Snare: Road Kill MC (A Novel)

by Marata Eros

  We pull up to a copse of trees, a mile from the warehouse where Noose and I just got our asses beaten. I'd recognize the boxy, 1950s flat-roofed architecture anywhere.

  “Deja vu,” Lariat comments dryly.

  Can't argue that. Or the fact that my body doesn't want to go near where I just got my clock cleaned. The entire run smacks of last year, when we got Rose away from her crazy ex-brother-in-law and fucked-up flesh-peddling bank boss. It'd been personal then. Me and Noose are tight—getting Rose mattered. Because it mattered to Noose. Now that Sara's life hangs in the balance, it matters on a whole other level.

  My inhale is raw, but it steadies me, the twinge of pain in my ribs—I use it. Wring didn't have to convince me that pain can be consumed like fuel. Anger will help, he'd said during their brief stealth tutorial.

  That's damn skippy, because I've got enough rage to fuel us forever.

  We get moving. I use the skills they taught me about walking, staying on the balls of my feet and centering my weight like a thread between solid objects—pulled from behind and in front. My breaths are evenly spaced and vital, my eyes on the spot where I'll be with each new step I take.

  When we get close to the Chaos fortress, we slow to a crawl, moving between the branches like the wind. Our faces are painted with classic camo coloring.

  But in some dim corner of my mind, I believe my heritage is bleeding through.

  It feels fucking natural to wear war paint.

  To entertain killing. Not for sport.

  For vengeance.

  *

  “We can't waltz into the place. It's like fucking Fort Knox,” I explain to Wring in a frustrated whisper.

  He moves his head forward like a bird after a worm, his nose knifing between the foliage that borders the woods from the big cinder block warehouse.

  “Water table is high in this region. I'm figuring no basement,” Lariat comments, checking out the warehouse from his position beside Wring.

  Both men are lying on their bellies, looking perfectly comfortable.

  I fucking hurt, but I maintain the same position as them.

  Lariat taps the tip of his index finger along the end of the binoculars, then carefully lays them against his chest. The movement is subtle and deliberately quiet.

  “You say there's a garage at the back?” he asks without turning to look at me.

  I nod. “Yeah, the cop took us out that way.”

  Lariat's lips twist. “Fucking cops, complicating a perfectly fine acquisition mission.”

  I stifle a snort then turn to him. “Lariat, I thought this was a look-see.”

  “True, but if something bad's happening to Sara, a look-see gets upgraded to a seek and destroy.”

  “Is that military speak?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. Just my interpretation.”

  We hear a noise, and Wring and Lariat instantly still. Like mannequins.

  I look around, and they shake their heads.

  Oh yeah. I close my eyes and drop my jaw. Those two explained that hearing becomes more acute when you take sight out of the equation, when the bones of your jaws open and allow more sound to pass through your ear canals. Or some shit like that.

  There. Movement to my left. I roll, opening my eyes as I move.

  A big guy with a Chaos cut is about to land on top of me. I'd know the fucker anywhere. Good ol’ Butch.

  His legs are planted wide, as though he will bend to scoop me up. I jerk my foot up like I'll plow it through his asshole.

  Butch sinks soundlessly, giving a mad clutch to his nuts, his eyes round as he slowly lands on his ass.

  Wring slips in behind him, bending his forearm around the man's beefy neck. It's almost like a lover's stance.

  Except for the strangling.

  Butch claws at Wring's forearms, and Lariat moves smoothly in front of Butch.

  His legs are furiously kicking.

  Lariat winds up his double-knotted rope. Much smaller and more stout than what I saw Noose use. He swings it like a pendulum, striking Butch in the nuts a second time.

  The guy's eyes roll up in his face, and he passes out.

  Wring holds him for three minutes, finally letting him drop. He slides out from underneath the Chaos rider with a roll and twist, then stands. A look passes between him and Lariat. I'm not included. Then suddenly, their faces turn to me, and I am. I'm very much a part of the moment.

  Lariat holds out a hand, and I take it. He's jerking me to my feet before my next breath.

  His voice is quiet. “Let's go see about Sara.”

  We move.

  *

  “Bad way for that guy to go,” I comment softly.

  Wring nods, giving me a sharp glance. “Death by Ball Tap.”

  Lariat grins.

  And Puck the cop had thought me and Noose were hard cases? He'd revise that opinion if he met the ball-buster duo.

  I don't have the heart to laugh about the Chaos douche nozzle. Could be I'm going fucking crazy until I can get to Sara. Or because my own nutsack crawled up my ass to escape once it saw what was happening to his.

  Lariat gives a light tap on my shoulder. Two. Wait.

  “I don't like it.” Wring's voice is uneasy. “Anything could fuck us. The cops showing up. Sara not being here. More Chaos.”

  “Nerves?” Lariat questions softly, his dark eyes like black razors.

  “Not usually,” Wring replies.

  “Fuck,” Lariat says.

  When the hammer is drawn back on a gun, Wring flies forward, tackling me to the ground as a gunshot blows my hearing away.

  Instantly, blood begins to pool, running like a red river toward where I lay in a stunned pile.

  Lariat's hit, and Wring's already turning.

  The gun swings in a Chaosʼs hand. The barrel’s pointing at Wring. His rope swings through the air like a double-sided flail, catching the hand before the bullet leaves the chamber.

  Wring springs up and is on the Chaos MC dude like white on rice. His fists fly in a blur of pummeling maniac.

  I crawl over to where Lariat lies. He blinks up at me, his irises so dark a brown they swallow his pupils inside his hard face. “Get off me, lover.”

  I'd laugh if things weren't so serious. But Wring has made our presence known.

  I turn around, and he's finished that guy. That particular Chaos won't ever ride a bike again. His head's a bloody pulp.

  “Didn't know you could beat someone's skull in with your bare hands,” I say, and my voice sounds fairly normal.

  Wring walks past me, gore up to his elbows. “Stick around.” He winks.

  Geezus.

  He moves to Lariat. “You okay?”

  “He's been shot,” I mention.

  Wring sends me a look. “Where?”

  Lariat clenches his jaw, his eyes tight. “I'm fine. It's just a flesh wound.”

  But the blood’s flowing pretty good. For all his rough talk, Wring's pretty careful getting Lariat to his feet.

  Lariat gasps, “Reinforcements will come—fuck—we're so loud it's like ringing the dinner bell.”

  Wring nods. “So let's get inside. Whoever's around will expect us to run.”

  I don't want to run. I want to get my hands on Sara.

  “Don't worry,” Wring says, searching my face. “We'll find her if she's here.”

  “Well, well—if it isn't the cavalry.”

  We whirl.

  And there's Mover, looking us over. From a bleeding Lariat, hiked up against Wring's body, to me holding the rear position.

  The gun Mover holds keeps us all in place. “No more knots to throw or strangle me with?” Mover chuckles.

  Wring doesn't say anything.

  “All tied up?”

  Prick.

  I move without thinking, and that gun trains on me. “Think again, Snare.”

  He tilts the gun up and indicates the front door. “Get moving.”

  Not a lot of options.

  We move in front of h
im, trudging toward the main entrance. My back itches where I know the gun is pointing.

  20

  Sara

  I can't get the gross taste out of my mouth. Can't stop the faucet of tears. I want my daughter. I'm ashamed to admit I want Snare just as much. Why didn't he come for me? Is he okay?

  Am I? No.

  There's a tap on the door. “There's some new shit out here.”

  Tad. Tad is talking.

  I press my forehead against the door. “What ʻshitʼ?”

  “Clothes.”

  I smell like puke. I look like puke. Maybe Riker won't want me if I reek?

  Fat chance.

  I open the door and look up at Tad. His expression is as neutral as he can make it.

  When a man knows a woman is being held against her will and manhandled on top of it... well, there's only so much neutrality in the entire universe for that bullshit. Maybe Tad doesn't know about Riker? Maybe he doesn't know about the possibility of me being handed over to whatever horrible men buy women.

  Maybe I can convince him to let me escape.

  He takes in my expression then shakes his head, his face hard. “No way, babe. I've seen that look on a million bitches. I might look like a big teddy bear, but I'm low guy on the totem pole here. I do what the fuck I'm told. Been doinʼ what the fuck I've been told, if ya get my drift.”

  Oh God. I swallow my hopelessness, and it leaves an aftertaste.

  Tad hands me the clothes, and I slam the door on his face without a thank-you or kiss-my-ass.

  I'm scared. Fucking, steaming pissed. I worked as a stripper for four years, trying to protect Snare from himself with my anonymity. For what? So his insane dad could make a deal for me with some motorcycle gang in exchange for drugs. I'm so frustrated I could cry.

  Wait—I am.

  I swipe away my tears, flinging the wetness on the bathroom floor where no doubt they join the other millions flung before me.

  I stare in a mirror that looks like it came from a gas station. A large crack reveals the silvering behind the glass. The face staring back at me is shattered.

  Tearing off my yoga pants, I cringe at the smell and debate about removing my panties.

  They're not going anywhere, I decide, though they're stretched out and a helluva long way from the fresh pair they were. They can stay glued on me forever for all I care.

  I take off my T-shirt and notice abrasions on my wrists.

  My eyes travel the reflection, stuttering over the bruises and wounds at my elbows and shoulders where I landed in the chair, courtesy of Riker. Fresh tears well, seeing how another human being treated me like I didn't matter. Like I was a thing. But I'm not a thing. No matter how much I've been playacting on stage these last four years, I am a human being. I matter.

  Jaylin matters.

  I suck my lip into my mouth, stifling the mounting sobs. They climb up the mountain of my throat, choking me. Get a grip, Sara.

  My hand wraps the chipped porcelain sink rim. I control my breathing.

  A knock echoes inside the bathroom.

  “Just a sec,” I croak.

  “Huh?” a deep rumble replies.

  I flick an angry glance at the door. “Just a minute. I'm almost done.” I jerk the new T-shirt over my head. I scan my immediate surroundings and notice a metal towel bar without a towel. It's long, and square-shaped. The building is old, and clearly no one has ever bothered to redecorate.

  The towel bar is probably the same one that's been here for seventy years. Solid chrome. Heavy.

  Each one of my heartbeats sticks in my throat. Boom, boom. Boom.

  There's no use working up to thinking about the whys of what I'm about to do. Why it's wrong. Why I'm going to do it anyway.

  I turn on the water tap all the way, hoping to muffle the sound of my next move.

  Clamping my fingers around the towel bar, I yank it out of the wall. The ceramic end that holds one side comes out with a soft explosion of plaster.

  I catch it with hands suddenly damp with my sweat. I carefully place the porcelain holder on the scarred vanity top beside the sink and turn with the towel bar, facing the door.

  Fear thrills through me.

  Tad bangs a fist on the door. “Open up!”

  Open up. Okay.

  I suck in a huge breath, crouching low, thanking everything holy that I do fifty squats a day.

  Adrenaline pushes blood through my body, the roar in my ears drowning out the noise of the biker on the other side of the door.

  My butt hovers above the floor, and my right hand moves to the knob. I twist the small lock in the knob's center and turn the handle. I swing it open against the bathroom wall, leaping upright and stabbing the end of the towel bar forward with my momentum and body weight.

  The end takes Tad just below the sternum.

  I'm sick at what I do next but not sick enough to stop. Like a knight from long ago, I charge, driving the jagged-edged square metal end of the bar like a knife.

  Tad reacts with wide arms, trying to bend over the towel bar embedded in the center of his torso and grabbing it.

  Leaning back in an arc, I use my elevated balance and twist, planting my left foot behind to steady me.

  But Tad outweighs me by an easy one hundred pounds, and we tumble together to the ground.

  He narrowly misses landing and impaling me with my own makeshift weapon. Instead, he falls on his front, pushing the metal towel bar through his body.

  But not fast. The metal plows through in increments, and his horrified expression meets mine for a frozen moment.

  I scuttle away on all fours like a retreating spider. Relieved and ill over what I've done.

  I killed someone. The silent attack took maybe two minutes, but it feels like two hours.

  His body is still about six inches off the ground, his mouth open, his sightless eyes staring at the blood patch that's beginning to spread.

  I don't have anything to barf up, but I go through the motions, my stomach clenching and heaving. I try to be quiet. Almost impossible to do when I’m this sick. This scared.

  The minutes tick by, and I finally think I can move.

  Tad freed me. His death will be my ticket out of here. And maybe back to Snare.

  I look over at his body and swallow convulsively. I have to touch his corpse. The faint glow of metal at his belt glints from the stale fluorescent tube lighting above.

  I crawl to where he's held up by the towel bar. Most of it is buried in his body. A small portion, in a cruel joke of physics, keeps him propped up off the floor, while the other end is unrecognizable as metal, completely hidden by the things that make us human.

  Keys are on a carabiner on his belt loop.

  Move, Sara.

  Avoiding my yellow pile of bile is a lot easier than avoiding the congealing blood that creeps in an ever-widening circle around his body. It'd been bright when he'd first bled.

  It's black now, forming into a solid mass of liquid like spilled oil.

  My hands quake, my stomach churning and empty. I look away from the pool, staring at the keys. The goal.

  Finally I reach them. Leaning oh so carefully over the mess underneath him, I slowly relieve the pressure of the carabiner clamp and push forward then pull back.

  The shiny loop catches, causing me to fall forward. My palm hits the center of the blood, and I moan as though in pain.

  Leaving my hand in his cooling blood is the hardest thing I've ever endured. With jerky movements, I finish grabbing the keys off his belt loop and fall backward, slapping my wet hand behind me to brace my fall.

  The sound is thick and sloppy. I clutch the keys to my chest. By some miracle, they narrowly missed the blood.

  I stand, using the wall like a ladder. Avoiding eye contact with the mark I leave on the surface, I jog to the bathroom. Fall.

  Spring back up like a reanimated corpse. Stagger inside the bathroom and land the keys on the worn laminate countertop. I turn on a trickle of water and tap th
e small metal stem poking out of a soap dispenser mounted to the right of the broken mirror. Powdered soap pours out in a small mountain-shaped dollop.

  I grunt instead of puking, rubbing my hands together after I've rinsed the blood off my hand. I cough twice, hold more retching back by a thread, and finish cleaning my hand.

  I grab the grimy towel off the floor. The hole I made from the towel bar appears like a torn-out eyeball in the wall.

  A sound of pure panic slips from my lips.

  I swipe the keys from the counter and race to the door that's opposite from where all the men poured through to torture me with their nonanswers. I have all the answers I need now.

  I don't look at the body as I leave.

  *

  Easing out of the room I've been held in for God knows how long, I tumble into a cavernous room, catching my forward fall with my palm against the cool concrete walls.

  My eyes take in SUVs lined up like a fleet of sleek black animals along a gunmetal-colored cement wall. Windows line the top of the space. They're not meant to be access but glass block. They illuminate, but at thirty feet above ground, I'm not thinking they're there for the view.

  A quick glance around the garage shows that there's only one way out, a large, quadruple-sized garage door.

  Then I see it. A man door. It's called that because it's built for a man to move in and out of a garage but not out of the garage door meant for a vehicle. Riker was good for some things. I know the hell out of what exits are named.

  I flick the keys out in my palm, my thumb hooked on the carabiner. There are six total. They look a lot alike.

  Ignoring the trembling of my fingers, I carefully excise the same key I used for getting the hell out of that room. That room where I killed a man.

  I swallow hard, running to the door. I stab the key inside the hole and turn. The tumblers make a clanking sound as they move. Turning the knob, I push the door open slowly.

  Sunlight pours into the dim space, momentarily blinding me. And I'm so eager to get the hell out of there, I step out without looking and stumble, falling to my knees. The door is self-closing, and I know it'll make a huge noise if I don't get there before it does.

  I throw myself back at the slab of steel as it whispers toward latching. My fingers grip at the edge. And the smooth metal slips away.