No Way Out

by Simone Scarlet

  He was silent. He was thoughtful. He was still.

  But that didn’t last long.

  Suddenly wheeling around, Coyle turned to face me.

  “Okay,” he growled, stomping across the concrete floor. “I’ve heard from Recon. Now what about you?”

  …and the moment he said “you” he lurched forward, and wrapped the fingers of his big hand around my throat.

  I gasped as he tightened his grip, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe any more.

  “What about you?” Coyle repeated, yanking me off my feet, until my face was inches from his.

  His breath was hot on my face. His eyes burned with fiery intensity.

  “Did you double-cross me too, Christi with-no-last-name?” His flinty eyes narrowed. “Except it ain’t ‘Christi with-no-last-name’, is it?”

  “Her name’s Lange,” Officer Dempsey barked. “Christine Elizabeth Lange. Her dad owned the marijuana farm…”

  “Yeah,” Coyle grunted, not even looking at him. “The one we were supposed to clean out tonight.”

  Eyes burning hotly into me, Coyle hissed:

  “Was this just a coincidence? Or were you pulling a fast one, like my buddy Recon over there?”

  He jerked his head in the direction of my bloodied, helpless lover.

  “She ain’t no cop,” Officer Dempsey answered Coyle’s question. “She’s just some pretty little stoner who ran with the wrong crowd…”

  Coyle’s head snapped in Dempsey’s direction, and the officer visibly flinched.

  “The wrong crowd?” He growled. “That’s my crowd, asshole.”

  “Y-you know what I meant,” Dempsey gulped.

  Coyle clearly did – and from the expression on his face, he didn’t like the inference one damn bit.

  But Dempsey didn’t interest him, and Coyle quickly turned back to me.

  “So? I asked you a question, pussycat.”

  I gulped dryly.

  With his beefy fingers wrapped around my throat, I could barely draw air into my lungs – but I did the best I could, and rasped:

  “When those two assholes killed my dad,” I turned my eyes towards the two cops, “I just hit the ground and ran. I ran to the one group of people even the cops were too afraid to mess with.”

  “The Knuckleheads,” Coyle’s lips curled. He seemed to take pride in my description of his gang. “Sounds about right.”

  But then the smile froze.

  “That’s a hell of bit of bad luck, if you’re telling the truth. You threw it all away to hide your pretty little ass out with us, and then low-and-behold, you suddenly found us talkin’ to the two assholes you’d run away from in the first place.”

  As he said that, he turned and looked contemptuously at the two lingering police officers.

  Dempsey and Sanchez looked too scared to say anything back.

  “W-when I saw it was them,” I struggled to gasp, “I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. I ran again.”

  Coyle took a deep breath.

  “Oh, kitten,” he sighed, slowly lowering me back to the ground, and loosening his grip on my throat. “You shoulda just talked to me.” He shook his head. “You don’t think I wouldn’t have taken care of you? Haven’t I always taken care of you?”

  I stood there, trembling.

  Sure, Coyle had ‘taken care’ of me. I’d always been fed, and protected, and had a warm bedroll to sleep on every night…

  …but it was normally one I’d had to share with him, or one of his other biker buddies. Coyle had passed me around like a bag of potato chips; and everybody had taken a fistful.

  “Y-you turned me into your whore,” I stammered. “Sure, you never hurt me. The only person who ever hurt me was Bertha…”

  I turned and glared at Coyle’s bandaged girlfriend, and saw her staring venomously back in my direction.

  “…but you never treated me like anything except a piece of meat. A hole for you and your buddies to stick their dick in every night…”

  Coyle narrowed his eyes.

  Raising one of his thick fingers, he snarled:

  “Don’t be an ungrateful little cunt.”

  I blinked. I hadn’t expected that level of anger.

  “You know the code, sugar tits,” Coyle growled. Pointing towards the assembled crowd of bikers, he snapped: “Every one of these sons-of-bitches knows it too. You ride with us? You gotta earn your keep.”

  With a bitter laugh, he explained: “Ass, grass or gas – nobody rides for free. It’s an American tradition.”

  I stood there silently, as Coyle continued:

  “These boys here?” He was pointing at the rest of the bikers again. “They bust their ass for me. They follow orders, they do the work, and they earn their keep.”

  Then he looked back at me.

  “And what about you, sweetheart? You think you could knock over liquor stores? Bust a guy’s legs? Kill somebody..?”

  I turned to look at Dempsey and Sanchez. That last one I definitely could do, if I had half a chance...

  But that wasn’t Coyle’s point.

  “If you ain’t one of my soldiers, you’ve got to earn your keep some other way – so don’t give me some sob-story about me treatin’ you like a whore. You knew that was the arrangement the whole fuckin’ time.”

  I gulped dryly.

  The worst part?

  Coyle was kind of right.

  “Now, before you and I are square, kitten,” Coyle took a menacing step forward, “you’ve got to answer one question for me. And don’t even think about fuckin’ lying, because I can smell bullshit a mile off.”

  He glanced over at Mason.

  “Well, usually I can…”

  I sniffed, and blinked tears from my eyes. Whatever Coyle was about to ask me, I intended to answer it truthfully.

  “So,” turning back towards me, Coyle demanded: “Did you know he was a cop? Or an ‘undercover agent’ or whatever the fuck they’re calling themselves these days?”

  “N-no,” I promised. “I had no idea, not until we rolled up here this morning.”

  “She’s telling the truth, Coyle,” Mason yelled out, struggling against Rooker’s iron grip.

  That seemed to infuriate Coyle. Spinning around, he pointed an accusing finger at Mason and snarled: “Shut your fucking mouth! It’ll be your turn to talk shortly.”

  Mason fell silent.

  Turning back to me, Coyle hissed: “I guess I believe you.” He sucked his breath in through his teeth. “But you made a hell of a bad call, kitten. You should have come and told me.” He snorted bitterly. “I’d have done right by you, I promise.”

  Done right by me? What did that even mean?

  “I’ll tell you how you could do right by me,” I hissed, nodding my head towards Officer Dempsey and Officer Sanchez. “I want those two dead. They killed my father. I expect them to pay.”

  Coyle shook his head.

  “Yeah, well, if you’d come to me earlier, maybe we coulda talked about that – but it’s a little late now.” Jerking his head towards the cops, he lamented: “We’ve got a business deal goin’ with these two assholes how, and they kinda need to be alive for that.”

  I rolled my eyes. I should have figured.

  At the end of it all, Coyle was no better than the FBI agents. Just like everybody else, nobody gave a shit about what I wanted…

  …nobody except Mason.

  But as I turned to look at him, bruised and bloodied and on his knees, I realized there was nothing even Mason could do for me now.

  In fact, even the one thing that was most important to me – him just staying alive – seemed more and more in jeopardy at each passing moment .

  Hot tears welled in my eyes.

  I was surrounded by thirty or forty bikers, in that dark and dusty abandoned food court…

  …but I’d never felt more alone in all my life…

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Mason

  As I said, I’ve taken a beating or two
in my life – and it doesn’t take me long to recover from them.

  As I knelt there in the dirt, with Rooker’s beefy arm tightened around my throat, I started to feel the strength return to my beaten body.

  And I’d need it…

  Whatever happened next, I’d need it.

  As if reading my mind, Coyle wheeled around and glowered at me – his flinty eyes flashing angrily.

  Then, in his signature theatrical style, he turned to address the semi-circle of gathered cyclists.

  “Well, boys,” his voice boomed, echoing around the abandoned foot court. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves in a dilly of a pickle.”

  He snorted bitterly.

  “Our boy Recon here was a cop, the whole time.”

  From the back-and-forth we’d been having, that much might have been obvious to any of the bikers who’d been paying attention – but Coyle’s declaration nevertheless earned a shocked and surprised gasp from the crowd.

  “Now, the question is, what are we gonna do about it?”

  “String him up!” Came one response.

  “Fucking narc!” Came another. “I trusted that motherfucker!”

  Coyle listened to all these, smiling and moving his arms to encourage more angry responses.

  “He deserves a fuckin’ kerb-stomping!”

  “Let’s lynch him!”

  Coyle’s smile widened as he saw his gang of bikers get more and more riled up. As I looked up at him, with Rooker’s burly arm still wrapped around my throat, I felt a chill run its bony fingers down my spine…

  Coyle was circling the abandoned food court like a shark… A shark that had tasted blood in the water…

  For all I’d said to him about being a brother, or even like father to me… It didn’t change the fact that he was a dangerous son of a bitch – and while he might not have ever hurt anybody who didn’t deserve it…

  …at that moment? I kind of did.

  But I’d made peace with that. I hadn’t been lying when I’d told Coyle that I’d take whatever I had coming to me like a man.

  Rangers aren’t afraid to look death in the face – and when we do, we don’t fucking blink.

  As long as Christi would be okay, I could accept whatever fate had in store for me.

  Across the food court, the crowd was yelling more and more creative punishments for me:

  “Hang a chain from the back of my bike!” It was Big Mac, that towering thug who’d nearly caused a bar room brawl back in Fresno. “Let me drag that motherfucker twenty miles down the highway. See how smart he feels after that!”

  I shuddered at the thought.

  What was perhaps more hurtful than anything – even Coyle’s big, pounding fists – was how quickly the Knuckleheads had turned on me.

  I’d deliberately kept my distance these last few months. I didn’t want to get too close to any of my biker brothers for precisely this reason. I was an undercover agent, and I felt bad enough about betraying these guys without the added guilt of being friends with any of them…

  …but I’d always been friendly.

  Shit, I’d fixed Big Mac’s shocks on the side of the road near Santa Monica once, when his fat ass finally blew them out when he went over a pothole.

  The guy next to him? We’d finished a bottle of Jim Beam one night, shooting the shit about our favorite rock bands.

  There probably wasn’t a single one of these angry, ranting motherfuckers who I hadn’t been on at least nodding terms with…

  …and now they were all baying for my blood.

  And I couldn’t blame them.

  A biker gang is like a military unit – which was one of the reasons I’d felt so at home here. We’d give our lives for our brothers – and, for that reason, took betrayal more personally than most.

  I’d committed the ultimate sin in their eyes; and no amount of small-talk or common familiarity would make up for that.

  After listening to the crowd scream out their suggested punishments, Coyle finally wheeled around to address me.

  He was leaning back on his heels – his smile dangerous and wolfish.

  “You hear some of those?” Wincing, he sucked his breath in through his teeth. “The one with the bolt cutters and the blow torch was particularly original…”

  I stared back at him defiantly.

  That took some of the wind from his sails – but Coyle nevertheless kept up the theatrics, and projected his voice as he demanded:

  “Tell you what, Recon. It’ll disappoint these creative motherfuckers, but I promise to keep your fate quick and clean, as long as you tell me everything you fucking know.”

  When I didn’t respond, he added:

  “You’re a fucking dead man walking, Recon. A dead man. But we don’t have to be messy about it.”

  He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards Officer Dempsey and Officer Sanchez.

  “You tell us what the feds know – everything the Feds know – and I’ll consider throwin’ you a bone, and finishing you out back with my .44.” He grinned wolfishly. “Ol’ Yeller style, you dig? Quick, and clean, and more than your traitorous ass deserves…”

  I knelt their silently, and Coyle’s eyes narrowed angrily.

  “And if you don’t?”

  I didn’t respond, so he answered his own question.

  “If you don’t,” he repeated, “then you’re gonna die screamin’ – and you’ll be screamin’ for a long ass time before you go…”

  I finally broke my silence.

  Snorting bitterly, I growled: “Well, at least it’ll keep things more interesting than your fucking monologues...”

  Coyle reacted twice to that.

  At first, he physically flinched – like I’d actually slapped him with my words. His eyes flashed angrily, and his big hands tightened into fists…

  But then, after a deep breath, that anger subsided.

  Coyle watched me curiously for a second, and then laughed bitterly.

  As his lips curled, he purred:

  “Ranger to the core, eh?” Then he jerked his thumb towards Christi. “Tell you what. If you’re too stubborn to protect your own ass, what about hers?”

  Suddenly, I wasn’t feel so brave any more.

  Coyle saw my eyes widen, and his grin widened in response.

  “That’s right,” he grinned, crunching across the dirt and concrete to Christi’s side. As I watched, he reached down and curled his fingers around the round, ripe sphere of her jean-clad ass…

  …and then squeezed.

  Christi nearly jumped a foot into the air, as she felt Coyle’s fingers dig into her firm butt.

  “I’d hate to do it,” Coyle stared across the room at me, his fingers still digging into Christi’s ass, “but if you’re not going to talk to protect yourself, maybe you’ll talk to protect her.”

  “You keep her out of this,” I struggled against Rooker’s burly grip. “She did nothing wrong.”

  “No,” Coyle agreed, leaning in to lick Christi’s cheek. As his rasping tongue left a wet trail up the side of her face, I could see the beautiful blond shudder in revulsion.

  “No,” Coyle repeated, smacking his lips at the taste of her. “She really didn’t. But as I was remindin’ Christi earlier, everybody in the Knuckleheads has to earn their keep – and if that involves providing motivation to make you talk …”

  He left the rest of that sentence unspoken. Instead, he squeezed Christi’s butt again, and she squirmed uncomfortably.

  “…well, this little kitten’s gotta pay up.”

  I stared at Coyle hatefully, as he groped and manhandled the woman I loved, right in front of me.

  “Now, fun fact, Recon,” Coyle peered across at me, not breaking eye-contact as he used his other hand to squeeze one of Christi’s small breasts through her tank top. “When this little slut-kitten first signed up to ride with us, I learned that she was pretty inexperienced…”

  Christi’s cheeks burned hotly, as Coyle recounted this.

&nb
sp; “I mean, she’s made up for lost time since,” the big biker purred. “I reckon she’s ridden more dicks these last few months than I’ve ridden Harley Davidsons… But there’s still one sweet spot left that’s unspoken for…”

  Slap!

  One of Coyle’s big hands had left a stinging imprint across Christi’s ass.

  “Sweet little Christi here has never had a dick up her ass – and until recently, that was a sweet little treat I was savin’ for a special occasion.”

  His hand grabbed one of Christi’s cheeks again, and he squeezed her ass shamelessly.

  “I reckon tonight might be as special an occasion as ever.”

  My mouth suddenly felt dry, as I watched Coyle squeeze and manhandle Christi.

  Fuck.

  I’d seen him pass her around like a piece of meat already… As painful as the memories were, I’d seen her taken by more than one of the men in this room… Sometimes by more than one of them at the same time…

  But this was different. I could tell by the look in Christi’s big, tear-swollen eyes.

  When I’d first met her, she’d had a certain blankness in her eyes – like she’d switched off that part of herself which felt shame, or embarrassment… Or even emotion.

  She’d performed her sexual exploits with a certain robotic precision – even her own orgasms erupting more from process than passion…

  But all that had changed. Ever since she and I had first kissed, the bright spark of life and passion had returned to Christi’s eyes…

  And I knew that meant she wasn’t prepared to soldier through whatever degrading fate Coyle had in store for her.

  Not anymore.

  But while I could tell how Christi truly felt, Coyle chose not to – or, more likely, he didn’t care either way.

  Wheeling around to the crowd of bikers, he yanked Christi out in front of them, and calmly popped one of her small, pale breasts out of her tank top.

  There were some whoops and hollers, as Coyle squeezed her tit – twiddling her sterling silver nipple piercing between his thumb and forefinger.

  “If any of you boys remember how tight Christi’s little pussy is,” Coyle grinned, “you can just imagine what breaking in her virgin ass will feel like.”

  He licked his lips, and whooped: “Yum!”