by Zahra Girard
More shooting erupts and I barely have time to duck for cover behind the refrigerator. Bullets pepper the wall next to me and I take my time. These motherfuckers are firing bullets like they’ve never had to reload in their life.
Right on time, there’s a momentary tick of silence.
That’s my opening.
I take it.
I fire.
Another scream.
One down, at least one more to go.
I duck back for cover. Then hear a scream from the other gangbanger’s direction. I poke my head out to see blood running down the front of his shirt and a knife protruding out of his throat.
Creole winks at me and then whirls away to go storming through the house.
The shooting starts again. There’s a lot of these sons of bitches.
In the other room, I hear Creole’s voice rise above the sound of the gunfire.
“Are you fucking singing right now?” I yell.
There’s a pause as he answers me. “There’s nothing wrong with finding joy in your work, Riot. You should try it sometime.”
I don’t even know what the fuck to say to that, so I put my focus into clearing the rest of the house. Down a hallway, there’s a locked door in front of me. One kick breaks it open and, the second the door rocks off its hinges, one of these wannabe Kings leaps on me, wrestling for my gun.
An elbow bashes me in the face. Then again.
I charge forward with him still locked up with me, ramming him back into the wall and feeling the crack of his bones as he makes impact.
A whoosh escapes his lips and his grip goes slack.
I batter him. Knuckles to face, knee to chest, unleashing every bit of pent-up fury against his pathetic resistance. Bones crack, blood flies, he lets out a pained moan.
His blood taints my fists.
A tooth embeds itself in my knuckle.
But I don’t stop.
He staggers. Sways. Screams.
Then he hits back.
A punch glances off my jaw.
All that does is piss me off.
I let fire with a combination of punches — a snapping jab that snaps his head back, a brutal cross that sends spit flying from his bloody mouth, a powerful hook that drops him to his knees — and then I wrap my hands around his throat.
All I think about while I strangle the life from him is that this is one of the men who tried to kill Emma.
I feel something snap.
“I think he’s dead,” Creole says from behind me. “You can probably let that one go.”
He’s right. I let his body drop to the floor.
“Is the rest of the house clear?”
Creole nods. “Not a one of them got away. Not too bad for a night’s work, yeah?”
His words have hardly left his mouth when his phone rings.
Then my phone rings.
We share a look.
Something is very, very wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emma
I feel like a woman whose man has gone off to war. That whole day, I tell myself that feeling is stupid — Riot and I can’t be together, we both know what we’ve shared is temporary and ends the second his club finishes their business with the 45th Street Kings — and I spend the day distracting myself from it by packing, by pretending to catch up on work, and trying to plan for when I go back to Redwood.
But it’s pointless.
The house is filled with palpable tension — both of Riot’s parents know something is happening soon — and it makes it impossible to focus on anything other than the fact that sometime tonight, this man that I truly care about is going to put himself in mortal danger. All so that I can leave him.
Eventually I grow sick of the feeling and, snatching up my laptop, I get into my beat-up junker of a van and drive over to Java Jazz, seeking the peaceful seclusion of the quiet coffee shop, where the only sounds will be the occasional murmured order, the offer of biscuits, and the gentle music of classic crooners like Frank Sinatra.
I get there. I give a look to Cindy that clearly communicates the mood I’m in — torn, anxious, and absolutely unwilling to talk about it — and I settle into a cozy chair, with a biscuit and a latte, and throw myself into my work until it feels like my eyes are going to bleed.
And then the rumble starts.
At first, I think it’s an earthquake.
It certainly sounds like an earthquake.
But then that sound tickles a dark memory in the recesses of my mind. The roar of motorcycles riding in unison. It makes my stomach clench and my heart stop. Even though I know who’s riding, that sound still stirs pain inside me. Moreso now that I know what it means: Riot and his club are on the warpath.
Everyone in the coffee shop pauses as that rumble goes by. Then, life resumes for all of them but me.
I’m stuck again thinking about him, and life after him.
Hours of warring with myself pass in that coffee shop, hours of trying to focus on anything but him and failing, hours haunted by the occasional roar of a motorcycle engine that causes me to sit up in my seat and look towards the door expecting him to be there, hours of trying to instill in myself the hope that I’m not making a mistake by leaving Crescent Falls behind when this is all over, even though Riot makes me feel the way no man has ever made me feel before.
I slam my laptop shut.
I can’t do this to myself.
I can’t put myself through this torture for a man, even for Riot, because I know where it’s going to end up. I’m going to get hurt again.
What’s the point of escaping this life, just to plunge back into it and reopen wounds that have hardly healed?
I get in my van and drive back to Riot’s parents’ house. On the way over, the radio is alive with news reports. I moan in pain as the newscaster describes in a shocked voice an extreme amount of violence up north near Oakland. Multiple homes, multiple homicides, the police out on a fruitless hunt for killers that there are no surviving witnesses left to identify.
Riot.
He’s destroying an entire neighborhood just to keep me safe.
It’s terrifying and flattering and nauseating. A brutalist expression of love.
I’m grateful to him for protecting me, but I have to get out of here.
This isn’t my life anymore.
I need to get back to the safety of my friends, my apartment, my job.
My eyes burn with tears as I reach his parents’ house and leave my van running in the driveway, intending to just run inside, grab my bags, and get the hell out of there. Inside, I nod a quick hello to Sophia, who is sitting in the front living room, sipping wine and reading a book, and then go upstairs to grab my bags.
Riot will understand. It might hurt him, but he knows there’s a good chance the last time we spoke was goodbye. He’ll get over it. Probably with the help of some club girl.
I grab my bag and head outside.
And freeze.
Smoke billows from under the hood of my ancient van.
The air smells like incinerated rubber and burning oil.
The mechanical beast shudders and gasps a great gout of smoke. The whirring engine dies.
Shit.
“Stand clear, dear,” Sophia’s voice comes from behind me. Fire extinguisher in hand, she sprays down my van until the smoke and flames die away. “I don’t think you’ll be driving that anytime soon. If you need a ride somewhere, James or I can take you.”
I stare at my smoking escape plan and shake my head. I can’t ask Sophia or her husband to drive me all the way to Redwood City.
“That’s fine,” I say, my voice coming out as a shocked croak while my mind desperately races for some other option. “I’ll figure something else out.”
That card I got earlier from that biker who works with the cops comes to mind. David Langston. Maybe he can help.
I dial.
A gruff voice barks an answer on the second ring. “This is Fury. Who the fuck are you
?”
Not the greeting I was expecting.
“Mr. Langston, this is Emma. You and I met the other day near the police station in Redwood City.”
“I remember, Emma. What’s the reason you’re calling me?”
“You said if I needed help, I could call you.”
A pause that seems to drag on. In the background, I hear the persistent roar of multiple motorcycle engines.
“What do you need?”
“I need a ride.”
“A fucking ride? I’m not a goddamn taxi service.”
I feel my cheeks get hot, but I know I don’t really have anyone else I can call. I can’t wake up any of my friends — if they would even wake up to answer my call — and risk getting them involved in this MC mess.
“Fury, look, please, I’m desperate. This is serious. I’m stuck in Crescent Falls and I’m at the house of one of the Rebel Riders.”
His voice changes. I can’t tell if it’s rushed, angry, or eager.
“Tell me exactly where you’re at.”
* * * * *
I go inside to wait for Fury. Setting my bags down on the floor, I help myself to some of the wine Sophia has out. It’s a red, it smells like currants and tastes rich and deep.
Sophia doesn’t speak, though several times I see her glance up at me curiously over the pages of her book. Either she knows that I’m running or she thinks I’m too agitated by seeing my van swallowed in a pillar of smoke.
I finish one glass, fill myself another.
There’s a knock at the door. Light and easy.
Rising, I set my glass down and head towards the door.
A deep, unfamiliar voice calls out, “Emma Harper? Fury sent us.”
There’s menace in that voice.
Something’s wrong.
Sophia’s head whips at me and her eyes flare as she senses danger. “Emma, what did you do? What did you do? Who did you call?”
I open my mouth to reply, but my words become a scream as the door crashes open. Three brutish men, dressed in plain black leather jackets, their arms inked in a patchwork of death’s head tattoos, stride inside. But what most catches my eye are the guns in their hand.
I scream again.
My purse, my phone, and Fury’s card fall from my hands as I leap to my feet in surprise.
Sophia hurls her book at the intruders, and her wine glass, too. “You miscreants need to get the fuck out of my house.”
Intent, one of the men strides towards Sophia and reaches out to grab her. “Make this easy, sweetheart. Don’t get yourself hurt. Don’t you want to take a ride with the Reaper’s Sons?”
A gunshot rips through the room and a bullet tears a hole through the right arm of the man advancing on Sophia.
“This is my house,” James says. His voice is level and cold, his service rifle held squarely in his hands. He stands at the top of the staircase leading up from the basement. “And that’s my wife. You’ve disrespected both. I won’t abide that.”
Another bullet sends the biker to the ground, his hands pressing squarely to his gut while blood gushes from between his fingertips.
“Sophia, I love you, but you and Emma need to run. Now,” James bellows at the both of us.
Then the room erupts. I smell smoke and the metallic tang of blood, my body shakes in fear, and my limbs hardly cooperate as I run for it. Bullets fly in every direction and Sophia stands rooted in the spot, her mouth and eyes both wide in shock and fear as she watches a shot catch her husband in the chest.
James falls backwards, spinning partly as he tumbles down the stairs into the basement.
“We need to get out of here,” I yell at her as I take her hand and try to pull her away.
“Why did you do this?” She says, her voice a wail as I drag her along.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” I start to explain. “I just wanted a way out.”
Two more bullets bite the floor in front of me, bringing us to a stop barely out of the living room.
One of them speaks.
“You ladies are coming with us.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Riot
It feels like a joke, at first.
But there’s no humor in my dad’s voice as he tells me what’s happened. That he’s holding his blood in with his free hand while he waits for paramedics to arrive. That my mom and Red are both taken.
“I’ll meet you at the hospital,” I say as I start to hang up.
I need to ride, I need to get back to Crescent Falls.
“Son, it’s not like I haven’t been fucking shot before. Reaper’s Sons took your fucking mother. They took Emma. I swear to Christ and the fucking Devil, I don’t give a shit if I die, we can’t allow your mother to be taken by these sons of bitches.”
“Reaper’s Sons? Are you sure?”
“I didn’t recognize them from around town, so they must’ve been nomads or a different chapter. But I know what I saw. And I think Emma called them.”
It feels like my world is falling to pieces around me. I go silent, in shock.
How could she do that?
“Son? Are you there?” My dad says after a moment.
“Why do you think she called them?”
“Because shortly before those bastards got here, she made a phone call. She was waiting around in the living room like she was expecting someone.”
My heart feels like it’s going to stop. I am burning with rage and the urge to hunt and to kill. The woman I care about so much that I’m willing to let her go has just betrayed me and put my family in danger.
The sound of sirens and stomping feet comes over the call.
“Dad, you going to be okay?”
“The paramedics are here. They’re coming down to the basement right now.”
“You’re in the basement? Why the fuck are you down there?”
“Fell down the stairs when I got shot. Plus, I got beer down here. Only went upstairs once to grab my first aid kit.”
“You went upstairs, then back downstairs?”
“It’s been a long fucking day. I wanted a goddamn beer.”
“Dad, did they say anything about where they were taking her?”
“There wasn’t much conversation, son. Just a whole lot of shooting. I got one of those bastards, though. Emma had this card, though. For some guy named David Langston who runs some place called The Devil’s Garage.”
In the background, I hear one of the approaching paramedics tell my dad he needs to hang up the call.
“Take care of yourself, dad,” I say.
“I will, son. You find your mother. And kill these bastards.”
He hangs up and I’m left standing in the bloody living room with Creole, who’s just ended his own call.
“We need to find the rest of the club. Now,” I say.
“We’ve got a meeting point. An abandoned lot a few miles from here. It’s bad, Riot,” he says.
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“That was Bull I was talking to. While we were here, the clubhouse got shot up. A couple prospects are dead, and Banshee took a bullet. It’s a fucking mess. We haven’t heard from the grow op or the strip club.”
“This was a trap.”
“Looks like it. These Kings were nothing more than pawns,” Creole says, looking at the dead bodies on the floor. “Come on, we don’t have any time to waste. We need to get to the meeting point and get out of here before the cops arrive.”
Creole and I push our bikes until the engines scream as we speed towards the meeting point. Everyone else is already there when we arrive and everyone’s eyes are ablaze with rage and the lust to kill. Hawk has his gun out, gesturing with it like a madman while he addresses the rest of the club.
“The killing isn’t done tonight, brothers,” he rages. “While we were here, some group decided to hit our clubhouse. And our grow op. And our strip club. There were a half dozen of them all together, armed with automatic weapons and they hit each locatio
n at the same fucking time. This was a coordinated assault. We lost five men tonight, including four prospects who gave their lives defending our territory, and Banshee’s currently in surgery for a bullet wound to the shoulder.”
“Jesus Christ,” Thrash mutters next to me.
“Fucking right, ‘Jesus Christ’,” Hawk rages. “Whoever these bastards were, they were watching us and knew exactly when we were going to strike.”
“It was the Reaper’s Sons,” I say.
Bull cuts me off. “Don’t be fucking stupid. Banshee didn’t recognize a damn one of them and all the reports I’ve got say they didn’t leave their clubhouse.”
“It wasn’t their Crescent Falls chapter,” I say, and my voice is booming with rage. “They hit my house, too. They shot my dad and took my mother and Emma. But my dad overheard them talking. And some guy named David Langston came up.”
“Langston? Fucking Fury? Jesus fucking Christ, that son of a bitch practically goes all the way back to the fucking womb with Hammer,” Hawk snaps. “It’s a fucking blood feud. We need to get back to Crescent Falls and lock shit down. Now.”
My eyes flicker towards Thrash and Creole.
And I see the start of a plan taking shape in my mind.
Both of them nod. They’re in. They can practically read my mind.
I shake my head. My voice is filled with rage and fire. “I’m not going.”
“The hell are you talking about, Riot?” Bull says.
“Fury has my mother and Emma. I’m going to get them back.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Emma
Bound. Gagged. Sitting in the dank corner of a filthy storeroom, under the watchful gaze of some grizzly of a man with the road name ‘Cyclops’ who, for some reason, isn’t missing an eye. It’s like a BDSM night gone wrong.
Across from me, in the opposite corner, is Riot’s mom, Sophia. She’s bound and gagged just like me, and she’s been staring at me for the last hour like she wants to kill me.
I feel broken.
Everything I do, every time I try to escape this MC life, I just get drug back into it deeper and deeper.