by Jonas Saul
They hung back as Scott and I stepped into the small LCBO on the side of the highway. The Liquor Control Board of Ontario usually had larger stores, but we could tell at first glance that the selection was small, the building smaller.
I looked at Scott. “Grab what you want and I’ll meet you outside.”
He nodded and we parted.
When I got to the till with my loot, I looked outside at Tabitha. Three men, wearing a crazy-looking combination of leather jackets and green pants, were standing in a semi-circle around her and Allison. From where I was standing, it looked like they were blocking the girls’ way. They couldn’t move.
“Forty-three, twenty,” the clerk said.
I handed her a fifty dollar bill, got my change, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door. It slid open and I stepped back into the sun.
“Everything cool here?” I asked, looking at Tabby. Her facial expression told me it wasn’t.
Two of the men turned toward me, acting tough and showing off, no doubt, for the third member of their trio, who didn’t look at me. One of them had a goatee that dangled below his chin, the hair tied in a hair elastic. The other guy had no hair on his head at all, only a tattoo of a tear drop on each cheek. Under other circumstances, I would’ve laughed at how funny it looked. But today, the tension in the air gave me a good idea that laughing wouldn’t be prudent.
“You know who we are?” the one with the stupid goatee asked.
I shook my head in the negative.
“I didn’t think so,” he said, and turned around to show me the back of his leather jacket. I don’t know much about biker logos, but it looked to me like a caricature of Satan with his hands out, and the name Vago’s with an “M” and a “C” on either side.
Goatee turned back around. “Recognize it?”
I shook my head and bent over to set my bag of alcohol on the cement as it was getting heavy. A car pulled in and I looked over. An old man in a Chrysler parked and opened his door. If only it was a police officer.
“We’re the Vago’s Motorcycle Club. The symbol is Loki, the Norse God of mischief.”
“Tabby, Allison, step over here,” I said as I looked at the third member of their group. “We’ll be leaving now.”
Tabitha went to move off the wall, but the three men inched closer together, completely blocking her path.
“What is this?” I asked. “You’re breaking the law. That’s forcible confinement. Step away and let them go, or I’ll call the cops.”
Goatee and Tear Drop stepped closer to me. The door to the liquor store opened and Scott walked out. In my peripheral vision, I saw the old guy from the Chrysler slow his step.
“You’ll do what?” Tear Drop asked, his voice sounded like sandpaper grating on steel wool.
“I’ll call the police. You can’t walk around acting like you own the world because you ride motorcycles. We have rights. Now, step back and leave us alone.”
I didn’t think my message was getting through to them. Their smiles, and the fact that they weren’t stepping off, told me they didn’t respect the same laws I had just mentioned.
“Do you know that the FBI, along with California’s Attorney General have all named us an outlaw motorcycle club? They say we’re involved in drugs, assault, extortion, money laundering, murder, vehicle theft, witness intimidation, and weapons violations. Can you believe that?” He stepped closer to me, our noses almost touching. I could smell his last cigarette. “What I’m trying to illustrate here, is that we’ve decided these two ladies are going to join us for the weekend and then you can have them back, unharmed. How does that sound to you?”
“What the fuck is this?” Scott asked. He set his bag down beside mine and reached for Allison’s arm.
The gang member closest to her shot his hand in the air. A knife appeared out of nowhere.
“Touch her and you lose your hand.”
Scott hesitated. He looked at me. The old man to my right, who had nothing to do with this, moved away and ran for his car. I heard the lock click inside the liquor store as they were barricading themselves inside. We were on our own and in a small town, where police response times would probably be too long to defuse our current problem.
In all my years of studying Shotokan karate, I never thought I’d have to use it for real.
Scott eased back further, his face a mask of fear. Tabitha was trying to stay calm, but Allison was quietly crying now.
Tear Drop was looking away from me. Only Goatee would see me move.
I dropped to my knees, grabbed the neck of a bottle of coconut rum, and as I stood, drove my open palm into the chin of Goatee. I heard his teeth snap together, along with his cry of pain. I only hope I caught his tongue.
The bottle was already in full swing, by the time Tear Drop turned to address me. It hit him in the right cheek, breaking it upon contact, blood shooting from the split skin.
At the second he bent over and fell to the ground, I lunged past him and ran for the guy who was clearly the leader, as the other two acted like his muscle. He had turned toward me, his hands up, the knife shining in the sun.
I feigned left and spun to the right. He bought it, lunging with the knife. My left hand dropped to the wrist that held the knife to control its movement, while my right hand formed a fist. I drove everything I had into that punch, hitting him squarely on the jaw, spinning his head sideways. He brought his head back and smiled at me.
I knew it would take more to hurt this guy, and I didn’t have the time as Goatee would be attacking my rear at any second.
I twisted his wrist as far as I could, and drove my next punch into his throat. He tried to move out of the way, but wasn’t fast enough. His Adam’s apple was my target, and I hit it hard enough to affect his trachea.
He dropped the knife, staggered back, and fell to his knees, both hands clinging to his throat, gasping for air.
I turned around just as Scott was kicking Goatee.
“Scott, that’s enough.”
I later learned that Goatee had stayed on his feet and was about to deal me a double-fisted sandwich when Scott surprised him with a kick to the stomach. I had no idea Scott was a fighter.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, my stomach completely sick, my nerves feeling like I’d been tased.
Tabby ran for our Buick. After scooping up our alcohol, I followed, got in, started it up, and drove to the exit with Scott and Allison close behind. As I pulled out, I looked over my shoulder and saw Tear Drop pointing his arm at me. His hand was empty, but he was holding it in a mock interpretation of a gun. He dropped his thumb and lifted his finger as if his gun had gone off.
The message was clear: you’re dead.
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About Jonas Saul
Jonas Saul is the author of the Sarah Roberts and The Kill series. Visit his website, www.jonassaul.com for upcoming release dates. Jonas lives in Europe with his wife, author Kate Cornwell.
Contact Jonas Saul
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Twitter: @jonassaul
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