by Zahra Girard
Mark raps his knuckle against the window, like someone tapping the glass at a zoo. “This kid here has some sick stuff on his record. He might just be a prospect for that biker gang of his, but he’s done a whole lot of bad in the short time he’s been on the streets. The cops are going to want to talk to him, once his jaw starts working again.”
“How can you say that?” I say. It startles me to hear my friend talk that way.
“Sometimes, when you’ve seen enough good people hurt, you start to think that maybe it isn’t so bad when people like this guy get what’s coming to them.”
I turn away. I don’t want to look at the kid anymore.
“What about the other one?”
“You mean ‘Tomahawk’?” He says.
“Tomahawk? Excuse me?”
“That’s his name. Well, his ‘road name’. Tomahawk’s unconscious right now. They put him under to relieve the swelling on his brain. He took a serious beating. Before the put him under, he gave a pretty good account of the guy who did it to them,” Mark says. He rattles off a description that matches Preacher to a ‘t’. Right down to the trashy Euro-metal t-shirt with dragons on it. I really hate that shirt. “If I see that guy, I’d like to buy him a beer. Tomahawk has an even worse record that our babyface in the other room. Drugs, sexual assault, he’s even the suspect in a couple murders. Real wholesome stuff. The world would be better off without him.”
“Jesus, Mark,” I whisper. I turn away from Mark and start towards the exit of the hospital
“What? It’s true.”
“How can you be like that?”
“I’m not going to give sympathy to people that don’t deserve it. Some people are scumbags. I’m sick and tired of seeing innocent people put in the hospital because of these drug-pushing sacks of shit,” he says. We step into the parking lot and I look up at the sky. Mark puts his hand on my shoulder, gingerly. “Why did you want to see these scumbags, anyway?”
What do I tell him? That I’m looking for answers? That maybe there’s a part of me that’s trying to understand how Preacher might be right for doing the kind of vengeful things that he’s doing? That maybe there’s a part of me that thinks what he’s doing isn’t so wrong? And that there’s another part of me that’s utterly horrified by that thought?
“It’s just something about my dad, that’s all.”
Mark’s phone chirps and he pulls it out and looks at it. Sighing, he rolls his eyes and shoves it back in his pocket.
“Looks like there’s more work to do. Listen, Jessica, if you want my advice — and even if you don’t, you’re going to get it — you should let these criminals take each other out and let the cops clean up the mess. Some people might have some good in them — like that guy who saved you the other night at the bar — but some of them are beyond redemption. Root for the good ones, and stay away for the rest.”
Mark gives me a hug, reminds me to take care, and then hops back into his ambulance with his waiting partner and leaves. I stand there and try to process just how I feel about everything. There’s a distinct crossroads in front of me, one path where I try to help Preacher — however that may be — and another where I stay out of it and let the cops clean up the aftermath.
I know right away I can’t stay out of it.
I can’t just sit back and let people get hurt. My father would be ashamed to learn that I let something so violent happen and didn’t do a damn thing to stop it. That’s not who I am.
I need to be true to myself.
And I need to get home and I need to think. Maybe I can call Detective Erickson and talk to him. Maybe he’ll know some way we can stop Jackals from killing Preacher and the rest of his MC. With Detective Erickson’s history with the Jackals MC, I know he’d be eager to help.
I’ve got my phone to my ear and it’s ringing when when Bryce comes peeling into the parking lot in his old, beat-up car. His face is red and his eyes are dilated as jumps out of his vehicle and races towards me.
I hang up, startled.
“Bryce, what’s wrong? How the hell did you find me here?”
He stops right in front of me and puts his hands on my arms, grabbing me like he needs to check that I’m real. “Cassie told me you were here. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. What the hell is going on?”
“Something is wrong. Really, really wrong,” he says, then, when I don’t respond other than look at him like he’s completely lost his mind, he takes a deep breath and continues. “Our witness, Tanya, was murdered last night. Found in her apartment, shot once in the back of the head, execution-style.”
I gape at him. “What?”
“I talked to her just the other night. She’d agreed to meet with us and give a full statement about what she saw the day your father was murdered. We were supposed to meet tomorrow. When I called her this morning to check in and make sure she was still good with talking to us, she didn’t answer. Someone else in her family did. They’d just found her body.”
I sink to my knees and shut my eyes tight to hold back tears of frustration. It feels like just as soon as I was starting to put all these pieces of the puzzle together, someone’s gone and upended the whole dang jigsaw puzzle. I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to hammer my fists into the pavement just to feel something other than this utter helplessness at everything slipping away from me. First, Preacher leaves, and now, another connection to my father is taken away from me.
“I’m sorry, Jessica.”
Bryce lifts me up and gives me a hug and I do what I can to pull myself together.
I swallow the lump forming in my throat and blink back tears.
“Did she tell you anything?”
Bryce nods. “She did. Are you sure you want to hear it? If we stop right now, there’s still a chance we could walk away from this — that you could walk away from this, at least.”
“Just tell me, Bryce.”
“Fifteen years ago, when Tanya was out in that neighborhood looking to get heroin, she saw your dad staking out the warehouse. She didn’t know that’s what he was doing, she just thought he was handsome and remembered his face. She saw another car pull up. She told me this guy just looked like he had cop written all over him and he and your dad talked for a minute like they knew each other real well. She kept walking because she didn’t want to be around any cops. She heard the gunshot when she turned the corner.”
“Are you saying-?”
“I’m saying a cop killed your father.”
The news hits me like a lighting bolt. It’s hard to even think about. My father was killed by someone on the same police force that he worked so hard to represent.
Someone he knew.
Someone who knew exactly where he was at. Someone he would trust enough to have a conversation with while he was trying to lay low on a stakeout.
I know exactly who killed my father.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Preacher
I leave her apartment boiling with rage. I keep it bottled up inside until I hit the outside, where I ram my fist into the door of her apartment building.
Who the fuck is she to give me an ultimatum? This isn’t her family that’s in danger.
It’s quiet out here. This part of town is dead during the day. Everyone’s either at work, at school, or sleeping off the hangover from the night before.
I can’t sit around waiting for a woman and some cops to come in and rescue my MC. Especially one who doesn’t understand the full situation. Rely on the cops? Go peacefully? We’re just as likely to get arrested by those fucking pigs. There’s no way in hell I am giving up my family like that.
I have to find them and warn them.
But I can’t just head off towards the mountains without any sort of plan. I’ve got to take a moment and figure this shit out.
I step into a little corner diner and order a cup of coffee.
I’ve got to think. Approach this rationally. Have a plan of attack, as Gunney would say. I sip my coffee and I roll thi
s shit over.
A plan begins to hatch in my mind. First, I need a set of wheels. Something to get me on the road and towards the mountains. Then, I’ll cruise around and see what I can see. Either I’ll find my brothers, or maybe they’ll find me. I’m sure they’ve got at least one person on lookout duty — Bear, probably, knowing his background.
It’s not much of a plan, but it’s better than nothing. And it’s a lot fucking better than just sitting around.
I pay for my coffee and leave. I walk down the sidewalk, eyes scanning side to side until I find an almost-deserted side street. No traffic, nobody around, and a couple older-model sedans parked side-by-side. I pick out a late 90’s Honda, the kind of car that’s so easy to steal the owners might as well leave the keys in the ignition.
It takes me less than thirty seconds to break my way inside, pop open the cover on the steering column, and get into the wiring.
Piece of cake.
I’m almost proud of myself at how quick I get the job done and I’ve got a smile on my face when I sit up in the driver’s seat, with the engine purring and my hand on the stick shift, when I take a look in the rear view mirror.
There’s a car there.
A Ford Crown Victoria.
Might as well have “Police Detective” painted on in it big, bold letters.
Well, fuck me.
And fuck him, too.
Before I can put the car in gear and pull away, the detective gets out of his car and starts toward me. He’s got his gun out and he motions for me to exit the vehicle.
I do it with my hands up and both middle fingers raised in salute.
“Problem, officer?” I say.
“Let’s take a walk.”
That’s a tone of voice I’ve heard before. A tone that sometimes come from my own mouth, on those occasions where I’ve led some poor son of a bitch to a place where they won’t come back from alive. This isn’t an arrest.
I put my hands back down and look defiantly at the cop.
“What’re you going to do? Shoot me? Here, in broad daylight?”
“As far as any bystander would care — not that there are any — I’d be perfectly within my rights to shoot a car thief that got violent. So, you turn around and start walking right back where you came from: Jessica’s apartment.”
Anger surges within me, forcing my hands into fists and I take a step towards the cop. I can’t allow this to happen. But I can’t do much being on the business end of his service pistol.
“You leave her out of this.”
“Fat fucking chance. It’s because of her that this is happening. I told her to keep out of this mess. And what does she do? She takes you in, she starts asking questions, and then, in a fucking brilliant move, she tells everyone she knew that she is looking for the Bloody Fucking Jackals.”
We start moving, and I do my best to walk natural even with this cop’s gun jabbed into my back. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing an ounce of fear, even though it’s coursing through me just as strong as the rage I’m feeling.
“You can just walk away. I don’t give a shit about who you are or what you’ve done. But if you know Jessica, you know that she doesn’t deserve any of this.”
It feels like the world is crushing in on me. I left Jessica to keep her safe, to keep her away from the violence that I knew had to happen — because the only way this thing between my club and the Bloody Jackals is going to end is in blood — and instead, here I am, leading violence right back to her door.
He chuckles.
“You’re right,” he says, in a voice that almost sounds like it contains a hint of regret. “She doesn’t deserve it. You know, her father was my partner, he was a good man, and out of respect for him, I wanted to keep her out of this. I told her to mind her own business, but she wouldn’t listen. She cares. Too much. And now I have another mess to take care of, just so I can keep things right in this town. Now, open the fucking door.”
We’re at the entrance to Jessica’s apartment building. There’s not a soul on the sidewalk, and I hesitate. There has to be some way out of this. Think, damn it.
I get the butt of the pistol cracking into my skull as a consequence for being slow. Things go red, then black, and I suck air through my teeth as pain radiates down my body from the back of my skull.
“I won’t tell you again,” he warns.
I fish the key out of my pocket and let us in. We march the thirty-seven steps down the hallway to the stairwell, and take all three flights of stairs — forty-two steps in all — up to Jessica’s floor. It’s another twenty-one steps down the hallway to her apartment.
I unlock the door with the spare key she gave me.
The cop bashes me on the back of the head again, knocking me to my knees. Hot and thick blood drips down the back of my neck. He shoves me forward onto Jessica’s couch. I land on that beat-up old couch and whirl around to face him, glaring at him through my distorted vision.
He keeps the gun trained on me as he shuts the door to the hallway. It clicks shut with a sense of finality.
“Call her,” he says, motioning to an old handset land-line phone resting on the end table next to the couch.
“I don’t know her fucking number, asshole,” I say.
“But I do,” he says, digging his cell phone out of his pocket. “Call her and tell her you need to meet her here. Say anything else, and I’ll shoot a hole in your ballsack, rip your nuts out, and jam them down your throat. You can choke to death on your own fucking cock.”
“You’re fucked up,” I spit back. “She’s your partner’s daughter, and you’re going to kill her?”
He shrugs. “I killed her father. Sometimes you have to do things you don’t like serving the greater good.”
“How is any of this shit ‘good’?”
“This ‘shit’ keeps the cartel and all those other fucking gangs and their fucking doctored drugs like fentanyl out of Reno. The Bloody Jackals might be a piece of shit motorcycle club, but they’re the devil I know and I’ll take that any day. Now shut the fuck up and call her. She’s going to die either way. All I’m doing is giving you the kindness of seeing her one last fucking time before you die. Now call her.”
I dial.
Jessica answers and I feed her some bullshit line about changing my mind and needing to talk to her right away back at her place. The anger and fear that I try to suppress put urgency in my voice.
She buys it.
Fuck me, but she buys it.
I hang up, feeling like I’m about to vomit.
I’m supposed to keep her safe.
Instead, I’m calling her to her death.
Pain worse than I’ve ever felt settles on me. It’s the pain of knowing that I’ve failed someone I truly care about in the worst way.
I turn back to the cop. “So, she gets here, what then?”
“I figure you’ve got a record, right?”
I don’t answer. He takes it as a yes.
“So, here’s how the report will read,” he says. “I spot a suspicious looking man on the street. A man who it turns out has a record and matches the description of someone involved in the shooting the other night at Joker’s Wild. I follow, and stay in the area because something just doesn’t feel right. I hear shots, enter the apartment building, and find you’ve shot her with an illegal and unregistered firearm. It’s even got a silencer, because this was a planned and premeditated kill,” he pats his back pocket with a gloved hand. “I try to make the arrest, but you don’t want to go peacefully, so I shoot you.”
“If you were smart, you’d just kill me now, because I swear to God, I’m going to ram that pistol in your mouth and fire every last round down your throat.”
“Don’t tempt me. Now, shut your fucking mouth until she gets here.”
I sit on the edge of the couch, muscles tense, mind racing to come up with a plan. I’ve only got minutes to spare, because once Jessica comes in through that door, we’re both dead.
And I can’t let that happen.
Because I love her.
To hell with our arguments, to hell with anything else that’s happened between us – Jessica doesn’t deserve this. She’s too important to me.
I need to save her.
Whatever it takes, I’m going to save her life.
Even if it costs me my own.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jessica
I hang up my phone and stare at it for a moment. Something doesn’t seem right. It’s not that he changed his mind or that he wants to see me again that throws me off — I can see him being man enough to admit a mistake if he determines he’s made one — it’s something else that has me worried.
I think I heard fear in his voice. The thought of what could make a man like that feel fear makes my jaw clench with anxiety and my stomach slip itself into knots.
Something is deeply, gut-twistingly wrong.
Hearing that strange sound of fear in his voice frightens me, but it also pulls me towards him; he needs my help and I have to be there.
“What is it?” Bryce says.
“It’s Preacher — he’s the guy who saved me the other night. I need to go by my place.”
“Jessica, we don’t have time for that. We need to go to the FBI and tell them what we know. And then I need to get this story out. This is front page shit.”
Bryce is probably right, but I can’t think about leaving Preacher when he might need me; we’ve saved each other’s lives once before, we’re bonded by our shared experience and, as much as he might drive me crazy with his stubbornness or worry me with his willingness to use violence, I can’t deny how I feel about him. It’s deeper than just affection. There’s a side of him that I love, a side that shows itself in his smile and in those rare moments he’ll let his guard down.
“You can go to the FBI, but, first, I’m going to my place. I’ll catch up with you later.”
He shakes his head and crosses his arms. An expression comes across his face that looks somewhere between nervous-as-hell and brave. “I’m coming with you.”
