by Naomi West
I pull into Sun Town and stop on the outskirts. I climb from the jeep and put the handgun into the back of my jeans. Then a thought occurs to me. I check the trunk and find a shotgun and a submachine gun, as well as a backpack of ammunition. I load the submachine gun and sling it over my back by the strap, and then carry the shotgun at my side. I walk away from the road, cutting across a basketball court which is dead silent at this time of night.
The Saints’ clubhouse is about a three- or four-minute walk, but with my wound it takes me around ten, limping and pissed at myself for limping. Suddenly the idea of me saving my men seems pathetic: one man, injured, with three guns. Versus how many? Ten, twenty? I almost turn back, it’s so absurd.
I round a corner and the clubhouse comes into view. I go to the outhouse we sometimes use for meetings and crouch down behind the door, listening. There’s nobody in the outhouse, but noise comes from the clubhouse. I close my eyes and listen closely. Music, playing quietly, and under that, men talking. I hear glasses clinking together, the general sounds of life and activity. I wonder for a moment if it’s my men, but I push the idea aside quickly. My men wouldn’t drink and listen to music while their boss is prisoner. Maybe some of the fellas who really thought I was giving away ours guns, but Lion, Timmy? No damn way. Which means that somebody else is in the clubhouse—my fuckin’ clubhouse—and they’re treating it like their own.
I grit my teeth and take a deep breath. I have a tribal sense of possession for this clubhouse. More than any other place in Texas, it’s where I grew up. This was my stomping ground from the age of twelve to the age of twenty. This is where I learned how to fight, how to outlaw, how to ride and how to gun. The idea of some Wraith bastards taking it for their own makes me sick.
I creep toward the back, shotgun aimed in front of me, and then press myself flat against the wall.
“You never played it?” a man says from inside the kitchen. His voice drifts out from the slit window at the top of the wall. Something makes a sizzling frying noise.
“No. You’re into that video game shit. Not me.”
“It’s good,” the man says. “It’s damn good. You ought to give it a try. It’s probably the best game I’ve ever played.”
“Yeah, but I don’t play that video game shit.”
I move along the wall, walking as quietly as I can. Every step squeezes down on the bullet hole in my leg, but I ignore it. I can’t let pain rule me. I can’t let pain cripple me. I won’t. I stick in the shadows until I’m at the side door which leads into a hallway and then into the meeting room. I stop on the corner, holding my breath. Two men stand at the door, not more than two feet from me.
“Do you reckon he’s dead yet?”
“No word.” The man exhales. I’m so close, I see the smoke from his cigarette drift into the air. “Who knows, though? Some of these bastards are real weirdos. Might be doing stuff with his body, Edmund Kemper style.”
“The fuck you talkin’ about?”
“He’s a serial killer, man, one of the weirdest.”
I clear my throat loudly and then back away to the bush, crouching low.
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
“Are you kidding me? It sounded like a cough.” A man steps around the corner. He’s built stocky, with a flat face and a Norse rune tattooed between his eyebrows. In his hand he holds an automatic rifle. “Who’s there?” he calls into the darkness.
I move around the bush slowly, fully in predator mode now. I feel like I’m on the hunt. I creep around the bush as the rune-tattooed man walks further into the darkness. I end up close to the remaining man. He’s about my size and holding a pistol. He has a nasty scar down one side of his face, snaking down his chin and neck. I wait for his friend to disappear completely into the darkness and then leap forward.
“What the—”
But that’s as far as he gets. I smack him across the mouth with the butt of the shotgun, twice, three times, and then catch him as he falls and carry him into the bushes. I hit him once more to completely knock him out and then move back down the bush.
“Sam?” the rune-tattooed man says. “What’s going on? Sam?”
He stops, turns back to the door. I circle with him, keeping the same distance from him at all times, and when his back’s to me I leap over the bush and bring the shotgun down on his head like a baseball bat. There’s a sickening crunch and then he collapses to the floor, on his face. I hit him again and drag him to his friend, and then search their bodies. I know from experience that Brose’s men sometime carry cuffs, or rope. The rune-tattooed man has a set of cuffs in his pocket. I handcuff the men together, back to back, squeezing the cuffs tightly around their joined wrists.
Then I take their guns and return to the rear of the clubhouse, stow them, and go back to the side door. I crouch low, automatic rifle aimed forward, and then step slowly through the side door. The hallway offers memories. I see a little Dante tugging at his older brother’s sleeve as his older brother goes into a biker meeting. I see a little Dante sitting with his legs stretched out on the floor and a comic book in his lap. I see gruff men, mostly dead now, patting my big brother on the back. I nudge open the meeting-room door with the barrel of the rifle.
The room is empty, but beyond it I hear noise. I head to the bar door and nudge that open a sliver, just enough for me to see into the bar. I catch a glimpse of Lion, his mouth taped over with duct-tape, his hands bound in his lap with rope. And then I see the other men, all of the men, sitting in the middle of the bar like war prisoners, mouths taped, hands bound. Lion looks up and catches my eye. His face becomes angry, and then settles. He’s a practical man, and he knows anger will give me away.
“Do you think I enjoy this?” My blood runs cold when I hear his voice. “Do you think I get some sick pleasure out of this? I don’t. I truly, sincerely, don’t. I wish the world could be all rainbows and love and kumbaya. Really, I do. But it seems your leader is intent on making my life difficult. Was intent on making my life difficult, I should say, since he is now dead. Yes, that’s right. Your esteemed leader is currently lying blood-soaked at the bottom of a sandy ditch, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Do you want to know the funniest part? He died for some slit!” Brose laughs madly. “His brother was a fool. Markus was perhaps the biggest fool I have ever met. But he would never have given his life for some slit like your moronic leader.” He steps into view. I see him from the back, a shadowed figure with a claw gripping his cane. “You might be wondering why I’m keeping you alive. Well, the reasoning goes like this. I want to give some of you a chance to see the light and agree to work for me. Oh, I understand that not all of you, or even most of you, will see the light. But surely some of you don’t want to give your life for a man who stole your money and guns and gave them to me?”
Some of the men nod at this, but not many. They may like money and guns, but insulting Markus was a mistake. Markus was loved by everybody. Markus was the leader I can never be. Markus was the true hero of this club. And some of them know about the trackers, so they know I’d never give away our goods without taking precautions.
“I’ll give you another hour or so,” Brose says. “Then a river of blood will flow through this clubhouse, and your corpses will be stacked like logs ready for winter, and I’ll burn each and every one of you to the ground.” He smacks his cane against the floor. “Each and every one of you!”
I back away from the door, wondering what to do. I need a plan, something to even the odds. The life of every man I’ve sworn to protect relies on it.
Chapter Nineteen
Selena
I stop when Dante stops and follow him across the basketball court to the clubhouse. I have my gun at my side but I don’t feel safe. I feel exposed, and silly, and like I have no business being here. I know I could turn back. I could sneak back to the car and return to the city and hide someplace, but the idea of leaving Dante is scarier than the probable danger. I crouch low and watch as he be
ats up the two men and ties them together, and then I wait for several minutes.
These minutes are perhaps the most torturous of my life. I kneel down and watch the clubhouse, wondering if Dante’s been caught. Clearly, Brose and his men are here, since Dante just took two of them out. I wait and wait and wait, and I’m steeling myself up to go in there when Dante creeps out. He limps around the bushes. I follow him as quietly as I can.
I catch him at the rear of the club, kneeling down and watching the club.
I rustle some branches. He flinches, brings his rifle to me, and then lowers it. “No,” he says. “Fuck, Selena. No.”
His reaction makes me want to snap at him even if I understand it. “I’m here now,” I say.
“But not for long,” he retorts. “I’m not allowing this.”
“Allowing it?” I whisper. “I came here because I chose to come here, not because you allowed or denied it. You don’t get to allow or deny it.”
“I just want you to be safe!” he snaps, taking me by the arm and leading me away from the clubhouse. “You’re putting us both in danger by being here. I hope you know that. You’re putting everything at risk. How do you expect me to fight if you’re here? How do you expect me to save my men when I’m worrying about you catching a bullet? Do you think that’s fair to me? Do you?”
“I’m not leaving,” I say. Maybe there’s some truth in what he’s saying. But I can’t just leave. I can’t, and I won’t. The idea of leaving him is like a block in my mind. As soon as I entertain the concept the block slams down and eradicates it.
“This is insane,” he mutters, stopping near a small pile of guns. “You’re a woman; you’re my woman now, and you think I’m going to let you—what is it you want, Selena? Do you wanna be in a gunfight?” He stands over me, staring down at me with hard eyes. “I’m seriously asking now. Because I have no damn clue what you want. I have no damn clue what you’re doing, or what your goal is, or anything.”
“For you to be safe,” I insist, taking his hand.
“And you think the best way for me to be safe is for you to follow me? Are you fucking crazy?”
“Maybe I am a little crazy!” I yank my hand away. “Maybe we both are! But so what?”
“Okay, okay.” He takes me by the shoulders, squeezing softly. “You need to be quiet, and you need to go.”
I fold my arms stubbornly. “I’m not going.”
“You’re not getting into a gunfight,” I say. “That’s not happening.”
“Okay, then. Let’s compromise. What can I do?”
He rolls his eyes. “I don’t understand why you have to do anything.”
“Sorry, but aren’t we wasting time by standing here debating? Shouldn’t we be, like, doing something?”
He flinches and I know I’ve got him, but then his face hardens. “You’re going back to the car,” he says, taking me by the wrist. I try to snatch it away but he grips harder and drags me further away from the clubhouse. “I’m not having this, ma’am. No damn way.”
“Do you really think I want to be manhandled again, Dante? Do you really think that’s going to make me love you?”
He pauses, releasing my hand. “I’m trying to do what’s best for you.”
“That’s funny. Clint said that, too. He used those exact words, in fact.”
“That’s not fair,” Dante says. “You know that’s not fair.”
“Do I?” I snap. “All I know is that I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions, so if my decision is to stay here and help in any minor way that I can, then you should respect that.”
He rubs the bridge of his nose, sighing. “You’re impossible.”
“Listen to me. I don’t want to be in a gunfight. But I want to help. I’m here to help. So why don’t you tell me how I can help instead of arguing with me about it?”
“Why don’t I just send you in there?” he snaps. “Just send you into the clubhouse and let the men do whatever they want to you, right? Just head off to Whisper’s hut and wipe my hands of the whole thing because my lady’s got it handled. This isn’t how things are done in this world, Selena. It’s just not how we work.”
“Time isn’t moving any slower,” I say. “So we can either waste more or get to work. It’s your choice.”
He looks deeply into my eyes. “You are not going to be here when the bullets start flying,” he says. “I swear to God, Selena. I’ll drag you back to the car if I have to. Once we’re done, you leave, you hide. If you don’t agree to that, I’ll have to restrain you.”
“Threatening me with violence again?” I say, voice bitter.
“If you want to phrase it like that.” He shrugs. “It don’t matter none to me, as long as you’re safe.”
I look into his face, really look into it, and see that he means it. He doesn’t look at all like Clint. When Clint said he was hitting me for my own good, it was a twisted trick of logic designed to make me feel bad for the horrible things he did. But restraining me would bring Dante no pleasure. He wants me to be safe. That’s all. I see that in his face and it cracks my heart in half. One half of me wants to rebel, to proclaim that he cannot decide for me even if deciding means staying alive. The other half understands. And then I think of Mom, and the survival half gets stronger. If I die out here, I’ll never see her again.
“When we’re done, I’ll go back to the car,” I say, and he breathes sigh of relief. “But what, exactly, are we doing?”
He reaches into his jacket and takes out a hunting blade. “We’re going to the parking lot and we’re gonna slash every tire, every single one.” He hands me the knife. I take it. It’s heavier than I expected. I hold it carefully. He takes out another knife. “Let’s go. Be quiet. Be silent. Be as silent as a mouse.”
“Okay,” I whisper, questioning why I was so adamant that I wanted to do this. I’m terrified, I realize. I swallow my fear and trail after Dante. Quiet as a mouse: that isn’t too hard for me.
We sneak around to the front of the clubhouse and then Dante goes off to the opposite side and nods for us to begin. I kneel on the concrete and bring the blade to the tire, stabbing as hard as I can. I stab too hard; the knife sinks in and pulls me with it. I know better for the next one, and by the time I’ve done three bikes I have the method perfected. I stab, crawl, stab, crawl, all the while hearing music from the clubhouse, Johnny Cash and then Elvis and then some modern pop tune which has the men groaning. At any moment they could come out here, one of them wanting some air or to smoke a cigarette or to change guard duties. We work quickly, but not quickly enough to stop the hairs on the back of my neck from standing to attention.
We meet in the middle once all the tires are punctured. Dante takes the knife from me and slides it into his jacket, and then brings his fingers to his lips. I nod and he leads me off to the side, to the garage. The big door is open and a shell of a car sits on cinderblocks. “Do you remember where Whisper’s car is?” Dante asks quietly. “I’m assuming it was Whisper’s car?”
“Yes, and yes, I remember.”
“I want you to run for it as soon as we’re done here,” he says. “Run as fast as you can and then crouch down on the floor, put your hands over your ears, and don’t move for anything. I’ll come get you when it’s over. Now hand me that gas.”
I hand him a metal container of gasoline, grunting with the effort. He takes it with one hand and starts pouring gas all over the garage.
“Take that one there.” He nods at another container. “Spread it all over the place, especially the walls.”
“Okay.” I do as he says, splashing the walls with gasoline, struggling to lift it over my head to get the top of the walls. I’m careful, but some of the gasoline splashes back onto my face and clothes. By the time we’re done, standing at the entrance, I reek of the stuff.
“Shit, a lighter,” Dante says. “Wait here.”
He returns a moment later with a flip lighter.
“You need to leave now,” he says. “No argu
ments.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
He flips the lighter. The flame lights his face. His eyes are dark, and yet there’s a glint in them. It reminds me of the tip of a blade. He looks dead-sharp and just plain deadly. “I’m going to fight,” he says. “Now go.”
I’m going to leave. There’s no way I’m saying here and getting involved in what’s about to happen. He’s right about that. But I can’t leave just like this. I grab his face and kiss him, hard, kiss him with the kind of passion only the prospect of never being able to kiss him again can produce. I kiss him until the fire between our bodies is hotter than the fire of the flip lighter. He kisses me back even harder, pushing his tongue into my mouth. I push my tongue against his, the tips brushing, nerves flaring, pleasure exploding. I grab his arms, his muscular arms, and move my hands down to his hands, his strong hands. He has closed the lighter but the metal is still warm.
