by Zahra Girard
“Yes it does. Tell me.”
“What I have to do, Roxanna. This is to protect my family.”
“Murder?”
“When it’s either that or be murdered, it isn’t much of a choice now, is it?”
“You have other options. There’s law enforcement—”
“The sheriffs are in the pockets of the Iron Devils. The same guys your father, the judge, works for. This is our option. We don’t handle this, we die. We don’t take care of this — for good — then I don’t ever get to see my daughter.”
“You’re so set on this. If you care about me, at all, don’t do this. Find another way.”
“Another way? Are you fucking kidding me? This is to protect my family. When I got out of the service, they were here for me when no one else was. When I was so fucked in the head that the first thing I thought about every morning was killing myself, the only thing that kept me from pulling the trigger was knowing I’d let them down. Do you think I can just let them die?”
“What about your daughter? We could go to her, right now. I know where she is. Hell, if you want to kidnap her, I’ll help you. We can take her and run. Anything but this. Please.”
“And what? Live on the run knowing I failed my family? No. We’re finishing this, and then I’ll get my daughter back.”
“You’re better than this, Nash.”
“It’s Bear. Now you’re telling me it’d be better to leave my family to die? That’s not how it works. You don’t get to make that call,” he says, his voice rising just below a shout. “I love my daughter, which is exactly why I have to do this. I can’t let threats to her — or to my family — go on living.”
“Think about what you’re doing. How does this solve anything? How can you talk about wanting to raise your daughter right, and then in the next breath, talk about killing people?”
“Roxanna, you can back me on this, or you can go. That’s it. If you want to stay, we’ll protect you. But if you can’t support us, then you need to leave.”
“My father’s wrapped up in this, do you understand? Who’s to say you or the club won’t decide that he needs to die, too?” I say, looking into his eyes. Begging to see him waver, to give me some hope that the violence might end. “I have family of my own, Nash. Don’t I mean anything to you? I’ve helped you — I’ve cooperated, I’ve stolen my dad’s records — because, for some fucking reason, I believed you were a good person.”
More than anything, I want him to be the man I know he can be.
“I care for you, Roxanna. Despite everything I told myself when I kidnapped you — that you were just a bargaining chip — I care so damn much. But you’re not going to change my mind. Either support me, or leave.”
I look into his eyes, willing him to change his mind. My fear for my family, my fear for him, the overwhelming feeling that everything is spiraling out of control, is tearing my heart to pieces.
“I can’t,” I say.
“Then go.”
Sudden. Unhesitating. Those two words crush me without mercy, leaving me weak and small.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Get in my way, or get in my family’s way, and you’ll just wind up hurt. Go back to Chicago, go finish your internship, and go build yourself some calm, quiet life. Forget about me.”
“Just like that? You expect me to forget about all this?”
“I’m not going to abandon my family.”
“I’m not asking you to abandon your family, I’m asking you to look for another way.”
“There isn’t one.”
No more words. No amount of reason or pleading can change this man’s mind.
He leaves me, alone, in the parking lot, watching his back as he heads into the clubhouse to plan a war.
Maybe he is beyond saving. It guts me to think that. Fear and dread and heartbreak roil my stomach until I feel ready to vomit this morning’s wine upon the pavement.
I take a breath and try to find resolution, strength, something to keep me going. If I can’t save him, at the very least I can save my father.
* * * * *
“Holy shit, Roxy, what the hell happened to you?” Maria says the second she lays eyes on me.
I am, simply, a wreck. Inside and out, I feel broken and bruised, though the only thing that’s taken a wound is my heart.
Still, it’s so good to see her. As much as I hurt, I can’t help but smile at my redheaded friend.
“It’s too much to explain. I just need you to do something for me.”
“You know that excuse isn’t going to work on me, right? There’s only two people on earth I’d fly across the country for last minute: you, and David Tennant. And in either case, I’d demand to know why.”
“David Tennant? Really?”
“I have a thing for insanely charming and handsome men.”
“Ok, fine. The short story is that the guy I went home with is, sort of, in a biker gang. And he may be about to commit some serious crimes. Including murdering people.”
She looks at me, unfazed. “Fine.”
“Just ‘fine’?”
“I accept your explanation. It’s a fucking valid enough reason for you to call me out here. Now, what do you need me to do?”
I pull out the files I took from my dad’s office and slide them across the table to her. She opens the folder, casually looks them over, and then shuts the folder again.
“I need you to hold onto those. I’m going to try and stop what’s happening, but if you don’t hear from me after a few hours, you need to take those files to the Department of Justice’s office, or the FBI, or someone and you need to show them and you need to explain that there is some serious corruption going on between the sheriffs department, the Iron Devils motorcycle club, and some of the judges.”
“Judges? Like?”
“Take a guess.”
“Fuck me sideways. Really?”
“Exactly.”
“I mean, seriously, fuck,” she says, swirling the last of her pint of beer around in the glass, repeating the word fuck a dozen times over. Patrons turn and stare. “It hurts to even say this, but, shit, I think you might have been better off with Erick.”
“You’re kidding,” I say, finishing my glass of wine. It’s glass number four for the day, I think. I’ve been trying to get courage in whatever form I can. Maybe if I drink until I’m blacked out, I’ll be able to handle this situation. “Even if the world were ending, it’d still be preferable to getting back together with that creep.”
“True. Even if it were a zombie thing, and I were the last woman alive, I’d learn to like dead people before I got together with Erick.”
“You mean necrophilia?”
“Whatever it takes, Roxy. They’d probably be better lovers, too.”
I don’t know whether to agree with her, or be offended, so I just move on.
“Remember. If you don’t hear from me in a few hours, do whatever it takes to get these files into the right hands,” I say, standing up and Maria stands as well. I wrap my arms around her. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she says. “Sorry I said that necrophilia is preferable to your ex. Even though it’s true, it was insensitive timing, and I’m sorry about that.”
“You’re forgiven. As long as you don’t mention Erick ever again. Or talk about fucking zombies.”
“Agreed.”
We break our hug and I head back to the parking lot, starting up the lumbering beast of a truck and coercing the resistant steering-wheel to take me back out onto the highway. Despair, dread, desperation, all drive me forward at a delirious speed.
I have to save my family. Whatever it takes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nash
We wait till nightfall.
Nerves on edge, guns cocked and loaded, every single one of us recognizing the fact that tonight is a night that could break our club if the chips fall wrong. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs, we won’t allow that to happen. All of us on
our bikes except for Rog, who’s behind the wheel of his truck, a titanic machine — the kind usually driven by men with cocks the size of pinky fingers.
He looks proud to be driving that truck. Normally, I’d give him shit for it. But there’s too much at stake to badger Rog about his possibly-small cock.
I’m still stinging from sending Roxanna away like that. It hurt me deeper than I want to admit. But what she doesn’t understand is that each and every man in this club is a brother. They’ve seen me at my worst, when I was a piece of shit coming out of the Marines, disillusioned with the world after a few tours in Iraq and Afghanistan and ready to die. They saw me at my lowest, they knew what I was going through, and they picked me up and provided me what I was lacking the most: family.
Sending her away was the right thing to do. She’s too good to be mixed up in this shit. Even though this is for the survival of my family, I know it’s not good, in any sense of the word. When I tell my little girl about the things I’ve done and the kind of life the boys and I lead, I’ll leave this part out.
“Get ready,” Gunney says. “Remember, no witnesses.”
The impound lot isn’t much to speak of. Dirt field, chain-link fence topped with razor-wire, a few dogs, and a handful of security guards. Though, knowing what kind of cargo they stole and knowing the shitheels we’re dealing with, I’m certain there’s more than a few Devils waiting for us in there, somewhere.
Our truck waits for us near the middle of the lot, sandwiched between a Dodge Dart and a late 60’s El Camino.
Gunney gives the signal. One flick of his wrist and Rog springs into motion, gunning the engine of his truck and speeding straight to the gates.
Steel screams and razor-wire snaps as collides with it, breaking through the gates with ease.
We hit them like a storm. Bikes thundering, guns ready, smiles on our faces.
Raiding this place is going to bring even more heat on the club. But it’s our only play. We lose the cargo, and we’ll have some powerful customers take payment out of our hides, while the Devils finish off whoever remains.
That can’t happen.
We tear inside.
Someone screams — we’ve been spotted.
A security guard comes charging out of a corrugated steel office building, with a look on his face like he’s about ready to piss himself. He gets halfway to raising his gun before Preacher blows a hole in his face with a sawn-off shotgun.
Shouts come from three other parts in the lot and there’s the unmistakable bark of guard dogs.
I almost feel bad for what’s going to happen to the dogs.
Bullets fly through the night, cutting through the stillness and tearing towards us with a vengeance. They barely miss us as we take cover.
“Flank these bitches,” Gunney shouts, motioning for the team to split up.
We move out, breaking into groups of three and tearing through the yard on our bikes.
Ozzy, Gunney, and I get up on the guards first. Ozzy, with dead aim, takes two out before I even squeeze my trigger. The third goes down with two of my bullets in his chest.
“Nice job,” I say to Ozzy. “You’re a natural at this.”
Rapid gunshots — one after another with no hesitation between — rip through the night air and three more dead men and however many dogs hit the ground. Another group of guards that’d been sneaking up behind us.
“You’re welcome,” Preacher calls out.
“Beers on me, later,” Ozzy shouts back.
Certain we’re clear, we circle back to the cargo truck.
Leaving Grease to watch the gate as a lookout, the rest of us join Rog by the cargo truck.
“Jynx, get this fucking truck open. Now, you maggot,” Gunney shouts and Jynx digs a prybar out of the back of Rog’s truck. “Ozzy, take a couple of the prospects and head into that fucking office. Burn it the fuck down. I don’t want any security tapes getting out. And you find anyone hiding in the can, kill them.”
The night’s quiet, but, in my head, I can already hear the approaching sound of sirens. I want this job over. I want these guns back in the hands of my club.
I want my daughter back.
Jynx rips the padlock off the back of the cargo truck with his prybar. The rolling steel door flies up. Gunney shoves his way forward, eyes locked on the back of the truck.
Jynx curses.
Gunney whips out his gun and blasts a fury of bullets aimlessly into the back of the truck. It’s empty.
“What the fuck?” Jynx yells.
Gunney turns to me. “Are you sure about the intel?”
“Positive,” I say. “The prick had no reason to lie. It makes sense for them to keep the cargo here — it’s secure, and no one in their right minds would go after law enforcement like this.”
“Where the fuck are our guns?” Rog says, leaning out the window of his truck.
All of us look to Gunney. The prospects and even some of the patched riders like Jynx and Grease look nervous. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
It goes quiet in the yard. The only sound the distant crackle of the fire in the impound yard’s main office.
“Something’s wrong,” Preacher says.
“You think?” Gunney snaps.
“All this for bugger all?” Ozzy says, peering into the back of the truck. “The hell is going on here?”
Some of the guys murmur their agreement. I keep my eyes locked on Gunney, silent. I may not like where this is headed, but, he’s our President, our commanding officer, and, in a combat situation like this, you work as a unit and follow orders.
But there’s this nagging doubt in me. Our enemies are a step ahead of us.
I start to think about Roxanna — fuck, I hope she’s somewhere safe — and my daughter. That sweet little girl is out there, somewhere, waiting for me.
Even before Gunney orders us back to the clubhouse, I’ve got my bike started. And I’m not the only one. Every hair is standing on the back of my neck as I hit the road.
Something is very wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Roxanna
It’s late-afternoon when I get to my parent’s house. The sun’s hanging at that point in the horizon that’s just an hour or two before it turns into a fading red ball that’ll cast streaks of scarlet across the sky. Trepidation builds inside me as I ride up my parent’s long driveway.
How am I going to tell my father I know what he’s up to?
How do I stop this?
Court’s over. My dad’s car sits in the driveway alone.
I charge inside, insurgent fear rippling through my voice.
“Dad,” I shout. “Dad, where are you?”
Even before he answers, I know exactly where he is — the same place he was most every afternoon as I’d come home from school. The same place where I spent evenings studying, preparing for the SAT’s, college exams, and any other number of tests and projects. He’d sit across from me, silent, doing his own work, but always ready to help the second I ask a question.
It feels so strange now, stepping into his office, being surrounded by books on law, and knowing what he’s done. The image I have of him, shattered.
“Hey Roxy,” he says, hardly looking up from his newspaper.
He’s so calm, it’s enraging.
I storm forward, slam my hands on his desk and lean forward. How can he be so calm about things?
“I know what you’re involved in,” I start. “I went through your files.”
He turns a page of the newspaper. “Do you, now?”
“Yes. How can you just sit there? How could you do any of this? I respected you, dad. I love you.”
“You don’t know the half of things,” he says, still so even-voiced I want to scream. “You’ve rendered judgement with hardly any of the facts.”
“So, what, you’re not working for the Iron Devils? Because it sure as hell looks like you’re taking payouts from someone.”
“I am.”
“What else is there to know? I can’t believe my own fucking father is a fucking criminal.”
“Jesus Christ, Roxanna, watch your language,” he snaps, setting the paper down. “Listen to me: I didn’t have a choice.”
I quiet at his rebuke, but it doesn’t quell my anger. “You’re a judge.”
“I’m a father. A husband. I love my wife, I love my daughter, and, about four years ago, these assholes made it clear that if I didn’t cooperate in this scheme of theirs — help them make money from the custody system — they’d kill you.”
“What the fuck, dad. And you didn’t try anything? Talk to the cops?”
I want to hit him — it’s the same damn thing, with Nash, with my dad — they think they have to solve their problems on their own, in their own way.
He pauses. “When they first asked, I told them to go to hell. A week later, they sent me photos of you. You on on campus, you in the grocery store, you in your apartment. And then, a man came to our door, with a photo of you, asleep in your bed. So I did what I had to do.”
“There were other options,” I say, my voice not much more than a whisper. “Anything other than what you did.”
“And risk losing you? Or your mother? Not a chance. I love you both too much to let that happen.”
“There has to be something else. You could talk to the FBI.”
“I’ve been working for them for years, now. There isn’t any chance I get out of it without going to prison, without having my assets taken because they’re tainted with money I’ve taken from the Devils,” he says, getting up to move around the desk. “I can’t let you or your mother be hurt like that.”
He gives me a hug that feels both familiar and strange; this man is my father, but he’s not my dad. It hits something inside me, something desperate, a part of me that wants to scrabble the pieces around me into something resembling sanity.
I shake him off; push him away.
“How can you use me or mom as reason for doing the things you’ve done? Like it’s our fault that you’re too weak to do the right thing. You’ve torn families apart, dad. For money.”
