by Matt Rogers
He knocked. Three sharp raps, loud and firm. Then he waited. The seconds ticked by. There came a grunt of exertion from somewhere inside. But no response.
He knocked again. This time louder. Hard enough to rattle the doorframe. Still no answer. The music was deafening, drowning out all other sounds. They wouldn’t be able to hear him.
Screw it, he thought. He didn’t have to be here.
And he didn’t have to be polite.
The door was made of flimsy wood panelling, with hinges that had rusted in their brackets long ago. Paint flaked off the frame. It was an old, rickety thing. Weak. King took a single step back, pinpointed the exact spot where the most force would be applied liberally to each support, and rammed a boot into the door.
It was weaker than he had anticipated. With a snap like breaking bone the entire door ripped from its hinges and fell inward. It hit the dusty floor of the clubhouse and came to rest, surrounded by a halo of splinters.
King stepped back again and waited patiently for a response.
It didn’t take long. The music stopped instantly. At the same time, a cacophony of swearing echoed out onto the patio.
‘What the fuck…’
‘Fucking—!’
‘Bloody hell.’
But surprisingly, still no response. No-one barrelling out onto the deck, pumped full of aggression.
They were hesitating.
King had a strange feeling. Something wasn’t right here. He leant forward and stuck his head round the now empty doorframe.
Bare skin. A flash of movement. A slight figure running into an adjacent room. Four beefy men scrambling for clothes. The musk of testosterone.
He took one glimpse at the situation and saw blistering, flaming red.
Someone was about to get hurt, and no-one was going to stop it.
First, he had to confirm his suspicions. He strode fast and hard into the clubhouse. At six-foot-three he was an imposing figure to most, and right now there was unmistakable fury plastered across his face. It made all four men freeze up. He was in their midst before one of them could react. He made to move past them, to check the room he had seen someone enter.
Suddenly a barrage of reactions, all at once.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are, mate?’
‘What are you doing?’
King wondered who would make the first mistake. Then the man closest to him got in his way. Blocking his path to the room.
Without breaking stride, King reached out and seized him by the throat before the poor guy even had time to assess the situation. With the other arm he wound up and thundered a fist straight and fast, like a whip being released. It slammed directly into the man’s forehead, a crushing blow that rattled his brain around inside his skull and knocked him instantly unconscious. King released him and he fell back, hitting the ground like a limp sack of shit. This wasn’t the movies. The guy’s head would not stop throbbing for the next week.
He made it across the length of the clubhouse without any further confrontation. Shocked by a stranger interrupting their private matters and effortlessly incapacitating their friend, the other three stayed frozen to the spot. He took one look around the doorframe of the adjoining room and saw all he needed to see.
A young girl, no older than thirteen, desperately wiggling into a pair of jeans.
King turned back to the three men still standing.
‘You have one second to explain this,’ he said.
A single moment of pure silence.
One of the bikers walked forward, suddenly regaining confidence.
‘Mate you’d better get the fuck outta here before—’
King exploded. It was a technique he had practically perfected; feigning complete calm one instant and charging like a raging bull the next. It had its intended effect. The man who had stepped forward to confront him almost jumped out of his skin in fright. King extended two hands and used all the strength in his frame to give him a double-handed shove, square in the chest. The guy had already been in the process of backtracking and the added push sent him toppling back off his feet.
There was a pool table in the corner. Before the other two men could react, King dashed over and lifted a cue off its surface. In a split second he sized up his opponents. One was fat and beefy and would be hard to handle in terms of sheer strength.
Him first.
A step forward. A fake swing from the left. Beefy flinched. King reversed his grip, swung back and sliced the cue through the air faster than the eye could see. It splintered across Beefy’s head, shards flying everywhere, a loud crraaaaack echoing off the walls of the clubhouse. The man dropped like a stone.
The last guy on his feet was skinnier than the rest, to the point where he looked emaciated. He was high on something, jittery and gaunt. His bony limbs shook in the sudden quiet.
‘Come on ‘en,’ he jeered. ‘I’ll knock ya fuckin’ teeth out, mate. I’ll fuckin’—’
He didn’t get to finish. King charged him, bundled him up against the wall and delivered a staggering right uppercut into the man’s solar plexus. The guy let out a guttural noise somewhere between a cough and a dry heave. Shaking with adrenalin, King seized two handfuls of his tattered singlet. Spun him around. Built up momentum. Then let go with a colossal heave that sent him shooting like a dart into one of the flimsy windows. The pane shattered and he tumbled straight through, landing heavily on the porch outside amidst a downpour of broken glass.
Momentary quiet. Two men were unconscious. One was hurt bad on the outside deck. The only man yet to be incapacitated was the one King had pushed. He had only just made it back to his feet.
King turned to face him. He saw confusion, apprehension, fear in the man’s eyes. Sure, he was a biker, but there were few people King had come across in his life who were true tough guys. This guy was used to preying on vulnerable shopkeepers. He didn’t know the heat of combat or the smell of lead or the sight of death or the sound of an enemy convoy approaching.
He’d never experienced anything like this before.
Anyone like King.
CHAPTER 9
‘W-w-w—’
The biker couldn’t even manage a comprehensible sentence. Shock was plastered across his face.
‘Bet you’re not used to being on the other end of a beatdown,’ King said.
The guy’s aggressive instincts had become non-existent. He leant on the arm of one of the chairs, reeling from the rapid brutality of the fight.
‘Who are you?’ he said, his voice shaky.
‘Friend of Billy’s.’
‘Billy … the fuckin’ post office guy? Jesus Christ. Why’d you kick our door in?’
‘You wouldn’t answer it.’
‘We were busy.’
‘Evidently.’
‘Look, uh — you’re a decent guy, right? You’ve taught us a lesson, or whatever. We ain’t gonna bother Billy again. I get it. Now just leave us alone.’
‘I might have.’
‘Huh?’
‘I might have just given you the message, if I didn’t see what I did.’
‘It was consensual.’
‘I’m sure it was. How old is she?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘She is…’
King took a single step forwards. ‘How old is she?’
‘She’s nineteen! And it’s none of your fuckin’ business, anyway.’
Another step forward. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Jed. Now fuck off.’
King got closer, and Jed became more aggressive.
‘Did you hear me? I said fuck off!’
Jed made a slight move, as if to lash out. King put a stop to that immediately. He kicked Jed square in the gut with a thick-soled boot, putting heavy forward momentum into the blow. Jed doubled over, gasping and retching. It would knock the fight out of him for the next few seconds, at least.
King strode over to the far wall and ripped the thin telev
ision off its cabinet. Cables disconnected or tore as he yanked it loose. The flat-screen was roughly the size of a small tabletop. Its hard plastic casing made it light and easy to yield. He walked back and swung the flat surface of the screen in a wide arc. Jed was still hunched over, holding his aching gut. The television cracked across the top of his skull. The screen shattered at the same time as he dropped. His legs gave out and he began to topple to the floor, knocked off balance by the colossal impact. King dropped the broken television and kicked out again. This time he aimed for Jed’s ribs. The toe of his boot hit Jed in the side just as his fall picked up momentum. Another crack echoed through the clubhouse. Jed tumbled away, shrieking in agony. King guessed two or three ribs were broken.
‘That was rude, Jed,’ King said. ‘You’re going to apologise for telling me to fuck off.’
No response. Jed looked pathetic lying on the floor, moaning and cradling his wounds. Blood ran from the top of his head and dripped onto the dusty ceramic tiles. King was surprised he had remained conscious.
‘No apology? Fair enough.’
He wrenched the man up by the scruff of his neck and dragged him outside. From the far end of the porch he heard a moan of distress. He glanced across and saw the skinny guy lying on the deck amongst a scattering of glass shards. He was cut bad. He wouldn’t be a threat.
‘You,’ King said. ‘Get up and come with me, or I’ll break both your arms.’
Sniffling, the man scrambled to his feet as fast as his shaky legs would allow him. The threat of further violence obviously trumped the pain he felt.
‘Follow me,’ King said.
Still dragging Jed, he stepped down off the porch and strode to the open garage next to the clubhouse. The sun beat down overhead. Jed was in bad shape. He stumbled forward, struggling to stay upright. King had to hoist him up by the collar. When they finally reached the garage he let go. The biker collapsed in a heap in the dirt.
‘These your bikes?’ King said.
Jed didn’t answer. The skinny guy trailing meekly behind said nothing.
King spun toward the man with a burst of speed. It gave him such a fright that he fell back on his rear in the dirt, still clutching his wounds.
‘I said … are these your bikes?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘Yes what?’
Skinny looked at him, perplexed. ‘Whaddaya mean?’
‘You’re going to call me sir, or I’m going to give you another beating. Are these your bikes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
There was nothing more to be said. King stepped into the garage. It was a creaky tin building with cracked concrete flooring. Rusty tools adorned the walls. The whole place reeked of fuel. The wooden shelving running along the right-hand wall looked as if it would fall apart at any second. Several metal cans of petrol lay along the top shelf. King walked over and hefted one into his arms. It was heavy. He could cope.
He made his way over to the first of the four motorcycles, a matte-black Harley Davidson complete with custom fenders. A real nice piece of work.
‘How much did this cost you?’ King said as he ripped the lid off the canister.
‘My life savings, man,’ Jed whimpered. ‘Please…’
‘Even better.’
King upended the can over the Harley, making sure to empty its last dregs before throwing it aside. The bike gleamed in the sunlight. It had a new coat.
‘Anyone here got a light?’ he said.
Sheer perplexion crossed Jed’s face. Either shock, denial or stupidity kept him from putting two and two together. Skinny seemed to be aware of what the question meant.
‘Nah, man,’ Jed said.
‘If either of you have one, and I find it,’ King said, ‘I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life.’
‘I’ve got one,’ Skinny said.
‘That’s what I like to hear.’
The man fished around in his pocket before producing a compact silver Zippo. King snatched it out of his fingers. Flicked the top off. Slid his thumb over the spark wheel. A small flame leapt up.
Jed realised what was happening.
‘No!’ he yelled. ‘You prick. Fuck off!’
He took a step forward in a hopeless attempt to scare King away from the bike. King lashed out hard, twisting at his waist, putting all his bodyweight into a right hook that cracked across Jed’s jaw and sent him tumbling back onto the dirt. He’d put more power into it than he usually would. That shot had sent a message.
Don’t ever try that again.
‘Please don’t hit me,’ Skinny helplessly spluttered.
King spun on his heel and threw the open lighter into the garage. It landed squarely in the thin puddle of petrol spread across the concrete underneath the Harley. The entire floor lit up like an inferno. Flames enveloped the bike, licking away the matte paint, eating away at its frame. A whimper sounded from the ground behind King. He turned to see Jed watching the blaze unfolding. There were tears in his eyes.
Skinny began to shake as the fire spread to the rest of the garage. The tin shed spurred the blaze on until all four bikes were swallowed. The heat was astonishing. King took a few steps back to ease the burning sensation against his skin. He found himself between Skinny and Jed.
‘That’s a shame, isn’t it?’ he said.
Jed was in too much pain to move, but Skinny took a step away. King sensed he was about to run for it. He couldn’t have that.
Two handfuls of the shirt and a vicious knee to the gut put the gaunt biker on the gravel alongside his buddy. The placement of the blow had taken every ounce of wind out of him. King was sure that neither of the pair would have the energy or the motivation to move for the next half hour.
He left them on the ground and re-entered the clubhouse. He took a moment to survey the scene. Half the furniture in the place had been either overturned or destroyed in the carnage. The two bikers left in the room were in the process of recovering from concussions. They swayed on the floor, attempting to get to their feet.
King wasn’t the type to kill needlessly, so he left them both where they were and crossed to the room where he had last seen the girl.
She was still there, sitting in the corner of a single bed, her knees tucked up to her chin. She trembled as King entered the doorframe.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘Who are you? What’s going on?’
‘I’m just a passerby. I did what I could to help.’
‘They’re the scariest guys I’ve ever met and y-you just beat the shit out of all of them,’ the girl said, stumbling over her words. ‘Please don’t hurt me, please…’
‘I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to take you home. Where do you live?’
‘Back up in Jameson.’
‘I’ve got a car.’
The girl said nothing. She stared at the floor, still shivering.
King walked over to the bed and crouched down by its side. The girl shrank back.
‘Look, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of,’ he said. Comforting wasn’t his forte, but he gave it a shot. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Those guys out there wanted to hurt you, and look what I did to them. That’s what I think of people like that. I’m really sorry about what happened to you but you need to trust me.’
‘Okay,’ she said in a voice barely above a whisper. ‘What did you do to them?’
‘What did they do to you?’
‘They touched me. Took my clothes off and they all started to touch me. I think it was going to get worse but you showed up.’
‘Was there anyone in particular who did more?’ King asked.
‘The big guy. The really fat one. He started it all, and everyone else kinda … followed.’
‘Stay here.’
A thin mental barrier kept King from exploding with rage as he headed back out into the main area of the clubhouse. Conveniently, the beefy guy had just come out of his stupor. He sat bolt-upright, staring around the room with a look of utter confus
ion spread across his features. He had no idea what had happened. Then he turned and saw King’s giant frame striding at him.
‘Who the f—’
King came within range and stomped down hard on the man’s hand. He felt multiple bones crush under his heel. A horrendous scream echoed through the room.
‘Do you have money here?’ King said slowly and clearly.
‘W-what?’
‘You guys definitely have cash. You extort every shopkeeper in Jameson. Where’s your money?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If you don’t tell me I’ll break every single bone in your other hand.’
‘Um … kitchen cupboard. Top left. Fuck…’
King nodded his approval. Then he crouched down so that his face was inches from Beefy’s.
‘I was in the Special Forces,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure if you realise what that means. It means that you four may think you’re the toughest, scariest men to walk the planet … but you know why you think that? Because you come from the middle of nowhere. You’re fucking hillbillies. You have no idea what the rest of the world is like. You know how to bully local shopkeepers, and that’s about it. Now, I’m going to take this girl back to her parents. If I hear a fucking whisper that any of you four have shown your face in town, I’ll come back here and I’ll tie you all up and kill every single one of you. Nod if you understand.’
Beefy nodded.
‘Look into my eyes,’ King said. ‘Look right into them. Now listen. If you ever try anything like this again, I will slaughter you. Do you think I’m bluffing? Does it look like I’m making this up?’
‘No.’
‘Do you doubt me?’
‘No.’
‘Will you do everything I say without a hint of protest?’
‘Yes.’
‘When your buddies wake up, you tell them everything I just told you. And you get the fuck out of this place. I’m coming back tonight to check whether you’re still here. Got it?’
A nod.
King knew he had Beefy exactly where he wanted him. The man gave off clear signs of a mentally broken individual. The shivering. The wide eyes. The inability to make eye contact. The unmistakeable smell of piss. His previous aura of macho invincibility had just been torn to shreds.