Tag: Diablo Disciples MC

Only three biker sleeps to go.

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“Who’s the dead whore?”

“Not your next girlfriend unless you like ‘em cold and stiff.”

Chains heard a chuckle from the gathered crowd of his brethren, staring at the poor sack of meat that was once a known hooker in the area.

She’s now as dead as dead got.

Her slim, almost skeletal, drug-ruined body was twisted into an awkward, broken shape on the cold concrete. Her once dark hair was matted in blood from whatever caved her skull in; being hit repeatedly had half her head poured out onto the ground.

Fuck. He had a robust steel-like stomach that didn’t get grossed out by much, but this shit was for a True Crime show.

Poor bitch wasted what little of a tragic life she had.

And now she’d landed on their doorstep like a gift no one wanted.

Dropping to his haunches, the coppery tang of blood in his nose, Chains gloved hand gripped the woman’s chin and turned her head to the good side that wasn’t bashed in.

“Anyone recognizes her?”

“Nah, VP, never seen her face before.”

“Reno means he don’t recognize her snatch, boss.” Chortled one of the new probies who’d been with the club a couple of months. Chains rose to his feet and turned a dark stare on the young kid. “Have some fucking respect, shithead. It could be your sister lying on the ground.”

The kid turned red and lowered his head, “sorry, boss.”

“She’s not one of your girls?” Asked Reno, who’d followed behind when he got the call about a body in the alleyway behind his club.

“I hire strippers, not hookers.”

“No disrespect to the corpse, but how can you tell the difference?”

“She has track marks, rotten teeth, smells like she hasn’t bathed in weeks. I don’t let my girls do drugs. The meth look isn’t fucking attractive to paying customers, ya dig? Goddammit, this is the last thing we need now. Reno, call in the cleaner, tell them it’s an asap job. That asshole is gonna charge double. Mouse, go with him.” The probie lumbered after Reno, leaving Chains and a silent Ruin in the alleyway with the foul stench of the dumpster and a dead body. It was a fresh dump because Chains had parked in this alleyway a few hours back to call in for the monthly takings, and he’d have seen a dead hooker littering his alley.

“You fucked any hookers and pissed off her pimp this month?” he asked of his enforcer, standing casually with his foot against the brick wall while he scrolled on his phone. Ruin’s dark head rose, looking bored, and he grunted before looking back at his phone again. “Yeah, yeah, you silent dick, you don’t do hookers. You might as well head back to the club, brother. Nothing to do here until she’s moved.”

Ruin pushed himself off the wall and, without a word, strode down the shadowy side street and around the corner where his bike was parked. Chains had no time to think about the enforcer’s weird demeanor, not when he had a dead whore on his hands.

That made three kills dumped around Laketon, Utah, in the past few weeks.

Serial killer?

Or some perverted weirdo who took his sex games too seriously?

Chains wasn’t a cold-hearted biker.

He could feel sorry for the dead hooker outside of his business but still not give a fuck about her at the same time. But didn’t want this shit on his doorstep. Thanks to the club’s substantial payment to the cleaner, the problem would disappear with no DNA left behind if the cops came sniffing around.

The cleaner arrived shortly, and Chains waited inside nursing a glass of neat scotch, sitting at the bar while they did their thing.

The cleaner always gave him the willies.

She was a weird woman who made death disappear. With a banging body and a face made for fashion, Chains was betting the woman was dead inside if she trudged through blood, puke, and piss regularly and didn’t blink at the disturbing scenes.

The club was fortunate she worked for them, but Chains had never tried to fuck the cleaner; he reckoned it would be like climbing into bed with the grim reaper.

Once the text came through that the problem was gone, he wired the money over, and not a minute later, he laughed as he stepped down off the stool, seeing her recent text saying thanks, with a skull emoji.

“Sicko.” He muttered, amused.

Blowing hot air into his clasped-inked hands, Chains warded off the chilly night air as he lumbered out of his strip club, into the street, and around to where his Harley was parked. No wonder he felt tired, It was closing in on 3 a.m., lunatics didn’t have any manners when they were doing their murdering these days. The bastards could have waited until Chains caught some decent shut-eye.

The club was closer than his house. He’d usually head home, but his tired body wanted to get horizontal before falling over after being in Vegas for a long weekend. Had he known the mess he was coming back to, he might have extended his trip instead of riding all day.

About thirty years ago, the clubhouse was a brewery, until the former Prez scraped together the money to buy the dilapidated building for a song. It took Axel and Chains to make it into the club he saw as he rode through the gates, after two prospects opened them for him. They weren’t always so gate happy. Every vehicle once upon a time could come and go as they pleased, but the Mexican cartel firebombed the Prez’s house in the recent past. Luckily no one was hurt, but they’d put extra security measures in place ever since Axel’s grandkids came along.

The clubhouse stood on its own land, with no other buildings around them, and was about a block in size. Red bricks had long since been painted black, three floors high, the second floor mainly used for bedrooms, and the top floor was storage and extra flop space if they had out-of-towners to host.

Climbing down off his Harley Davidson Sport, Chains’ jaw cracked with a yawn, so fucking tired, he could sleep his ass down on the asphalt. So when he strode into the club doors after thumbing in his code, he was in no mood for the smart mouth of one of the night owls drinking at the bar.

“Look what the cat dragged home. No showgirl on your arm, VP?”

The loudmouth was still soaking wet behind the ears, young but had an old lady at home and two kids. But there was a sweet bottom sitting on his lap. Chains glared at Forger and kept on walking.

“You keep mouthing off, and I’m gonna fuck your mom and give her a kid she actually loves.”

The idiot prospect laughed at Chains’ joke, like he thought he wouldn’t go through with it.

Few knew that Chains always told the truth.

A threat or a promise, they called it his superpower.

Jon ‘Chains’ Shaye wasn’t born in the biker lifestyle; he didn’t have a dad who loved a hog and brought him in as a legacy; he’d had a whole other everyday life before he’d found his deliverance. He came to the MC in his late twenties, and now standing at six-foot-five and age thirty-nine, people would swear he’d always bled the ride or die way of living.

But as he closed the door to his room, glancing at the queen-size bed as he shucked off his pieces of denim and club cut, Chains wasn’t thinking about threats or promises.

He was going to sleep like a dead man.

Not even bothering to pull back the covers, he fell bare-assed onto the bed, buried his face in the pillow, and was out for the count before the first fat sheep jumped over the hedge.