Breathe

by N. M. Catalano

  That was clearly a warning.

  I dig in my jacket pocket and lay a fistful of bills on the counter.

  “Thank you.”

  As I walk out the door, I swear I hear him say, “Take care of yourself.”

  A sledge hammer smashes my hardened heart. I shake it off, just like everything else.

  Outside I scan the cars in the parking lot and across the street, searching for anyone who might be waiting for me. After a few moments, I'm satisfied. Nothing. I don’t see anything that looks suspicious. Pushing off the old brick building, I walk quickly to my blacked out 1998 Honda, got to keep a low profile, throw my duffel in the back and get in. As I pull out into the traffic, my eyes dart everywhere searching for any signs of someone following me.

  I zig zag through the congested rush hour traffic, cutting off mother's running late taking their kids to school, wait next to a business man at a stop light, the lies and bullshit spewing out of his mouth as he talks on the phone.

  These people all live in a reality I know nothing about, going to jobs and homes that are so foreign to me, they're fantasy. My world is back alleys and drug deals, weapons and retaliation. My reality is war. My air is vengeance.

  It’s time to make some new connections.

  Next stop, Ink & Arms Expo.

  CHAPTER 3

  Snake

  The devil comes in many forms.

  Reality is an illusion.

  Don't judge a book by its cover.

  Call it whatever the fuck you'd like, nothing is quite as it seems.

  Look at us. On the outside we're four inked men, former military, some would say now we're mercenaries, our uniforms are jeans and t-shirts, we quote Bukowski and Tupac, Revelations and shitty politicians, and we can rock a tuxedo as well as an MC cut. What are we? Savior or foe? Devil or angel? Good guy or bad guy? I suppose that depends.

  Look at Summer. She appears to be pure and angelic, innocent and unspoiled, a good girl waiting to take her weekly communion. Is that what she is? Maybe. Maybe not.

  What is certain, once you assume you have it all figured out, you've already lost. Stick a fork in your ass, you are done.

  That's what I'm thinking as me, Bull, and Gringo wait for Rock to meet us. There's a shit ton to do before we leave for the Ink & Arms convention but the first thing that needs to be established is are all of us going? I don't think so. The question is, which one of them isn't? And why.

  Rock's a ticking time bomb, all of us are with our fingers on the trigger itching to pull it. Normally, there would be no question on our course of action, our plan, how we would proceed with the mission. But the game has changed. We are the mission, so is Summer. We're used to being the target, that's not the problem. Our primary concern is Summer. She changes everything. Keeping her safe is the only objective. In order to do that, we can't die. They want to kill us. They'd have to in order to get Summer.

  They're not going to do either one.

  My bet is there are other variables that are about to be thrown into this already fucked up situation.

  Fucking complications.

  Rock's rage is fighting with his need to protect. The protecting isn't the issue; it's always been a facet of our missions.

  The problem is there is emotion, the 'package' belongs to us. She's ours and no-fucking-body is taking her.

  Over our dead bodies.

  Which brings us right back to the original situation.

  "Where the fuck is he?" I sit back and place my feet up on the coffee table, my fingers linked behind my head.

  "I don't know," Bull growls.

  His expression is grim.

  "Do you know if Rock received any more messages?" I question him.

  "No." Short and to the point, which is out of character for Bull.

  "Do you know if he replied?" this time I’m curt. I’m beginning to lose my patience.

  "No."

  I ask Bull questions, he doesn't shut-up. That's the usual. This short and to the point is not him. I'd bet my right nut I'm dead-on about what's going on with him. I'm very fond of my nuts.

  This whole thing sucks ass.

  The message came from Hawk, the man Rock named The Grim Reaper. With good reason. Hawk's silent and fucking deadly. He's death on steroids. Hawk is also part of The Program, like us, the organization comprised of the best and deadliest soldiers the world has to offer. He's one of the top agents, also like us. Hawk's a killer, but with a conscience, if that's even possible.

  I hope to God it is.

  Because so are we.

  I study Bull. The man is massive, he's not named Bull for nothing. He's the most laid-back out of the four us, a ball-busting, high-stakes betting teddy bear. Don’t get me wrong, when he’s in The Program mode, he’s like a rabid bull on bath salts tearing his victim apart. But usually he’s pretty relaxed. This beast sitting across from me is not him. We can't do what we do without transforming from human to machine, becoming the ruthless soldier and no longer the man. But whatever’s going on with Bull is more. His jaw is clenched, his entire body is strung tight, and whatever he's thinking about appears to be pissing him the fuck off.

  Something’s off.

  "When are you going to tell us what's going on?"

  His body doesn't move, only his eyes raise to mine and meet my stare.

  "Step off, Snake," Gringo cuts in.

  My gaze doesn't leave Bulls. Seconds pass as we stare each other off. Me, I'm reading him, daring him to break. Bull's silently telling me he wants to rip my head off.

  "Why? Does he have something to hide?" I grin slowly, fully aware I'm taunting him, waving a bright red flag in front of him. Come on, big fella, come and get me.

  "Because," Gringo continues, "he's going smash your face in."

  My grin explodes with a laugh. "He can try."

  "Right now, my monies on Bull, dude," Gringo comments casually.

  Bulls nostrils flare as his fists clench, every massive muscle in his body shifts like he's about to lunge at me, his eyes never leaving mine, until the door opens and Rock walks in the room.

  We're all at Rock's house, and Summer's. And I guess you could say I pretty much live here too. The three of us do. Together.

  It's a meeting to discuss our preliminary plans supposedly for the Ink & Arms Expo. It’s really about the mission; to determine who might be the enemy, where they’ll come at us from, and how. We have to lay out tactical plans, review the attendees list, along with the current hotel guest list and all the employees of the facility. We've got a lot of work to do and not a lot of time to do it.

  The atmosphere in the room has just intensified to DEFCON 1.

  Rock takes a seat. "Let's cut the shit and get right to the point."

  "Let's," I comment smoothly, my eyes still fixed on Bull.

  Gringo throws me a glare. "Have there been any more communications?"

  "No," Rock answers tightly. "First, are you guys coming?" he pins them both with glares.

  "Yes," it's Gringo.

  A long pause.

  Finally, Bull answers slowly, "No."

  There it is.

  "Why?" my question is as pointed as my glare.

  "Snake, you're asking me to kick your ass," Bull grunts.

  "No, I'm asking you to tell us why you think it's a good idea to leave you here alone when we know there's a hit out on all of us. Not smart."

  Is he fucking stupid?

  "Bull and I have discussed this at length," Gringo begins to explain. "All of us are aware of the situation with the information we've received so far. It's a risk, a huge risk."

  "So why are you doing this?" I ask him, looking back and forth from Bull to Gringo.

  "One of us was going to stay," there is no question in Gringo's statement. "He insisted it was going to be him. He feels his...interest is at more of a risk."

  Now we're finally getting somewhere.

  "Care to elaborate, Bull?" I ask.

  He grunts, literally fucking gru
nts.

  "English, dude, not Neanderthal."

  "It's Gwendolyn," this time Bull growls.

  Ah, the fair maiden. Sir Knight In Shining Armor finally rides.

  "I see," Rock states slowly.

  "Nothing has transpired between the two of them...," Gringo shrugs, answering some of the questions, "But..."

  "...she's his," I finish.

  The cat's out of the bag.

  Bull's face contorts with restrained aggression. "Don't, Snake."

  "Relax, Bull. We get it. That's why we're going, the same damn reason. No one fucks with what's ours. Ever." That's it, the beginning and the end of it.

  "I get it, but I don't like it," Rock states.

  "Really, why? There’s so much to like about this entire thing." Gringo and his fucking sarcasm.

  Rock glares at him.

  There is no question the whole situation is a shit storm waiting to happen, but Gringo has the incredible ability to say things in a way that pisses you off.

  "I agree," Rock states quietly. The quieter he gets, the angrier he is.

  "We all know that the best way to get to someone is to take what's most important to them. They want to take what's yours," Gringo's attention goes from Rock to me, "and the only way they're going to do that is to get rid of you."

  No shit.

  "And the only way to do that is to get rid of all of us. Which is why it's not a good idea for him to stay. He's more vulnerable alone," Rock argues.

  "How do we know they don't have someone here right now?" Bull finally blows.

  All eyes turn to him.

  "They probably set up someone as soon as that shit went down with Summer," Bull continues. "We would have."

  The guy’s not wrong.

  Rock's mouth flattens to a thin line. He has nothing to say to that because Bull verbalized what all of us are thinking.

  "There ain't a chance in hell we'd have walked away, not with the package, in this case Summer, being so valuable. Losing is not an option, and we've all got something to lose!" Bull's fists are balled so tight, he's ready to annihilate.

  Deafening silence presses down on us, heavy and thick, mocking us with images of all of the ugliest, bloodiest, horrific things that could happen.

  "You need back-up. If we're not here, you need someone you can trust." I am not leaving him alone. I can't stay, won't stay, but I can't let him be a sitting target here alone. Not fucking happening.

  "I've already got that taken care of," Bull nods.

  "Who?" Rock questions.

  No one's good enough for our brothers, except us. Let's see who he thinks we'll approve of.

  Bull's mouth lifts into a grin, a sly fucking smirk. "One of the boys back home, he's part of an MC club. Seems they owe me a favor. Turns out when I was just a little shit-kicker, before I even knew what to do with my pecker, there was a girl I helped out who some boys were trying to have their way with. Her brother’s the club's president."

  "What are the odds of that?" I laugh picturing the whole thing, him as a scrawny and lanky pimple faced, snot nosed brat beating the hell out of a bunch of punk kids.

  A glimpse of the arrogant bastard we all know and love that never steps away from a bet flashes in his eyes.

  “Pretty damn good.”

  No one speaks for a moment as the realization sets in of what's happening. We’re going to leave one of our own behind. We never do that. Never. Under any circumstances. But these are not normal circumstances. Bull’s right.

  “It’s more than just Gwen,” Gringo adds.

  He’s silently fuming. Like that’s a surprise.

  “Sasha’s husband is too high profile for her to be targeted. Besides, they won’t think of her being as much of a bargaining chip because she’s married.” Rock states the facts, ugly as they are.

  “You’re an asshole,” Gringo snaps at him.

  “Just keeping it real. You should be grateful because that’s exactly what will keep her safe.”

  “Real fucking grateful.”

  Sasha is Gringo’s married girlfriend. It’s no secret, that and the fact he and Bull play with her together on a regular basis.

  “She still needs to be watched, regardless of her cuckold husband,” Gringo glares at me when I say this. “What? I’m just saying I wouldn’t be surprised. That is if you don’t know that already.”

  “You really want to get your ass kicked, don’t you, Snake?” Gringo begins to push himself from his seat.

  “Sit down, Gringo. We don’t have time for this shit,” Rock acts as referee.

  “You’re both assholes,” Gringo grumbles as he lowers himself back into his chair.

  “Yeah, and you’re a fucking girl scout, and Bull’s a nun. Ain’t life grand.” I can’t resist.

  “Alright, if you girls are finished,” Rock begins to hand out the papers he’s got in his hand. “Here are the lists we need to go through. Cross reference everyone. We still need the floor plans of the facility the event is being held at. Fortunately, it’s part of the hotel so we can kill two birds with one stone. Get the surrounding buildings’ layouts as well.”

  "I'll focus on the Joe's, (meaning regular citizens), that work at the facility," Gringo's scanning the information.

  "I'm on the blueprints," Bull says.

  “I’ll make up a master list of any known Program members attending,” I state as I read through the information on my sheet. “Bull,” I look to my brother. We may not share the same blood on the inside, but we share it on our hands. “We need a list of your buddies.”

  I’m not leaving him with just anyone getting his back.

  His eyes lift from his paperwork to meet mine.

  He’d do the same for me.

  “Sure,” Bull replies.

  “It’s not just Gwen and Sasha,” I add.

  “I know,” Bull nods. “Mrs. Merriweather.”

  Gwendolyn's grandmother, the feisty, dirty mouthed mother figure. I'd torture anyone who even thought about hurting her.

  “Yes, all of them.”

  “We’ve got a lot to do, and we need to do it fast. Summer hasn’t been informed of what's happening, and we’d like to keep it that way if at all possible. She knows we're going to the convention and thinks the trip is only about the shop,” Rock continues.

  “How is she?” Gringo asks.

  Rock takes a deep frustrated breath. “She knows something's up, she probably senses it, but she hasn’t asked any questions. Not yet.”

  "I think she needs to know." I’ve been telling him this since the beginning.

  Rock shoots me a warning glare. "I don't."

  "She can't protect herself if she doesn't know."

  "That's what we're for."

  It's a stand-off, Rock and I firm in our conflicting decisions. I think she needs to know. He thinks she doesn't, maybe to protect her.

  I think he's wrong.

  "That might not be enough." The truth hurts.

  “We need to keep things as normal as we can. Until we can’t.”

  "Normal? This is normal for us. That other shit we've been playing the past few years, that's not normal." Gringo cuts into a situation that could explode, telling it like it is.

  "Hopefully not for long," Rock grumbles.

  I'm angry, very angry. I don't usually show it; things don't normally faze me. But this right here, this is personal for all of us. And Summer not knowing could turn out to be a disastrous mistake. Nothing is happening to anyone.

  I'll die before that happens.

  CHAPTER 4

  Raven

  Another three hundred miles. I've taken back roads and have gone through every small town I could find just to avoid a tail. The trip is taking me twice as long as it normally would, but it's definitely worth it. I'm tired and filthy, my meals have been caffeine, donuts, and potato chips, but I'm almost there.

  I don't exactly know where I'm at, but I know I'm going the right way as I pull into the service station that's at possibly t
he only stop light in this town. There are two old rockers out front with a pail between them, it's probably used to spit dip in, or boiled peanut shells, more than likely both. I park at the pump, it matches the nostalgia of the building, turn off the car and get out. While the gas is pumping, I grab my phone.

  "No signal, who would've guessed it?"

  Leaning against my car, one foot propped up on the back wheel, I look around. Stretches of asphalt in four different directions lined with old white houses, a feed and grain store, fields, and parked John Deere tractors.

  We're not in the Emerald City anymore, Toto.

  The pump clicks as I toss the phone back in the car thru the open window and onto the passenger seat.

  "I need a new burner anyway."

  The tap, tap, tap of my stiletto knee-high boots drift off into the humid breeze as I step inside the small store. It's nothing like a corner convenience mart, but more like you've stepped back in time onto a Mayberry television episode. The old screen door clangs shut behind me and directly across from the door sitting on the end of an old counter is a small television complete with a set of rabbit ears antenna. The Price Is Right's on, I hate that fucking show!, but no one's around. If a Ford pick-up truck hadn't just passed, I'd wonder if this entire town was abandoned. Ignoring the loud canned laughter coming from the TV, I head directly for the soft drinks refrigerator at the back of the store and grab two Pepsis, go up one aisle and snatch two packages of sticky buns, (after I check the expiration date - like that's gonna kill me), and a few bags of potato chips. When I approach the counter again, that's when I hear it, voices coming from the back. My heart’s pounding. Male. I didn't catch them before because of the old TV, I should smash that piece of crap. Slowly setting my things down on the counter, I look around casually as I try to catch what they're saying. But I can’t.

  The television's too loud.

  I know I stick out like a sore thumb, there's no way in hell I'm blending in. Even if I were dressed in a gingham dress with flip-flops on my feet and my toenails painted a pretty shade of gag me flamingo pink while carrying a fresh baked apple pie, no doubt everyone knows everyone else around here. Besides, my tats scream 'Bad Girl', They have no clue how bad. I shake my apprehension. I just want to get out of here. Fast.