by Liliana Hart
“Hank,” she whispered.
“Yes, Aggie?”
“Please make sure your eyes stay closed.”
He was laughing as he kissed her for the first time, but it wasn’t long before the laughter turned to heat. All he could see were the starbursts exploding behind his eyes as he held her in his arms.
The broad muscles in Hank’s chest quivered beneath his jacket as a cold wind whipped across the bike’s windshield before smacking him at every sliver of exposed skin. He wished he’d worn his leather jacket over his vest. It was a lot colder than he’d thought it was going to be.
They were running about thirty minutes behind, and he needed Sully’s introductions to the Rattlers. But he didn’t regret taking the time he’d spent with Agatha. It had been a long time coming.
Hank’s teeth chattered, but he couldn’t’ get rid of the smile that stretched across his scruffy face as her hands tightened around his waist. He could’ve told her that the passenger seat on his Ultra Limited was wide enough to take a nap on without having to hold him, but he wasn’t going to deny himself the close contact.
His imagination wandered as his bike cruised steadily along the black ribbon stretching from Rusty Gun to Reverend Graham’s Harley Davidson. He spotted Sully out in the parking lot. Hank narrowed his gaze to look for anyone else with him. He didn’t trust anyone.
“Sorry I’m late,” Hank said, pulling up beside him. “Anything the matter?” His gaze scanned the shop windows.
“No,” he said, a little sad. “I’m just getting some fresh air. It’s crowded in there, plus one too many, if you know what I mean?”
Sully brushed his calloused hands over both exposed arms. He shivered from the chill that lingered. The matrix of random tattoos looked alive as the skin covering them rose and fell with goose bumps. For such a skinny man, Sully loved to go sleeveless. Although, he did appear to have bathed. Which Hank appreciated.
“I can’t imagine how difficult it is to see her,” Agatha said.
“It’ll be okay,” Sully said. “I guess I just like to torture myself. What’s up with you guys? You been in the sack?”
Agatha snorted out a laugh.
“Why would ask that?” Hank asked.
“Because you’re late, you got lipstick on your face, and this beautiful angel on your saddle.”
Hank leaned across his gas tank to peer into the teardrop-shaped mirror on his bike. He rubbed at his lips until the red went away. Agatha still hadn’t stopped laughing.
“If you’re done checking your makeup, why don’t we head in?” Sully asked.
Hank switched the ignition back on and slow-rolled the HOG behind Sully to a parking spot. It still saddened Hank that a group of so-called brothers would have hurt Sully over wanting to leave the club. They’d taken his wife, his patches and his identity.
Hank’s chest began to tighten and he put his feet down. White bursts of light exploded behind his eyelids. His thighs stiffened and he tried to remain upright. It was all he could do to not fall over. Sweat exploded across his brow, and he couldn’t turn off the images that came to mind
“You okay, Hank?” Agatha asked, touching him softly.
He’d forgotten she was there.
“Boss? Can I help you?” Sully’s voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
Hank fought to release his clutch on the heated, handlebar grip, but his balance seemed too shaky. He felt the small, boney hand against his forearm and Sully’s voice.
Hank thought of his wife, Tammy and how he’d felt turning in his badge and law enforcement commission when he’d left that club. While leaving the group didn’t physically wound him, his scars had disabled him on the inside. It was a reality that, for a moment, was almost too much to bare.
“Boss, you need a doc or some whiskey?” Sully asked.
Hank shook his head and felt the panic began to ease. “I’m fine,” he said. “I just didn’t realize that we’re more alike than I’d wish on anybody.”
Sully’s face went ashen, and they shared a look filled with hurt and horrors and knowledge. And then Sully looked away and shook his head.
“You think we’re alike?” he asked, grinning.
“I sure do,” Hank said.
“That mean you hung over too?”
Hank let out a hardy laugh. “Let’s go inside and meet some outlaws.”
Chapter Eleven
Sully held the big, glass door open so Hank and Agatha could make their entrance. Hank obviously had preferred a much less visual approach, but it was too late now. He suddenly felt every eye upon him. Come to think of it, every eye might have been on Agatha. She looked smokin’ hot in those leather pants.
A stereo blasted eighties music so loud he could feel the bass thumping in his heart. He wrapped a hand around Agatha’s waist and quickly shuffled her away from the fatal funnel. It was the open area in a doorframe that silhouetted your body. The perfect outline made for an easy target if there was a bad guy on the other side. Cops avoided the fatal funnel like it was cheating death itself.
He scanned the crowd. Everyone was full of tattoos, silver chains and rings, motor grease and alcohol. He no more belonged there than a pineapple in a Speedo.
He might have the clothes, but he didn’t fit it. His riding gear stunk with the newness of it all. His boots were unscuffed and his vest was void of patches. There wasn’t a tattoo to be seen on his body.
“What’s going on, Hank. Why are you so jittery?” Agatha asked.
“My gut says this is all wrong. A set up.” He spoke out of the corner of his mouth while his dark, brown eyes scanned the packed house.
“You think Sully set all of this up just for you?” She asked.
“I always trust my gut,” Hank said, narrowing his eyes. “Speaking of, where’d Sully go?”
“Excuse me ma’am. Have you seen Sully?” Agatha asked the young lady at the reception desk.
The overhead speakers squelched as the purple-haired receptionist cleared her throat.
“Sully, report to the front, zone one for a new rider.” The young woman’s voice screeched across the entire store’s PA system.
Had there been a mouse hole, Hank would’ve burrowed into it. They hadn’t exactly made an inconspicuous entrance.
Hank felt a narrow hand slap across his broad, solid shoulders. It was Sully. He hugged Hank again, and oh, boy, did he stink. He smelled more musty than he had in the morning. Hank figured he was wrong earlier when he saw Sully outside; he hadn’t bathed.
“Hey man,” Sully said. “These here boys have been waiting to make your acquaintance.”
Sully winked and quickly turned Hank toward four men. Four big, burly, tattooed men. Without a chance to ask Sully why he’d dumped them on him, the men glared at Hank as they moved in to create a semi-circle around him. Agatha stood next to Hank, but they paid no attention to her.
“You Hank?” snarled the one with Butcher on his name patch.
Hank was an experienced detective, but not an undercover agent. His ability to improvise wasn’t as sharp as his ability to organize incidents and actions. He looked at Butcher but couldn’t make his mouth move.
“He must be slow,” cackled another one of them. His name tag read Ox.
Sully slapped Hank on the shoulder and snorted while chugging his plastic cup full of draft beer.
“He ain’t slow, fellas. He’s just careful like I told you. He’s a sharp one, and ain’t no mistakes in his game.”
Sully had given him time to regroup. “How’s it going, boys?”
His inclination was to shake their hands, but other than the filth, he knew protocol didn’t involve warm greetings. It wasn’t like he was part of their crew.
“It’s going, dude,” said a thick, ruddy-complexioned guy whose yellow teeth looked about as bad as his breath smelled. His name was Ratchet. “And I ain’t no boy.”
“Really?” Hank asked. “Then what’s the alternative?”
He k
new he was messing with dynamite. Ratchet had to be at least six-feet-ten inches. The guy was built like an oak. Hank might have stood in his shadow, but he wasn’t backing down. Besides, what were they going to do to him in the store full of people?
The last of the menacing four hadn’t said much. He was a quiet one. The quiet ones were always the ones to watch. His name tag read Axle. He didn’t twitch when Hank said hello.
Hank glared at Sully and wanted to snap his reedy neck for putting him in this tight spot without warning. He thought for a moment about the deep undercover agents back in his squad at the Philadelphia Police Department, and how they were able to stomach the constant worry of having their covers blown.
But Hank suddenly felt foolish for letting them get to him. After all, this was a legitimate dealership full of decent folks. Except for those four fools, and maybe Sully. The jury was still out on him.
“What you want to talk to us about?” Asked Ratchet.
Hank didn’t break away from Axle’s glare. These men only knew force and intimidation. It was a diet Hank had thrived upon while wearing the shield. He couldn’t afford to balk now that he was a civilian. Although, he did still have his cannon strapped to his side. He’d carried the more concealable; .9mm pistol this time, just in case talks broke down.
“I said, what do you want with us?” Ratchet asked again.
Hank knew these boys were not going to answer anything he had to ask. It’s why he’d wished Sully had stayed out of it and let him work the conversations his way.
“Nothing. I just thought y’all might’ve known my wife’s cousin. She was once married to one of you boys,” Hank said.
“Naw,” Ox said. We don’t know your cousin.”
“Worth a shot,” Hank said, shrugging.
“Poor Shondra,” Agatha said as they turned to walk off. “I do miss her.”
Hank squeezed Agatha’s arm, grateful for her quick thinking, and then they mingled with the regular customers. They probably had more in common with the outlaws’ irregular lifestyles, but they grinned and feigned interest in everyone’s kids and pet pics. The draft beer taps were the watering hole, but he stayed away from the alcohol. Especially on a motorcycle he barely knew how to control.
He took a peek across the showroom. As expected, Axle had eyes on Hank. He knew the rigid, silent one had taken the bait, and ignoring him would reel Axle in.
Someone came up behind them and Hank moved so Agatha wasn’t blocking his dominant hand.
“What you say your cousin’s name was?” Butcher asked Agatha.
Agatha pretended to be interested in the rack of sale clothes, and she didn’t look up when she answered. “Shondra.”
“When’s the last time you seen your cousin?” Butcher pressed.
“What’s the difference? If y’all don’t know anyone named Shondra, what’s it matter how long ago I seen her?”
Hank heard Agatha grunt, and he looked down to see Butcher’s long, tattooed arm squeezing Agatha’s wrist.
“You gotta smart mouth on you woman,” Butcher said.
“I’ll give you one chance,” Hank whispered. “To move you hand.
Butcher looked down at his ribcage. Hank had shoved the barrel of his .9mm pistol deep into Butcher’s flesh.
“It’s cool man,” Butcher said, taking a step back. “We just thought maybe we heard her wrong.”
“You tell Axle that if he wants to know more, that he can come and ask us himself,” Hank said.
“Yeah, no problem.”
Hank might’ve sounded calm and under control, but he was angry. Angry at the outlaws, angry at Sully, and mostly angry at himself. He’d stepped right into a trap even after his instincts told him not to. He wasn’t sure if it was being overconfident or trying to macho it up for Agatha, but he’d not been smart about this entire encounter.
“You ready to hit the road?” Hank asked.
“Sure, anytime you are,” Agatha said, rubbing at her wrist.
“I’ll catch up with Sully later.”
A voice came over the loud speaker. “And the winner of the Harley Davidson Spectra Glo LED Light Pod kit is ticket number 7356.”
The crowd cheered.
“Man, those lights look great on the bottom of a bike,” Hank said. “Did you see the one parked outside?”
He relaxed a little since they were leaving, but he kept an eye on the others. No one seemed interested in he or Agatha anymore.
“Aww, I missed it by two numbers,” Agatha said, tossing her ticket into the trashcan. “What’s your number?”
“I never win, so I don’t bother checking.” He crumpled up the raffle ticket they gave him at the door and was about to toss it when she grabbed it out of his hand.
“You won,” she said excitedly.
“No way.” Of course he’d win on a night when he wanted to go unnoticed.
“Look at your ticket numbers. Go get it. That stuff did look great. You said so yourself.” She gave him a slight push.
Hank gave another quick look around to see what the outlaws were up to. They were guzzling beers at a bistro table off to the side. He moved through the crowd.
“That’s you?” Asked a razor thin guy with a Harley Davidson short sleeve shirt and employee tag that read Honker.
“Apparently so,” Hank said, handing him the ticket.
“Congrats, dude. That’s good stuff right there. You’ll love it.” Honker bent down. “We do have to charge for installation if you want us to do it for you, but we’ll cut you a good price.”
Hank appreciated the heads up and reached out for the package.
Honker handed him a claim ticket instead.
“Sorry, Bro. We can’t actually hand out the prize inside. State says it’s like gambling. Everyone picks their stuff up from the shop on the way out. Sully is out there. He’ll take care of it.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks again,” Hank said
He turned around and again looked for the Rattlers. They’d emptied about half of the fourth pitcher of beer on their table. They seemed more interested in the three young girls hanging around than whether Agatha actually knew Shondra. It was the right time to slip out.
Hank knew better, but he allowed his mind one last thought before going back to full alert for those jerk outlaws. Maybe once they got back to his house, they’d go back to kissing. He grinned as he held her hand.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“What are you grinning about?” she asked.
“It’s a secret.”
“I’ll tell you a secret.” Agatha pulled him close and pressed her lips to his ear. “I’m going to kiss you again when we get back to your place.”
“Now you know why I was smiling.”
Chapter Twelve
Agatha waited in the parking lot as Hank struggled to back-peddle his bike out of the parking space. He had noticed coming in that everyone else backed their bikes into parking spots. Now he understood why as he struggled one step at a time against a slight uphill.
“Need me to push from the front?” Agatha asked.
His ego wouldn’t allow it. “No way. I saw Sully do this earlier. It must be technique.”
“Well, since you have none, maybe try putting your new muscles into it.”
“Gee, thanks.” Hank finally got the bike backed up. “Okay, hop on.”
Agatha looked distracted.
“You okay?”
“Doggone it,” she said. “I left that new blouse inside on the counter. I’m not leaving it here. Everything is expensive enough.”
“Okay, you go grab it, and I’ll run around the side to pick up the light kit from Sully.” Hank fired up the ignition.
He slow rolled his HOG to the west side. He heard bikes.
“Yo, Sully?” he asked. “You back there?”
There was something innocent about Sully, but Hank was an expert at the condition of humans, and his radar screamed, “Do Not Trust Him.” Still, Hank had eased up on the ol
d pirate because he felt sympathy and a connection over the loss of his life, wife, and identity.
Hank dropped the bike into second gear and idled quicker through the parking lot, but kept his boots off the floorboard and next to the ground because rolling slow and maintaining balance still wasn’t high on his skill list. Hank eased around the corner of the building. The left turn also remained a challenge.
“Yo, Sully. Let’s get a move on.” Hank called out through his open face mask.
He turned the corner.
“Shut up and get off my bike,” someone said.
Hank didn’t see the guy because the saucer-sized openings of a double barrel shotgun had been shoved inside the helmet. The cold steel of the gun’s barrel jammed the bridge of his nose so hard he almost rolled backward off the bike.
“Your bike?” Hank reacted out of anger.
“Yeah, this is now club property. Get off,” snarled the outlaw.
The blow was sharp and Hank ran his tongue across his teeth to make sure they were all still there. He tasted the iron in the coppery tang of blood. His left eye began to close after absorbing the brunt of the blunt impact.
He was trapped. His pistol was strapped to his right side, but his gloved hands were on the grips of his bike. No way could he out maneuver the gunman. Wisely, Hank did as he was ordered to do. He still couldn’t see past the barrels of the shotgun.
“What the hell is this?” Blood ran into his mouth from the gash across the bridge of his nose. It signaled more damage. His eyes watered at the overwhelming scent of gunpowder that told him the weapon had recently been fired.
“You get one chance. Only one chance.” The deep baritone voice demanded calmly.
“One chance at what?” Hank stepped back once his leg cleared the bike’s saddle.
The outlaw moved with him. He wasn’t going to allow Hank to escape the shotgun’s barrels.
“The truth.”
“Truth about what?” Hank barked.
Being surprised was over, and shock had fled his mind quickly thanks to his police training. Now Hank was in a controlled fit of rage just waiting for the right opportunity to retaliate. His heart’s wild pumping had calmed and he knew his breathing leveled off. It wasn’t the response one would expect, but Hank had survival skills one wouldn’t anticipate.
