by Nicole Fox
“How many are there?” Hoss demanded.
“Too many,” said the guard. “I don’t know.” Another gunshot cracked over the receiver, very close. Then, nothing.
Chopper seized the control for his security display and rapidly cycled through the camera feeds, looking for an angle that might show him some numbers. On the film rolling over the points of access to the compound, he could see a dark mass just outside the borders, punctuated by gleaming hints of chrome. He couldn’t tell exactly how many there were, but it was a lot — maybe more than he had stationed. He knew that if he tried to leave, they would shred him to pieces. And he suspected, in fact, that those were their exact instructions.
Spike was trapping him.
He turned to Hoss. “Forget the moles for now. We need to smoke these fuckers out first.” He motioned to Red as well. “Get the firebombs and get them out. I need you to clear me a path out the back.”
Chopper hadn’t always kept a store of unconventional weaponry. His younger self might have thought that he was better than homemade Molotov cocktails, or that he was above using raw gasoline or lighter fluid. But he had since learned that, sometimes, dirty fighting was as valuable as it was necessary, and he was prepared to do whatever it took to get to Kelsey.
He checked his phone again. Still no call. Briefly, he thought about calling her first, but decided it would be too dangerous to lower her guard by telling her to expect him. He contented himself with watching the video feeds and listening to the chatter that was now constant on the radio as his Outlaws worked to mobilize against the sudden threat. At first, confusion ran rampant, but it was soon replaced by righteous anger and aggression.
In a few minutes, he saw the first flames bloom bright at the front gate, splashing off the stone and iron. Immediately, Lawler’s gang drew back, as Chopper knew they would. Their gas tanks had become huge liabilities, and there were dozens out there, if not hundreds. Light one, and all the rest of them would go. That was a firework show Chopper Slater would pay to see.
His attention, however, was mainly focused on the back exit. As soon as threat of explosions had thinned Lawler’s crew there enough, he would make a break for the road. It was dangerous-as-hell to go on his bike: he knew they’d be shooting at anything that moved, but he had no hope of getting a car out unnoticed. He saw the shadowy biker army begin to recede from the back gate and turned away from the monitors, bolting down to the garage. Chopper hoped the roar of his engine would be drowned in all the others.
The air outside the back of the compound was still relatively cool, but he could smell the acrid smoke of the Molotovs. A haze lingered, and as he rode, it stung his eyes — he hadn’t thought to protect himself with even a helmet. He was taking a lot of risks, and he hoped it wouldn’t ultimately be too many. How much help would his custom helmet be against a bullet anyway? Chopper didn’t know, and it didn’t matter.
He left his headlamp dark on the way out.
Sure enough, the minute he drew out onto the road, he heard the pop of gunfire at his back. His heart raced, but he didn’t even look, except in his mirrors. The muzzle flashes looked like pinpricks in the full night. He was lucky; they’d pulled back pretty far. Then their engines gunned, and he knew that they were onto him. Chopper leaned down over his handlebars. No way in hell was he going to lead them to Kelsey and the baby. If they wanted a chase, that’s exactly what they would get.
There was something uniquely exhilarating about flying down the back road behind the compound. All he could hear was the wind screaming in his ears, the voice of his bike beneath him. Somewhere behind, Lawler’s men were in hot pursuit, but he didn’t know exactly where. He couldn’t even tell if they were gaining. Although, he suspected he might be losing ground, Chopper pushed his engine, careening around the corner so low that his leg nearly ran across the ground. A plume of rubber smoke billowed up behind him; his tires would be shot when this was over, but for now, he was even more invisible. The street ahead of him was dark, and Chopper hoped it would stay empty. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation with civilians that would undoubtedly lead him straight to the police.
Fortunately, except for the wild caravan of bikers tearing through, the scene was still and silent. They’d left the cacophony of the Outlaw compound far behind — he couldn’t even smell the smoke anymore. Chopper had been half expecting to hear an explosion or two, but nothing came. He guessed that maybe the Mongols weren’t as foolhardy as he thought. This time, that was fine with him. He already had enough messes to clean up.
As he rode, Chopper tried not to think about how much time he was spending on distraction. He tried to tell himself that it was better this way, that the longer he kept the Mongols away from Kelsey, the safer she was. But in his heart, he knew he wasn’t really helping. He knew that Spike had gone for her himself. There was no time for diversionary tactics. In fact, he realized he might have played straight into Spike’s hands.
Chopper’s mind raced. It was too late to try and shake them off. They had seen him, and now they would follow him as far as he led. He was certain that if they caught up and overpowered him, he’d be killed. He didn’t even know how many there were on the road behind him.
Then again, what choice did he have? As much as he wanted to live and grow old with Kelsey and their child, Chopper understood that he would sacrifice everything for them. And if he had to die, what better way than defending the woman he loved? His decision made, he set his jaw and wrenched his handlebars, working the brake. The bike slid to a stop, dimly silhouetted in the middle of the street. Two smoking black treads marked the pavement.
He couldn’t count how many Mongols there were. The headlamps blinded him as they drew nearer, but Chopper refused to look away. He stood silent, one foot on the ground, watching the approach. In the pocket of his jacket, his phone began to ring.
Chapter Twelve
Kelsey
How many minutes passed in dense quiet as she huddled on the floor, her hands holding her belly? Her lower back began to ache; she could feel the hard base of the sofa pressing against her spine. Kelsey wanted to stretch out her legs, but she kept them bunch up underneath her, in case she had to get up and run. With her eyes closed, she found she could hear better, and her thoughts shut up for the first time in what felt like ages. It was almost a Zen state, a feeling of hanging suspended between utter calm and utter chaos.
It did not last long.
The first hit to Chopper’s front door jolted Kelsey back into reality so sharply she almost screamed. Reflexively, she clamped her hands over her own mouth as she scrambled to her feet. On the second hit, she heard something crack and splinter, and she knew that if the locking mechanism didn’t give way soon, the door itself would fail. It was time for her to go.
She grabbed her phone off the floor and made her way as quickly as she could toward the back door. If that was covered too, she’d be totally screwed, but she had to take the chance. The front came crashing in as she put her hand on the knob, and suddenly the house was full of a voice she recognized with disgust.
“Where you at, little lady?” Spike called. Kelsey fumbled with the door lock, resisting the urge to look back and gauge his progress. She hoped against hope that he wouldn’t notice her until it was too late, but at that moment, his familiar whistle pierced the air.
“I spy, with my little eye … a no-good-traitor bitch!” he roared. Then he was lunging forward across the living room, reaching out his hand to grab her. She jumped when she felt his fingers close on her wrist, but the door slammed open, and his grip loosened just enough for Kelsey to slide her limb free.
She ditched her zip-up sweater, leaving Spike hanging onto it as he stood gaping in the doorway for a second. She’d shocked him just enough to buy herself a tiny head start, but she could hear him ordering his men to cut her off. There was no way for her to outrun the Mongols, especially not while her pregnancy slowed her down. Desperate, Kelsey ducked into a thick hedge. The twigs scr
atched at her, but she barely felt it. She looked at her phone and called Chopper.
When he answered, she could hear something in the background, as if he was outside. “Where are you?” he said immediately. “Are you okay?”
“Chopper, I don’t know what happened.” She talked as quietly as she could, fearful that Spike was just outside her makeshift hiding spot. “Spike came to the house. I ran, and now he’s looking for me.”
He didn’t answer right away. “Yeah, he’s looking for me, too.” He sighed. “Look, Kelsey, if I don’t get to see you again, I just want you to know that you changed my life. You changed my life forever.”
“What?” Kelsey frowned. “What are you talking about? I don’t know what to do.” She brushed a lock of hair from her face, pressing the phone against her cheek to keep it from shaking in her hand. Chopper’s words scared her, and the noise in the background was getting louder. “What’s going on?” she asked. “What is that sound?”
“I gotta go, babe,” he said. There was an unfamiliar undercurrent of sadness in his voice. “Stay where you are if you can, or if you can’t, try to get somewhere safe. And when you get there, wait for me. I’ll come for you if I can.”
She wanted to ask him what he meant, but her thoughts were interrupted by footsteps approaching her hiding spot. “Okay,” she said breathlessly. “Okay. Chopper, I —”
“They’re here,” he said abruptly. “I love you.” The line went dead.
A thin shaft of moonlight pierced through the hedge as some of the dense twigs were pushed aside. Kelsey froze. The backlight on her cell phone hadn’t died, and she knew her face was lit from beneath, practically a beacon in the darkness. Sure enough, the next beam of light fell directly on her. She stared up into the man’s face for a moment. It wasn’t Spike.
“Well, well,” he crowed, obviously pleased with himself. Inside, Kelsey scowled. She tensed her body up, preparing to run or fight for her life. “Look what we have here.”
He turned away to call for Spike, and Kelsey took advantage of his momentary lapse in concentration. She sprang from the hedge, ramming her fist directly into his balls. A kick would have been better, she thought, but there was no way her stomach would allow that to happen. The only sound he made was a faint wheezing as the air left his lungs, and as soon as he collapsed, she leapt over his prone form and ran as hard as she could. The commotion alerted the other Mongols, who quickly gave chase. Kelsey cut through the open yards of Chopper’s neighbors. She knew her advantage wouldn’t last long.
Her only hope was to get to somewhere very public, very fast. As ruthless as the Mongols were, not even they would risk a kidnapping in view of an unmanageable number of witnesses. She struggled to get her bearings without stopping. They were gaining on her. She could hear them shouting threats and insults, their voices getting nearer and nearer. Kelsey’s chest burned. She’d been a runner in school, but the baby weight felt like a cannonball strapped to her abdomen. Only panic fueled her speed.
Kelsey burst out of the neighborhood street and onto a main road that she knew led into the city. She quickly looked left and right. A block down was a brightly lit local pub, the tables in front full of patrons. She bolted for it. Some of the cars that were streaming past honked at her, a few slowed down, but she didn’t dare stop long enough to say that she needed help. In the time it took for a driver to get out of their vehicle, Spike could kill her. She didn’t just need to be noticed; she needed to be surrounded.
The Mongols still hadn’t given up. The block before the pub was dark, its streetlights out. If they snatched her before she reached the light spilling out of the pub’s front door, they could still get away with her and the baby. Knowing this, Spike bent into his charge, pumping up his speed. He watched the distance between him and Kelsey Jones decrease incrementally. The bitch was getting tired; she had to be. But he too had noticed the crowded place ahead. He was running out of time. She could scream within earshot of them and everything would be over. Spike had learned over the years that he could count on motorists to turn a blind eye to something happening on the street. Pedestrians? Not so much.
Up ahead, Kelsey gasped for air. Any moment now, she’d falter and he’d catch up and grab her. Hell, he’d tackle her if he had to. This was her punishment for denying him, and Chopper’s for taking her away. For months, he’d let them think they got away with it. He lulled them into a false sense of security. He laid his trap. Now the trap was sprung, and it infuriated Spike to see that his prey might actually be getting away.
He clenched his teeth and forced one more burst of power from his screaming legs. Two packs a day weren’t doing anything for him at the moment. His lungs burned as though he had inhaled a spark from the fires set by Chopper’s bastard lackeys. He made a note to go back and properly express his “gratitude” once he had caught his prize. But the gap between them had stopped closing, and Kelsey was very close to the curb.
Spike stretched out his arm to try to grab at the back of her shirt or her long hair, but only succeeded in brushing the tips of his fingers against her back. This appeared to give her a second wind. She jumped into the street, toward the opposite corner, and he saw a few of the people on the sidewalk turn curiously toward her. Just like that, Spike’s chance was gone. He slowed to a stop, huffing like a steam engine, red rage coloring his vision. In anger, he balled up her discarded sweatshirt, which he still had in his hand, and pelted it at her. She heard him stop, and turned to see where he was. The metal zipper pull lashed across her smooth white cheek, leaving a thin line of red. Spike smiled as she recoiled in pain. That would have to be his consolation prize for now.
He turned around and motioned to his boys, who had caught up. They were all worse for wear, sweat beading on their faces and foreheads, chests in knots, but none of them acknowledged it. “What do we do?” one of them asked.”
Spike shrugged. “We go back for Chopper.” He palmed his phone and put it to his ear as they made their way back toward the street where they had left their bikes. When his second-in-command picked up, Spike Lawler told him to send reinforcements.
Chapter Thirteen
Chopper
The Mongols formed a semi-circle around him, completely blocking his path. They were a phalanx of machines that made the air heavy with the smell of exhaust. The thrumming of the engines formed a steady backbeat to the confrontation that was about to happen. In the center of the line, straddling his ride directly opposite Chopper, the largest, roughest looking goon sneered at the cornered Outlaw leader. Chopper thought he recognized the scrubby beard and the mouth full of crooked teeth, but he couldn’t quite recall the man’s name. Somehow, not knowing made him calm.
“We finally got you, Slater,” said the man. He spoke in jumbled syllables that sounded like his tongue was tripping over those teeth. “Been a long time coming, ain’t it?”
Chopper shrugged. Even at a distance, he could smell the reek of alcohol. He wondered if Spike knew that the man he’d sent to kill his rival was hammered out of his brain. “I thought I’d at least be taken down by someone I knew,” Chopper said. “Do me a favor and have a talk with Spike about respect, will ya?”
A murmur ran through the Mongols, underscored by a few quiet chuckles. Chopper sensed that whoever this guy was, he struggled in the popularity department. Logistically, it made sense that Spike hadn’t wanted to commit any of his top dogs to chasing Chopper down—he probably knew Chopper would play hard to get, and he refused to give any of his major resources up to be wasted. Besides, Chopper knew the level of esteem in which Spike Lawler held him; specifically, he knew it wasn’t very high. He felt no danger in having a little bit of fun with this particular Mongol. But it was clear that the Mongol didn’t share in his amusement.
“Fuck you,” he slurred, spitting clear of the line of bikes. “Don’t matter if you know who I am or not. You’re gonna be dead real soon.”
“I thought it would’ve happened already,” Chopper said. He fold
ed his arms. “Are you here to kill me or not? Get on with it.” Part of him was buying time, investing in the hope that if he waited long enough, he might think of a way out.
He had guns on him, sure, and he was heavy with ammunition. But he was still only one man, and if he was armed to the teeth, so were each one of them. The money that the Mongols had lost from their interrupted drug trade had not affected the enormous stockpiles that were already there. It was just a matter of finally opening fire.
The drunk man moved to dismount his bike. As he lifted his leg over, it wobbled dangerously, and some of the men around him flinched. He regained his feet and turned to look Chopper in the eye, his face lit with a slightly insane gleam. One hand disappeared into his jacket and came out with a revolver that wavered in his grasp. Chopper braced himself for the imminent pain of a missed shot to the shoulder or leg. Maybe Spike had known his executioner was drunk. Maybe he’d meant for Chopper to suffer before he died.
The man stretched out his arm, struggling to level the barrel at Chopper’s face. His thumb fumbled for a moment before finally finding the safety. Chopper heard it click off. Then he heard something else. His gaze moved past the gun aimed at his head. On the road behind the cluster of Mongols, he could just barely make out a shape speeding toward them through the darkness. There was a single loud report, and a cloud of red mist erupted around the drunkard’s head. The gun dropped from his hand, and he fell forward soundlessly. Half a beat later, another gunshot roared, and another, and another. Each time, a Mongol fell. Some of them fired wildly into the night, but their bullets couldn’t find a target. The gunman on the road kept shooting.