Excerpt: Heart of a Dragon - Book II of The DeChance Chronicles

The park was quiet. Clouds scudded across the last remnant of the sunset, obscuring the muted reds and golds that clung to city skyline. The hum of street lamps kicking to life brought the dim, yellowed illumination of the night, but it did little to ease the encroaching shadows. Instead it shaped them, drawing them out in elongated patterns on the rolling hills and small forested patches of Santini Park. The hint of a storm crackled in the evening air, bringing the heavy, water and ozone scent of thunderstorm and the soft flicker, far off over the ocean, of lightning fingers stretching down toward the rolling waves.

On the East side of the park, other shadows moved. They slipped from alleys, slid from the doors of parked cars and the darkened doorways of decayed apartment buildings and dingy warehouses. Eyes, teeth, jewelry and blades glimmered softly in the dying light. They crossed the street stealthily, entered the park in silence, and disappeared into its depths. No words were spoken, but there was fluidity to their combined motion, and purpose. They entered like a horde of vermin and disappeared into the darkness.

Moments later the silence was shattered by the thrumming roar of a single engine. It wasn’t the purr of a sports car, or the roar of V-8 power, but the steady throb of a large V-twin, powerful and throaty. The echo of that sound resonated through the park, caromed off buildings and echoed in the depths of alleys. The sound multiplied and grew, challenging the distant voice of the thunder for dominance of the night. The first bike slid down Holley St. and into sight at the edge of the park. Its single headlight sliced through the blackness. The rider brought the bike to a halt, polished tank and chrome reflecting the weak light of the street lights. He pushed the kickstand down and stepped off the bike, leaving it running.

Black hair swept over his shoulders, tied back with a silver clasp that caught the light when he moved. The clasp was a spider, long legs twined about his pony-tail tightly. One of his eyes was covered by a dark patch. His chest was bare beneath a cut-sleeve denim vest, faded and criss-crossed with stains and patches, chains and memories. He was lean and muscled, long muscled legs beneath tight jeans ending in scuffed engineer boots ringed by a leather strap, decorated with chipped conches. From his belt a long knife swung, slapping lightly against his thigh.

He stood there for a long time, his bike leaning over on one side, the engine still throbbing. He swept the park with a cold gaze that seemed able to cut through the shadows. Nothing moved, nothing but leaves sliding quickly across the grass, caught in the grip of the approaching storm. There was no sound but the whisper of the trees.

Snake stood for another moment. He wanted to see them, to know they were there, and where, but he also knew that was not happening. They had drawn him here, and there was no choice but to get on with it. He reached over and killed his engine, standing alone and silent for a last moment.

He raised his arm slowly and waved it in a slow arc. The soft throb of engines rose to a sudden roar. The darkness was criss-crossed by brilliant slices of light, dispersing as the bright headlight beams sliced through and reforming as each passed, single file. They parked in diagonals, lining the edge of the park. There were dozens of them, each pausing for a moment, canting to one side to catch on its kick stand, then falling to silence.

The storm crept slowly closer, just off the coast and moving inland. Lightning flashes grew in brilliance, and frequency. Snake stepped forward onto the soft turf of the park common, and the others filled in behind him, row upon row, tattered jeans, dark eyes, their weapons, belts, and leather gleaming with steel and silver. Each wore a sleeveless denim vest with the gang’s colors, blue and green dragons, whirling in a tight 69, devouring their own tails. The top bar simply stated the obvious: “Dragons MC”. The bottom rocker, lined in blue, read “San Valences, CA.”

A tall, dark-skinned man stepped up to stand beside Snake, scanning the shadows. Vasquez was leathered and worn, many years of road-dust and sun baked into his skin, arms corded with the muscle borne of hard labor. His eyes were deep brown, nearly black, and his hair blew free and shaggy about his shoulders.

“The fuckers are out there, Snake,” he said softly. “I can smell them.”

Snake nodded, not speaking. He was breathing slowly, gathering his energy. He sensed them too, shifting through the shadows. Los Escorpiones. The thought of the young, violent Latinos made his skin crawl, but he knew he could show no sign of fear or weakness. The others could spare a moment to think of how their hearts were growing chilly and empty, or how their lives were riding on the actions of a few short moments. Snake had no such freedom. If he faltered, the line would break, and they would be finished. Leadership always came with a price.

Along the line Snake heard the shuffle of booted feet, the soft clatter of weapons, and slowly the growing murmur of nervous voices. It was time. They were charged and ready and he couldn’t afford to hesitate and let that moment pass.

He threw his head back suddenly face turned to the churning clouds of the approaching storm and screamed. His fists were clenched, arms curled up and back to his chest and the sound rose, unfettered, from deep within his soul. That moment the lines broke and the Dragons surged forward. Pent up rage, fear, and adrenalin burst in a flood of echoing screams, merging their voices and their hearts with the energy of Snake’s bellowed challenge.

As they thundered down the sloping fields, shadows melted free of darker shadows and Los Escorpiones were upon them. The storm broke at that moment, as if the heavens sensed the coming clash. The lightning flashes were so closely spaced that the landscape became a strobed parody of battle.

The darkness was split by screams of anger and pain. Each flash showed pale, drawn features and flashing metal. Gunshots rang out, lost in rolls of booming thunder and echoed beyond them. Warriors crashed together, weapons drawn, lips curled back in the fury of battle and the terror of death. The scent of blood and cries of anguish washed away in sudden torrents of rain, the grass soaking blood and water into its heart and the sky marbled with the anger of the Gods.

The storm grew in fury, and one by one, slipping and sliding in mud and the gore of the fallen, they fought. Blades ripped soft skin and hard tendons. Gunshots, half-wild in the heat of the battle and the clutches of the storm, ripped through hearts and heads, spattering the ground, trees, and combatants with bits and pieces of those they called brother..

Vasquez towered over his opponents, a mountain of flesh and bone they tried again and again to scale, clinging to his shoulders, shaken off, his blade ripping through limbs and organs with a wild, uncontrolled abandon. Bodies flew from him, tossed, reeling from heavy blows, and his dark eyes shone, alive with reflected lightning and deep-seated rage. There were too many. For each he tossed aside, two more slid from the shadows, grabbing at his arms, dragging at his legs. And they were fast. It wasn’t the speed of youth – Vasquez was fast. It was inhuman speed. They shot out of the shadows and tried to climb him like a tree, swarming him like sewer rats over something dead and rotting.

Vasquez bellowed in rage, kicking and slashing, leaving a trail of Escorpiones strewn across the park, but it was not enough. Those he tossed aside, broken and sliced, rose again as if nothing had touched them and launched at his throat.

About ten yards away, locked in furious combat with a young, lean Latino, Snake saw Vasquez going down. He cried out, called for assistance, but there was none to be had. Snake brought his knee up suddenly, slammed it into the boy’s chin and snapped back his head. The Escorpione fell, but as Snake turned, leaping toward his brother, another rose from the shadows, and another. Too many.

He wheeled, fist pistoning into the jaw of the first and sending him skidding across the muddy field. Then he reached for the second and cursed as a sharp blade raked his forearm. He pulled back and kicked instead, knocking the boy’s legs from beneath him and leaping without hesitation, grabbing long hair and yanking back hard, his own blade sliding easily in between ribs, out, and back. There was something wrong. They were too fast. When they fell, they rose again as if nothing had happened.

The wind picked up, very suddenly, rain whipping into their eyes and blurring one body to the next and each face to the shadows. Snake couldn’t see Vasquez any longer, though there was a rolling, flailing pile of bodies a few feet to his right. He spun toward them, caught a form moving up on his left and swung to grip the man’s throat, only to find it was a Dragon he held. They met one another’s gaze for a long moment, president and follower, and then he released and turned away.

It was then that Vasquez roared free of the mass of flesh that held him, tossing bodies to either side and swinging huge fists like hammers, all thought of weapons forgotten in the heat of the moment. Escorpiones fell away like dust, but it was not enough. As Snake cried out to the huge biker, his arm outstretched toward that wild, untamed face, the night exploded once again.

No lightning, a single gunshot, and Vasquez’s throat erupted. Blood spurted and splashed; his huge hands gripped the hole uselessly, his eyes shocked, voice silenced. The Escorpiones who’d swarmed over the big man only moments before scrambled back, wild eyed, not certain at first who held the gun, or who’d been shot.

“No!” Snake screamed, he leaped for his fallen brother, just failing to catch the massive body as it crashed to the ground. Rain and mud and gore coated his hands and his jeans as Vasquez slumped at his feet. In the distance, the muted wail of sirens sounded, and Snake became aware, slowly, that his night was not over.