36

Vartain palmed a full magazine into his pistol, taking comfort from the metallic ratcheting sound. The bastards that wrecked his bikes would pay dearly. Those gangster wannabes, the Locos, were in for a shock. They were used to dealing with drunken tourists and timid shopkeepers. How would they fare when faced with road warriors ready for battle?

He shouted across the bar so all of his men would hear him. “Tool up. I want to know where these shit-heels hang out and I want them buried.”

This brought a roar of agreement from the Rogues. One of the gang, his nose thick and swollen, stood next to Vartain. The tall guy now sported two black eyes and looked like an angry panda, but the shotgun he waved was a pump-action and no joke. “I want the little bastard who clocked me.”

Another roar of agreement.

“And ruined half our rides.” The roar that went up at the mention of the damaged bikes was like that of a barbarian horde.

Vartain had no particular dislike for the Spanish, disliking most races equally, although the English and Russians were below shit on the ground in his book. Both thought they were superior to everyone else. But these Locos had it coming, and from what he had heard about them, they were a ragtag bunch: blacks, whites and mulattos all in the same outfit. Vartain didn’t care much for the blacks either. Paris was overrun with them.

“You,” said Vartain, pointing at the two closest bikers. “Go into town, knock the heads of a few shopkeepers and get them to tell you where these Loco dick-pullers hang out. Call me as soon as you have anything. The rest of us will meet you there. We’ll hit them back before they expect it.”

The two scouts armed themselves and the taller of the two grinned maliciously as he cut the air with a machete. “Won’t take long. Be ready.”

Vartain holstered the revolver and looked back at the rest of his men. They looked ready. The scouts had just left but Vartain glanced down at his phone as if willing it to ring. With a deep inhalation he forced himself to relax; he rolled his shoulders, tensed and relaxed his hands. He had felt like this many times; it was the burning anticipation of the fight to come and part of him relished the feeling. As a younger man in Marseilles he had studied the French kick-boxing style of savate. It was a rough sport that employed many devastating kicks and punches. Vartain had never become a champion but had won a lot more bouts than he had lost. Savate had been developed by the roughest sailors and stevedores in Europe and it could be deadly when used in its raw combat form. He looked forward to putting his savate, his boot, into the Locos.

“How many vehicles have we still got on the road?” he asked.

“Nine,” said one of the older bikers, fat and grey and mean-looking. “The three big vans, one pick-up truck and five bikes. We had to change tyres on the camper vans but it’s done now.”

Vartain scowled again. How many thousands’ worth of damage had been caused? Most of the bikes were custom works of art like the RVs. Ruined at the hands of some dip-shit outfit in a holiday resort. His hands again strayed to the two guns at his waist, the Ruger LCR revolver and his Ruger LC9, old friends that never let him down. He liked the LC9 pistol as it was designed as a concealed carry weapon and sat comfortably in the small of his back. The stubby revolver was perfect for putting down a target for good. A couple of .357 rounds tended to do the job nicely.

“Get them all ready to roll. I want two men per bike, one rider and one shooter. The rest in the pick-up and RVs. When we find out where they are, we hit them hard and we make sure they know why.”

The Rogues busied themselves feeding shells into shotguns, drinking liquor and sharing promises of violence. An hour slipped by, then another. One man sat in a corner, sharpening a serrated combat knife. The blade was as long as his forearm.

Vartain’s cell phone warbled. “About time.” He answered with a perfunctory, “What?”

A slow approximation of a smile crept across his face like an evening shadow. He clicked his fingers twice to get the attention of his men, then moved a raised finger in a tight circle. “Let’s go!”

The Rogues moved as one towards the exit. Weapons were held at the ready even before they knew their destination. One of the bikers kicked a table over on his way past, sending empty bottles and glasses crashing to the floor. The bar staff just kept their heads down, avoiding eye contact and saying nothing, as they had for the previous week.

Engines roared to life as the bikers clambered on to their vehicles. Vartain’s Triumph Bonneville had survived with only cosmetic damage. The mirrors had been mangled but the handlebars, wheels and engine were still intact. He powered his bike to the front of the makeshift convoy and waved the rest of his men forward.