I Will Revel in Glory

by Stunich, C. M.

  Cat listens to me and then turns to look at Sin.

  “How fast can we move?” he asks, and Sin crinkles his brow, staring down at the floor in thought.

  “Honestly, it’s just us here now. We don’t have anyone else to move. We could be up and out the doors in … fifteen minutes?” Sin looks back up, meeting my father’s gaze. There’s no tension or politicking happening in here right now. It’s as if Gaz never showed Cat that damn picture. DBD is functioning the way it was meant to: as a single unit. “The problem is that with the fires the way they are, we only have two routes out of town at this point. One goes straight through the center of Ashbury, the other goes by the Artefact.”

  “We’d never go through town,” Grainger adds, looking over at Beast who nods once. He isn’t the type to brainstorm or throw out ideas. He’s waiting until he’s certain of the right move before he speaks up. “The mafia could set up, what, two dozen guys? The buildings are all abandoned now; everyone’s evacuated. If they’re up there with long-range precision rifles, they could just pick us off as we rolled into town. Even if we reacted quickly, left our bikes, searched the buildings, then what? They could bring their army anyway. Or hell, maybe the fire would catch up with us.”

  “That means we have one choice: take the back road that connects with the highway,” Sin agrees, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  “Wait here and pray the wind changes, take the alternate route out of town and fight another day, or attempt to engage the Don—whether he’s with the bulk of his army or not—at the intersection near the Artefact,” Cat reiterates, looking over at his vice president. “I say we move now and beat a hasty retreat. There’s no sense in waiting around here and getting cornered between the mafia and the fucking fire. We’re in a far worse position if we wait and things go south—which they usually do.” My father’s already rising to his feet. He looks from Crown to Beast. “Any objections?”

  “We should leave,” Beast agrees, nodding and then moving forward to pause beside me. “We may still run into trouble. I’d be surprised if we left this town without bloodshed.”

  He takes off and the others follow behind me, Cat included.

  My heart is racing as I realize that we’re not going to get the chance to kill the Don today. Instead of finishing this, we’re going to run and postpone it for another day. It makes sense, what the men are saying. I even agree with it all.

  But goddamn it.

  When are we going to get another chance to face off against the Don? He isn’t like Cat. He doesn’t ride into battle with his soldiers. That’s why there’s such a thing as RICO charges, to nail the leader of a crime syndicate who never gets his hands dirty.

  There’s no time to worry about it or to wonder if Cat won’t hold this against me. Reba is gone, but he doesn’t have Grey’s head. I did, at least, deliver on the information he asked me for. We know where Grey is going to be; we just won’t be there when he arrives.

  I’m sorry, Grey. But we couldn’t predict this.

  The fire has changed everything.

  This time, it isn’t the club or the mafia who gets the last laugh: mother nature has made us all her bitch.

  Cat makes an executive decision to load up the bikes with precision rifles—just in case. It’s an extra ten minutes that makes Crown antsy as hell, but at least it gives Sin time to check road conditions and make sure it’s still safe to take the backroads.

  It is, but only for now.

  We’re in the middle of what’s called a ‘high-wind’ event and the fire is moving fast. Not only that, but with the entire state of Oregon as well as California, Washington, and Idaho also in the middle of their own wildfire season, resources are spread thin.

  I don’t think anybody on that compound wants to find themselves surrounded by the hungry red, orange, and yellow fingers of the devil. They might be monsters, but even monsters can burn.

  I stand aside while the bikes are loaded up since I don’t know shit about weight distribution. That, and I don’t know where any of the stuff is that needs loading. I’d just get in the way. I stay close to Sin as he works on his iPad, confirming our route and then tucking it under his arm with a grim expression on that sharp mouth of his.

  “I don’t like this,” he tells me, glancing my way. “There are too many variables.”

  “The fire really has thrown a wrench in all our plans, huh?” I ask, trying not to feel frustrated by the sudden turn of events. I killed Giulia. The mafia wants blood. If they’d come for it under normal circumstances, thrown their soldiers at the compound walls, we’d have a distinct advantage. Their only other choice would be to cede this territory—and the casino—to Death by Daybreak. Because if they waited too long, the other chapters would’ve arrived, and we’d have an even greater advantage.

  Of course, all of that might’ve led to the same damn conclusion: more years of this drawn-out war. This is what happened last time; the two groups came to a stalemate, backed off each other, and then restarted this shit all over again.

  Grey and I, we just want to see it all come to an end before anyone else that we love has to die. That’s the goal. We both want our power, but we also want our peace.

  I pull my shirt up over my nose to help filter some of the smoke. It’s making my eyes water and when I turn my attention toward the south, I can see the sky lit up like it, too, is on fire.

  “We’re ready,” Crown says, reporting directly to Sin. The VP glances over at me, reaching out to cup my face in a warm hand. He doesn’t say anything else which is okay. There’s nothing more that needs to be said.

  I love him. I love all of them. Words have been said. Declarations made. They’ve voiced their displeasure at having me involved in this; I’ve laid down the law of what I want for my life.

  So here we are.

  “I hate that you’re riding up front,” I tell Sin, but he just flashes me a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, leaning in to give me a kiss that’s far too ashy to be pleasant but somehow is anyway.

  “I’ll be okay,” he assures me, looking me over and then shaking his head. “It’s you that I’m worried about.” He points to the row of bikes, lined up and ready to head out the gate. “Crown and Grainger will be right behind me. You’ll be in the center beside Cat. If anything happens, stay with Beast.”

  “I will,” I promise him, and he takes off, grabbing his helmet and turning to survey the row of motorcycles.

  I head for Beast’s bike but not before pausing to give Grainger a quick kiss on the cheek. Luckily, his helmet is still in his hands so I’m able to brush my lips over his dark stubble.

  “Don’t die on me. I’m not giving birth by myself. I hear it’s brutal.”

  He slaps me on the ass as I pass by and scoffs.

  “Watch you squat and drop a baby while wearing a leather miniskirt and wielding an Uzi. Don’t act like you won’t conquer childbirth the way you do everything else.”

  Grainger’s words make me chuckle, but not for long. Beast looks so damn serious, and so does Cat. This is war. Literal fucking war.

  I grab my helmet, slip it on, and take a seat behind my husband. I can see Cat watching me for a moment but eventually, he too puts his helmet on, and the entire column of bikes roars to life. It’s absolutely magical, this resounding scream of engines that tears up the early morning sky. If you squint, it seems ethereal, like the world is shrouded in sweet fog.

  In reality, it’s just smoke. I can’t even see the north gate from where we’re at. Normally, I’d be able to see right past it, across the street, and into the woods on the other side. It feels like we’re lost in time, surrounded by such a thick blanket of white. And still, ash keeps falling, falling, falling.

  It’s coated the entire world in grit.

  Oddly enough, it doesn’t feel like such an unfamiliar place.

  Sin leads the way and out we go, moving like a flock of birds. It’s actually quite pretty, the way the ribbon of bikes turns and l
eans with the shape of the road, moving at a quick clip but a reasonable one.

  We’re going to arrive at the Artefact about an hour and a half too early to run into Grey. I have to admit that in some cases, discretion really is the better part of valor. Cat is making the right choice. For himself, for me, for the club as a whole. Even if he wants Grey and Alvise’s heads on pikes beside Giulia’s, this makes more sense logistically speaking.

  There’s always time to track them later if we don’t die today.

  We continue on, bypassing the road that would take us straight through the middle of town. I see Grainger’s point: there’s no safe way to send an entire army of motorcycles down a small two-lane street with high rise buildings on either side. It’s a recipe for disaster, like shoving soldiers down a funnel. We’d be sitting ducks.

  The woods disappear briefly as we weave through empty suburban streets, but they return fairly quickly on the other side, thickening as we approach the pothole strewn road that passes in front of the Artefact and then hooks a sharp right, essentially giving the house a corner lot. Once upon a time, the city had planned to turn this into a thriving downtown area. They ended up losing their battle against an environmental group, and so the Artefact remained frozen in the middle of the woods—but not until after they had that pretty little plaque made and placed beside the door.

  The city still owns it, but they have no use for it out here, so it just sits and festers into glorious decay. I keep my eye out for it as we pass, spotting it just ahead, this strange blight in the woods, like an old witch’s cottage. From afar, it’s still an impressive piece of architecture, but the closer we get, the more it seems like the Jensen Manor is losing its shine. An aging beauty lost to the trees.

  As we approach that sharp right turn, Sin slows down and takes it wide. It’s impressive. Not only does he have a keen eye for politics, but he can also plan routes in real time and anticipate difficult maneuvers while in the thick of things.

  What he can’t predict—what I don’t think any of us predicted—was that we would run straight into a motorcade of black Cadillacs.

  Holy shit!

  The way their tires screech as they slam on their brakes makes me wonder if they aren’t just as surprised as we are. What happened to the timeline, Grey?! I wonder, but even if he hadn’t given me any information at all, I’m pretty sure Cat and the boys would’ve made the same choice. The fire changed everything. We couldn’t just sit around and wait to burn or get blocked in with flames on one side, mafia on the other.

  So here we are.

  Three of the cars immediately try to maneuver around the others as they come to a stop more or less in the center of that T-shaped intersection. I can only imagine that the Don is in one of those vehicles.

  Beast stops his bike so quickly that we skid to the side, but we don’t go down. My heart leaps into my throat as flickers of trauma scatter through my brain like knives. Turning the corner, seeing the Cadillacs, crashing and bleeding and suffering. I make myself breathe through it as Cat barks orders through the radio.

  I know everyone in the club has Bluetooth in their helmets; they can hear him through those, too. I’m sure I’m not the only old lady who wasn’t given one of those. But it doesn’t matter. My husband not only has a radio attached to his belt, but we’re only about three feet away from the president.

  “Don’t let those fuckers get out of here!” he shouts as several motorcycles—including Sin, Crown, and Grainger—whip through the mess of Cadillacs and take off after the other vehicles.

  Beast hauls me off the bike and shoves me in the direction of the Artefact.

  “Go.”

  I don’t argue; I listen. I’m determined to do every goddamn thing my husband tells me. I have a feeling that if I don’t, I’ll die out here today.

  He unloads the two rifles strapped to his bike, tossing both over his shoulder and then jogging to catch up with me. Beast kicks the front door in just as shots begin to ring out through the woods. A quick glance over my shoulder shows me that most of the Cadillac doors are open and men are crouching behind them for cover, bullets pinging off the bulletproof glass.

  The thing is, it’s never truly ‘bulletproof’ (which is why it’s more accurately called bullet-resistant or ballistic glass). It absorbs the impact of gunshots, but repeated trauma can break through it. Before Beast grabs my arm and pushes me inside the house, I see that happen.

  One of the windows on the frontmost Cadillac shatters, and a shot goes right through the chest of the man behind it. Blood spatters the broken window before he stumbles back and then falls to the ground.

  I turn away and follow Beast’s instructions, heading up the stairs and to the right. He checks every door, looking for attic access, finds it, and then thinks on it for a minute. He closes the door and continues down the hallway, taking me to the last room on the right. Coincidentally, it’s the same room that I was in before, with the old mattress, and my sisters’ names scratched into the wall and baseboard.

  Goddamn it.

  Melancholy follows. It follows and follows and follows. It never stops; it never rests. It simply walks after you until you’re too tired to move and curls its cold arms around you. Of all the places we could’ve had a final showdown, why here, in this dank, decrepit pit of memories?

  Beast locks the door and closes it behind him, setting up the rifle next to the floor-to-ceiling window and then taking aim. I do the same with the second rifle as he glances over at me.

  “You ever fire one of these before?” he asks, and I laugh.

  “Cat is my father,” I reply, which is enough. Beast grunts as I position myself beside him. He’s stretched out on the floor with a Ruger Precision Rifle while I’m lying down with a Remington MSR and aiming around the edge of the window.

  I search for a target, spotting the three runaway cars about three hundred feet down the road that leads out of the woods and onto the highway. The tires are blown out and the cars are parked haphazardly in the center of the road. I don’t see any people, but the doors are wide open.

  I switch my attention back to the melee at the intersection only to see that the mafia has changed their tactics: they’ve abandoned the cars and are rushing the house instead. I can already hear shouts and gunfire from downstairs.

  Shit.

  The first thing I do is pick a mafia goon, squeeze the trigger, and put a round through the center of his face. We likely don’t have much time before the door is kicked in and we’re forced to switch to more intimate combat. Lovely.

  While I’ve still got the opportunity, I pick off as many of the mafia’s soldiers as I can before they disappear into the woods or up the stairs of the Artefact’s sagging front porch. I switch the rifle out for my Magnum and Beast does the same. The sound of approaching footsteps makes him grit his teeth.

  “Out,” he says, offering yet another single word command that has me blanching. He kicks both rifles right out the window and leaves them to tumble to the ground below.

  “Onto the roof?” I choke, and he nods. Goddamn it. I hate heights. I’m not even sure the roof will hold my husband’s weight, but out he goes anyway, keeping to a low crouch. There’s a definite possibility of being shot up there, but there’s also the chance we’re going to find ourselves cornered inside this bedroom.

  I see why he picked it and not the attic.

  Beast seems to think there’s less chance of being shot out there than in here, and I trust his judgement. Here goes nothing.

  I make myself climb out, taking care to test each portion of the roof before I put any weight on it. God knows there are parts of this building that are already in the process of collapsing.

  He moves to the edge, turning and grabbing onto the roof, hopping down and then grunting as he makes contact with something below. I creep closer as Beast reaches up a hand for me. He’s standing on the roof of a rusted-out van that I never noticed before, giving him the height needed to safely descend from the second st
ory.

  Damn.

  Talk about attention to detail.

  I take his hand and join him before using the hood of the rusted-out shitbox to finish our climb to the ground. Beast pushes the rifles beneath the van with his foot; they aren’t useful to us anymore, and we don’t really have the time or leisure to deal with them anyway. He gestures for me to follow him around the back of the house, keeping a low profile and holding his gun in a firm two-handed grip.

  The inside of the Artefact is alive with shouts and screams and gunfire, but it’s much quieter out here. No doubt there are men from both sides hiding amongst the trees, but the shots are fewer and farther between.

  We step over the body of a dead Daybreaker as Beast approaches the rear of the building. The mafia isn’t keen to let us continue sniping them from inside the house, so they’ve thrown everything they have at it. It’s a fucking bloodbath in there.

  The wind is howling all around us, swirling smoke and ash like a gray blizzard. It sticks to my eyelashes, clogs my lungs, taints my lips. I can see that orange glow creeping closer, bright embers mixing with the cool ash. That stresses me out.

  We had to get closer to the fire in order to take this route, and it’s catching up with us.

  “This way.” Beast makes a decision to cross the open expanse of space between the rear of the house and the old barn near the trees. Just as we’re approaching the barn’s front entrance, I see Crown, Grainger, and Sin appear from inside. They spot us right away, waiting for us to catch up to them.

  “Alvise is inside,” Sin pants, blood running down the side of his face. The sight stresses me out until I realize that it isn’t his, just a thick splatter that’s draining down his bronze skin. “He’s got an entourage, obviously.”