The Blue and Silver Shark, The Biker Story SeriesBook 5 of the Series by Edward Winterhalder & Marc Teatum
The Blue and Silver Shark (Book Five in The Biker Story Series) continues to take readers deep into the world of the 1% outlaw biker. In this story, we learn that not all 1%ers are outside the law, in some cases, they are on the inside. Thomas Chandler is a criminal attorney and independent Harley rider; Earle Hastings is an outlaw biker, Harley mechanic, and president of the Vermont chapter of the Skuldmen Motorcycle Club, one of the most notorious outlaw 1%er motorcycle clubs in North America. Despite being from different worlds, the two men are the best of friends. When the horror the world comes to know as the Boston Marathon bombing occurs, Earle makes a connection to the event that shakes him to the core. Earle is hunted down and shot by third suspected terrorists, and Thomas goes on a quest for revenge with guidance from two federal law enforcement agents. Enlisting several chapters of Skuldmen in New England to assist him in locating this third Boston bomber, the lawyer is conflicted as he straddles a fine line between the two worlds he lives in, and the choices he must make when it comes to moral justice, or biker justice.
The Blue and Silver Shark, The Biker Story Series: Chapter 3
Five days later, inside the Skuldmen chapter clubhouse in Hartford, Connecticut, Earle shouted across the room. It was the morning after the big party, if you can call nearly noon, still morning. Most in the room were nursing a bit of a hangover. The rest were nursing big ones. The prospects and a few hang around young things were making food for those that were still living.
“Joe Don, Rocky, you ready to roll?”
“Give me ten more minutes, will ya, mommy?” Joe Don, the Prez of the Springfield chapter shouted back. “I need to finish my eggs and coffee.”
Simultaneously the VP, Rocky, gave Earle the finger and downed what was left in the bottle of beer he had in his hand.
“I’ll be out front waiting, assholes,” Earle replied, smiling.
He grabbed his overnight bag from the chair, and walked out of the clubhouse. For Earle, he often thought about how Route 5, just two blocks away, was the same road that ran past his shop in the state to the north. He could go out, make a left and just keep riding on this small two lane blacktop through 1000 towns to easily get back to his own
Tucked away on a side road off Pitkin Street, the structure was situated like so many others in the 1% system; in the middle of a small industrial zone, away from the prying eyes of the general public and local law enforcement. In this case, a square single story structure, with one large double width steel overhead door, and one solid steel entry door to the side. No windows on the street side. The flat topped roof was laces with barbed wire that came out at right angles to the building so climbing over to get to the surface was damned near impossible. Twelve foot tall chain link fence circled the property; not all that pretty, but made the place as secure as hell. The back of the building had a much narrower overhead door that lead to the backyard, and a cut through drive way to the street parallel behind, making quick exits a realistic option if need be. In the back was a large BBQ pit with several picnic tables scattered around for those times that the New England weather allowed. From the street it didn’t look all that inviting, but to these patchholders, it was home to one of the Skuldmen’s newest and strongest eastern chapters. And to some members, from time to time, it was just plain ‘home’, that safe haven, that secure place to rest their heads at times when there was no place else to go. In the 1% world, Skuldmen were one of the most feared and respected of the outlaw community. With a penchant for low profile, and a propensity for taking no shit, you didn’t find Skuldmen on the front page of newspapers being arrested for the usual things that other outlaw Bikers are known for. You didn’t find them participating in charity rides to benefit puppies with cancer, or hawking t-shirts at events just to remind the general public who they were. Skuldmen didn’t give a fuck about the public. They didn’t flaunt their colors for all to see. They wore them, that’s for sure, but not to the supermarket, and not to the movies. They wore them when they were with their brothers, riding or partying or fighting. Blue and Silver was as sacred to them as the insignia of the fire breathing wolf that took up the majority of their patch on the back; as sacred as that symbol was to the Norse warriors from where they took the imagery. It was a family that members live and died for; your brothers and sisters that took care of each other, no matter what. It wasn’t easy to earn the patch, and just as difficult to keep; but once you had it, you treasured it, you respected it. Only full patchholders knew how many Skuldmen members there were. As a member, you had to know your brothers, no matter where they were. Despite the best of efforts, law enforcement agencies could never do anything more than estimate how many members there were in the twelve chapters that existed east of The Rockies. LEOs were always trying to get in, under cover, but never had any luck. This club was just tight.
Earle had worked his way up from prospect to President in 5 years; five hard fought years. He started the charter in Vermont from scratch, taking only one or two other Skuldmen from nearby states as founders. He had to prove to Milwaukee Phil, the National President, that out of the 6 New England states, Vermont had enough 1%ers so as not to embarrass the Blue and Silver. But part of keeping the chapters involved and serious with the other charters took a lot of traveling. And being in Connecticut now was part of that responsibility, but Earle was proud to stand up for his charter at any other club event. He had built a strong crew of his own, even if his numbers weren’t as large, he believed in the saying: “When it comes to Brothers, I’d rather have four quarters than 100 pennies.”
Mid afternoon on April 14th, and the sun was just past its zenith in a pale blue cloudless sky as the trio of Skuldmen patch holders riding their iron horses rolled down an exit ramp just north of downtown Springfield. All throughout the ride, Earle, Joe Don and Rocky had kept standard formation for a pack of this size. Two up front, tandem, side by side, as if connected by a steel rod, with the third positioned behind and centered not more than a bike’s length away. Mile after mile, they held tight. Lane switches were executed smooth as silk. The throaty sound of three engines melded into one mechanical roar. If you think you know thunder, you don’t know anything until you’ve been passed by three or more powerful Harleys. It’s a sound, a feeling, that resonates down into your soul, your very being. It’s truly both memorable and intimidating. And that’s the way the Skuldmen liked it. It was a glorious trip, and each was pleased that the traffic on the one-hour blast up Interstate 91 had been light for a Sunday afternoon. There’s nothing worse than having to deal with cagers on a Sunday afternoon; except maybe dealing with the cops on a Monday morning.
At the bottom of the ramp, just before they crossed Main Street, the two Massachusetts members waved to the Vermont one percenter. Like they had done many times before, Earle turned north, went fifty feet, and turned right into a Mobil gas station. Joe Don and Rocky screamed straight on Dover Street, headed for the clubhouse. As the sound of their drag pipes disappeared in the distance, Earle pulled up to the pump and shut the engine off. He rummaged through his chain driven wallet for a usable credit card, and proceeded to fill up the six-gallon tank of the thirsty Road King.
Twenty-one dollars and fourteen cents later, Earle put the pump handle back into its place, and patiently waited for the receipt. He started to get back on the bike, but at the last minute realized that the three cups of coffee earlier in the day were taking its toll on his bladder.
Hanging his brain bucket on the handlebars, he crossed the parking lot and walked toward the building. All the older stations had bathrooms down the side. That was until the homeless and junkies used them to hang out in. Now, they’re in the back of the 24hr convenience store that all the new gas stations have. Arriving, he found a sign on both doors informing him that the facilities were out of order. Everything’s normal he thought. He couldn’t take the next hour on the road it would be getting home without relieving himself, and couldn’t stand the thought of another couple of minutes in search of an open bathroom. Earle continued walking along down the side of the building, and then around the corner into the brush at the back of the building. Ten more feet and he found a place where he could not be observed.
As he watered the overgrown weeds and trash tossed about, a beat up twenty-year-old white Toyota Camry rolled to a stop to his left in the shade created by the old building. Three men got out of the car. They were obviously in the midst of a heated discussion. From his vantage point, Earle could clearly see the faces of two of the men. They were young, in there early twenties, maybe one could be thirty. The third man had his back to him. He was clearly older, by perhaps another 20 years. He was leading the discussion; waiving his arms about and very aggressive in his stance and posture as he towered over the two, not so much physically, but certainly, in a stature point to view. They weren’t necessarily afraid of him, but certainly respectful. Father, maybe? No, that didn’t seem to fit right. An overbearing uncle? Not that he heard every word, Earle certainly picked up from the sound of their accents, he pegged them for being from somewhere in Eastern Europe, but wasn’t exactly sure.
Earle had just zipped up his pants and was about to head back to the bike when he thought he heard the word “bomb”, which caught his attention and caused him to freeze.
The biker noticed that the two younger men both wore light coats and jeans, and the shorter one wore a white ball cap that was turned around backwards on his head.
“In three weeks…bigger one …is better,” the older man said.
Earle could only hear snippets of the conversation.
“Two little ones,” the larger of the younger man said clearly.
“Not good…make bigger one,” the older man said, before lighting a cigarette.
“We’ve made our decision. We’re doing it tomorrow,” the taller younger man replied.
“No! Bigger…bomb…lots more damage…we wait.”
Again Earle could only hear snippets of the conversation.
Earle realized at this point that the smaller younger man with the white ball cap on backwards hadn’t said anything; all he did was look at the other younger man and nod his head whenever he spoke.
Earle made the decision to head back to the bike he didn’t want to be around when the conversation was over. Two steps into his journey he broke an old branch. It cracked and made a loud snap under his weight. The noise in the brush immediately attracted the attention of all three men. The older man turned around, and stared at Earle intently. The last thing Earle heard before he turned the corner of the building was the older man’s voice.
“Go. Now. Get back to Boston. I’ll take care of this one.”
Oh great. Now I gotta kick the shit outta some old Russian dope. What a way to spend the afternoon. Earle thought as he headed back to his scooter. Wait for him to come to me, he thought. It’s always better to do that, see your adversary approach; gives you a chance to size them up, determine weaknesses, assess any skills they might have. 3 seconds is all a good street fighter needs.
The older man just stood there, leaning on the corner of the building as the other two drove away in their beat up car. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up, peering up at Earle from behind a pair of dark shades all the while.
No car. No weapon. No back up.
Earle then realized he was being memorized. This guy was remembering every detail of him. For later. He wasn’t just staring at him. This guy was dangerous, and not in a bar fight kind of way. He smelled of professional.
So Earle did the same; height, approximate weight, clothing, shoe style, stance, mannerisms. All committed to memory. And that’s when it hit him; the old man is left handed. He remembered how he struck the match, and was now holding on to the cigarette. In his right hand, to keep his dominant hand, his left hand, free.
Earle pulled on his helmet and climbed on board, thumbed the starter, and brought his machine to life. As he rode out of the station, he checked his mirrors. Sure enough, there was the man watching him ride away.
Oh great, now he has the plate number, Earle realized.
Then with a tilt of his head, the older man turned and walked down the street.
For a second Earle thought about going to the Springfield clubhouse, get a few members and come back and beat this man to death, but quickly realized the better choice was to see Thomas, as soon as possible.
Read the Reviews
Just another great story from Winterhalder and Teatum!
This is the 5th book in the Skuldmen series but only the second one I’ve read. While the Silver and Blue Skuldmen Motorcycle Club is weaved into both, the main characters are different in each book. This was an easy but interesting read with a tight plot, realistic scenes, and believable characters that I CARED about. Easily worth the time and money spent and I’m glad I did.
— Dwight Mikkelsen, Amazon