by C. C. Harris
I imagined what it would be like riding the roads, not giving a damn about anything but the club and the road ahead, wearing a club jacket and feeling free.
As a kid, I’d had a pal whose dad was a rev-head. On weekends, we went trail bike riding or tinkered with his dad’s collection of motor engines. Bikes terrified my mom. She called them coffins on wheels.
I’d always read about motorcycle clubs being gangs. The irony of it all was that I felt safer with the Taipans than with the sharks on Wall Street. I could see them now, walking around in their fuckin’ hotshot suits, living their piss-weak lives and driving sports cars, hoping that would enlarge their cocks. They were the assholes who stabbed you in the back and thought their shit didn’t stink while they ripped off some poor unsuspecting retiree and snorted white powder on their breaks. Wall Street thugs in business suits.
The cook came back with a med kit. He soaked my wounds with antiseptic. The pain was excruciating, but I didn’t flinch. I wasn’t going to look like a city wuss in front of these guys. He wrapped up my wounds like a pro.
‘Our chef’s an expert with wounds. He’s had plenty of practice, but it’s been a while since he patched any of us up. You bring back happy memories, Curtis,’ Animal grinned.
I hoped Animal was joking but watching the cook’s skill with a bandage, I doubted it. I think they liked me. Maybe I looked like some tough guy who would die without a cause. Little did they know I would give anything to be watching the Chicago Cubs with a bucket of popcorn.
My thoughts drifted back to Sarah. I hoped she wouldn’t ditch me for being an asshole.
TWENTY-FIVE
FBI
The boys stood up, ready to leave the diner.
Red looked at Cole. ‘I miss our days shootin’ the breeze.’
‘Yeah, the world is spinnin’ too fast. Now with the farm and the family, time doesn’t stand still.’
They both sounded genuine. It was easy to see Cole was respected by the club.
‘See ya man,’ said Red, with a goodbye hug.
I’d never seen bikers hug each other and I still couldn’t understand why Cole was going out of his way to help me. This guy had done more for me in one day than any friend had done in my entire life. The world isn’t full of douchebags after all, I thought.
‘We’re still a fair distance from Brooklyn so ya better take this,’ Cole said, passing me a soda and a Hershey bar. ‘This will help you survive for a while. Now let’s get on the road.’
Cole Chuckled. ‘Jesus Curtis, you look like a fuckin’ mummy headin’ for a museum.’
‘Yeah, well I feel like one.’
Cole pointed out a black Chrysler at the far end of the parking lot. ‘Where did that come from? Why isn’t anyone gettin’ out?’
‘Maybe they’ve stopped for a quick piss,’ I responded.
‘It’s not lookin’ good. Let’s keep an eye on these guys. I’ll bet ya they pull out the same time we do.’
He was right. Once out of the parking lot, we were followed.
Cole was on his cell to Red in seconds. ‘Hey Red, we’ve got trouble here. A black Chrysler is right up our ass.’
‘Don’t worry Curtis. We have the Taipans as our backup. You’re in good hands.’
Somehow, I wasn’t convinced.
‘There’s a packet of ammo on the floor and here’s a 12-gauge shotgun of mine and your handgun!’
The shotgun was easy to load. I knew shooting from a moving vehicle was going to be unpredictable. The drill sergeant leaned over the front seat. ‘This is up to you now. You know the drill. It’s time to think for yourself.’
As the sergeant disappeared, I loaded the shotgun and steadied it into position. I gently rested the tip of its muzzle through a gap in the back window.
‘Keep drivin’ at the same speed. Look straight ahead!’ I shouted to Cole.
The Chrysler crept closer. Keeping my head low, I readied the gun for firing. With my heart thumping, I took aim, praying I would hit the target. I had to breathe. Focus, focus. Accuracy and precision are everything, I reminded myself. The Chrysler continued to edge up until I could see the mudguard. The rear window came down in what seemed like slow motion. A semi-automatic was aimed at Cole. I fired several rounds until I heard the Chrysler screech away. It spun out of control and slammed into a tree. I hadn’t expected it to be over so quickly.
‘How did ya learn to shoot like that?’ Cole yelled.
‘From an absolute asshole of a drill sergeant.’
‘Well that bad ass of a drill sergeant just saved your life.’
I noticed Cole kept his eye on the rear-vision mirror.
‘We’re not out of trouble yet, Curtis, we have more company. There’s an ambulance approaching fast.’ Cole sounded alarmed.
I was confused. An ambulance should be a relief.
‘Jesus, Curtis, you have the FBI after you!’ Cole yelled.
‘The FBI driving an ambulance? I doubt it.’
‘It’s the FBI. Trust me, Curtis.’
‘How the hell do you know?’
‘The windows are tinted and bulletproof. It’s an armored vehicle. They’re designed for rammin’. The FBI aren’t always the good guys, y’know. Sometimes they work for the bad guys.’
I reloaded the shotgun.
‘I hope you’re right, Cole. I don’t want to be killing a fuckin’ medic.’
At that moment, the ambulance came roaring up and past our vehicle. The back-double doors flew open.
Cole’s pickup was showered with bullets. I knew the tires had been shot and I was waiting for the vehicle to flip. I tightened the belt strap across my chest and curled in a crash position ready to take the full impact.
The sound of crushing and twisting metal was deafening. Our pickup flipped several times down a small embankment and then came to rest upside down.
TWENTY-SIX
The Death of a Brother
The Taipans didn’t take long to catch up. They had seen Cole and Curtis being forced off the road.
Red pulled his crowbar out of his tank bag while traveling close behind Animal. A crowbar was a handy tool, especially to scare the shit out of fuckwits who got their thrills driving bikers off the road.
Animal roared up behind the ambulance. The doors opened again. Before he had the chance to do anything, he saw an automatic. He looked back at his brothers. A burst of gunfire flashed. As the ambulance sped off, Animal’s bike flipped through the air before crashing into a ditch.
The bike was a heap of scrap metal and Animal’s mangled body lay several feet away. It was a sickening sight. Red skidded off the road. He rushed to Animal’s side and the rest of the brothers gave up the pursuit. They were no match for an automatic. Red held Animal in his arms and rocked him like a baby.
‘You’re a bloody good brother, Animal.’
Animal felt safe. He was in the arms of a brother who loved him.
‘I’m here for ya Animal. You’re not lookin’ good, but I forgive ya.’
Although Animal was coughing up blood he managed to grin.
Red reached into Animal’s pocket and gently pulled out Rat. ‘Your buddy survived. I’ll make sure he gets the best treatment.’ Red held Animal closer. ‘Do ya remember the time we got drunk on the beach and decided to go swimmin? The surf was so rough it ripped off your swimmers. You laughed so hard you couldn’t stand up.’
‘Yeah,’ Animal gasped as his breathing becoming increasingly labored. ‘Happy memories,’ he whispered, gripping Red’s arm.
Animal’s grip on his arm slowly loosened. Red continued to rock him back and forth in his arms until the light in Animal’s eyes died. Red couldn’t stop his tears.
* * *
The doctor received the call that made his blood boil. ‘How hard is it to catch an idiot? I pay big money and I still can’t get any fuckin’ results! Get back on his trail. I want to know exactly where he is at all times.’ The doctor canceled his appointments for the day and prepared his killin
g tools. You’re finished, Curtis, he thought. I’ll take great pleasure in finishing you off, you loser.
He would get to Curtis before he could spill the beans to the cops, and then, maybe, he’d think about moving away from New York.
TWENTY-SEVEN
New York
I opened my eyes and immediately smelt gas. There were no guns in sight. I crawled out of a mass of metal. I didn’t have a scratch on me, but I was groggy.
‘Cole, can you hear me! Cole, it’s Curtis, are you ok?’
‘Jesus, Curtis, you really know how to stuff up someone’s life. Stop bashing my ears with that screamin’!’
Even with his life in danger, Cole had a sense of humor.
It took all my strength to support his head and drag him a safe distance away.
Just in time. The pickup exploded, and metal missiles flew overhead.
‘Help is coming Cole, just keep still.’
‘Well, I’m not goin’ anywhere soon. Sorry Curtis, but I’m not in any shape to drive.’
‘I’m the one who got you into this mess. I’ll work it out. You have to get to a hospital.’
When the brothers arrived, something didn’t look right.
Red approached me. Was I going to be whacked?
He placed my arm around his shoulders.
I sighed with relief.
‘Do ya still need a ride?’ Red asked.
‘Yeah, but I can find my own way.’
‘No one fucks with the Taipans. Whoever killed Animal and injured Cole aren’t gonna get away with it. Whatever your mission is, I want ya to finish the job.’
‘You mean a brother was killed?’ I asked.
Red didn’t answer.
As he helped me up the embankment, I knew there was no going back. I was going to get the monster of New York.
‘I don’t have a spare helmet, but do ya think you can stay on the bike?’ Red asked.
‘Yes,’ I answered. I had to get to Brooklyn. There was no choice but to hang on tight.
‘Climb on back then, Curtis. I want ya to get this fuckin’ scumbag!’
‘I have to call an ambulance for Cole and Animal?’
‘The boys’ve already taken care of that. Here, you’re gonna need this.’
Red handed me a Desert Eagle pistol. ‘Here’s some ammo as well. She’s quite weighty but a beauty.’ From Red’s bike pack, he also took out a cell. ‘I always keep a few handy. You never know when ya gonna need a spare. The number’s on the back.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Gas Lighting
Sean Young lived alone and had no contact with his family. It wasn’t until he attended The Manhattan Well-being Clinic that his battle with cutting ceased, along with his disordered eating and sleeping patterns. His nightmares reduced, and he slept more than three hours a night.
He was seeing a psych who filled a void in his life. He no longer felt abandoned by the world. His psych was the only one who listened and validated his feelings. He couldn’t believe how much he cared about his well-being. On his first appointment, he had been fearful that the psych would think he was a loser. Now he felt free to talk about anything without being judged.
Sean had been sexually abused by a family friend when he was eight years old. The abuse occurred several times until he’d told his mom. Her response was that it was his fault and he’d been a headache since the day he was born. She’d told him to man up and get over it. There were no charges laid against his rapist and the traumatic experience made him feel disconnected from his once safe world. Everyone seemed threatening.
Before he met his psych, he used to hear punishing voices that depleted his self-esteem. He would hear his mom’s voice: ‘You’re always stuffing up, you imagine everything, I really wonder about you, I really don’t know what you’re going on about, you’re crazy. I should have aborted you when I had the chance.’
Her words were emotionally debilitating. He believed he was crazy. The only time his mom had showed him any affection was in front of others, manipulating the impression of being a loving mother. She would say, ‘I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to have children. People like that are so selfish. It’s the most fulfilling thing anyone could experience. I love my son so much I would run in front of a truck to save him.’
Because of his mom’s on-going verbal abuse, he couldn’t remember a time when he’d had friends over, fearing she would embarrass him. He’d thought he’d escaped his unhappiness when he’d found a supportive girlfriend until he discovered she’d been cheating. She’d been his confidant, best friend and lover. The feeling of loss and loneliness had suffocated him.
Sean had always pushed down his feelings until one day at seventeen, he could no longer take it and unleashed his anger, erupting like a volcano. His mom told him he was a psycho and kicked him out of home. It was a blessing in disguise. He found supported accommodation, got a job, and was then able to rent his own place. He began to have hope for the future. He could make decisions without being criticized or undermined.
He still couldn’t help but envy his friends who had loving relationships with their parents. He wished he had a normal family. Despite all his mom’s abuse, he felt sorry for her and hoped one day she would love him.
His psych diagnosed him with generalized anxiety, post-traumatic stress disorder and depression. His psychological pain was relentless. Seeing his psych helped him cope with his demons.
Spending his days in bed curled up in a fetal position was now a thing of the past. He was determined to free himself from his never-ending cycle of disempowerment. Although he was still taking antidepressants he looked forward to a future free from pills.
He found it difficult to talk about his past. His psych held the key to his dark secrets, helping him to develop coping skills. Most of all he helped him to like himself and to accept that he had special qualities. He learned to replace the critical inner voice of his past with positive self-statements.
He was meeting his psych in Central Park early today, at 5.30 am, and was excited to start what the doctor called cognitive environment therapy. He had convinced him that he still had a distorted view of the world and was seeing and hearing things that didn’t exist, causing him to be imprisoned by rigid thoughts and non-existent dangers. His psych assured him that CET would be a positive step towards well-being and psychological healing, and that the therapy would soon be recognized worldwide and published in a psychological journal.
Sean knew he needed ongoing strategies to help himself and because he feared losing his psych’s support, he was willing to try anything. He didn’t want to ask too many questions about the therapy and appear stupid. He wanted to please his psych and keep hearing him say, ‘I’m proud of you Sean. You’re doing well.’
He trusted his psych’s personalized therapy. Seeing him gave his life meaning. At Christmas, his psych gave him a precious stone and said it signified courage. The gift made Sean feel special.
Some mornings, he felt weighed down, as if a concrete slab was on his chest, but this morning he sprang out of bed. He grabbed his backpack and earphones, and jumped on a bus to Central Park.
The bus arrived on time at 5th Avenue, a short walk away from their arranged meeting place. He was a perfectionist and time meant everything. He didn’t want to be late today and risk a panic attack.
Making direct eye contact with people made him feel vulnerable, so he walked with his head down. It didn’t seem so long ago that he’d believed he was dead and was walking amongst the living. As it was early morning, there were very few people on the streets. He took a deep breath and changed his pace. Is someone following me? Am I in danger? It’s ok, I’m just imagining it, he thought, challenging his self-defeating thoughts just like his psych had taught him. I’m safe, I’m ok. I’m having an irrational thought.
Sean stood at the intersection waiting for the lights to change. Across the intersection, he could see his psych. He frantically waved at him and breathed a deep sigh of rel
ief.
When the lights changed, he stepped in the crosswalk, but a van pulled in front of him and blocked his view. He couldn’t understand why a van would stop in a crosswalk. The side doors of the van opened and in a flash, he was pulled inside. The doors immediately closed with a bang and the van took off at speed. Is this a cruel joke? he thought. But he realized it wasn’t a joke. He was living his worst nightmare. He hoped his psych had seen him and would call the police. Someone else was in the van. He felt zip ties being tightened around his ankles and wrists. The smell of a sickly cologne contributed to his nausea. Sean’s body trembled as duct tape was pulled across his mouth and a hood was placed over his head. His world spiraled out of control as he lay in darkness.
This fear was real. He was not hallucinating. I’m going to die, this is it, he thought. He struggled to breathe. What were they going to do to him? Were they going to keep him prisoner or kill him and dump his body? He felt a familiar wetness and warmth.
‘You bastard, you’ve pissed everywhere.’
Sean felt a sudden pain to his head. His stomach lurched and with it, a desperate need to vomit.
‘Stop moving or I’ll blow a hole in your fuckin’ head. You got it?’
He felt something hard pressing against his cheek, possibly a gun. Sean sensed he was disposable. His life could be over in minutes.
‘Now you be a good boy, you hear me?’
At the best of times, Sean over-analyzed and now his thoughts were racing at a million miles an hour. He hated himself for not being able to fight back. He hoped his death would be quick.
TWENTY-NINE
One Step Closer
Sarah finally got the break she’d been hoping for. There was an eyewitness account of a pedestrian being pulled into a van on the intersection of 5th Avenue and East 78th Street. A hot dog vendor named George setting up for the day thought he had witnessed a possible abduction. Sarah hoped it was connected to the doctor. It was close to his office on Madison and opposite Central Park where he liked to do his so-called cognitive environment therapy.
