Lane

by Trent Jordan

  “For the foreseeable future.”

  As usual, all eyes turned to Red Raven when he spoke.

  “This is not a reactionary thing, but a generational thing. The youth fear guns. They do not understand their power. As they gain political power, they will seek to stamp them out more and more.”

  “Fucking Millennials,” I said with a hint of a smile. “Okay, so that’s for politicians and gun stores. What other options do we have?”

  I noticed Axle sharing a look with Butch and Father Marcellus before turning back to me.

  “We have a group that is willing to sell us guns in Compton,” he explained. “We need to make a run out there with a nice-sized unit for protection. What do you say?”

  Before I even said a word, Patriot leaned in and stared bullets into me. It was obvious what his message was. This is your chance to show you’re a part of the club.

  When Axle said, “What do you say,” he wasn’t asking for my approval. That was obvious. It wasn’t a question—it was a demand disguised as a question. A demand that I join them and help them carry out the run, no matter how risky it was. In fact, the riskier it was, the better. A riskier mission would have a better chance of ensuring I got into a situation in which I’d have to prove my worth.

  Prove I was something I wasn’t quite yet—afraid of dying.

  “I say we do it,” I said, emphasizing “we.” “Butch, Axle, Patriot, and I will complete this. We do what we need to do.”

  I couldn’t lie. I spoke the words quickly enough that I wouldn’t have the chance to take them back. There was absolutely a nervousness to my words that even a child could have picked up on. The confidence wasn’t there.

  But I could see the surprise on Axle’s face. Butch was impossible to read, and Father Marcellus didn’t have much of a reaction. Axle’s reaction, though, said it all.

  “Axle, when would we need to go on this run?”

  “Tomorrow, ideally,” he said. “The Hovas will supply the guns. I’ll communicate with them and set up exact details, but they want this done ASAP.”

  That’s probably better. It’ll force me to go on this run before I suddenly change my mind and become a coward. I need to prove myself and do it now instead of doing it later.

  “Works for me,” I said. “Anything else anyone wants to say?”

  No one did, but what was clearly left unsaid was that the room seemed a lot more at ease than when I had walked in. Perhaps Patriot had had a point after all. Perhaps he and Axle and everyone else who wanted to see me involved had a point.

  Perhaps I was the only one without a good point.

  “Alright, Axle, keep us updated on the run,” I said as I grabbed the gavel. “Dismissed.”

  If I was expecting some sort of adulation and praise from the other club members for suddenly having the courage to take part in a mission, it wasn’t forthcoming. Axle, Butch, and Red Raven left the room as if it was any other meeting. I knew it wasn’t fair to be disappointed, but I had expected at least some sort of reaction.

  Father Marcellus simply said, “Good meeting,” before standing and heading out the door. I suppose that was his way of saying I had done better. It seemed to be about as much as I was going to get.

  Then again, I supposed that what I was doing was less a commendable thing and more of something I should have just been doing all along. I wasn’t special for taking parts in mission—if anything, I was the opposite of special for trying to “rise above” the missions and not do them.

  Finally, I was left with Patriot, who just smiled.

  “That’s more like it, man,” he said.

  “Was wondering if any of you guys would give a fuck,” I grumbled. “Seems like no one cared.”

  “Oh, they cared, and they do care,” he said. “You may not have noticed it, but they all noticed it. Remember who they are. They’re not going to give you love and hugs, but now, they’re not going to snipe at you.”

  I guessed he was right.

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks, Patriot. I’ll be out in a sec.”

  “You got it,” Patriot said, taking his leave and walking out the door.

  I still feared death.

  That hadn’t changed. If I had hoped that the words would have given me some previously undiscovered well of courage to fight, well, that hadn’t happened. I was mortified, mostly, of a painful death, the kind where I’d bleed out slowly, with no one there to help me—maybe I’d get forgotten in the battle or, worse, maybe I’d get hit and the rest of the Black Reapers would intentionally leave me to bleed to death.

  Hopefully, my involvement in this run would precipitate that, but for right now...

  I needed a little bit more help. I needed a little bit of encouragement that apparently only Patriot was willing to try to give me. I needed some inspiration.

  So, I headed for the one place I could get that.

  Visiting my father’s grave never got easy.

  It was especially awkward given that I had taken a club truck to head out there, the better to avoid the glares of those at the yard. The last thing I needed was for Angela to be there and to slap some sort of a public disturbance fine on me. God, how fucking much that would have sucked.

  And then I pulled up to the actual cemetery, and wouldn’t you know it, Miss Deputy DA was there at Shannon’s grave.

  She briefly looked back at the truck but then turned back to the grave, perhaps convinced since someone in a truck had pulled up, it wasn’t a Black Reaper. I really didn’t give a shit—I would pay Shannon a visit later. I just didn’t need to deal with that nonsense from a state official right now.

  I hopped down from the truck, walked slowly to my father’s grave, and knelt before it.

  “Dad,” I said.

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t even know why I’m here,” I said. “I mean, I do, but I don’t know why I need to be here. I was willing to fire upon the Fallen Saints at your house... but now? It’s like I’m suddenly a giant pussy. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know how the hell to lead the club. I don’t know how to do anything! It’s like...”

  I took a deep breath. What I was doing was stupid and unbecoming of a leader. I couldn’t act like this in front of anyone, most especially the man who had had the foresight and courage to start this club.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “You always set a good example for me. Just... give me courage when I go out tomorrow. Okay?”

  A gentle wind blew across the yard as I spoke—as if that was the response my father had given me.

  I remained there talking to my old man for about fifteen minutes, thanking him for giving me the will to go on this run. I told him that it had taken me a year to remember to not be so aloof, but that because of his example, I was now in a position to better help the club.

  Maybe I was giving thanks to something and someone who had no actual sway over me right now. Maybe my father was forever gone, and there was no afterlife from where he was looking down upon me. Maybe this was all just silly nonsense.

  But you know what?

  It made me feel just a little bit better.

  And if the soul of my father couldn’t do that, the memory of him sure could.

  Angela

  I knew as soon as the truck pulled up that it was Lane Carter.

  He at least had had the decency not to drive that ear-deafening motorcycle to this sacred place, but just seeing him burned me inside. No amount of medication could properly calm me after seeing a guy like that, especially the way he treated me when I went to his clubhouse a week ago.

  But what was perhaps worst of all was the doubts that he had planted in my head since that day.

  He had insisted on his life that he had not murdered Shannon, but I couldn’t let it go that easily. I was still determined when I left his shop to get a warrant on something, anything, that would allow me access to their territory so I could uncover more crimes in the process.

  I started by continuing to p
eruse the crime files of every single member of the Black Reapers in my free time while giving the minimum amount of necessary attention to the problem of drug crime in the area. I had some warrants sent out for the arrest of a few local druggies, but that was about it as far as my official work went. I spent most of the time scanning through the files, wondering just how many crimes had been scrubbed or outright ignored by Beth and the other officials here on account of corruption or “accidental” ineptness.

  Admittedly, there just wasn’t as much as I wanted there to be. It was almost like the club had agreed to get arrested on some of the more minor charges, like public intoxication, DUIs, and other things, in agreement to not get charged on some of the more severe crimes like murder, drug running, and other matters.

  I suspected as much because when I looked at some of the files for members of the Fallen Saints, the rival club of the Reapers, their rap sheets looked like a relisting of every criminal offense in the codebook. Murder, theft, rape, arson, property damage, fraud—you name it, they had done it. I had a hard time believing the Saints were totally evil and the Reapers were totally antiheroes of some kind—they all were MCs, they all came from similar backgrounds, and they all had the same social ideals. It wasn’t like one came from Nazi Germany, and the other came from Native American tribes.

  I couldn’t get my head around the perceived corruption in my very own office. The very office sworn to protect the public was only protecting one small, rogue group of outlaws in Springsville. And the only way to get them in trouble...

  Was to get one of them to crack.

  I had to do some digging and figure out who I could get the most leverage on. It wasn’t enough to go for someone who had a long rap sheet and someone at risk of more jail time—I had to find someone who was also high enough up the chain to make a difference, someone who had grievances with the club, and someone whom I knew I could keep alive if it got found out they were the rat.

  Which, unfortunately, was easier said than done.

  And that said nothing about having an airtight case to take to Beth. If I didn’t have that, there wasn’t any point to this—she’d throw me out of the office or, worse, find a way to take me out. And even if I do...

  I shook the thoughts and the sight of Lane off and knelt before Shannon’s grave. It was like we were back in her backyard, playing on the lawn, both of us just sitting down under a clear sky and bright sun.

  “Hey, Shannon,” I said. “I hope you’re doing well up there. I’m sure you’re telling my grandparents all about the crazy life in Springsville.”

  I laughed but had to stop to avoid crying.

  “Look, I can’t lie... I’m sorry I’m not bringing you to justice. I’m sorry that... that I haven’t been able to corral your killer and bring him in.”

  Your killer...

  I hadn’t said “the one responsible for your death,” which, in my mind, was still Lane. I had specified “your killer,” the person who had pulled the trigger.

  And if Lane was to be believed, that was Cole Carter. He was the one who needed to face justice.

  If anyone could find him, that was. As far as society was concerned, he was gone. There wasn’t a great deal of interest in trying to find him now.

  “I’m going to do whatever it takes, Shannon,” I said, wiping away another tear. “Whether it’s a Saint or one of the Carters who did it... ”

  And whether or not I have to do it on my own or if I’m able to do it legally...

  “I will fix this wrong, Shannon,” I said.

  No matter what it takes. No matter how long it takes. No matter what rules I have to bend.

  Lane

  Night had fallen upon Springsville, and outside of the shop, all seemed peaceful.

  It was one in the morning, and everyone else had gone to bed or at least gone home. Businesses had closed. Only the owls and the crickets of the night made noise. Even the police, for the most part, were getting some shuteye. Only a local cop whom we had long befriended roamed the streets, and he understood that as long as we weren’t making extreme amounts of noises, we wouldn’t be bothered. It was a mutual agreement that benefited everyone.

  Even within the compound, things were relatively quiet.

  But as I had learned under my father, one should never mistake quiet for inactivity.

  A single black van backed up to the entrance of our shop with the back open. In the trunk, bags with over five thousand dollars in cash total were thrown in. I had handled bags of cash before, but I had to say, every time I just casually threw in a bag with a thousand dollars in it, it felt much heavier than its actual weight.

  When we finished loading, we went over the logistics one more time.

  “Patriot, you’re driving the van,” I said. “I’m riding shotgun. Butch, Axle, you’re providing cover on the bikes. All good?”

  “All good, brother,” Axle said.

  He never smiled—the man was far too intense to do that—but he did the closest thing he did to that, widening his eyes. Butch gave me a fist bump, which at his size was equivalent to someone else actually punching me with their fist. Patriot and I shared a hug.

  “Alright then,” I said, trying to sound just a wee bit more confident than I actually was. “Let’s move out.”

  One of the many downsides of this trip was that we had to go to Compton and to the Hovas base to complete the sale. Perhaps wisely, they were not about to come into our space. As much as we didn’t like to admit it, the sight of many black gangsters rolling into a town of predominantly white older folk would not look good, no matter how progressive of a club we were. Even the presence of Axle, a black man, would do little to quell the fears.

  It probably didn’t help that the Fallen Saints liked to provoke racial tensions from time to time as a way of getting on our nerves and the nerves of the city.

  It also really didn’t help that for all the talk I had done in the days before, and as much as there was almost no turning back now, I was a hot mess.

  Axle and Butch may not have noticed it—or they may not have said anything—but when Patriot saw me as I got in the front seat, with my throat dry and my legs bouncing, he didn’t start the car immediately.

  “You okay, man?” he asked.

  I looked at him, thought about lying, and just laughed.

  “What the hell do you think, man?” I said as I leaned an elbow on the door and looked away from him, a bit too embarrassed.

  “I think you should be as concerned you are for how few runs you’ve gone on since you became President.”

  Ouch, okay, that’s a bit on point. But fair.

  “But I also think that once the ball gets rolling, you’ll be fine. You opened fire when the Saints came to your father’s place. You’ll figure shit out if anything goes down here.”

  “That’s a big if.”

  I was just hoping that this deal would go down without anything more than some simple posturing. While the Hovas and the Reapers had had some minor fights in the past—we’d had to knock some sense into a few of our racist new members—by and large, we had... I wouldn’t necessarily call it an amicable relationship, but it was above neutral. It was somewhere between respectful and appreciative.

  “Best thing I learned in war,” Patriot said as he revved the engine. “Just fucking go.”

  Before I could say a word, he had shifted the gear to drive. The van sped out of the parking lot almost impossible fast, as if Patriot wanted to make sure I didn’t suddenly jump out of the passenger’s seat. And who could blame him? Only he knew the extent of my nerves, and only he could know what to do to prevent me from being a complete idiot.

  I imagined the Hovas getting pissed and firing upon us. I imagined the Saints getting a bead on us and ambushing us. I imagined stray fire gone bad. I imagined a bomb being planted in the cadre of weapons.

  Man, I imagined some fucked up shit. Is this what most green soldiers did before their first battle? Is this what I was supposed to do before
my first dangerous run in... well, since my dad’s and Shannon’s death?

  I went unusually quiet for over half the ride, not saying a word. Patriot eventually turned on the radio to some heavy metal rock, a mutual favorite of ours. I allowed the lyrics of System of a Down and Five Finger Death Punch to swarm my ears. It certainly at least got me jacked and allowed me to not become melancholy and depressed.

  But eventually, Patriot must have gotten tired of the lack of conversation, because he suddenly turned off the music.

  “Pep up, man,” he said. “Can you imagine what Axle and Butch would do if they saw you like this right now? Get it together. At least fake it!”

  “I wish,” I said.

  I wanted to say something else insightful, but nothing came to mind. Funny thing about the mind—the more stressed you were, the harder it was to think clearly.

  “It can’t be so bad, man,” Patriot said. “I mean, they’re going to try and intimidate us, it’s what they do, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about. They need the cash to support themselves, and we need the guns to defend ourselves. It’s how capitalism works, you know?”

  I snorted.

  “I think my Dad formed the club so he could get away from all that talk of politics and systems and economics,” I said. “Think he formed the club for brotherhood.”

  “Yeah, but brotherhoods gotta pay their bills too, you know?” Patriot said. “And right now, cash is going to pay their bills. And guns are going to protect ours.”

  Ironic, we were making the exact opposite points just days ago. Now he’s the one having to talk some logic into me.

  Guess it makes sense when you’re not using it as an excuse.

  I was just so emotionally fraught that I let the conversation naturally die. I felt shame and embarrassment at how ridiculous I was acting—this was so unlike how my father would handle the situation.

  My father would have kept control of everything, maintained a poised demeanor, and led the men into the mission as needed. He would have acted as a damn good President. He would have done his job.