Home > culture, liberty, life, seduction, vigilante > Lured Into A Secretive Squad (continued 16)

Lured Into A Secretive Squad (continued 16)

Aileen Schachter fired three well-spaced shots into the air. On that signal, all the N3 agents that had been hidden all around the barn stepped out of hiding. Each person, male and female alike held at least one firearm. AK 47s, M14 SMUDs, M16A3 Battle Rifles were part of our arsenal. Some flashed bayonets; some had hand grenades dangling from their belts.

Aileen and Naomi stood up and stepped through the bush we’d hidden behind. I scrambled to my feet to do the same. I stood between them, looking down the hill at the bikers. I noticed again that Aileen was so much smaller than I am, and Naomi Cheslow was so much taller that I am. One of the bikers raised a pistol. Almost instantly an N3 marksman just a few meters from me fired and hit the biker in the shoulder and knocked him to the ground.

An N3 leader on the other side of the biker gang raised an electric megaphone.

“We were hoping we wouldn’t have to do that,” he said. “We’ll do whatever we have to do in our defense.” He was met by derogatory oaths and raised fists.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” the megaphone said, “but names will never hurt me.” The bikers’ tirade slowly subsided and the speaker began again. “As you can see, we have come prepared to end your violence. We have the option at this moment of annihilating all of you and just walking away, or just walking away without annihilating you. You look like such a bunch of fucked up morons, I’d think you’d prefer annihilation. If you want to live, you will live without harassing or touching anyone, Jew, black, or any kind of immigrant. If you fuck with us again, N3 will do what we’re itching to do right now.”

“You’re as good as dead, motherfucker,” their leader shouted. A marksman close to the megaphone guy fired once. The bullet pierced the teardrop fuel tank on the leader’s Harley-Davidson chopper. The tank was airbrush painted with a flaming swastika on it. I wondered why it didn’t explode. Fuel spilled out onto the ground. Suddenly, Naomi raised a 45 calibre Colt automatic that I hadn’t seen before. She squeezed off a single shot. It was a tracer bullet that left a line of sparks straight to the puddle of gasoline that was soaking into the sand.

The spilled fuel burst into flame and licked up the side of the motorcycle. The resulting explosion sent bikers scrambling in every direction. Most rushed to their motorcycles and struggled to start them and move them away from the towering flames. When the flames had subsided and the riders had moved their machines and dismounted again, they looked up to see us. To their surprise, we were all gone. They waded into the debris that had been their barn full of vehicles and equipment. They moved as if they were in a funeral procession. The gang leader had some of his hair singed off. His Harley was ashes. We went home hoping the Aryans got the N3 message.

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