Cole

by Trent Jordan

  I fucking snapped.

  “I fucking hate you!” I roared. “You can’t let me out by myself for one fucking day? You can’t just let me live my own life? I’m in my twenties and I don’t even know how to pay my own banking bill because you’ve sheltered me so much! And now you’re telling me I have to go and live where you want me to under your supervision? Fuck that. No. No!”

  I didn’t even care how bratty I sounded. I had no fucking choice!

  “I am not going to Oregon, and I do not care what you say or what you threaten me with,” I said. “I have told you for years now how it’s my dream to go to New York and be an actress. At the very least, I would love to go to Los Angeles and try some things there. And now you’re telling me I’m going to Oregon? No way.”

  As I spoke, I could see my father’s face getting redder by the second. I knew something was coming, and it wasn’t going to be anything I could handle calmly. I just hoped it didn’t involve violence.

  Again, was it any wonder that I just wanted to get the hell out of the house and be on my own?

  “I have given you everything you could ever need in this life,” he growled. “And your response is insolence? You stupid bitch!”

  He kicked the couch behind me. I ran against the wall. He approached me with his palm raised.

  But at the last second, he held back, content to tower over me and let his angry posture and size do the work. I bit my lip, quietly trying not to scream or shout if he did anything to me.

  “I’m sorry, little one,” he said. “It is my fault that you fail to grasp just how serious of a situation this is. It’s my fault that you think Oregon will be such a nightmare. No, understand, child—”

  I am not a child.

  “I do everything I do because I love you. Your mother wanted you to run free, outside in the world, where there is danger and risk. What would happen to you if the Reapers got a hold of you? I couldn’t live with that knowledge. No father could.”

  Strangely enough, I actually believed he was telling the truth. It was just a very warped and twisted truth.

  He opened his mouth to speak when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, looked at it with concern, and put it back in his pocket, trying to display confidence and certainty.

  “You will stay here tonight, and we will discuss more in the morning,” he said. “For now, I have business to discuss with my club. Stay upstairs while I talk.”

  He then put his hand on my cheek and patted it twice, a gesture that I took to mean, “I could hurt you, but I choose not to for now,” and then kissed me on the forehead before heading downstairs.

  I believed that my father loved me, but boy, the way that he showed it was fucked up. And the actions he had taken had made me fucked up, too. I just had to hope that when I finally did live on my own, whether by my choice or by my father’s death, I’d have just a glimmer of sense of how the world functioned.

  I headed back to my room for some privacy, but I could hear my father speaking from the entrance to the stairs. It was against my own good judgment that I decided to eavesdrop a bit. My father liked to think I knew nothing of the battle between the motorcycle clubs, but while I may have been sheltered, I sure wasn’t stupid.

  “... they’re coming together even more?” my father said.

  “Reports say there’s a bunch of them gathered at the Black Reapers’ headquarters,” a man I had never heard before said.

  My father was known to cycle through club “officers” as he called them, with alarming regularity. He didn’t kill them, he wasn’t that sadistic; he just fired them and moved someone back in. It wasn’t uncommon, as I understood it, for people to be shifted through the same role multiple times in the course of even just a single year. But this was someone entirely new.

  “Red Raven’s death was supposed to be the ultimate win-win for us,” my father said. “Either he betrayed the club and we won, or the club found out, killed him, and then that split the club in two. It’s not supposed to fucking bring them back together!”

  “I can only tell you what I saw, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “This is fucking bullshit!” my father yelled, and the sound of some sort of glass breaking reached up where I was. “Trying to split the club from the inside is not working like I thought it would. I was sure that the weakness of the Carter boys would be their undoing, but…”

  A long silence came, long enough that I feared my father might have picked up that I was eavesdropping. If I moved now, though, while there was no other sound, he’d know for sure what I was doing.

  “What should we do, sir?” the other man said.

  My father sighed.

  “If the two clubs have combined, that’s bad for us, because it eliminates our numbers advantage,” he said. “But it seems the longer we wait, the stronger the Carter brothers become. We missed our fucking chance right after Roger died. We just need to fucking attack them now.”

  “Now, as in…”

  “As in tonight, Spike. And we need to resort to whatever means are necessary. I don’t care who dies. I don’t care if we get in trouble with the law. I’m so fucking sick of the last name Carter that I’d erase it from the English language if I could. Do you fucking hear me? Do whatever it takes to wipe out those assholes. We take the fight to them tonight.”

  As my father finished his last few lines, I knew I’d heard enough. I quietly walked across the hall, as if coming from the bathroom, and headed straight to my room.

  But just as my father had decided that things could no longer wait and that he could not count on anything else happening as he stood by, I, too, had decided that I could not wait and hope for things to change. I reached into my closet, grabbed a backpack and a suitcase, and stuffed them full of clothes, a phone charger, my computer, and anything else I could think of that I needed to survive. I packed no makeup, no body wash products, and no entertainment.

  I was running away.

  And I was not coming back.

  I was finally going to learn what it was like to be an adult.

  Cole

  I drove back to the Black Reapers’ clubhouse, expecting to find a bunch of Reapers still in their club attire with their funeral wear underneath it.

  I got what I expected—but I did not also expect to see my brother waiting for me right outside the repair garage when I arrived. He had his arms folded, one leg crossed over the other, and sunglasses on, looking like he had stood where he was for quite some time. I killed the bike and made no pretenses about the situation, walking over to him.

  “You got a minute before we get everyone fired up?” he said.

  “Depends,” I said. “Are you going to try and talk me out of what I want to do?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  I snorted.

  “Let’s go.”

  I followed him into the office of the repair shop, a place of haphazardly placed papers, a few cabinet drawers with weapons, and old music posters that were quite possibly irrelevant even when they’d been hung in the first place. Lane sat on the edge of the desk while I leaned against the door. This scene of the two of us talking like this was familiar from our childhood days; at least now, Lane wasn’t trying to tower over me as we spoke, nor did I fear he’d be doing so condescendingly.

  “Let me ask you a question,” he said. “What do you think is better? Eradicating one member of the Fallen Saints, or eradicating all members of the Fallen Saints?”

  Here we go.

  “You know that’s not a choice of equal weight, Lane,” I said. “Killing the President of a country is not the same as killing its citizens.”

  “And you know that comparing a country to a motorcycle club is also not the same thing. In any case, let’s not get caught up in metaphors and comparisons here. You seriously think that by killing Lucius and Lucius only, that’s going to end the threat of the Fallen Saints?”

  I nodded.

  “And you don’t think that there might be even more evil memb
ers in that club who would do things that Lucius is smart enough not to do? You don’t think that allowing those members to rise to positions of prominence might have severe consequences that we suffer from accordingly?”

  “Honestly? No.”

  Lane fidgeted on the table, so obviously discomforted by what I said, he would have moved less if he’d sat on a nail.

  “A lot of the folks in that club are just trying to make ends meet or got caught up in a world that turned out in a way they didn’t think—”

  “And how would you know that, Cole?”

  “How could you not?” I said, though I—we—had no hard evidence. “If you were under the control of an extreme dictator, someone who you knew was a sociopath and prone to killing whoever got in his way, don’t you think you’d yearn for the day when you had freedom?”

  Lane shook his head.

  “Cole, your empathy is both your greatest strength and your greatest weakness,” he said. “I’ll admit, the last two years have shown me that I was wrong to outright dismiss you. But that doesn’t mean I can’t call you out when I think you’re being an idiot. And I think you are grossly underestimating what the Fallen Saints would do if we took out Lucius.”

  He sighed.

  “We’ve all focused on Lucius, all of us, because he is the one most responsible for the deaths of the people we care about,” he said. “But we’re fooling ourselves if we think that Lucius is the only bad guy in that club.”

  “Of course, I’m not saying it’s a bunch of actual saints and Lucius is the one that’s making them all fallen. But I am saying that we go for the head, and the body dies.”

  “Right, and to use my own cliché, I’m saying that maybe the devil we know is, somehow, better than the devil we don’t know. Maybe killing Lucius and leaving the rest of the Fallen Saints by themselves will only lead to greater chaos in this town. Maybe you go for the head, and instead of the body dying, the decapitated chicken runs around aimlessly.”

  Both of us stared at the other, feeling annoyed and maybe even some contempt.

  “Plus, Cole, let’s be honest. Storming Lucius’ house would be like storming a military bunker with some butter knives. The best we’ll do is inflict superficial damage, and you know that the retaliatory attack will be unlike anything we’ve seen before. There’s a reason the only home attack that’s taken place in our clubs’ histories came when Dad died, and that’s because they thought we’d shatter into a million pieces when it happened.”

  “So what would you have us do then, Lane?” I said.

  Admittedly, there was more than just the genuine feeling that I’d found the right answer. My resistance to Lane always getting his way, my annoyance with still feeling like an outsider, and my need to prove myself were also underlining my contempt for Lane’s approach.

  “We’ve tried your way for the last two years. Look where it’s gotten us.”

  I regretted the words as soon as I said them. It was the type of biting remark that usually had the two of us back at odds, unable to reach an agreement of any sort. Lane, for his part, visibly recoiled.

  But then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let out the breath slowly.

  “You’re not wrong,” he said. “All right. You’ve got a point. Let’s put you in charge of this run and let’s see what happens.”

  Silence settled between us for a few seconds, curious to see if this was Lane’s way of trolling or mocking me. There was undeniable tension in the room. I knew I was one more sarcastic or biting remark away from losing Lane and having this brief reunion brought to an end—again.

  But if I was right?

  Maybe this would finally come to an end. Just be humble, Cole. Be like your father. Not like Lane was before.

  “Deal,” I said. “So you would be open, then, to us attacking Lucius at his house?”

  Lane’s grimace became more obvious.

  “Far be it for me to say let’s slow down here since I used to be the one that liked to tell people to push ahead while I stayed back,” he admitted. “But this is crossing into very dangerous, one-chance-only territory. Don’t forget, he’s got a daughter that I’m pretty sure lives with him. And as far as I’m aware, she hasn’t done anything to harm us.”

  Lane stood up, looked at a photo of our father, and turned back to me.

  “If we attack them without regard for collateral damage, getting innocent individuals involved in the crossfire,” Lane said. “Would that not just be a repeat of what happened over a year ago? Except instead of Shannon, it’s his daughter, Lilly? Either way, innocent blood gets shed. It’s disturbing enough when you have not-so-innocent blood getting shed. Maybe we become—”

  “Look, I know,” I said. I wasn’t frustrated with Lane anymore; I was just frustrated with the notion that no matter what we did, there was no good, let alone perfect, answer. “Let’s make a distraction at the Fallen Saints’ headquarters. If Lucius is there, we target him there. But if he’s not, if we time the attack at night when he’s at home, then I can go quietly. I’ll take... I dunno, Phoenix and Patriot. Two young guys who know what they’re doing. We’ll go to his house. If it’s just the three of us, it’ll be easier for us to launch a sneak attack and kill him while sparing his daughter.”

  Lane folded his arms.

  “You’re trying to Navy SEAL his ass like bin Laden, huh?” he said. “Go in under the cover of darkness? Patriot would like that.”

  “Less people, less chance for unnecessary conflict,” I said.

  But even now, Lane did not look like he was on board with the plan. I couldn’t ever recall him looking and acting so cautious. I couldn’t ever recall myself being so aggressive.

  “Let’s talk to the club,” Lane said. “But just remember, we gotta do what Dad would do.”

  I’m not sure we agree on what Dad would do. But I didn’t say anything. I just nodded in apparent agreement and walked with Lane back to the gathering of the Reapers.

  I had been in the Black Reapers’ church hall many times, but I had never seen it so crowded that people were standing shoulder to shoulder.

  The concept was simple—get every able, warm-bodied person associated with either organization into one room and lay out the plan. It didn’t matter if the member was a prospect, a Vice President, or even one of our retired, honorary members who had stepped aside in the past couple of years. If they could ride a bike, if they could shoot a gun, if they could hold their wits together enough to distinguish Reaper from Saint, we wanted them here with us.

  Despite our disagreement, I had seized upon Lane’s willingness to let me be in charge. I was fucking energized. My confrontations with my brother had always been tinged with a sort of guilt, and my battles against the Fallen Saints on behalf of the Black Reapers had always felt temporary.

  But this was “the big one.”

  This was the one where we had everyone. No one had gone on vacation. No one had mustered up an excuse—in fact, no one had even shown any hesitation in agreeing to come.

  Everyone saw this as the end, and there was nothing to spur action quite like the knowledge that we had a limited opportunity to end them before they ended us.

  Lane and I stood at the front of the room, with one hand each resting on the President’s chair. The two clubs had their respective officers near each other, which meant, among other things, Phoenix and Butch stood by each other. I think the fact that they did so spoke louder than Lane and I standing side by side, at least in terms of rallying everyone else together.

  “Everyone,” I said, and almost instantly, what small chatter there was died down. There hadn’t really been much to begin with; I couldn’t ever recall a room full of Reapers act so orderly. “When I went to visit my father’s grave today, I thought that I was going to ask him for advice and how to best move forward. But then I realized something. The way Lane and I best work together isn’t when we sit down and try and talk things out. It’s when we just fucking charge ahead.”

 
; “Damn right,” a few members said.

  “We’ve been doing this wrong for so long,” I said. “We’ve been trying to sit down and hash out our differences and then take action, rather than taking action and letting that guide us accordingly.”

  I paused for a second. Was this really the right approach? I had always been the cautious guy, the organizer, the planner. Had the pendulum not so much settled as it had swung past the optimal point?

  Doesn’t matter. Ask that question to yourself later.

  “My brother and I just had a very productive conversation about what we can do to end this, and we’ve come to an agreement. We’re going to split into two units. One unit is going to launch a massive attack on the headquarters of the Fallen Saints. The other, a much smaller and veteran unit, is going to target Lucius at his home.”

  “Nice, nice,” members muttered.

  “So, with that in mind, tonight, yes, tonight, we are striking the Fallen Saints’ headquarters. Everyone in this building will take part. And a select special unit will ensure the downfall of Lucius himself.”

  I paused, looked over the room, and smiled.

  “We are going to end this here and now!”

  The crowd roared.

  “Phoenix and Butch, get everyone organized! Be ready in two hours!”

  The crowd of bikers slowly made their way out of the room, the small doorway doing no favors for the mass of men eager to ride, kill, and celebrate. They were ready to do whatever we commanded, ready to die to avenge Father Marcellus and everyone else who had fallen. It seemed perfect.

  “Are you absolutely, positively sure we’re doing this right?”

  It seemed to Lane that was not so much the case.

  I turned to my bigger brother and saw him look like... like I once did. The roles have reversed. He used to be the cocksure one, the one to charge ahead.

  Now I’m the leader.

  “Remember, we just laid Father Marcellus to rest,” Lane said. “It’s an emotional day. Do you really think the guys are ready for combat now?”

  As if to answer Lane’s question, someone screamed, “Let’s fucking go!” just outside church.