Lane

by Trent Jordan

  Something that, at the moment, I sure as shit didn’t seem to be doing.

  Or... really, had ever been doing.

  “Patriot,” I said, the words haunting me as they came to mind. “I need to ask you something. But I need you to promise that it’ll never leave this van and that you’ll tell me the full truth.”

  “Of course, man,” he said. “What’s up?”

  This was going to be one of the few times, I realized, when I let my arrogant mask vanish. I was going to the complete opposite end of the spectrum. Instead of hiding my insecurity by assuming a face of competence and certainty, I was going to push my insecurity out for Patriot to see.

  “Do you even think I’m ready to be President?” I asked. “Do you think I should have ever taken that role? I mean, not like I’m saying Cole should have, fuck that. But... my father just assumed we’d take over, but I don’t know that I’m ready if the last year has shown anything.”

  “Honestly, probably not, man.”

  I was surprised to feel relieved that what Patriot said was so honest. It was something I’d suspected in the deepest recesses of my mind, but something I had never allowed myself to fall into. If I had just allowed for the truth to come out, maybe I could have leaned on people like Axle and Red Raven as I came around. Maybe I wouldn’t have created the tension in the club.

  “I mean, we all loved your dad, obviously. If he made you President, for at least as long as his memory hangs over this place, we’re gonna respect it. And you know what, man? It doesn’t really fucking matter if you’re ready or not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  If I wasn’t ready...

  “I mean, when we went to war, you think I was fucking ready, man? You think I was prepared to shoot at ISIS? It sounds good in training, but as soon as you get to the battlefield and you realize it’s not paintball anymore... man, shit gets real. But you don’t have time to think ‘okay, I’m ready, you just go.’”

  You don’t have time to think that. You just have to do.

  Too bad, I’ve had a full year to think about it, and I haven’t done jack shit with it. I’ve just been so detached that I didn’t even realize what was going on in my own head.

  The van buckled a bit over some bad stretch of highway as the Compton neighborhood came into view. There definitely was no time to think about if I was ready, mainly because if I suddenly decided I wasn’t, not only would I never have a second chance, the club would probably force me to move to South America for shaming the Carter name so badly.

  “You’ll be fine, though, man.”

  “You’re sure of that?” I said.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so weak and open. Even around Patriot, I tended to err toward a reflexive appearance of strength, if not an actual substance of strength.

  “You held your own the night your father died, right?”

  “Because I was trying to protect her.”

  “And now you’re fighting for us,” Patriot said as if the two things were just so simple and comparable. “Look, no one’s saying that you’re going to love and care for us like you did Shannon. All respect, man, but I ain’t looking for a man to love. But we’re a brotherhood, you know what I mean?”

  With Patriot, I did. With Axle and Butch and everyone else, I couldn’t say for sure. But I suppose that if I gave it the effort, if I gave it my best shot to be involved and be a part of the group, then things would work out as they were supposed to.

  “I’ll do my best, man,” I said with a hint of a smile. “I’ll do better. That’s my promise. That I will do better.”

  “Good, man,” Patriot said. “Because we’re here.”

  We turned underneath a bridge, toward a dirt road. Butch and Axle went ahead slightly, though still in view. In our headlights, I could see many of the Hovas standing there with their black headbands, their wife-beater shirts, and their jeans with pistols visible.

  They must outnumber us by about a dozen. If they wanted to, they could just execute us right on the spot.

  “Keep in mind,” Patriot said. “They’re going to test you. This is your first dealing with them face to face since your father’s death, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “So they’re going to push you. See if you’ll crack. See if they can get away with shit on you. Just a heads up.”

  Well, this should be fun.

  I got out of the van, took a deep breath, and walked forward with my hands by my side. I made sure my chest was up, the better to project confidence, and make it clear to the Hovas that while I might be new, I wasn’t going to just weakly accept whatever they wanted.

  Their leader, a man my father and I had known for some years by the name of Jerome, came forward to meet me. Jerome had a firm handshake, tattoos across all his fingers, a now-graying beard, and sunglasses I didn’t think I had ever seen him without.

  “Mr. Carter,” he said. “Or should I say, little Lane.”

  Remember what Patriot told you.

  “All respect, Jerome, but it’s President Lane to you,” I said.

  “Oh, OK, I’m aware now,” Jerome said with a chuckle. “But your pops was the only man I ever saw as President, you know what I’m sayin’? So you’re just little Lane to me, buddy.”

  I took a deep breath, choosing to ignore the insult.

  “We have five grand in cash,” I said, motioning to Axle and Butch. “Show us the guns.”

  “Show us the cash.”

  “Axle!”

  “On it,” Axle said as he came forward with two of the bags. He unzipped one, revealing several bricks of twenties.

  “You’re going to give us all the twenties? No Benjamins?” Jerome said. “The fuck kinda shit you think you’re gonna pull on us?”

  I refused to bite my lip, knowing it was a hint of weakness. Still, the feeling of fear was powerful—I didn’t think Jerome would order an open fire, but there was definitely the concern that shit could go down at any second.

  “You want the cops asking you why a bunch of ghetto black dudes suddenly parading around with some hundreds?” Axle asked, perhaps the only person among all of us who could have gotten away with saying that without getting shot. “Or you just wanna blend in and not raise any more eyebrows than you have to?”

  Jerome looked over at Axle but kept his body right in front of mine. I never stopped looking at him, nor did I back down, even though most people would have at least followed his gaze. But there was a sneaking suspicion that doing so would mean I was following his lead in some fashion, and I wasn’t about to do that.

  “I hate your motherfucking smartass, Axle,” Jerome said.

  He looked at me.

  “Get ya twenty of our rifles.”

  I knew that was a bullshit lie. Axle himself had negotiated for thirty of the guns. Remember they’re going to test you.

  “Funny,” I said, albeit with the driest of mouths. “I was told thirty.”

  Jerome made a show of eying me up and down as if trying me on for size.

  “Twenty,” he said.

  “Then, you only get three grand.”

  Jerome pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and puffed in my face.

  “The fuck you trying to pull here, Little Lane?”

  I was scared shitless. We were outnumbered, they had the guns, and while we had guns, we were still fucking outnumbered. Maybe I’d get a couple, but I was walking an awfully taut tightrope.

  “Trying to do what’s fair here, Jerome,” I said. “Now, if you want to renegotiate the deal, we’ll leave here tonight and discuss tomorrow. I came here with five grand as I promised. If you ever want repeat business, we’re going to need thirty of those guns.”

  Jerome again puffed smoke, though this time, he seemed to make it a point to not puff it in my face.

  “You got a little bit of your pops in you, Little Lane, I like that,” Jerome said. “Roger ain’t never fuck with us, and you better not go down that road either, you know what I’m
saying?”

  “Entirely,” I said. “I’ve got enough on my hands with the fucking Fallen Saints and this new deputy DA bitch.”

  “Something we can handle?”

  It sounded nice enough, almost like an olive branch of sorts for the way the conversation had started. But I saw it even with my limited experience for what it was—a chance for Jerome and the Hovas at large to have something over me, something they could invoke at any moment to get what they wanted out of me.

  “We’re good,” I said. “The Saints are always going to be our rival. The DA’s girl is a pain in the ass, but nothing we can’t handle.”

  Jerome nodded, took a puff of his cigarette, and motioned for all the guns to come out.

  “You’re not so bad, Little Lane.”

  I’m going to grow to hate that nickname if I don’t find a way to nip it in the bud. Jerome smiled as if able to read my mind.

  “Bring them out. All of ‘em.”

  In the middle, with about ten feet separating us, two separate sets of bags flew. One with the five grand in cash, and one with the thirty rifles. Butch and Axle quickly tested the guns, confirmed that they were authentic and real, and headed for their bikes. I extended my hand to Jerome.

  “I’m still a Carter,” I said.

  I was a bit surprised by the audacity of my move. It hadn’t felt like something I would’ve done at the beginning, but Patriot was right in one respect—as soon as things started to happen, I naturally fell into a leadership role.

  “You’re young, kid,” Jerome said.

  But then he ended up shaking my hand anyway.

  “But you’re Roger’s kid. And that—”

  Multiple shots fired.

  “Shit!” I yelled as I sprinted back behind the van, taking cover.

  “Is this your fucking genius move?” Jerome yelled. “You sell us out, white boy?!?”

  “What the fuck?” I yelled.

  “Fucking Saints!” one of the Hovas yelled.

  Later on, I would be grateful that the Hovas had yelled it and not us. It gave more credibility to Jerome that we had conducted a fair trade and gotten ambushed.

  But at the moment, I couldn’t think worth a shit. I just had my back up against the van as Patriot, Butch, and Axle fired toward the barely visible Saints.

  “The fuck did they know we were here?” Axle roared. “Someone fucking sold us out!”

  “Kill them all!” Butch yelled.

  I kept catching my breath as the three of them opened fire. Someone fucking sold us out... someone...

  I had the same feeling the night my father died. Someone in the club is...

  Someone in the club is a fucking rat.

  I could never levy such an accusation without some serious, compelling evidence. There was almost literally nothing worse than to sell out like a rat to an opposing club or to the authorities. Interclub violence and even death were painful, but it didn’t help the enemy like a rat did.

  But I couldn’t shake the fucking feeling...

  “Hey!” Axle yelled. “You done taking your piss break or are you gonna help out?”

  Goddamnit.

  God fucking damnit.

  Goddamnit!

  I roared, grabbed my gun, and turned and fired.

  I saw the Saints from afar, hiding against pillars and from behind their bikes. I fired, fired, and fired some more. I was exposed, but I didn’t give a shit. I had a stupid kind of adrenaline going right there, the kind that kept a man in harm’s way purely for the sake of making a point.

  “What the fuck, Lane?!” Patriot roared, but his voice was a distant echo.

  At the last second, I felt someone yank me down.

  Which was a damn good thing, because my arm and shoulder, rising up in surprise, wound up taking a bullet that would have been intended for my head if I hadn’t gotten pulled down.

  Time had seemed to slow when I was unleashing my rage upon the Saints, but now that the battle had stopped, time sped back up, and I realized just in how much pain I was in.

  “Jesus!” I yelled.

  “Let’s get the fuck outta here,” Axle growled. “Patriot! Cover me and Butch!”

  Patriot stood back up, laying suppressing fire as the two of them headed for their bikes. Patriot then yanked me as Butch and Axle created a distraction, allowing the two of us to grab the bags of guns, hurl them in the van, and then speed off.

  Just like that, the shootout had ended.

  But my God, what the fuck had happened?

  As the adrenaline wore off, the pain in my shoulder intensified. I didn’t think I’d ever gotten shot in my life, and the brute impact of the fire in my arm was unlike anything I had ever experienced in my life.

  “Jesus,” I grumbled. “That... this is fucking painful.”

  “Aw, you got your first battle scar,” Patriot said. “Wrap it up, you’ll be fine. Use your shirt. Probably not a good idea to use your jacket.”

  With some severe grunting and a grimace, I got my shirt off, tied it around the wound, and yelled to the fucking heavens as I tightened it.

  “So,” Patriot said as I gritted my teeth to not show the pain. “How do you fucking feel right now, huh? First battle in a year, first time facing up to the Saints like that... quite a world of difference, huh?”

  “A lot easier when you don’t get... shot!” I yelled as I tightened my shirt for the last time. “Fuck!”

  But the truth was...

  It was kind of exhilarating. There was a certain thrill with having faced death head-on and not only having survived but have accomplished the mission.

  Maybe next time, though, I just shouldn’t stand upright in front of enemy fire and dare them to shoot at me.

  “That’s combat, though, man,” Patriot said, somehow quite calm despite having just gotten fired upon. “You risk getting shot. That’s part of the deal.”

  “I know,” I said, still grimacing. “I guess this is our new normal, huh?”

  “Well, to some extent, I hope not,” Patriot said. “Would rather not see another friend die needlessly.”

  Again, him saying that...

  “But I guess as long as the Fallen Saints are trying to encroach on us because of Roger’s passing, yeah.”

  So it is the new normal, then.

  It is the new normal to have to expect that hell is gonna get rained upon us because everyone will think I’m weak.

  Maybe that is justified to some extent. Maybe the rat told the Hovas and the Saints that I was weak and would be easy to kill.

  Not so easy now, huh?

  Still, I knew that after a night like this, I just needed two things. First, some quick medical attention.

  And then, I needed a goddamn drink.

  Angela

  Recent days had compelled me to turn my attention to a new target, one that seemed to no longer exist.

  Cole Carter.

  But I knew that Cole was still out there, somewhere. The problem was that no one needed him, at least from the perspective of the authorities. He wasn’t wanted on murder. The death of Shannon, though tragic, had more than enough witnesses and testimonials that Cole’s wasn’t going to make a difference. Everyone there had pinned the death on the Fallen Saints, which seemed more like a fuck you to the Saints than an actual cause of justice.

  Given that, Cole had no real reason to flee from the authorities.

  Instead, he seemed to have fled from his brother.

  In the days since I had seen Shannon’s grave, I had spent much of my time making calls to some of the spots where I figured a man like Cole, a young, single man who loved cars and motorcycles, might have gone. I asked owners of shops and stores within a fifty-mile radius. I asked bar owners of popular spots within a fifty-mile radius. I even ran background checks on anyone who showed up anywhere in Cole’s history and called them to see if they knew anything.

  But as far as the world knew, Cole was gone.

  Maybe he’d assumed a new identity. Maybe the deat
h of Shannon was something that he could not bear, causing him to change who he was entirely. Maybe he’d gone to Mexico or some other South American country, never to be seen again in the States.

  It was kind of a damn shame, too. Lane had me convinced he had not done it, but he sure as hell had been there that night. It just was—

  A stern knock came at my office door. Startled, I leapt in my chair. It was well after eight in the evening, and there was no reason for anyone else to be there. I assumed the worst and began wondering if someone from the Reapers was coming by to “teach me to stay in my lane” or some other nonsense like that. Really wish I had a gun right now.

  Slowly, I stood up, preparing to answer it, but then the door opened. I stood tall, prepared to take on whoever came through. The person that eventually did was even worse than I could have imagined.

  Beth, my boss.

  “Angela,” she said. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”

  “Okay,” I said, my voice trailing off, nervous about where this was about to go.

  She did not have anything in her expression that suggested anything other than anger and aggravation. This wasn’t going to be a surprise happy talk, nor was it going to be a sympathetic one.

  “How would you feel your first few weeks have gone here in this office, Angela?”

  I tried to get a sense from Beth about whether she was using the question to set me up for a tongue lashing or if I had just misread her in the first place. Unfortunately, with the amount of nerves going through me right now, I wasn’t really in a spot to understand what her expression might mean.

  “I feel like I’ve learned a lot and that it’s going well, why do you say that?”

  “Well,” Beth said, clearing her throat. “I do understand that you are new and that it will take some time to adjust. However, I have to say I am disappointed in the lack of progress on the drug dealers and rings in Springsville. So far, I have not gotten anything from you. I don’t have an arrest warrant, I don’t have a POI, I don’t have anything. Literally, I have nothing.”

  I gulped as I realized just how much of my time had been spent looking into the Black Reapers and how little of it had been spent on the drug trade. I could say without even looking at any of my files who was most responsible for bringing drugs into Springsville—the Fallen Saints. But they didn’t kill Shannon.