by Zahra Girard
The second he appears, Mack mutters something disturbingly profane under his breath and casts a warning look over to Stone.
“Stone, it’s finally good to meet you face to face,” the old man says. “I’ve heard a lot about you, especially from some of your boys. Mack, Snake, good to see you again.”
“The fuck are you doing here, Bowen Dale? Why aren’t you back on your fucking mountaintop living out your fucking retirement in your ivory trailer park?” Mack says.
“Trust me, I’d rather be there. I’d rather be anywhere than here. I didn’t come to Lone Mesa by choice, you know. I was compelled. And, when you get to my age, it takes a fucking lot to compel you to do something.”
“What do you want?” Stone says.
“Peace, quiet, freedom — all of which I had back in Carbon Ridge. I could go about my business, indulge in whatever caught my fancy, and even pick up the occasional job from time to time. Guys like me never fully retire; this sort of work is in the blood, it’s part of the fiber of your being, and if you’re not partaking from time to time, you’re not truly living.”
“What the fuck does that have to do with my club?”
“Your club took that away from me; took my livelihood and my freedom. An old lady to one of your club members gave me her bar, signed the deed over to me in lieu of paying the fifty thousand dollars I requested for my services, and then that same evening one of your club members committed an act of murder and arson in that bar. An act of very public brutality that could not be kept quiet. An act that caught the attention of federal agents. An act which led to a very abrupt end to my life there.”
“Cry me a fucking river, Bowen,” Stone snaps. “You know the risks that come along with this life. I will not indulge your fucking petulant attitude just because one of my brothers had to get his hands dirty to keep his woman safe. Any man with a fucking backbone will do whatever he has to do to protect his family and his club.”
Bowen Dale trades a momentary look with his nephew. It’s a look that overflows with icy cunning. I tighten my grip on my gun. The tension between Stone and Bowen Dale is so thick it’s suffocating; one wrong move, one wrong word, and there will be a lot of blood spilled into the thirsty California desert sand.
“You know, Stone, I’d hoped you’d be more agreeable. All I wanted was for you to kill two fucking people and bring me their files so I can see just how much they know and figure out how to get my life back on track,” Bowen Dale looks toward the sky for a moment, then lets out a sigh. “But I guess I was wrong on that count. Though I was right about your fearless dedication to your family and your club. Which is why I have a backup plan.”
Slade pulls a phone out of his pocket, dials, and says three sharp words: “Take them, now.”
“What the fuck are you doing, Bowen Dale?” Stone snarls, raising his gun, which incites every one of us — Twisted Devils and Bowen Dale’s men — to raise our guns in turn. Everyone except for Bowen Dale himself, who strolls back to his car with a grin on his face.
“Answer me, you son of a bitch,” Stone says. “Answer, or I’ll bury you up to your neck in this desert and let the crows pick the flesh from your bones.”
The old man grins, opens the door to his car, and sits himself down in the driver’s seat. With a gesture, he signals for his men to lower their weapons and get ready to leave. Car doors slam, engines start, and then Bowen Dale leans out the window, as casual as if he were talking to a friend on the sidewalk.
“You’re a businessman, Stone. I know that about you. That’s why your club’s done so well. I respect that. That’s why I’m going to give you a little incentive — protecting your club’s interests and protecting your family. Maybe once you’re you’re motivated, you’ll re-evaluate your decision.”
Tires chew dirt and engines roar as the two cars speed away, heading in the opposite direction of Lone Mesa. The old man’s threats are clear; my throat tightens and my blood fills with enough adrenaline to give me the kind of pre-combat rush I felt in Afghanistan.
Stone growls, getting on his bike and starting it.
“That son of a bitch is going after my family. We need to find them. Now.”
I hardly hear him over the pounding of my heart.
Addie’s in danger.
As my bike sends dirt and gravel flying as I speed out of the parking lot, all I can think about is getting to Adella.
Before Bowen Dale’s men get to her.
Before it’s too late.
Chapter Nine
Adella
“Get down, Addie,” my mom screams, reaching over from the driver's seat, putting her hand on the back of my head, and forcing my head down just a moment before a hail of gunfire rips into the SUV.
Bits of steel and broken glass pepper my body. I scream, but my screams drown among the roaring flood of bullets, the howl of the vehicle’s engine as my mother floors it, trying to gain distance on the men behind us.
More bullets, then a too-close crash as Razor hammers his pistol against the passenger window, shattering it so he can lean out and return fire. A second behind him, Trips does the same and my ears ring with the roar of a war zone.
I might be screaming, but I can’t tell.
The SUV wobbles, there’s a ka-thunk that sends me bouncing high in my seat as we jump the curb and plow through a mailbox in front of an abandoned refinery. We’re miles from home, miles from help, and, with every passing second, death draws closer.
Behind me, Ruby’s strident voice cuts through the maelstrom of bullets.
Turning my head, I glimpse her, with her head down, phone to her ear.
She smiles at me, reassuringly.
“Your father’s coming,” she shouts.
Then she reaches into her clutch purse and draws out a pistol, holding it in a tight grip. She doesn’t have a shot where she’s at — not unless she wants to sit up right where they can see her — but I know she’s ready. With a woman like Ruby, all she needs is the smallest opening to strike.
She smiles at me again. And winks.
It will be OK, that wink seems to say. Or at the very least we’ll give these bastards hell before we die.
There’s another car-shaking thump, followed by the shriek of steel and a spray of sparks that cascades in an arc behind us. The tire’s blown, we’re chewing up the rim and we’re still miles from home.
We’re not going to make it.
Another rat-tat-tat tears into our vehicle, answered only by several cracking shots from Razor and Trips that do nothing to stem the tide of bullets washing against us.
To my right, there’s another titanic burst and more sparks, some of which fly through the shattered passenger window and land on the back of my neck and in my hair, making me scream with their burning heat against my bare skin.
Another tire gone.
The SUV starts to slow. Distressing metallic screams come from the wheel wells.
“Stay down, Addie,” my mom yells in one of the brief intervals she takes as she raises her head enough to see over the dash. With a sharp jerk, she rights our course on the road and then turns to me, a fearful look on her face. “We’re not going to make it much further. Hold on. I’m going to try something.”
Suddenly, she slams her foot on the brake, sending a torrent of sparks raining down in front of us and, in a swift motion, she slams the SUV into reverse. Tires and steel rims shriek as we fly backwards, and that shriek is cut short in a moment as the SUV hammers into the front end of the car behind us.
The blow of the impact shakes me to my bones and sends me crashing into the front dash. My teeth clack shut, the copper taste of blood fills my mouth; I’ve bitten my tongue.
“Now, buddy,” Razor shouts to Trips, and they both throw open their doors and come out guns blazing, hoping to take advantage of the moment of surprise my mom’s bought us.
But the men behind us aren’t amateurs.
They’re ready.
The second Trips and Razor emerge and fire, the air fi
lls with the rat-tat-tat retort of their automatic weapons. Trips screams — his blood splatters the door behind him and he staggers to the ground, clutching his shoulder, while blood gushes from between his clenched fingers.
Another round of rapidfire sends Razor sprawling to the ground seeking cover.
I duck back down.
My throat closing tight in fear, my senses overwhelmed with the smell of gunsmoke and the taste of my blood in my mouth.
I want to scream, but I can’t force my body to cooperate; mortal terror and adrenaline have taken over and all I can do is picture the horror that lies in front of me — capture or death at the hands of these thugs.
Car doors open and slam shut.
Feet pound the pavement.
They’re coming closer.
There’s another burst of gunfire, enough to keep Razor pinned.
The driver’s side door is ripped open.
The big one, Silas, lays hands on my mother.
My door flies open.
“Time to go,” says some frightening, tattooed thug.
He grabs me by the shoulder.
“Don’t you fucking touch her.”
Ruby’s sharp command is followed by the wicked crack of her pistol, and the man touching me stumbles backward, blood shooting from the side of his neck in a wicked spurt.
But he doesn’t let up.
And he doesn’t let go.
His gnarled, powerful hands grab me by the hair and my arm and he rips me out of my seat.
But I won’t let him take me that easily.
In that moment, I remember who I am — I am my father’s daughter; I know how to fight; I won’t let this man have his way with me.
“Get the fuck off me,” I scream and I sink my teeth into the flesh of his forearm, bite so deep I pierce skin and feel blood color my lips. My hands turn to fists and I punch and kick at him with everything I have. Shins, stomach, groin, throat, I strike at them all.
He releases me.
Wounded, bleeding, he takes a step back.
And raises his gun.
“If I can’t take you…” he starts.
But I refuse to stand there, shocked, while he kills me.
I leap at him, clawing at his face, kicking at him with everything I have, a ferocious tornado of uncontrolled violence.
He hits the ground with me on top, and I keep striking him. Aimless, chaotic, but enough that his blood stains my hands, his skin peels beneath my scratching, sticking under my nails.
I’m mad with bloodlust, with adrenalized fear and trauma, so deep in my warlike confusion that I hardly hear the approaching motorcycles.
At least, not until another crack from Ruby’s gun sends a bullet into the head of the man beneath me. Stops his struggling. Snaps me out of my frightful rage.
I look up.
See her holding the pistol, stoic look on her refined face.
I hear the slamming of car doors. Look to see Silas, his furious face covered in blood, running in retreat, leaping behind the wheel of his car, slamming it into gear and making a hasty retreat.
It’s only when he’s gone and my father and Snake and the others arrive on motorcycles that I realize where I am; on top of a dead man, covered in his blood, tasting a mix of his life and my own; a man that I killed.
When Ruby puts her hand on my shoulder, I whip my head so fast looking to her; paranoia and fear floods my body.
I just killed someone.
“Get away from me, please,” I shout.
A look of shocked understanding crosses her face.
She’s done this before. Many times. She’s numb to it now, but she knows what I’m going through.
My father’s the first off his bike. He races to my mom, throwing his brawny arms around her, pulling her bruised and bloody face to his chest. He cradles her, while shouting to Mack and Brewer to chase after the men who came after us and for them to send Stitch here as soon as possible.
He gives the same orders to Snake, too, but Snake isn’t listening. Just as fast as my father races to my mom, Snake races to me.
He puts his arms around me.
My cheek meets his chest.
I feel safe. Safe enough to release every emotion pent-up inside me in a howling wail against him. His shirt becomes stained with my blood, my attacker’s blood, and my tears; a wet, smeared mess of red — gory mosaic of my agony.
“Let it all out, Addie,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’m here for you.”
Simple words, but they’re all the encouragement I need to vent everything inside.
I’m almost ashamed by how good it feels to be held by him. How, even amid this carnage, I’m enjoying the touch of his skin against mine. Enjoying smelling the leather and pine and motor oil scents that seem to be ingrained in him.
Then I swallow and realize I’m swallowing some of the blood of a man who is lying dead on the ground at my feet. Planting both hands on his chest, I push Snake away; I turn my head, and I retch. Retch until my stomach feels empty and I’m heaving with dry nausea as I try to expel every horrific drop.
It’s as I puke that Snake takes hold of my hair, pulls it back from my face while I expel myself onto the thirsty desert sand.
“It’s OK,” he says. “It will be OK, Addie.”
I’ve never been more of a mess. Never been more ruined. Ugly, bruised, bloody, I’m a disgusting sight, and yet Snake is looking at me with such warmth and tenderness. His voice is so deep, so calming, like an ocean I could swim in and forget all the horror I’ve just witnessed.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
His eyes open wide and I realize I must be shouting — a product of all the shooting, a deafness that thuds in my ears.
He reaches for me. Like that, I’m back in his arms. Still a frightful mess, still leaking tears on his shirt, still finding solace in his encircling arms and the touch of his chest against my cheek, still feeling shame for how good it feels for him to hold me amidst all this horror.
I could stay here forever. Want to stay here forever.
But reality intrudes.
An expletive — sharp and brutal — that snaps both our heads toward my father.
Snake raises an eyebrow. “Stone?”
My mouth opens wide, a fresh wave of fear washes over me.
My father has his phone to his ear and rage on his face. Eyes wide, brimming with dark intent like thunderclouds on the horizon prophesying a storm.
I tighten my grip on Snake.
He does the same — his arms encircling me with a sheltering squeeze.
“What is it, Stone?” He says.
My father ignores the question.
Instead, he takes my mother by the arm and drags her toward his bike, grim determination all over his face.
“Dad,” I shout. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Stone, tell me what the fuck is going on,” Snake says.
He stops, then.
“Addie, you and Snake get on his bike. Stitch is on the way and he’ll help Razor and Ruby clean up this mess and take care of Trips. I need you and Snake to get home and get safe. I have to get the hell back to the clubhouse, now.”
“Why? Dad, what’s wrong?” She says.
“Axel just called. The shipment never showed. They found the truck and driver in a ditch outside of town. The guns are gone. That bastard Bowen Dale stole our fucking guns.”
Chapter Ten
Snake
The woman I care about most in the world shakes in my arms. Quakes in fear. Overcome with terror at witnessing her first murder in the kind of vivid, gut-wrenching closeness that burns itself forever into your heart and mind.
It rips me up seeing her innocence tainted like this.
And it stirs my blood to murder.
I want to get ahold of these men that forced her into this situation, that threatened her life, and make them suffer until the torture and agony I inflict on them ruins their sanity. I want to beat them until their teeth shatter and they
drown in their own blood. I want to cut them open until they spill every last drop of their life upon the dirt. In their last moments, I want them to feel unspeakable suffering and remorse; I want them to beg me for the mercy that they know will never come.
Because they dared to hurt this woman in my arms.
This woman who, every time she looks at me, doesn’t see a monster scarred by war, but a man who makes her smile.
No one else looks at me that way.
No one.
It’s a gift I don’t deserve. And a gift that I will forever cherish.
Then, as I hold her, Stone speaks. Speaks in that tone that calls forth memories of drill sergeants, of commanding officers barking through the torrent of combat, and the part of me that will forever be a soldier, forever be in service to the Army Rangers, springs to life.
“We need to get moving,” I say to Adella. Say it though I want nothing more than to stay in this moment where I am holding her, comforting her. But I can’t fight that sense of loyalty to my club, to my commanding officers, that is burned into my soul. The best I can do is make my tone gentle, but firm. “It’s time to go, Addie.”
She stills her tears.
Brave girl.
She nods. “OK. Let’s go.”
I lead her toward my bike, my hands still on her arms, guiding her, steadying her. She shakes at my touch, and I have to fight like hell with my urges to keep from wrapping her in my arms again and holding her.
“I will get you home. You will be safe. Come on,” I say, as much to remind myself of my duty as anything else.
Stone is already on his bike, and we’re not far behind when she suddenly halts.
“Wait, I forgot something,” she says.
And she runs back to the gun-ruined wreckage of the SUV and pulls out from underneath the front passenger seat a manila envelope that’s surprisingly intact and covered with a half-dozen stamps.
It’s a simple action, but it’s not one without cost.
She casts a sad-eyed look at the dead man, and fresh tears shine in her eyes while fear and disgust twists her face. She will never forget this moment.
