Rebel

by Callie Hart

  “Don’t even fucking try it, asshole,” I snap out. The guy on the floor—he’s a young guy, maybe twenty-two, can’t be any older than me—doesn’t heed my warning, though. He hands scrabble in the dirt, groping, and then he’s holding a handgun. Fear radiates off him as he aims the thing at me.

  “Drop it,” I tell him. “Put it down.”

  He has tears in his eyes now, blood pumping rhythmically through the gaps between his fingers. He knows he’s about to die. He says something else in Farsi, something I don’t understand, and I can see the moment he decides he’s going to do it. He’s going to shoot me. There’s a split second in time between that moment and me firing my rifle.

  Crack!

  I shoot him in the head, almost right between the eyes. We’re trained for hours as we become riflemen, laid out on our stomachs, to always go for the head. Always go for the heart. But seeing a real human being, eyes glassy and still filled with tears staring blankly back at you with a gaping hole in his forehead, is very different than being proud of the tiny tear in a paper target on some range in a US Army base. Seeing that hole in his head makes me feel like I’m gonna fucking throw up.

  The worst part? The worst part is that my dick is still fucking hard inside my pants. They warned us about this, too. The cocktail of hormones and adrenalin pumping around your system in a situation like this has the most fucked up effects on the male body. I thought they were joking. I sure as hell didn’t think it would happen to me.

  I look down into the eyes of the man I’ve just shot and killed, and I know I’ll never forget his face. I’ll never be able to rid myself of the horror I’m feeling right now.

  “Jay! Jamie! What the fuck, man?” I look up and Cade’s standing there, the butt of his gun pressed against his chest, a wild look in his eyes. He sees me, sees the guy lying on the ground. Shock transforms his features. “Holy fuck, man. Do you know who that is?”

  I just look at Cade, unable to respond.

  “Dude, that’s fucking Aarash Zubair. He’s Ahmad Zubair’s son.”

  Of course, I know who Ahmad Zubair is. He’s the head of all Taliban activities in this area. He’s been on our watch since before we even arrived. Cade takes out a small point and shoot camera and takes photos. It struck me as some cold shit when we were given the cameras and told to do this, but it makes sense. We need to identify people. And in this case, prove it is who Cade thinks it is.

  “Did he say anything to you before you shot him?” Cade asks.

  I nod, feeling my body come back to me. My cheeks prickle, feeling odd and strange. “Yeah. Something like, enen waheen.”

  “Enen waheen? What the hell does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  Back at base, Cade shows his picture to Richter and it’s confirmed. The man I shot was Aarash Zubair, son of Ahmad Zubair. One of our translators also confirms what the guy was saying before I shot him:

  Enen waheen.

  I am alone.

  REBEL

  NOW

  Three years ago, my best friend went missing. Three years ago, my whole life changed. It’s amazing how dramatically the foundations of your very self, the very basis of what makes you you can tilt on its axis, and you can become something other. Something dark. Something disreputable. Something bloodthirsty and violent.

  Suffice it to say, I am not the man I used to be.

  I am no longer good.

  As president of a motorcycle club, I find I’m presented with daily opportunities to prove just how bad I have, in actual fact, become. A beating here. An armed robbery there. That’s the small stuff. The shootings, the gunrunning, the drug dealing—that’s the stuff that scandalizes the ghost of the man I used to be. But guess what? Fuck. That. Guy.

  He let his family walk all over him. He had his heart ripped out when the one bright element in his life was taken from him. He was the weak bastard that cowered in the dark when he should have fought. If I’d have been the man I am today back then, on the night Laura was kidnapped, I might have reacted more quickly. I might have found her. I might have saved her. I might have saved me.

  But I didn’t. So now I’m the guy who steals and breaks shit, and I’m the guy who enjoys it as I’m doing it.

  “Put him on his ass, Carnie,” I say, snapping open my Zippo. Carnie, our one and only Widow Makers prospect, does as I tell him. He shoves the man he’s holding at gunpoint down onto the ground. Meet Mr. Peter Hartley, forty-three, severe gambling problem, and a penchant for beating small, defenseless Asian women.

  Do I care that he gambles too much? Not particularly. I care an appropriate amount, since Mr. Hartley is really fucking bad at gambling, and it’s my money he’s been losing.

  But, do I care that Mr. Peter Hartley likes laying his fists into the bodies of small Asian women? That would be a resounding hell yes. I probably would have let poor, blubbering, snot-nosed Mr. Peter Hartley off with a couple of black eyes and a week’s extension on his loan repayment, had I not seen the black eyes on the girls who run his massage parlor. A real man does not hit a woman. A real man does not hurt a woman. Fuck, even sorry-ass, pathetic attempts at men do not raise their hands against women while I’m around. Not unless they want to lose their balls in the most painful manner possible.

  “Pl—please, Rebel. Please! I swear, I’ll have the money to you by the end of tomorrow. I can sell—I can sell—”

  Mr. Hartley has nothing left to sell. He knows it, and so do I. “I don’t care about tomorrow. I care about the phone call I just received. I care about my boy here having to bring me down to this shithole to see what you’ve done, Peter.”

  A look of confusion transforms the guy’s face. “What—what do you mean?”

  I grab hold of his arm, lifting it up so I can take a look at his hand. His right hand. The one that carries the full force of his blows when he swings. His knuckles are red raw and covered in half-healed scabs. “You’re a fucking mess, Pete. What on earth have you been up to?”

  He lifts his shoulders slowly, an uncertain shrug. “Oh, y’know. I like to box.”

  “Who you been boxing with, Pete?”

  “Just—just the guys, y’know.”

  “No, I don’t know. Which guys?” If there’s one thing I hate on the face of this planet more than weak men, it’s weak men who are also liars.

  “Just some guys, some friends of mine. I train down at O’Rourke’s every Thursday. What have my knuckles gotta do with the five grand I owe you, man?”

  I glance up at Carnie, who is still thrusting the muzzle of his gun into the back of Peter’s neck. “He train at O’Rourke’s?” I ask. Carnie gives me a nod. A lot of my guys train at the permanently sweat-soaked fighting gym down on Fourth, though personally I choose to do my workouts in private. I let go of Peter’s hand, shaking my head. “So you know how to punch, then, Pete, huh?”

  He looks up at me as though this is a trick question. “Yeah? I guess I do.”

  “See, now that’s bad. Very bad. That means when you hit those girls downstairs, you’re not just some asshole loser who takes his insecurities out on women. You’re an asshole loser who takes his insecurities out on women, and who knows how to make it hurt while doing it.”

  His eyes go wide—it’s like a light bulb’s just gone on somewhere inside that thick skull of his. “What? No, man, I don’t hit my girls. I would never do—”

  I smash my fist into the bastard’s face. Peter isn’t the only one who knows how to hit, after all. I pull back my right arm again, considerably more powerful that Peter’s, and I power my fist straight into his jaw a second time, this time knocking him over. A welt of blood sprays from his mouth, raining down on the threadbare carpet of his tiny office. It smelled of stale sweat and Cheetos in here, but now it mostly smells of blood—that metallic tang never fails to set my heart racing in my chest.

  “What the fuck, man? I said I never hit them!” Peter spits on the ground, ejecting a small, white pearl of a toot
h from his mouth. “Fuck, man, you knocked out one of my—”

  I hit him again. And again. And again. I hit him until I break out into a sweat. The motherfucker is out cold and lying in a pool of his own blood, and I can barely raise my arm by the time I’ve decided he’s had enough. Carnie laughs under his breath; he’s lowered the gun and is leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest with an amused look on his face. Makes his slightly crooked, many-times-broken nose appear even more off center.

  “Well. Saved me a job there, boss. You know he’s gonna be out of commission for weeks now, though, right? You aren’t gonna see that money the end of the month at least.”

  I heave in a deep breath, wiping the back of my hand across my forehead. “If that motherfucker’s even walking before the end of the month, you come back here and go round two on his ass, you hear me?”

  Carnie gives me a mock salute. “Loud and clear.”

  I’d stick around and wait for Mr. Peter Hartley to wake up, just so he knows the deal here, but Carnie and I are suddenly accosted by four small, defenseless Asian women. Turns out they’re not so defenseless. None of them are over five foot five, but that doesn’t stop them from charging into Peter’s office, screaming at the top of their lungs in Chinese. They split up, two of them hammering their fists into Carnie’s back, the other two heading straight for me.

  I duck around the overflowing desk, putting some space between the charging women and myself, but it’s a wasted effort. They come straight over the damn thing, still hollering and shouting.

  “What the fuck they saying?” I shout over the top of them.

  “You’re asking me?” Carnie yells back. One of the women bites his shoulder through the white T-shirt he’s wearing; he howls in pain, and that’s enough for my boy. He pivots around and grabs hold of the two angry masseuses by the hair, one in each hand. “I’m gonna start breaking some of your rules if we don’t get the hell out of here, dude,” he yells.

  I admit I’m losing patience, myself. So far my attackers have managed to scratch my face, and the most furious of the two is currently trying to go for my nuts. There’s one quick way to resolve this. I reach into my waistband and pull out my own gun, an AWR Hawkins 4.

  The screaming women fall instantly silent. They back up, shooting both Carnie and me hateful glares as we sidestep out of the room. Once we’re out of the office and charging down the stairs, they start up with the screaming again, barreling at breakneck speeds after us.

  “How fast can you start your bike?” Carnie calls over his shoulder.

  “Faster than you, brother.” We burst into the main room of Hartley’s massage business—the legal, non-brothel part—and even more women start screaming. From there it’s a short distance out onto the street. The door nearly rockets off its hinges as we slam through. True to my word, my engine’s snarling before Carnie’s. We leave the women in the dust.

  ******

  We reach the clubhouse just after nine, our faces still aching from laughing so hard. Set back off the road, surrounded by high fences, the clubhouse is a squat, industrial-looking building from the outside. The front yard is crowded with bikes—rows of shining motorcycles, old and new, lined up like a pack of guard dogs. Every MC has a business front—a necessary evil when trying to explain to the law where your money’s come from and what you get up to all day long. The Widow Makers are ink monkeys. We’re the guys who mark you up with that pretty little butterfly you’ve always wanted, seductively placed just above your hip. We’re the ones who tattoo the name of your boyfriend onto the curves of your cleavage one week, only to be the ones to cover it with someone else’s name the next.

  A neon sign—Dead Man’s Ink Bar—sends electric blue reflections across meters of polished chrome as it blinks off and on in a steady pulse. Dead Man’s never closes, so that light is never switched off. We pull up and park underneath it, kicking back our stands, and swinging off our bikes.

  “Hey, lookit,” Carnie says, pointing back over my shoulder. “V.P’s back.”

  And so he is. Cade Preston, Vice President of the club, went on a recon mission for me three days ago with some of our boys. His bike, a dirty great big Star Bolt with an olive green tank, is propped up in its usual spot against the side of the building.

  We had news that a club friend was being leaned on by Los Oscuros, a mixed breed cartel. And not just a club friend—my uncle. The fact that he’s a federal judge is something I overlook on account of the fact he made his house my own whenever my father got sick of beating my ass as a kid.

  “Sweet. He must have squared everything away quicker than expected.” We rap my knuckles against the tank as I pass Cade’s bike—still warm. Inside the clubhouse, there are no celebratory shots of Jack being passed around. The place is full, nearly every single member of the club seated at tables, some parked on the edge of the pool table. There are a lot of stern looks on faces. Arms folded across chests. I spot Cade immediately, leaning against the bar. The look on his face speaks volumes.

  “What? What happened?”

  Cade speaks three words:

  Raphael Dela Vega.

  Before he’s finished saying them, before he’s had a chance to personally bring my world crashing down around my ears, I already know it. I already know my uncle is dead.

  REBEL

  “I called it. I didn’t have any other choice.” Cade closes the door to my den behind him, shutting out the steely looks of the Widow Makers crew—there are twenty-three people gathered out in the bar, because they all knew before I did: we are at war with Los Oscuros. Cade saw my dead uncle’s body lying in the snow, and he handed over that bullet, just like I would have done. Except I would have given it to Raphael straight between the fucking eyes. “You okay?” Cade asks, as I slump into the seat at my desk.

  No other member of the club would ask me if I was okay right now. They’re hard men, who deal with their issues the hard way: silently. Cade, on the other hand, has known me since I was eight years old. He knew me before all of the goodness got torn out of me. He knows I am not okay.

  I just shake my head, staring down at the gun I’ve drawn from my belt without realizing and am now holding in my hands. “How did he die?”

  “I don’t know.” Cade’s ominously silent for a moment. “But there was a lot of blood.”

  I close my eyes, trying to fill my lungs with some air. It’s not working. “Okay.” I inhale. Exhale. Nod my head. “Okay.” The second time I say it, I’m closing a door. Ryan Conahue is dead. There’s nothing I can do to bring him back now, but there are a number of things I can do about his death. My first instinct is go take this fucking gun, climb onto my bike, ride all the way from New Mexico to Seattle, and torture that motherfucker until he begs to die. “Do you know where they’re staying?” I ask. “Hector and the others?” It’s not just Raphael that needs to die. His boss is the one who ordered Ryan’s death. He is as guilty, if not more so.

  “They’ve left Seattle,” Cade says. He places his hands on the back of the chair he should be sitting in, leaning forward. “They’re back in L.A.”

  Back in L.A. That means Raphael’s hightailed it straight to his boss to tell him the good news. Hector’s been pushing for bloodshed ever since he moved up into the States. He wants our business. Well, that’s not strictly true. He wants our gun and drug business. He’s done everything in his power to take that business from us, but our clientele is loyal. And paranoid. They don’t trust new faces. Now we’ve drawn swords, as it were, Hector must think he’s going to wipe us out. Give the gang lords we deal with no other choice but to deal with them instead. This whole clusterfuck of a situation is political, mixed in with the fact Ryan was in a position to send Hector down the line for a very long time.

  “You know this isn’t your fault,” Cade says softly.

  I somehow manage to tear my gaze away from the gun, so I can look up at him. “And how the hell have you come to that conclusion? I told him to stand his ground. I
told him we’d fucking protect him!”

  Thankfully Cade doesn’t say another word on the subject. He knows the dangerous glint in my eye. He knows when I’m on the very brink of a total meltdown, and he knows better than to give me the final push. This is my fault. No two ways about it.

  My friend drops his head between his braced arms for a second, sighing. “This might be nothing to concern ourselves with, but Raphael had a girl with him.”

  “What do you mean, a girl?”

  “Just some young thing off the street by the looks of things. Nice clothes. Had that moneyed look about her.”

  “She wasn’t one of his crew?”

  Cade shakes his head. “She was terrified. I told her to say she was a virgin.”

  That’s potentially one of the only things that will save a girl once Hector’s guys get their hooks in them. Hector may want my guns and coke, but his main area of interest lies in human trafficking. A beautiful virgin is worth more than a whole shipment worth of AKs if you sell to the right buyer. “I wanna see this girl. You got footage?”

  “I got something. Not a very clear picture, though.” Cade pulls a thumb drive out of his pocket and tosses it to me. I slot it into my computer, opening the file as soon as the device registers. Cade is right—the picture is for shit, but it’s good enough to make out the shape of a woman, walking down a darkened street.

  The woman stops, turns, watches something farther down the street.

  “That was us,” Cade tells me. “We knew Ryan was in the area. We were looking for him.” His face creases into a look of remorse. A look that worsens as Ryan’s figure appears on the screen, a meter from the girl. He frightens her. She staggers back, and he falls to his knees in the snow.

  My heart rises up into my throat. I understand why Cade looks so fucking guilty now. They missed my uncle by mere seconds.