No Way Out

by Simone Scarlet

  The Police cruiser lurched to a halt, and I heard the engine cut out.

  In the sudden silence, we could hear the doors swinging open, and the crunch of Police boots on gravel outside.

  Then the trunk popped open, and a blissful wave of cool, fresh air flooded the oven-like space.

  Blinking in the sunlight, Mason and I peered up at Officers Dempsey and Sanchez, as they loomed overhead.

  “We’re here.” Dempsey had his .40 semi-automatic out, and was aiming it squarely at Mason. “Get out.”

  Mason rolled back and forth in the trunk.

  “Easier said than done,” he confessed, struggling to haul himself up. “This ain’t so easy with your hands behind your back.”

  “I don’t give a shit about easy,” Sanchez growled. “Now get your ass out of the trunk, or I’m going to haul it out…”

  “…and bust a couple of extra ribs for the inconvenience.” Dempsey added.

  Mason winced, and I guessed that the point of Dempsey’s boot had snapped one or two of his ribs already.

  He’d be in bad shape if he lost any more.

  “Okay, okay,” with a groan, the big man struggled to his knees, and then flopped out onto the dirt outside, like a gigantic bass hauled out of a river, and tossed casually onto the dirt.

  I was half the size of Mason, so it was a little easier for me to maneuver in the tight space. Not to mention that Officer Sanchez was on hand to help me out – copping a feel of my ass as he did so.

  A moment later, wrists still bound behind us, Mason and I were being marched across the old, abandoned parking lot towards the towering empty mall.

  What had once been a great, glass entranceway was now an open, gaping maw – with tendrils of twisted aluminum and shards of broken glass hanging from the steel girders.

  We passed underneath, and it led to the cave-like corridors of the central mall itself.

  Out of the direct glare of sunlight – and, presumably, any passing police helicopters – we passed row-upon-row of gleaming Harley Davidson motorcycles – parked upright on their kickstands, and lined up like chrome-plated toy soldiers.

  The Knuckleheads were here.

  In fact, as Officers Dempsey and Sanchez marched us down the central promenade of the long-abandoned mall, I started to notice bikers appearing from the shadows, like worms crawling out of the woodwork.

  “Pssst,” overhead, two bikers with AK-47 machine guns nudged each other in the ribs. “It’s Recon down there.”

  I heard the crunch of broken glass underfoot, and turned to see two more bikers appear from hiding spots in an old, empty Victoria’s Secret storefront.

  “Isn’t that Coyle’s girl?” One was hissing to the other. “The one that ran away?”

  These must have been the guards – the bikers assigned to watch out in all directions and alert Coyle and his boys to any unannounced visitors.

  It was ominous that these two cops hadn’t even been stopped, or questioned.

  With butterflies churning in my stomach, I stumbled after Mason, as he was prodded further and further into the dark caverns of the abandoned mall.

  We approached what must have once been the food court, and that was clearly where the Knuckleheads had set up camp. Campfires smoldered, empty beer bottles littered the floor, and bedrolls and blankets were arranged in corners and nooks around the large, empty space.

  As we stepped further into the old food court, I spotted the bikers – peering out from behind pillars and posts, clearly having been warned ahead of time about our approach.

  They emerged from the shadows as they recognized us – and I spotted familiar faces like Rooker and Bowser peering at us menacingly.

  At the end of the long hallway was Coyle’s gleaming Airsteam trailer – hauled all the way into the bowels of this abandoned mall behind that old Ford station wagon.

  It looked faintly ridiculous – an RV trailer, inside – but that was mitigated by the fact that somebody had set up patio furniture outside it, and even an old gas-fired grill with steaks broiling on it.

  It was like a campground, inside.

  Sitting at the patio table, straining the supports of the old metal chair, was Coyle – and he looked up as soon as he saw us.

  To his left sat Raine, in his long leather jacket. To Coyle’s right was Bertha, with bandages wrapped around her head.

  She was clearly alive – but I didn’t know if that was a good thing, or not.

  As we approached, Coyle reared up from the patio chair, and then brutally kicked it away from behind him.

  The chair clattered across the concrete floor, as the towering leader of the Knuckleheads stormed across the floor towards us.

  “Jesus-fucking-Christ,” Coyle roared, his voice reverberating around the cathedral-like confines of the abandoned food court. “Look what the fucking cat dragged in!”

  And then he marched across to where Mason and I were standing, and clocked Mason right across the jaw.

  The fleshy sound of Coyle’s fist impacting with Mason’s chin echoed across the abandoned mall.

  Mason went down instantly, sprawling across the cracked concrete and broken tiles like he’d been hit with a piledriver…

  Which, given the size of Coyle’s fist, he might as well have been.

  “You son-of-a-bitch!” Coyle roared, as he loomed over Mason’s prostate body. “I fucking trusted you.”

  And then he straddled Mason’s chest, and started pounding my lover with his big, heavy fists.

  “I fucking trusted you,” Coyle roared, as his big fists crushed Mason’s nose, and split a huge gash across his eyebrow. “I welcomed you into my gang! I trusted you with my life.”

  Those big fists just rained down on Mason.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Finally, knuckles bloody, Coyle leaned back and surveyed his handiwork.

  Mason was a bloody mess, splintered and barely conscious underneath him.

  “You fuck!” Coyle spat a big gob of saliva across Mason’s bloody face, and reluctantly clambered to his feet. “I thought you were one of us.”

  Then, brushing the blood from his knuckles onto his jeans, Coyle wheeled around to face Officers Dempsey and Sanchez – who’d been watching with a look of horror on their faces.

  “Where is it?” Coyle growled – and the term ‘growl’ is the only way to describe how he sounded. His voice reverberated like the snarl of an angry jungle animal – half-wolf, half-lion, and all danger.

  “Show me!”

  I didn’t know what ‘it’ was until Officer Dempsey reached into the pocket of his uniform pants, and pulled out Mason’s Homeland Security badge.

  The cop tossed it over – and Coyle caught it in his bloody hands.

  “We found that in his hotel room,” Dempsey explained, as Coyle peered at the offensive brass plaque. “Sanchez called it into his buddies at the Bureau, and they confirmed who he is. Mason Stone. Ex-Army Ranger. Current Homeland Security field agent.”

  Jerking his head towards Mason’s limp, nearly-lifeless body, Dempsey explained: “He’s been undercover with you the whole time.”

  “Fuck!”

  Anger flaring up again, Coyle staggered over to Officer Sanchez, and snatched for the gun hanging off his belt.

  “Hey!” The cop tried to resist – but Coyle wasn’t the sort of person you said ‘no’ too.

  Hauling the big .40 Glock out of Sanchez’s belt, Coyle spun around and then lumbered to where Mason was lying – lifting the gun and aiming it squarely between my lover’s bruised, blackened eyes.

  “You double-crossing fuck,” Coyle snapped back the slide, and took aim. “How could you fucking do this to me?”

  By now, quite the crowd of bikers has gathered in the old food court. There was me, and the two crooked cops, and then a semi-circle of bearded, badass bikers waiting to see their leader blow Mason’s head off…

  “Wait!”

  It was Sanchez. He stepped forward, and from the look on Coyle’s fa
ce, that was a dangerous maneuver.

  “Wait,” he repeated, holding up his hands. “Not with my gun!” He stepped forward, and boldly snatched the Glock from Coyle’s hands. “Shit, if you shoot dead a Homeland Security agent with my Police-issue, do you have any idea of the trouble I’d be in?”

  For a second, Coyle’s eyes flashed – and I wasn’t the only one wondering if Sanchez had gone too far…

  …but then grizzled old biker took a deep breath, and sighed.

  “I… I guess you’re right,” he growled, letting Sanchez take his gun from him. “Besides, shooting is too good for this bastard.”

  He wheeled around, and watched as Mason crawled onto his side, and spat out a mouthful of blood.

  “Anyway. This big, ol’ shitbag’s got a lot of talkin’ to do before I give him the luxury of dyin’ on me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Mason

  I’m a big guy, but I’d taken my share of beatings in my time. Hell, before I joined the army, I’d spent a week in hospital after two guys at a roadside bar figured they’d take a pool cue to my face after I caught them cheating…

  But I’ve never taken a beating like the one Coyle just gave me.

  I lay on the dirty concrete floor of that abandoned mall, and it took every ounce of willpower just to stop my head from falling off…

  …or, at least, that’s what it felt like.

  My head was pounding. My eyebrow stung. I could feel hot rivulets of blood running down my chin, from where Coyle had crushed my nose with his big fists.

  But I feared the worst was yet to come.

  And as Coyle handed Sanchez back his gun, that prediction came to pass.

  “Bowser! Rooker! Grab that son-of-a-bitch and don’t let him fucking move,” Coyle ordered – and like the obedient soldiers they were, the two burly bikers lumbered over to me, and hauled me to my knees.

  Rooker curled his elbow around my throat, ready to choke me out at a moment’s notice, but the fight had already been beaten out of me.

  Coyle saw that, as he gazed down at me.

  In fact, his expression even softened for a moment – like he was pitying me.

  His books scuffed on the concrete, as the massive man knelt down, until his face was level with mine.

  “You broke my fuckin’ heart, Recon,” he murmured, shaking his big head. “When you rolled up looking to ride with us, I had a good feeling about you.”

  With a snort, Coyle reached down and popped open the cuff of his leather jacket. He rolled up the sleeve – exposing his massive, leathery forearm.

  Turning his arm upwards, he revealed a faded tattoo, painted across his tanned skin.

  The words Sua Sponte, above a grizzled skull wearing a green beret.

  “I recognize a Ranger when I see one,” Coyle grunted. “At the time, I figured there’s no better reference than that. I thought we were fucking brothers.”

  With a bitter laugh, he admitted: “Then these two cops called me up, and told me what they’d found out about you. Guess I was fucking wrong.”

  As I knelt there, barely able to breath, I didn’t know what to say. I stared at the tattoo on his forearm, and realized just seeing that hurt me more than Coyle’s big fists ever could.

  I’d always known he was ex-military. The way he carried himself, and the words he used, revealed that…

  But he was a former Ranger? Like me?

  Fuck.

  I guess it didn’t change anything – but it changed the way I thought about it. The last few months riding with the Knuckleheads had challenged everything I thought I knew about myself – and now seeing Coyle’s tattoo took that doubt even further.

  He’d been like me once.

  Exactly like me.

  An ex-Army Ranger, trying to settle back into civilian life… Only his life had gone in one direction, and mine in another.

  And that made me feel even worse about betraying his trust.

  Shit, I’d been an Army Ranger for most of my adult life, and loyalty and duty ran like iron in my blood…

  Or, at least, they were supposed to.

  But sometime after I got back from Iraq, I’d got my wires crossed about who I was supposed to be loyal to.

  It had been easy when I was in the military. I’d felt loyalty to the Army. To my comrades. To my country…

  But when I’d been discharged, and joined Homeland Security?

  It had never been the same.

  I’d joined Homeland Security because I didn’t know what the fuck else to do. How does an eight-year combat veteran re-assimilate into society, unless it’s with a gun on his belt, and an enemy to face?

  But in the few years I’d been with Homeland Security, that ‘enemy’ had become more and more vague.

  Terrorists and child-traffickers were easy – but then I’d been assigned to go undercover with the Knuckleheads, and what used to be black and white had smudged into shades of grey…

  Coyle, here, was a mean and dangerous son-of-a-bitch… But I’d never seen him do anything to any man who didn’t deserve it.

  If the Knuckleheads knocked over a liquor store, it was because there was a meth lab in the back. If they busted the legs of an inner-city pimp, it was because he was turning teenagers out onto the street.

  The longer I’d run with the Knuckleheads, the more I’d seen that the people they hurt, and broke and sometimes even killed generally deserved it.

  And in the months I’d been riding with Coyle and his boys, I’d honestly seen him do more good at clearing up the bad guys than I’d ever seen Homeland Security do.

  And more than that… I’d found a place there.

  A home – even if it was a nomadic one, that rolled out on the Interstate every few days.

  Coyle had taken me under his wing. He’d trusted me as his bodyguard. He’d given me the regard I’d never felt working for Homeland Security.

  And that meant I was no longer clear who the good guys were any more… Only that I was pretty sure I’d become one of the bad ones.

  I’d pledged my loyalty to a badge, and a bureau, and an idea that didn’t even fucking exist in real life…

  I should have been pledging my loyalty to people.

  Maybe even people like Coyle.

  So, as Coyle peered across at me, I raised my bloody head and looked him right in his flinty eyes.

  “If you’re expecting me to beg for my life,” I told him, “I ain’t going to.”

  “I should fucking hope not,” Coyle growled back. “You might be a double-crossing sack of shit, but you’re still a Ranger, son. Rangers don’t beg.”

  “No,” I agreed, “but there is something I need to say to you.”

  Coyle narrowed his eyes, and listened.

  “I’m sorry.”

  That caught the big man by surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

  The towering biker blinked, like I’d just started speaking a foreign language to him.

  “I ain’t sayin’ sorry because I think it’ll change anything,” I told him, spitting out a mouthful of blood. “Whatever I’ve got coming to me, I’ll take it like a man. Shit, I probably even deserve it.”

  I snorted bitterly.

  “But you deserved better than what I did to you – and whatever happens next, I just want you to know I’m sorry.”

  Coyle narrowed his eyes, and looked across at me silently.

  It was a prompt to keep talking.

  “When I started riding with you guys,” I told him, “I was a Homeland Security agent. I thought I was one of the good guys… Loyal to my country, and all that patriotic shit…”

  I shook my head, and laughed bitterly.

  “But, you know what? You treated me better than the federal government ever did. You trusted me. You accepted me. Shit, sometimes you were like a goddamned father to me…”

  Raising my chin, I looked Coyle squarely in his eyes, and confessed: “…so every day I rode with you bastards, I started to feel wor
se and worse about it. It was eating me up inside. Knowing that you’d trusted me, and all this time I’d been riding with a badge hidden in my wallet, and a hotline to the FBI.”

  Coyle listened silently.

  “The longer I hung with you, the more I felt like a piece of shit…” Taking a ragged breath, I finally admitted: “So, I ain’t gonna beg for my life, Coyle. I’m gonna take what’s coming. I backed a badge, instead of a man. I betrayed the trust I didn’t deserve you to give me. Shit, I double-crossed one of my Ranger brothers… Maybe I deserve to die.”

  Coyle stared at me, clearly uncertain of how to respond, so I finished by saying:

  “So, do whatever you have to. Just know that I’m sorry. And don’t hurt her, okay?” I turned my head and nodded towards Christi. “She’s a good kid. And I… I…” I gulped dryly. “I love her.”

  I finally felt silent, and Coyle stared down at me in grim judgement.

  Finally, he growled a single word:

  “Fuck.”

  His knees popped, as the big man clambered to his feet. Looming over me, he peered down and shook his head.

  “Fuck,” he repeated.

  He wasn’t angry now. He was still as dangerous as fuck, but that animalistic fury had left him – and now he looked genuinely concerned about what to do next.

  You’d think that would have made me feel better – that my story had turned near-certain execution into a possible chance to live…

  But it didn’t. Because as I watched reason and emotion challenge Coyle’s anger, it made me feel even worse about betraying him in the first place…

  As it turned out, he was more human than the police, FBI or Homeland Security could ever have given him credit for.

  And that made me feel wretched.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Christi

  With my hands tied behind my back, I stood there and watched the confrontation.

  I didn’t know what to say. What to think.

  For a moment, I’d thought Coyle was going to blow Mason’s brains out, and be done with it…

  …and that would have killed me.

  But, instead, the big man was peering down at Mason almost like he was seeing him for the first time.