Biker Giant Novels & Stories

She was nine, wearing a shop apron three sizes too large, with paint on her hands and the clipboard she'd been carrying for two years in the way some children carry stuffed animals. "Hi," she said. "I can show you around. What kind of bike?" He looked down at her. "A, uh. A 1978 Triumph Bonneville." Her eyes did the thing. "Original engine?" "Parts of it." "Come on." She turned and walked toward bay three, fully confident he would follow. He did. Hunter appeared from under a Ducati chassis and gave the Triumph a professional look and offered a preliminary structural assessment that the client seemed both startled and reassured by.

It seems he knew all of it was a made up story. “And this biker, what's his name?” he asked, eyes still locked on his notepad. “Mordred Sinclair,” I replied, letting the hate drip into every syllable. “He’s got a crew. Black Vipers or some biker gang bullshit. Check the cameras outside. You’ll see.”

It sounded messed up, but to witness those giant beasts as they shifted and smashed the living daylights out of a metal machine their size was a thrill beyond comparison. It took a minute for them to round the track and make it to our side again. The moment they hit the target line for the second round, they lifted their bikes and began to shift. I paid little attention to the other bikers. I only had eyes for the Savage. His hands released the handlebars as the bike shot upward, and he transformed into a giant, silver wolf. I lifted my arm, waving the pompom and bouncing to cheer with the crowd. This was my favorite part.

"It is everywhere. Simultaneous raids across seventeen states. Every major independent club. All being arrested for weapons trafficking, narcotics distribution, money laundering." Subject Seven moved to the window. "This is not coincidence. This is coordinated elimination. The boy is using federal law enforcement to dismantle every organization that could provide resistance." "Why bikers specifically?" Rebecca demanded. "Why target clubs?" "Because you are organized. Mobile. Independent of government oversight. You have communication networks that bypass standard surveillance. You have resources and loyalty structures that make you dangerous to centralized control." I pulled up my own phone.

"In fact, he was." "Like, for real?" He gave me an amused look. "Why do you look so excited?" "Bro, those guys are cool as fuck!" I exclaimed. "Where's his bike? Did he have one? Do you still have it?" Sebastian burst out laughing. "Calm down, Zaire. It's not like he was a celebrity or anything." "Man, I don't give a fuck! Your granddad was a biker!" I pointed at him. "Do you understand how fucking dope that is?"

“They say that if the pipes are loud, ongoing traffic will hear them, but the sound from the exhaust goes straight out of the back end. All it does is make them go deaf prematurely—” “And piss pedestrians off,” Brennan grumbled. As the bike approached, I tilted my head to the side, recognizing that it wasn’t a Sunday rider on the back of it. “Biker,” Conor confirmed. “No tags,” I murmured. “Does there need to be? Nearest MC to us is the Sinners,” Brennan pointed out. “He’s not wearing a cut.” I lifted my cellphone and as the biker drove by, I snapped a photo, full frontal and a real beauty, then immediately sent it to Conor, whose own cell buzzed as he received it.

BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB Interior, The Kandid Bar and Grill, Kanid, Iowa. By the time Rooster walked inside, he could see the tension had already been palpable with the way Brick stood face-to-face with the leader of the other gang of human bikers known throughout their territory as Badgers. The original idea behind the group was the Honey Badger, but the prospect of adding "Honey" to a logo wasn't too intimidating so Badgers M.C. was as close as they got. Brick had a rather peculiar history with the leader of the gang, Ken Marshal as both served in Iraq and on the same unit, but never truly got along unless they needed to watch each other's back d

My movement is clean and fast, so satisfyingly well-executed I nearly give myself a pat on the back. I might hate getting on a bike, but I know exactly how to get off one. Funny how fear works like that. “You named your death machine?” I ask coolly. His eyes narrow, clearly clocking what I just did. He clicks his tongue but lets it go. “Harley,” he corrects. “And she’s not a death machine. She’s beautiful. I built her myself. From scratch.” That actually gives me pause. “You did?” The surprise slips out before I can stop it.

Over the crest of the hill, headlights appear. Two. Then four. Then ten. Then twenty. A wall of light descends the ridge. The roar becomes deafening. It drowns out the whine of my Ducati. It drowns out the rain. The pack is here. I see the lead bike. It’s a massive black Harley. The rider is a giant in a shredded tactical vest. He rides with one hand on the bars and one hand holding a shotgun resting on his thigh. Drakon. He isn't alone.

"Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me directly." The bikers exchange glances but don't argue. Whatever Ryder Kane is to them, his word is law. "Come on." He guides me toward the clubhouse entrance, his palm warm against my spine. "Let's get you looked at." The inside is even more impressive than the outside. Exposed wooden beams stretch across a cathedral ceiling. A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, with animal heads mounted above it. Pool tables, leather couches, and a well-stocked bar create distinct areas for socializing. Everything screams wealth and power.