulled his leather jacket off over his injured arm and hung it on a convenient chair. He saw the bullet had left a nasty three-inch diagonal groove across the skin and outer flesh of his forearm. He stood over the kitchen sink and tried to ignore the pain as he put direct pressure on the wound with his palm to staunch the bleeding until Dana returned with some thick bandages.

Dana roughly but effectively cleaned and dressed the ugly flesh wound. Rick laughed and told her jokingly, “I wish I had a dollar bill for every bullet wound you ever took care of.”

“Yeah.” Dirty laughed harshly as she worked, then she brushed her long, stringy hair out of her face with one thin hand. “If you ever got that fuckin’ wish, you’d need a damned big truck to carry your loot home in.” Dana finished roughly bandaging his arm, then she snatched up his jacket and hurriedly washed the blood off the sleeve under the sink faucet, then dried it. She quickly returned it to him.

Rick gingerly pulled the jacket back on over the tender arm, then he double-checked the status of both of his Colts as he headed back out into the yard. Dana had grabbed a flashlight on her way out of the house and she began policing the yard for Rick’s spent brass cases as the last of the men kicked over their Harleys. “All right!” Rick thought. You could depend on Dirty to know how to righteously cover your ass. “Hey, Dana! There ought to be six of my .45 shell casings. They’ll be right over here in front of the bikes.” Dana headed toward the area he’d pointed towards.

Ten minutes of hard and fast riding put the three of them in the parking lot of the Erotic Club. In another few seconds, they were at the customer entrance being greeted warmly by “D. A.”, the enormous and amiable bouncer. The monstrous bouncer was known all over Texas for his friendly but no bullshit disposition. He got along with the Desperados and he usually let them handle their own trouble. Larry pulled D. A. close and mumbled something to him, Rick saw that D. A. grinned broadly and nodded in agreement, but he couldn’t make out what either of them had said.

Juggs had heard their bikes coming in; she greeted them all pleasantly, then she led them directly to the table against the rear wall where Larry always sat. Juggs was tall for a woman at almost six-foot tall; she was awesomely red headed and very damned attractive. She wore only skin-tight black shorts and tall red high-heeled shoes. Her large, well-shaped trademarks were literally outstanding and her big, rouged nipples had instantly caught Rick’s eye. Rick had always considered Juggs to be one of the finest looking biker chicks he’d seen.

Larry gruffly spoke to Juggs. “Spread the word to the other girls and the manager that we’ve been here for at least an hour.” Rick realized the time of their arrival was what Larry had cleared up earlier with D.