Biker Chick Ambush

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's mid-May and Brooke Rosenberger is looking forward to embarking on a real estate career in Florida, where she plans to move after getting her real estate license. Meanwhile, she's got one more drug run to make because her biker boyfriend Nick tricked her into the business a few months ago. She contacts her friend Trisha Vest and makes the run on a Thursday night in Cincinnati. But to her surprise, she and friend end up driving downtown to an inner city high school at nine o'clock at night. Little does she know some tough black girls are waiting for her, seeking revenge for the deaths of a couple friends. The two biker chicks are in for a fight for their lives in what's about to become an absolutely brutal confrontation. This is the 8th story of the "Tough Girl" series, where women fight for survival in isolated places or the mean streets.

Submitted: September 12, 2016

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Submitted: September 12, 2016



Brooke Rosenberger answered her cell phone on the third ring. 

“I’ve got another run for you, babe,” Jack Schmitt growled on the other end.  “And this one’s for nine o’clock tomorrow night.  I’ll give you the goods and directions when you pick it up tomorrow.  Be here at two.”

“But I’ve got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow at that time.”

“I don’t care if you’re mother’s funeral is tomorrow, get your little ass over here at noon.”

Brooke sighed.  “Okay.  I’ll see if I can switch my appointment.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

Jack hung up.  Brooke just shook her head.  This was going to be her last run.  She couldn’t do this anymore.  It was too dangerous.  And she risked her future real estate career if she kept running drugs much longer.

Yeah.  She’d really screwed up dating her current boyfriend Nick.  He was a biker who wasn’t affiliated with any of the major motorcycle gangs—just a local outfit out of Cincinnati.  But he was still required to help with one of the side ventures to raise money, and he’d chosen drug dealing.

He’d tricked her into making the first run four months ago, saying it was an errand for a friend.  She became suspicious when the guy handed her $700 for the package.  She was so stupid!  But Nick was everything she was looking for from a physical standpoint—6’5,” muscular and more handsome than Fabio in his heyday.  But tomorrow she was going to tell him she wanted out. 

Quitting on your old man could get you killed as a biker chick in a traditional motorcycle gang.  But the dopes in Nick’s ragtag unit were nothing but a bunch of drunken hillbillies.  Besides, she was going to move to Florida and sell real estate as soon as she got her real estate license.  She’d just completed her coursework at the University of Cincinnati last week.

It hadn’t been easy on her the past four years.  She had an apartment in Hyde Park and it wasn’t cheap. And since she lived alone, she had to pay her bills and support her schooling somehow.  Besides making an occasional run for Nick, she worked as an exotic dancer for a gentleman’s club in Indiana. 

It was a classy joint and the place was far enough away that she didn’t run into any people she knew.  Just some sexy pole dancing and occasional ass shaking and she had the guys eating out of the palms of her hand. 

The cash came in droves and she’d socked away plenty for the move to the Sunshine State.  She also owned a 2010 gun metal ‘Vette that she coveted as much as any house pet she’d ever owned.  The money became addicting, even more than her initial crush on Nick.  But now it was time to say adios to her beau as well as his lowlife boss, Jack Frickin Schmitt.  What an asshole.

Brooke woke up around ten a.m. on Thursday.  Her head was killing her from the two beers she’d consumed after work.  She tossed a couple ibuprofen into her mouth, washed them down with a glass of water and hopped in the shower.  Twenty minutes later, she put on a pair of snug blue jeans, threw on a sleeveless top and donned her black biker jacket. 

She walked outside her apartment as a cool breeze swept through the parking lot, gently caressing her long blonde hair.  It was mid-May and the temperature was expected to top 80 degrees later.  But it was still fairly cool this morning.  So wearing her jacket with the zipper undone was perfect attire.

Brooke arrived at Jack’s ramshackle bungalow at ten till two.  He answered the door and waved her in.  The apartment smelled of beer, pot and what she thought was piss.  But maybe her senses were too fucked up to get a true read on the latter.  She’d started smoking again the past couple months and her senses were off.  Still, the guy was a long-haired slob of about fifty—thin, balding and as ugly as ‘possum.

“This deal’s for one grand exactly,” he said.  He hockered as he cleared his gravelly voice.  “I don’t want you showing back up here with nine hundred seventy-five bucks in your jeans.  It’s one grand even or it’s your ass.  Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”  The response came out a bit meekly.  He glared at her.  Despite being a weasel, he still intimidated Brooke.  And at five-four and one hundred eight pounds, most people weren’t the least bit threatened by her.  That’s probably why Nick had used her for the runs. 

But what most people didn’t know was that she had earned a second degree black belt in taekwondo five years ago, and still practiced at the studio two nights per week.  She also did Tae Bo one night per week.  So, yes, Brooke Rosenberger was more than capable of taking care of herself.

Brooke called her best friend Trisha Vest twenty minutes after she got home.


“Trisha, it’s me.”

“Hey, woman! What’s shaking?”

“I’ve got another run to make,” said Brooke.  “Can you go with me?”

“What time?”


“Don’t you have to work tonight?” said Trisha.

“No, I’m off.”

“I have to go in at six to work the bar for a couple hours for Judy.  She has to leave early.  But I guess I can go with you.”

“I’d feel better about it,” said Brooke, “knowing I had someone to watch my back.”

“Okay.  We taking the Corvette?”


“Where’re we headed?”

“Some place on Central Avenue,” said Brooke.  She pulled the directions from the back pocket of her jeans.  “It doesn’t say.  The address is 8-4-3 Central.”

“No way.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s near downtown,” said Trisha.  “The Jesters never sell anything down there.  They’d be encroaching on some of the black gangs in town.”

“Jack said the place was in Clifton.”  Brooke looked at her directions again.  “You’re probably right, though.  I didn’t pay much attention to it before.”

“I know I’m right.”

“Maybe the buyers just want to meet down there or something.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Trisha.  “Maybe I should drive.”

“Yeah, that heap of yours would be less conspicuous.” 

Trish laughed.  “I’ll be over at eight o’clock.”

“Thanks, Trisha.”

“You bet.”  She hung up.

Brooke had met Trisha four years ago at the bar.  She was also a dancer but didn’t have any future plans beyond that.  She was dating a former biker who had just proposed to her.  They were getting married in the fall and moving to Kentucky.

Trisha arrived at Brooke’s apartment at 8:15 p.m.  She wore tight indigo Levi’s and a black Harley shirt.  She was slim like Brook but a couple inches taller.  Brooke hugged her when she stepped inside her apartment.

“Talk about conspicuous,” said Brooke.

“What, the shirt?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I just threw it on,” said Trisha.  “Besides, we’ll probably be down there and back in a jiffy.  No worries.”

“All right,” said Brooke.  “Let me get my purse.  I have the stuff in it.”


“Yeah.  I just don’t like to think about it.”  Trisha laughed.  “Some drug dealer you are.”

Brook shook her head.  “I’m not a dealer.  Just a deliverer.  But not for long.”

They headed to Trisha’s car, a twenty year-old green Buick in desperate need of a paint job.  Both doors squeaked when you opened them. 

The car backfired when Trisha started it, then started chuffing blue exhaust.

“Ever had this beater tuned up?” said Brooke, amid the din of the engine.  The carbon, sulfuric and carcinogenic chemicals from the exhaust wafted inside the car.  Brooke coughed as Trisha shifted the car into reverse.

“Once every couple years.”  Brooke laughed as Trisha drove through the parking lot.  She then looked down and placed her forehead in her hands as they passed a couple guys in the parking lot.  Hopefully, they hadn’t recognized her.

“What, my car embarrasses you?”

“No.  It’s just that . . .”

“Bull shit,” said Trisha.  She laughed.  “I understand, though.  It is a junker.”

“A real heap,” Brooke added.

They were on 71 South five minutes later, then Trisha took the second downtown exit.  The sun was starting to set on the horizon, painting the sky with brilliant streaks of yellow and orange.  The cumulus clouds gave it a sponge-painted effect, as if some artist had rendered it on a large canvass. 

The car puttered to a stop at the stoplight, then rumbled as they waited for the green light.  The engine groaned as Trisha made a right and another left, then drove passed an old garage and gas station.  After taking the next right, they found Central Avenue four blocks down. 

“Right or left.”

“Right,” said Brooke, as she studied the directions.  Jack said it’s about two miles down on the right, whatever it is.”

“We should’ve checked our cell phones,” said Trisha.

“I thought about it, but I didn’t want to know where I was going.”


“I just prefer it that way.”

“Whatever,” said Trisha.  She scratched her nose with her left hand.

Brooke looked for the street address as they neared the two-mile mark.  She hadn’t seen a sole since they turned onto Central.  And they were just now passing an abandoned shopping center on the right with boarded-up windows.  A large rusty sign was perched against a thick post, where wires hung down like tendrils from a dead jellyfish.  Overgrown grass sprouted through cracks in the front lot.

“I’m a tenth a mile away, according to the odometer.”

“I think I see a building up ahead on the right,” said Brooke.  The multistory edifice loomed into view.

“It looks like a school,” said Trisha.  She slowed down.  Brooke glanced at the faded white moniker on front of the old building, just as the sun dipped below the horizon to the left of the school.  Several of the windows were broken on the top two levels, and some graffiti was scribbled on the side of the large unit.

“Slow down,” said Brooke.

“I’m going fifteen miles per hour.”

“Then go ten.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  Trisha pumped the brakes, which let out an abrupt squeal.  “It’s a high school.”

“Yeah, it sure is.  It looks like . . . a . . . Roosevelt High.”  Brooke felt a lump in her throat as Trisha turned into the deserted front parking lot.

“This feels weird,” said Trisha, as she made a right into the parking lot. 


“Why would Jack send you to a high school?”

“I don’t know,” said Brooke.  “But this isn’t just any high school.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s got a reputation as being the toughest school in the city—maybe even the state,” said Brooke.  “Kids fight all the time.  And they have to practically beg teachers to work here.”

“I can see why.  Look at the busted-out windows.”

“I know.  School’s out now so anything can happen down here.”

“Where should I park?”

“Pull up to the front of the building.”  The car jolted forward as Trish stepped on the accelerator.  The engine continued to rumble as they neared one of the middle parking spots by the front steps.  It then died before Trisha could get between the lines.

“Are you out of gas?” said Brooke.

“No, I got it earlier.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Trisha turned the ignition.  It didn’t start.  Brooke felt her heart leap just before Trisha turned the ignition again.  The heap finally kicked on but the engine puttered as Trisha pulled into her chosen spot.

“Are we going to get stuck here?” said Brooke.

“No.  I’ll get it started,” said Trisha.  “I always do.”

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© Copyright 2018 Rick Suttle. All rights reserved.

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