by Naomi West
Gerald enters with a camera bag in one hand and a tripod in the other. “I’m really sorry about this,” he says. “But I’m the type of man to clean my gun twice just to make sure I’ve got every single inch of it. I like to do a job well, is what I’m saying, and this job requires a bloody lip. Men.”
All my resolve to stay calm abandons me as the men step forward, fists raised. I scream and try to wriggle out of the bindings, but I’m tied firmly in place. I try to tip the chair and roll aside, to spit at them, to bite them, but all of it is useless. The first fist catches me across the jaw, the second under the chin. I clench my teeth so hard it’s like spikes are lancing into my skull. In the end, I’m helpless. They hit me for what must be a few seconds, but it feels like minutes.
By the end my lip is cut and already swelling, my face is a mass of throbbing pain, and tears sting my eyes.
“Look at me,” Gerald says. When I don’t respond, he snarls, “Look at me or they’ll do worse!”
With an effort I manage to look up. Gerald is setting up the tripod. It’s such a disjointed image, this fifty-something man with a mole on his face casually setting up a camera as I sit here bleeding. For a second, I don’t believe any of it’s happening. Then he screws the camera to the tripod and turns it on.
“We’re going to record a message,” he says, fiddling with the camera. “Just framing the shot,” he mutters. “Okay, Cecilia. Obviously, you and Rocco have grown very close over these past few months. Fucking your fiancée’s best friend . . . and they want equality.” The men standing either side of me, the ones with my blood on their fists, laugh gruffly. “You must know by now how to make Rocco go soft for you. So I want you to beg him to surrender. This war is ours. Tell him to come to go to the third floor of the casino on 129 East Fremont Street, alone and unarmed, and leave with our men there. Once he’s done that, we’ll let you go. If he isn’t there within thirteen hours, we kill you. Okay, ready? Go.”
I struggle through the message, begging Rocco to save me, not having to fake my fear. Perhaps a different woman would refuse to record the message, growl defiantly and clamp her mouth shut. I can imagine Cecilia refusing to record a message like this. Maybe I could, too, if it wasn’t for the baby inside of me. But I can’t stop thinking about the life in my belly. I know that Rocco would want me to do what these men are asking to protect it.
When I get to the part about the address, I falter. “I . . . I can’t remember it.” Tears slide down my cheeks, stinging when they slide over my cuts. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember.”
Gerald sighs, pressing a button on the camera. He repeats the address. “Go from please help me,” he says, and the sick bastard smiles as though he’s directing a movie. “Okay, action.”
I get through the rest of the video, crying uncontrollably by the end of it. I’m in a lose-lose situation. Either Rocco goes to the casino and Gerald’s men kill him, or he doesn’t and the baby and I are killed instead. Once the recording is done Gerald slowly and casually packs away the tripod.
“I wonder if he really loves you,” Gerald says. “I guess we’ll find out. I just need to transfer the video to my laptop, and then back to my phone.” He lurches across the room, causing me to flinch back. But I can’t move. He leans down so close to me I can see each individual hair on his mole. “I took a video production course a few years ago,” he says. “You see, Cecilia, your Rocco is really a stupid man. I don’t hold it against him that he never finished school, but what has he done since then apart from slam his president’s woman? But still, look at you.” He strokes the back of his hand down my face. I shiver and cry, but I can’t do anything. I want to slap him across the face, to spit in his eye, but all it takes is one hard thump to the stomach and my life is changed forever. “If he doesn’t do as we say, we’ll have some fun with you before we put you in the ground.
The men around me grunt in anticipation, the same way they might grunt before tucking into a steak.
Everybody leaves me then, closing the door and locking me in the room. As soon as I hear the click of the lock, I twist around and search for a possible exit. It’s painful to twist like this with my hands pinned between my legs but I try anyway. The room is windowless and the only door is the one in front of me, the locked door. I look around for a knife, for something to cut the ropes, a weapon, anything. But there’s nothing. And even if there was, my hands are at too awkward an angle to grip anything.
I slump down, breathing slowly, telling myself that all of this will work out. Rocco will find a way. He has to find a way.
I know that’s a lie, though. I can’t believe it. All this time I’ve been scared that Rocco will die and I’ll be in the same position as Cecilia, but now something worse might happen instead. Either my baby and I will die, or my baby’s father will die. I don’t want to sit here weeping—weeping doesn’t solve anything—but I can’t stop. The presence of danger is like being repeatedly slapped across the face.
About an hour later, Gerald walks into the room. “Your boyfriend isn’t answering his phone,” he says, glaring at me as though it’s my fault. “I’ve sent him the video, along with his big dumb fuck of a friend Beast, and that scarred fuck. So even if the bastard doesn’t answer his phone, the deal is the same. You’ve got . . .” He pulls up the sleeve of his leather and checks his watch. “. . . eleven and a half hours before you die. Sit tight.”
“Wait!” I yell as he starts to close the door.
“What?” he snaps.
“I need to go to the toilet.”
This isn’t true. But if I can get out of these bindings, maybe I can run into the street and just keep sprinting until—
Gerald leaps across the room and backhands me across the jaw, a fresh wave of pain working its way through my face. “Then piss in your slut pants.” He marches from the room.
One of his men locks the door and I’m left to spit blood onto the floor and try and get my bearings. My ears are ringing, my head feeling like it’s been crushed in a vice.
I don’t know how much time passes. I know it’s hours, but not how many. Five, six, seven . . . All I know is that after a long time of sitting here and wondering what my fate is going to be, of waiting for the door to open and the cruel men to come in with guns and twisted desire, smoke starts to sift through under the door. The smoke comes quicker and quicker, rising into the air, filling the room.
And then I hear the crackling of fire.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rocco
“Is everything ready?” I say, standing next to my bike in my leather with a shotgun slung over my back, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in my side. The doctor freaked when she saw me climbing out of bed and getting dressed, but there’s no way I’m about to let this war drag on for months while Simone waits in Venice. There’s no way I’m letting my kid come into an unsafe world.
“All the men are gathered,” Beast says. “Every single one. We have about eighty, pledges included. They’re going to be as surprised as a kid discovering Santa’s not real for the first time.”
“You know what, Beast,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re about the nicest man named Beast I’ve ever met.”
“Who’s also an outlaw killer.” Beast smiles.
“Well, there is that.”
“Any complications?” I ask. “Once we go in, we go in. No fuckin’ around.” I pop the lid of the pain meds and dry-mouth two.
“Nothing,” Beast says. “The only thing is most of us have left our cells at home or in the clubhouse. We were in a rush to get you to the hospital, so we didn’t go back after the mansion hit to collect them. I only mention it because there are so many of us and we’re short of walkies.”
“Okay. Give every tenth man a walkie and make him responsible for reporting any orders to the men under him. Anything else?”
“No, we’re ready. We’re going to hit them hard and fast, Boss?”
I nod. “We’re ending this. Every fucker in their
clubhouse is gonna die.”
I walk past Beast into the patch of desert where the men are gathered, clustered around their bikes. When they see me approaching—limping and resisting the urge to clutch my side—they stop their conversations and turn to face me.
“You all know what’s at stake here,” I say, hoping my voice carries over the crowd. Raising it too much makes the wound on my side feel like there’s still a knife in there. “The club, our territories, our dead. But I wanna be honest with all of you. I haven’t called you here tonight for any of that. I’ve called you here ’cause I recently found out I’m gonna be a father and I’m not bringing my kid into a world where Demons are hounding us every goddamn day. I know some of you have kids and families already, and some of you ain’t much older than kids yourself. So I’ll leave it up to each man to decide if he wants to leave now or come with us. I won’t force you to fight for me.”
I walk back to my bike without waiting for their response.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Beast whispers, climbing onto his bike.
“I did,” I reply. “Even outlaws need a little honor now and then.”
Beast glances behind us. “For what it’s worth, every man is on his bike. No one’s left.”
“Good.” I kick my bike to life. “Let’s get to it, then.”
We growl through Vegas, heading toward the Demons’ clubhouse. We’ve always known where the clubhouse is but haven’t attacked it en-masse since the risk of our men dying has been too high. Far better to fight skirmishes in back alleys. But now everything’s changed. Maybe it’s selfish of me that I’ve only considered the extreme resort after Simone’s news. If that’s the case, I’m selfish. I don’t care, as long as I get my shot at family.
All eighty of us stop a half-mile away from the clubhouse, hiding our bikes in the sparse forest and then approaching through the early-morning darkness. The moon and most of the stars are hidden behind the clouds. We could be shadows whispering across the darkness. The clubhouse is a bright beacon directly ahead of us. I imagine a Demon looking at the window. He’d see nothing, just a blank sheet. We jog until we’re almost at the rear of the clubhouse and then I take a knee in the dirt. I do this for two reasons. The first is that my side is roaring at me. The second is that I need to start issuing orders.
The clubhouse is similar to ours in layout: one big building containing the bar and the offices and a few dormitories and a separate garage off to one side. I study the landscape, making sure there are no trees close by. The last thing the Sinners need is the force of an enraged State at their asses. When I’m certain of my plan, I turn to the men.
“Beast,” I say.
“Boss.”
“Take Poker Face and start a fire in the garage. We’ll try and draw them out, pick them off as they come running.”
“Boss.”
The two men, along with the men under them, jog off to the left toward the garage.
“Jerry.”
“Me?” Jerry says, surprised to be called by name,
“Lead fifteen men off that way.” I point to the other end of the clubhouse where there’s raised land, a good vantage point. “Get ready to fire when the men start running.”
I turn to the rest of the men. “Remember that these are the bastards who’ve been killing us like dogs. This is war. These are the men who spiked our drinks and killed our president. Most of these bastards were there, taking advantage of us when we couldn’t defend ourselves. They made us look like idiots. We won’t look like idiots again. Follow me.”
We creep to the rear of the clubhouse, crouching down behind the fence and waiting for the fire to start. All around me, men check their weapons. From the clubhouse, loud music plays, and countless men roar and smash their glasses together.
Soon the fire rises from the garage, licking yellow flames that spit into the night. Beast and Poker Face return to me as the fire grows. “Go and join Jerry on that vantage,” I tell them. “Take twenty men.”
“Boss.”
The fire grows to ten feet, and then twenty, and then suddenly erupts to thirty or thirty-five feet when the flames catch onto some surplus gas.
Soon the gunfire starts. From their vantage point, Poker Face, Beast, and Jerry and their men pick off the Demons as they spill out of the clubhouse to see what’s going on. When around five Demons have fallen, they realize what’s going on and start firing from the front windows. I’m about to tell my men to advance on the rear when the flames do us a favor by leaping from the garage to the clubhouse. I wave my men down and wait. Soon the Demons will have no choice but to come running out.
We’re lucky that damn near all of the Demons seem to be in the clubhouse tonight. From my crouching spot, I watch as Beast and the others pick off the fleeing Demons. After a few minutes I send almost all my remaining men to the vantage point. The flames are chewing through the structure of the clubhouse, crumbling the rafters and collapsing entire portions of the building. Smoke seeps out of the windows. During a brief break in the gunfire, I shout over to Beast on the walkie, “Has Gerald come out?”
“Not that I’ve seen!”
I stalk to the back windows of the clubhouse, peering in. If Gerald doesn’t die, the Demons will come back. Even if we get every single bastard, Gerald will find a way to recruit more and return with a vengeance. He’s the mastermind. His men have been just as cruel as him over these past months, slaughtering our men brutally, but all of it has been guided by Gerald’s hand.
The smoke is thick in the building but I see him running through the bar area, head low, pistol at his side. I should wait out here for him, pick him off like the rest. But before I know exactly what I’m doing, anger has propelled me through the window. I crash through the glass and pull my jacket around my mouth, blocking the smoke.
“Ah!” Gerald cries when he sees me, ducking his head and running for the kitchen.
I chase him, sliding over the bar and tackling him onto the kitchen counter. He tries to shoot me. I grab his wrist and squeeze as hard as I can, crushing his bone and causing him to drop the pistol. Then I pick him up and slam him onto the kitchen counter, his face exploding in a shower of blood, pissing everywhere. As I throw him to the floor and level my shotgun at his face, I think of Simone. I’m stepping down after this, I decide. Right here and now I decide that. I’m done with this life once my family is safe.
“You killed the only father I ever knew,” I growl. “Maybe you didn’t pull the trigger, but—”
Gerald laughs wildly, staring up at me with a twisted grin on his face. “But I did pull the trigger,” he says. “I was there. You didn’t see me because you were too busy with . . .” He grips his sides, laughing like a madman. “Oh, Christ! Oh, no! And I thought you were the dumb one. We’re not too smart either, are we?”
“What are you talking about?” I snap.
“You were too busy with Cecilia, but of course you weren’t, not then. Cecilia must’ve been that whore leaning against Shotgun’s shoulder. Which means . . . she doesn’t, does she? Please tell me Cecilia doesn’t have a twin. That’s just too much!”
I kick him in the gut, pressing the barrel of the shotgun to his face. “Any last words?”
“Only that sweet Cecilia’s sweet sister is in the next room. I hope you haven’t choked her to death.”
I look into his eyes, trying to gauge if he’s telling the truth. He stares back up at me honestly. He killed Shotgun. Simone is on the next room. Goddamn, Simone is in the next room! I pull the trigger, blowing Gerald out of this world, and then toss my shotgun to the floor and sprint for the door. It’s locked so I kick it, hard, over and over until it snaps inwards off its hinges.
As I run across the smoke-filled room, I’m certain I’ve killed Simone. She’s lying on her side, eyes closed, tied to a chair at an awkward angle. I think about my life stretching ahead of me with the knowledge that it was my orders which killed the mother of my child, which killed the baby in her belly and made the
rest of my life not worth living. She’ll die here, I panic as I kneel down next to her, she’ll die here and it’ll be my fault.
But when I pick her up—picking up the chair with her because there’s no time to untie her—I feel her breathing against me. Shallow breaths, hollow breaths, but breaths all the same. I charge through the clubhouse, cursing myself every step of the way, cursing the life that brought me here, cursing the bloodshed and the violence. Cursing the whole damn lot of it. It’s wrong, all of it. It can’t be right if it leads here, to this. It can’t be right if it makes a man wonder if his baby is smoked-out and lifeless in its mother’s womb.
I carry her out the front of the clubhouse, roaring, “It’s me. Don’t shoot! Get a fucking car! Get a car right this fucking second!”
As the men run to carry out my orders I sit Simone down and start untying her bindings. Her eyes open briefly when her hands are free. “The baby,” she moans. “The baby. Protect us. Please. Protect us . . .”