Outlaws: Inside the Violent World of Biker Gangs Read Online Free PDF

officers arrived at the meeting between the two, the Ratae were just leaving. Seeing that no one was hurt, that nothing was broken and that no crimes appeared to have been committed, the Coventry force simply escorted the bikers to the edge of their jurisdiction and then let them carry on, assuming they were heading home to Leicestershire.
    The Pagans themselves were under no such illusion: within minutes of the Ratae leaving Coventry, a tip-off had been rung through to George Street from a friend of the club who was aware of the events of the preceding days, had seen the numerous shotguns the Ratae were wielding and was deeply concerned about where it all might lead.
    Once news of the approaching convoy had been received, little discussion was needed. With only thirteen of them on duty at the clubhouse, the Pagans knew they were horribly outnumbered. A few urgent phone calls were made to other members who lived further afield telling them to drop everything and rush to Leamington, but even if everyone managed to get there in time, there would still only be thirty of them at most. The Pagans rarely backed away from a fight, even when the odds were against them, but it was clear that this particular battle was not going to end well. Discretion was, they decided, the better part of valour: they would abandon the clubhouse and wait to fight another day.
    The group headed to Boone’s place, crossing the river into the north east of the town, and settled down with a few beers. But as they were sitting there, sniggering to oneanother about how disappointed the Ratae would be to find the place deserted, they suddenly realised that the Pagans they had called in to back them up were still on their way. Back then, mobile phones were just a gleam in the eye of telecoms engineers. Once someone was en route somewhere, there was simply no way to get in touch with them. If the other Pagans arrived at the same time as the Ratae, they were going to be slaughtered.
    ‘Shit,’ said Caz. ‘We can’t abandon them. We’re going to have to go back.’ No one was happy about the order but they all quickly agreed they had no choice. It’s one in, all in . They traipsed back across the river and made their way to George Street and whatever fate awaited them.
    The fortifications had been designed to give them some measure of protection but with such a large number of attackers on their way, it seemed unlikely they would last long. Tank recalled seeing an old black and white film about a siege in which the defenders deliberately left an obvious weak spot so that the attackers would focus all their attention there, allowing the defenders to pick them off more easily. The Pagans decided to do the same, removing the metal grid they had placed over a low-level panel in the door, though none of them were sure if the Ratae would be dumb enough to fall for such a trick.
    In many ways they had no choice. As a terraced property you could only attack the clubhouse from the front or the back. The gate to the back garden had been secured making it impossible to open. The rest of the rear was protected by an eight-foot high wall, topped with shards of broken glass. If anyone managed to get over it, they would have to jump down into the garden where dozens of sharpened three-footlong metal spikes waited to impale them. The front of the house, especially with that one vulnerable spot, would seem like a far better option.
    The thirteen Pagans had just about finished making the adjustments to the fortifications and defences when Dozer suddenly realised there was someone else they had to worry about. ‘Fuck! We’ve forgotten about Maz Harris,’ he gasped.
    As a writer for most of the major biker magazines and founder member of the Kent chapter of the Hell’s Angels, Dr Ian ‘Maz’ Harris was already a legendary figure in the motorcycling world. He had obtained his PhD from the University of Warwick for a thesis entitled ‘Myth and Reality in Motorcycle