by Max Henry
“Oh, fucking cry me a river,” Carlos scathes.
I lose the marginal hold I had on my deep disgust for the sorry excuse for a human beside me and swing out at Carlos, connecting with his jaw. His head whips to the side as the sharp crack from my right precedes a burning sensation that spreads from my left calf to my ankle and thigh.
“You try a stunt like that again,” Carlos spits, “and it won’t be a warning shot, you fucking asshole.” He swipes at his jaw with the palm of his hand, as though still in disbelief that I would do such a thing with two guns trained on me. Can’t say I’d expected to be so careless either. The man makes me do crazy things.
“First you fuck her behind my back,” he grinds out through his teeth, “and then you have the audacity to steal her.” The heel of his right hand sends me sprawling backward, unsteady on my leg that feels as though the lakes of hell run through it. “Does she fuck you good? Huh? Suck like a God-damned Hoover?” He shunts me again, and this time I strike back, yet miss him as my knee gives out from the pain. “She has to be good at something, because fuck knows the bitch ain’t faithful.” He laughs snidely and shoves me in the leg with the toe of his shoe. “Ever worry that she’ll do the same thing to you, asshole? Once a cheater, always a cheater.”
“Nope,” I say. “Not worried, because I’m not a cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch like you. Unlike you, fucker, I know how to treat a woman, how to show her I love her.” Carlos steps back, his fists at his sides. “But hey, you wouldn’t be able to do that even if you tried, since there’s no room in that soulless chamber you call a heart for love. You’re a lonely little man who uses his paid friends to boost your ego.” I jab my hand towards his guards who watch the exchange with keen interest. “Because that’s all you have, isn’t it? Paid friends. No fucker actually wants to be around an asshole like you. Nobody. Likes. You. And just like the nerdy little kid in the corner of the schoolyard, it fuckin’ kills you.”
His nostrils flare, his eyes darker than two lumps of coal as he stares down at me, his fingers twitching. I push up with my elbow and get to my feet as his right hand whips under his suit jacket.
We draw at the same time, muzzle to muzzle, both out of fucks to give for what happens next.
He goes down as my finger hits quarter-way on the trigger. Carlos’s men point their weapons toward the source of the shot. The ends of their rifles wave wildly about as they fail to find the sniper. A slow grin spreads on my lips as I catch the glimpse of a grease-stained mechanic’s boot heel I know all too well disappearing into the garage.
Carlos screams blue murder from his position on his knees, one hand clutched to his blown elbow. Beefy draws and drops one of the guards. The remaining three spin to cover themselves as I drop another and Beefy takes his final count to two.
Apex steps back, his head whipping this way and that as he looks for a way out.
Decisions, decisions. Do I take out the last guard, keep my eye on Carlos, or stop our double-crossing president in his tracks? Seems our injured drug lord has made his mind up, which in turn solves my dilemma for me.
The fourth and final guard drops to the floor with half his head blown over the back of a sofa.
“Fucking useless,” Carlos yells. “Pay peanuts, I get monkeys.” His revolver waves wildly between Beefy and myself. “Who’s next, assholes?”
“Set it down, son.”
Our odd arrangement stills as we all turn our heads to take in the old boy from the bar, standing behind Carlos with a stubby pistol pointed directly at the back of the drug lord’s head. “She might be a little ’un, but she packs enough of a punch.”
A chuckle erupts from Carlos, which grows into a full-on belly laugh. “Touché, my fine sir.”
“What’s it going to be then?” I ask, limping to stand directly in front of the outnumbered bastard. “Feel like dying today?”
“You wouldn’t have it in you,” he sneers.
“Wouldn’t I?”
Carlos scoffs, moving to stand. “Bet you’ve never even taken a man’s life, you gutless fuck.”
“Hasn’t he?” Apex asks from where he’d been making a line for the garage. “Try him and see what happens.”
I glance across at the guy, surprised that now he decides to step up and defend me. Then again, if I shoot Carlos it sorts out yet another loose end for the fucker.
“Popped your cherry, huh?”
I swing my gaze back to Carlos, not keen to give him one up on me by being distracted for too long.
“It’s a bit like a tattoo,” I tell him. “You’re apprehensive about that first one, but once you get started”—I make a show of scratching myself with the butt of my gun—“you get that itch for more.”
“Fucking do it then,” he growls.
So I do. I take the invitation offered and pop a hole straight through his left shin. He screams out, reaching for his weapon when it gets kicked out of the way by the old boy
“Finish it then,” Carlos taunts through gritted teeth. “You know if you keep me alive your life won’t be worth it.”
I do. And as much as the thought of leaving him to breath his last on our clubhouse floor gives me a hard-on, I have to think for the future. I kill Carlos now, where does it stop? Are the Blood Eagles next? And what then when the next person moves in to have a go at taking the position of top dog?
“Why did you want us fighting the Eagles?” I ask, head cocked to the side. “What’s in it for you?”
Carlos chuckles, blood seeping between his fingers as he clutches his leg. “I’m not telling you fucking anything.”
I shoot his right leg—give him a matching pair.
His eyes turn black as night as he stares up at me, fighting back the howl of agony that he keeps caged behind clenched teeth. “Position, okay? That’s all I’m telling you.”
“What could they have that you need?” I’m genuinely stumped. He’s a cartel boss. They’re a bunch of bike-riding felons. No comparison, I would have thought.
“International reach.”
Of course. The Blood Eagles hail from Europe. They have links to chapters in Norway, Sweden, and Denmark.
Apex steps up beside me and stares down at Carlos, a frown pulling his forehead into deep lines. “If we went to war, we would have killed those fuckers. You need them alive if you want their help getting into Europe.”
Carlos stares at Apex blankly for a beat, as though only realizing the gross error for himself. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Leave us out of it,” I say. “I’ll make you a deal. You agree to my terms, you walk away—or crawl as the case may be—with your lonely fuckin’ life intact.”
“What are the terms?” Carlos seethes.
“This club and anybody who belongs to it, patched member or family of one, are left alone—untouchable. If that means you have to provide fuckin’ protection when you know of danger, then so be it.”
“That can’t be all,” he says. “Surely?”
“Nope. Elena. You walk away and admit you fucked up, not her.”
His ice-cold eyes hold my gaze as he grinds his jaw left to right. “My life in exchange for forgetting your club and that whore of ours?”
I close my eyes and brush away his deliberate insult. “Yes.” My chest aches at the betrayal toward Elena. I told her I’d kill this fucker. But the one thing I’ve wanted most is a change for our club; I want to steer us away from this violence. How am I going to start the change if I carry on the habits? I need to be the one who sets an example, who shows there are ways to resolve conflict without our members having to become murderers.
Carlos’s gaze drifts around the room at the array of weapons pointed at his head and chest. “Doesn’t matter what I think, does it? You’ve got me by the balls.”
“That we do.” I smirk at the asshole, contemplating whether I should just give him one to remember me by anyway or not.
“Deal.” His shoulders slump as he holds out a hand.
I lean ove
r and take it with caution, aware that he’s the kind of sneaky fuck to pull one over on me when I don’t expect it.
He takes my hand and pumps it vigorously, twice. “Seems we have ourselves a truce.”
“Seems we do.”
“One final condition before we separate our hands and make this official,” he says with a smirk of his own.
“Spit it out.”
“Any of your men, or family of your men if we’re making this fair, come onto my property or involve themselves in my business, this agreement is null and void.”
“Deal.” I narrow my eyes on the asshole, looking into those shark’s eyes for some glimmer of a real man behind this cold façade.
Empty. His soul is as empty and black as a used oil drum. Probably just as toxic, too.
“Trust you can see your own way out?” I drop his palm and wipe my hand on the leg of my jeans.
Beefy steps up beside me, waiting for Carlos to take the hint and go.
He eyes each of us left in the room in turn, tipping an imaginary hat to the old boy who trumped this whole show. I fight to steady my breathing as he runs both palms over his tailored suit, albeit a blood-stained one, and pulls himself up with the aid of the old boy’s hand. He nods at us all and takes the first limped steps toward the exit. Carlos stops just short of the splintered door and hesitates. My breath catches in my throat; my fingers twitch around the handle of my gun. He shifts one foot forward as though to carry on, and then spins abruptly to limp at a quick step all the way back to where I stand, my index finger slipping inside the trigger guard.
“One last thing,” he says, shaking a finger as though he’s trying to remember the exact details. “I met an interesting man a couple of weeks back while I was doing some digging on you.” He clicks his fingers, a frown pulling a deep furrow between his eyebrows. “What was his name? Terry? Jerry?” My gut roils as he slowly smiles. “That’s right. Perry.” I swallow down the remnants of the gas station hotdog I scoffed for lunch. “He wanted me to pass on his regards. Says he hopes you have no hard feelings.”
Carlos turns and strides for the door, chuckling as he goes. Beefy grabs my arm, but I wrench it free and send a bullet sailing straight through the fucker’s shoulder. Fuck it. I was aiming for the heart. My hand shakes with rage induced adrenalin.
He folds over, falls to his knees, and curses a string of profanities that run into one incoherent word.
“Enough,” Apex snaps, pushing my gun down with a palm to the top of the warmed barrel. “You’ve made your point.”
Carlos’s back heaves where he kneels just shy of the doorway. Anxious seconds pass as he stays prone, yet to react. Slowly and gracefully, he stands, dusts his jacket off, and walks for the door.
He’s more than likely figured out that if he fights back, he’s as good as dead. If he’s half as clever as he makes out to be, he would have also realized he fucking deserved it.
“What the fuck was that about?” Beefy asks, spinning me around by the shoulders as a distant car engine starts.
“Perry is the man who murdered my brother.”
TWENTY-FIVE
King
Early-morning school traffic clogs the roads by the time Gloria’s worked on her bullet-recovery skills and stitched me up for the second time in as many months. I arrive at Mom and Dad’s a little before lunch, hungry as hell and keen to explain to Elena about the truce.
The front door is open as I approach and an errant stillness envelops the house, despite the gentle breeze rocking the swing seat. I draw my weapon and step lightly inside, cursing the stupid buckles on my boots and my ingrained habit of leaving them undone and, consequently, noisy. I checked over my shoulder the whole way here, but what if they weren’t behind me? What if they were in front?
Everything sits as it should—no upturned furniture, discarded ornaments, or signs of a struggle. I scan the walls for bullet holes, the floor for blood, and the tops of the cabinets and shelves for anything that looks even an inch out of place.
Everything rests exactly as it has for the past twenty-some years.
Paranoid much, King?
“Mom?” I come full-circle on the ground floor and look out the back door at the small cottage garden my parents keep.
Her sunhat is visible over the top of the lawn chair, sitting out amongst her flowers blooming in deep shades of pink and purple.
“Mom?” I call again, stepping off the back porch.
She sits up and twists to watch me approach, her hands on the arms of the chair. “Lloyd.”
“Where’s Elena?”
“How did you go? Is it all sorted out?”
I narrow my gaze on her as I come to a stop beside the chair and squat to her level. “Why are you asking?” I know this has been the biggest thing I’ve ever asked of them, but she never wants to know anything about the club and the less than desirable things I do for them.
“I’m curious, is all.” She reaches out and pats my arm. “I’ve been worried.”
I sigh and take a moment to let my mood soften. She means well; I’m on edge is all. It’s been a long night with no sleep, and too many life-or-death moments for my liking.
“Her husband won’t be an issue anymore.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, scooting forward so she can sit straight. “I mean, is he . . .?”
“Dead?” She nods. “No. We came to an . . . understanding.”
She stares at me wide-eyed, predictably shocked. “From what Elena said he wasn’t the kind of man you could discuss matters with.”
“He’s not. We had to give him some motivation to want to.”
“Oh.” Her head turns and she squints out over the fields beyond the clichéd picket fence. “Your father should be in for lunch soon. I saw him herding the stragglers back to the paddock a wee while ago.”
“Not helping today?”
“No.” She shakes her head with a smile. “Having a rare day off. I don’t really know what to do with myself.” Her laughter dies off to an awkward silence.
I glance back at the house and down to the paddocks. “Where is she then, Mom?”
“Lloyd . . . I’m sorry.”
All kinds of scenarios spring to mind: what if the whole deal with Carlos at the clubhouse was a decoy for the real damage here? What if my parents weren’t equipped to handle what Carlos sent to do the job? My fear irrationalizes every detail my common sense throws at it; if Carlos sent his men over, Mom wouldn’t look so well. If a fight went down, then the house wouldn’t be immaculate. I push to my feet, unspent energy building as the seconds tick over without Mom offering any more information.
“What happened?” I ask, pacing to a dark pink flower and plucking the petals.
“She left.”
The flower head snaps between my fingers. I toss the bloom to the ground and turn to face her. “She what?”
“She left, Lloyd.” Mom stands and closes the space between us, her arms outstretched.
I swat them away, backing up until my back hits a low trellis. “Why didn’t you stop her? Why did you let her get away?”
Mom hugs her arms across her chest and steps back. “We tried to talk her out of it. She’d made up her mind, Son.”
“No.” She can’t have left. Where would she go? “Did she say where she went?” Perhaps she went for a walk and this is all a huge misunderstanding.
“No.” Mom runs a palm over the side of her face, the light in her eyes dimmed. “I asked, but she wasn’t sure where she’d go.”
I shoot Mom one last look laced with all the disappointment I can muster and then jog toward the house, only to stop at the porch steps. “Which way?” I call over my shoulder. She’s only really got one direction if she wants civilization within the next thirty miles, but Elena doesn’t know that.
“I didn’t see.” Mom rushes to my side and grabs my forearm with both hands. “Don’t go running after her,” she implores me. “Elena left hours ago. She could be anywhere by now.”
>
“I have to try. What if the stress harms our baby, Mom? It’s a long fuckin’ way to walk to reach anything.” I stare up at the damn sun, squinting as its glare blinds me. “It’s hot out today. She might be out of water, or—”
“She’s gone,” Mom reinforces, squeezing my arm. “She took food and water with her.”
I shrug Mom’s hands off, knowing what that implies if Elena was prepared. She helped. My own mother helped crush my heart.
“Let her go, Lloyd. She left for a reason.”
“Like what?” I holler, throwing my hands in the air. “What God-damned reason could she have for leaving when I’ve only just got her back?”
“She didn’t want to have all of this in her life,” Mom shouts, starting to cry. “She wanted to protect your child. She wants a life that isn’t ruled by your loyalty to something other than your family.”
“What cocked up fuckin’ excuse is that?” I scream, ignoring the pang of regret at seeing Mom flinch. “Why the fuck didn’t you stop her?” I ask again. “Why?”
I don’t stick around to hear her out. Her pathetic excuses won’t change the fact that I’ve spent all this time without her in purgatory for nothing. Mom calls after me as I crash through the small gate and into the dirt yard. Her footsteps chase mine as I head for the barn and throw open the doors.
“Lloyd! What are you doing?”
“Fuck off, Mom. You’ve done enough.” The sane part of me knows that blaming her for this is futile. She did what she could; none of this is her decision or doing. But the anger pouring out of me needs an outlet, and she’s the closest thing with ears. I’ll have plenty of time to regret it later.
“Lloyd,” she yells as I rip the sheet off my old farm bike. “King!”
I hesitate at her desperate use of my road name to get my attention, and then march across to the tool rack to pluck a sledgehammer from the hooks.
“What are you going to do?” She eyes the implement in my hands, a frown twitching on her brow. “What’s that for?”
Her constant questions fade as I kick the bike over with a splutter and a roar, and tear off down the track, the sledgehammer resting across my thighs. My teenage years helping out on the farm come back to me as naturally as riding the two-stroke dirt bike. I duck under each temporary gate across the lane without dismounting, using the handle of the sledgehammer to lift the reflective tape over me as I pass through, hardly slowing for the corners in the tracks.
