by Zahra Girard
* * * * *
The ride to my apartment building turns me into a nervous wreck. My strength crumbles as I dwell on everything that’s gone wrong. It’s like the culmination of every traumatic event of the past week finally hits me in one fell swoop; there’s something about hearing a note of fear — true, undeniable fear — in Preacher’s voice is the catalyst to my unwinding. I can’t imagine what sort of calamity would make him sound that way. I’ve seen him face down a man with a gun without faltering; I’ve seen the aftermath of his solo, late-night confrontations with rival MC’s. None of that shook him.
So what’s got him scared, now?
I pull over halfway home.
My hands are shaking.
“I need you to drive,” I say to Bryce.
“Are you ok?”
“No. I’m not nearly okay. Please, just drive me home, ok?”
We switch places and drive the rest of the way home in silence. I’m grateful he doesn’t try any macho ‘I’ll protect you’ bullshit. I wouldn’t respect it, coming from him.
We park in front of my building.
The street’s quiet. Things seem like just any normal weekday morning.
Bryce takes my keys from the ignition and unlocks the door to my apartment building for me. Together, we walk up the stairs to my floor. I’m so damn jittery on the way up that I reach out and take his hands halfway up the stairs just so I can steady myself. I need the feeling of something real and solid and he’ll have to do.
For the entirety of the walk down the hallway, my body is on alert. I hear every step, every creaking board, every exhaled breath, all in hyper-detail.
Bryce gets to the door first, takes out my keys, and gives me a questioning look.
“Are you sure you’re up for this? Seeing this guy? You look like you’re about to have a heart attack.”
I nod. “I’m ready.”
I take a step back and focus on my breathing while trying to calm myself down. Part of me — a large part of me — dreads what news Preacher might have for me. If it’s got him scared, it can’t be good.
Bryce slips the key into the door and turns the knob.
He enters.
A voice, startled and so angry it’s almost unrecognizable, practically shouts, “Who the fuck are you?”
Detective Erickson?
“I’m Bryce,” Bryce stammers. “Hey.”
A muffled shot cuts the tense air with a sense of brutal finality. Light and quiet as a whisper, but heavy all the same. Bryce staggers back through the open door, hand over his shoulder, where blood blooms bright and crimson.
Another muffled shot — like an angry hornet — whizzes through the open doorway. It misses, zipping by my head and hitting the wall. Fragments of faded, paper-covered wallboard break off and pelt my chest and face with dirty shrapnel.
There’s a deep-throated roar from inside, and the sounds of two-bodies colliding and careening together into the wall. Thud after thud, fist into flesh.
I step forward and around Bryce, who stands still, hands on his wound and eyes wide. I look through the doorway. Preacher is perched atop Detective Erickson, looking every bit a vicious predator as he rams his fists into the older man’s face.
There’s blood all over his shirt, some of it I can see is his own, oozing from a wound on the back of his head. But most of it is the detective’s, which comes in a steady spray with every punch that Preacher lands, decorating the walls and everything within a ten-foot radius with a gentle mist of crimson.
My wall is Preacher’s bloody Jackson Pollock painting.
I stay still for a second, intentionally letting him work out a little of his anger before I step in to pull him off Detective Erickson. David’s still conscious, but his face looks like a steak that’s been given a good once-over with a meat tenderizer.
Preacher looks almost hurt that I pulled him away.
“You know he was planning to kill you, right?” He says. As if that’s reason enough for me to just step back and let him finish the job.
“Yes. But I’m still not going to kill him. I’m not that kind of person.”
“Jessica, when he was keeping me here, he told me a few things. He’s the one who murdered your father.”
I look down at Detective Erickson. He’s watching us intently through rapidly-swelling, bloodshot eyes, and he makes no effort to say anything against Preacher’s accusation. Not that it would help if he did. I can see it in his eyes that he’s guilty. Part of me even knew that before we came here.
The truth of it breaks my heart. This was my father’s partner, the man who was supposed to have his back, the man he trusted with his life.
I kneel down and bring my face closer to his.
“Why?”
My voice breaks just getting that one word out. I don’t think I could do more.
Detective Erickson doesn’t answer.
After a few seconds, he looks away.
Preacher puts his hand on my shoulder. I look at Erickson for another second or two, hoping that he’ll change his mind, that he’ll say something, anything, to give me some form of closure or understanding.
But I can’t even get that.
I stand up and turn to Preacher and pull him close. I need him. I need his solidity. I need that strength that I know is inside him. I need to feel it against me and draw it into me.
I press my face against his chest and I can feel hot tears slipping down my cheeks and soaking his shirt.
“I could tell you, Jessica,” he says. His voice sounds distant, quiet behind the pounding of blood within my ears and the riot in my heart. I’m face to face with my father’s killer, I might finally get a ‘why’, and it is bringing every bit of agony and self-doubt and heartache to the surface. I’m re-living every tear I’ve ever cried over the last fifteen years. “He talked a bit before you got here. If you really want to know, I’ll tell you.”
I know Preacher’s trying to be cautious. There can be just as much pain in knowing as in not knowing. An answer can spark more questions, bring more pain.
I don’t even hesitate.
“Tell me,” I say.
He leads me to the couch, his arm over my shoulder, pulling me comfortably close. Bryce watches us from the doorway, half his attention on us, half on Detective Erickson, who lies prone and groaning on the floor. Bryce’s hand is still clutching tight to his shoulder, but I can see even from this distance that it’s just a flesh wound, a minor scrape that should heal just fine and leave him nothing more than a scar and a story for his newspaper.
Preacher clears his throat, summoning words that I both want to hear and dread hearing. Sympathy, caring, and love shines in his eyes and flows in his voice when he speaks.
“Your dad was a hero, Jessica. A good cop. A good man. Someone to be proud of. The day he died he was staking out a warehouse run by some cartel. His partner had cut a deal with the Jackals, police help in exchange for running the cartel out of town. They needed surveillance off the warehouse, and your dad’s partner offered him the chance to come in on the deal. An easy trade to make to get rid of the cartel. But your father stuck to his principles. So they killed him.”
I can see my father doing all of those things. I can see the look of disappointment, shock, and anger ripple across his face as Detective Erickson makes him the offer. I can hear his voice as he turns it down. It’s deep, shaking with shock and disappointment at his partner turning his back on everything they’ve worked for day in and day out.
It hurts knowing, finally, how and why he died.
My heart feels like it could stop out of sadness.
But I’m swelling with pride, too. Even to the end, my dad cared. Even to the end, he stood for what he believed in.
He really was a hero.
It seems strange, but I could almost smile. I am so proud to be my father’s daughter.
“What are we going to do with him?” Bryce says, gesturing to Erickson. Bryce is looking at Preacher. It’s natural,
I suppose, as Preacher is radiating confidence and looks entirely in command of this messy situation.
Preacher looks to me.
“It’s your call, Jessica.”
I know the implication in his words: I have the life of my father’s killer in my hands. One word, and Preacher could take care of him. It would be so simple. So easy. But it’s not even tempting.
It’s not what my dad would want. And it’s not what I want, either.
I can’t leave him here, though. He can’t be allowed to just walk away from this, and he knows more about the Jackals than any of us. He could be useful.
“We take him with us,” I say.
“With us? Where are we going?” Bryce says.
Preacher just grins. He knows where we’re going. It feels good to have him on board with what I’m thinking. I’m more confident with him by my side.
“We’re going up into the mountains. There’s some people we need to meet.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Preacher
She might be innocent, she might be caring, and she’s sure as hell a better person than me, but she’s also smart as hell. And she makes me proud.
I’m more than proud of her. I think I might love her.
It feels weird, thinking that. I never thought I’d feel those feelings again. But, I do.
I haul Detective Erickson to his feet, rip his cuffs out of his back pocket and lock the man up. Jessica’s right that the man’s more useful to us alive than dead, but that doesn’t mean that there’s not a substantial part of me that’s itching to end this prick’s life. He tried to take the life of the woman I care about, even a death in total agony is better than he deserves. But at least I can console myself in knowing that this pig’s life is effectively over and cops like him do not do well in prison.
It helps.
We’re out of Jessica’s apartment quick, taking only enough time for her to bandage Bryce’s wound and for her to clean up Detective Erickson’s damaged face enough that he won’t bleed all over the damn place or die on us during the ride.
I sit in the back of the car, next to Detective Erickson. Bryce sits in the front passenger seat and Jessica drives, steering us towards the mountains she knows so well. With any luck, we’ll be back with the rest of my club in no time.
I admire how well she’s kept her cool during everything. She’s got steel in her spine, and it isn’t a stretch for me to see her staying calm even in those far-off countries she served in. She might be innocent in some ways, but she’s in no way weak.
I chuckle to myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way about a woman. Most chicks, it’s fuck em and leave em, one night stands and never calling them again unless I’m in the mood to get my dick sucked. But Jessica? I find myself enjoying spending time around her, whether it’s talking, fucking, or taking a corrupt cop hostage. Maybe I love her.
The whole oddness of the damn situation makes me laugh and Detective Erickson looks over at me, suspicious. I glare at him in a way that tells him to keep his damn mouth shut.
He’s not stupid. He keeps quiet.
“So, does someone mind explaining to me where the hell it is we’re headed and why we are not heading to the nearest FBI field office?” Bryce says from the front seat in a whiny tone of voice.
I decide then that, even though he’s good at taking bullets, I don’t really like Bryce.
“We’re going to find the rest of Preacher’s MC. They’re hiding out in one of the cabins near Peavine Peak,” Jessica says matter-of-factly.
“His motorcycle club?” Bryce says.
“The Wayward Kings. We’re from Stoney Shores, Washington,” I say.
“And why are you down here?”
“We came down to kill the president of the Bloody Jackals MC for having our club VP executed, chopped to pieces, and dumped on our clubhouse front door,” I answer. “We might also do some gambling after.”
“Are you serious?” Bryce blinks, and his face colors slightly like he’s going to vomit. “This is insane, Jessica. Why aren’t we going to the FBI with this shit?”
“Because we’re not pussies,” I answer.
Jessica gives me a look that tells me in no uncertain terms to shut the hell up and let her handle this.
I wink back at her.
She rolls her eyes.
“Because if we don’t get to Preacher’s club first, they’ll be killed. The Jackals MC is coming for them, but they don’t know it. I can’t allow that to happen. Our first responsibility is to get there, warn them, and find somewhere safe they can hide out.”
Jessica’s talking like she’s done all this before.
She’s got steel in her spine.
Yeah, maybe I do feel something like love for her.
“This is fucking crazy. You’re all fucking crazy,” Bryce says, shaking his head. “We should let law enforcement handle this.”
“If you want to get out, Bryce, I’ll gladly pull over,” Jessica says. “But it’s safer with us. The Jackals know you were talking to Tanya. You think they won’t come for you?”
Bryce goes dead quiet.
We take a turn off the highway onto some forest service road into the mountains. I can see right away why my brothers in the MC chose this place to lay low: it’s rocky as hell, jagged terrain cut through with ridges and chasms, the kind of land that affords plenty of options for concealment and ambushes. It’s terrain that Bear and Gunney would both be at home in due to their time in the service as Marines, and they’d be deadly as hell to anyone that was stupid enough to come after them.
Still, they have no idea what’s coming. If we don’t find them first, they’re dead.
Jessica takes us down one side road after another. We check three different cabins — old ranger buildings in various state of abandonment — and turn up nothing.
But on the fourth cabin, we strike gold.
We get shot at.
One bullet, a warning shot fired from high above, hits the rear of Jessica’s car, ripping a high-caliber gash in the trunk. Screaming steel shards of shrapnel pepper the back windshield, digging furrows into the glass. The car lurches as Jessica jerks the wheel in surprise.
I reach over the seat and put my hand on Jessica’s shoulder and give her a squeeze.
“Stop the car,” I say.
She looks at me. She’s not afraid, just questioning. “You sure?”
I nod. “That was a warning shot. Probably from Bear. If he thought we were an actual threat, he’d have blown off your head and your brains would be all over my face.”
“That’s a pretty picture,” she says, dryly.
“Stop the car and let me get out. Right here.”
She pulls to the side of the gravel road.
I push oven the door.
I better be right about this.
My feet hit the gravel and I step out, hands raised.
I turn and face the ridge where I think the shot came from. I pray I’m right.
“Where the fuck you been, Preacher?”
Bear’s voice booms down from above, like the voice of god. If god carried an automatic weapon and was a dead-eye sniper.
“Looking for your dumb ass. What the fuck are you guys doing up in the mountains, pulling this fucking Grizzly Adams bullshit?”
Bear slides down the last twenty feet of gravel and scree on his way down from the ridge. He’s got a military-issue assault rifle in his hand, some of the premium stock we get through Gunney’s military contacts, and he’s wearing military-issue desert camo. This has got to be like one giant field day to him.
He breaks into a wide smile and pulls me into a hug so tight my ribs pop.
“We had to regroup. I’m sorry for leaving you back there, brother, but Rog took a bullet, and once the sirens started, it was priority to get him out of there and get him looked at. We ended up bringing in some shady doctor from Sparks in to work on Rog.”
“How’s he doing?” I say with concern. Rog is
tough, but he’s not a soldier and he’s getting up there in years besides.
“It’ll be a long while before he’s able to walk normal. But he’ll be alright in the end.”
“No big loss. His fat ass hardly walked to begin with,” I say, relieved.
Bear chuckles and then looks over at the car. “Who the fuck are these people?” He says, gesturing at it with his rifle.
“The woman driving is Jessica, she’s a nurse at Reno General. Took care of me after the whole thing at that bar.”
“What’s she doing here? Are you and her-?”
“Yeah. It’s complicated.”
“Always is,” Bear says. “You’re smiling, though. I think it’s more serious than you think it is.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ve got a look. It’s how I looked when I first started to realize I was falling for Roxanna. It feels good, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose it does,” I say, slowly.
“You tell her how you feel? That you want her to be your ol’ lady? Sometimes they need to hear that shit explicitly.”
“Not yet. I’m still figuring it out.”
“Either way, good job, brother,” he says, clapping me on the back. “I’m happy for you. Now, who are these others?”
“The guy in front is Bryce. He’s a reporter or something. Pretty much dead weight. Man in the back is Detective Erickson with Reno PD. He killed Jessica’s father and works for the Jackals. He’s a prick, too.”
“Self-righteous and all that? Thinks he’s doing the world a favor working for drug pushers and scum like the Jackals?,” Bear says. He cocks his head at an angle. “Why the fuck is he still alive? You forget how to shoot a gun?”
I shake my head. “I left it up to Jessica — he hurt her the most — and she wants to keep that dirtbag alive. For now. Thinks he might be useful.”
“Could be,” Bear says. He walks from me over to the drivers window and raps on it with a knuckle. Jessica rolls the window down and he leans in, shakes her hand, and then points towards the cabin further up the road. “Pull your car up to the cabin. Park around back, out of sight of the road. It’s time for you to meet the rest of the club.”
