When we pull into the parking lot, Jude sits up to stare at the row of Harleys lined up on the far side. At the door, two of the prospects are standing guard. Hale is out there talking to them, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He’s still kind of cut up from the blast at Twisted Pipes, though the wounds on his face are healing.
I pull up in front of the three men, just a few feet from the front door. “Well, here we are,” I announce. I open my door, and Jude climbs out of the passenger side so he can switch places with me. As I hand him the keys, Hale calls out a greeting.
“Hey, little mama,” he grins, lifting his chin. “Who’s this?”
“Hey, Hale. This is my brother,” I tell him. “His name is Jude.”
Jude considers Hale for a second. Hale is only a couple of inches taller, but he’s pure muscle, and colorful tattoos cover his arms. My brother squares his shoulders as he takes in the three men.
“Hey,” he mutters. “You got a smoke?”
Hale shoots me a look. I shrug. I can sense that Jude’s just asking for a cigarette so he won’t look weak or young. If it’s one thing I’ve noticed about my brother in the past few weeks, it’s that he’s very, very eager to grow up and be seen as a man.
“Sure. Here you go.” Hale’s being nice to Jude because of me, I know. Most of the time, a stranger — especially a civilian — wouldn’t get the time of day from him, much less a cigarette. Jude takes one from his pack, and then Hale hands him a lighter. Jude puts the end of his cigarette to the flame and takes a deep, exaggerated drag before handing it back to him.
“Lot of men here at this time of day,” I remark, nodding toward the bikes.
“Yeah,” one of the prospects says, self-importantly. “There’s church in a bit. That’s why we’re out here.” He motions to the other prospect. “Tank and Striker were standing guard, but Angel put us on until after the meeting’s over.”
Jude takes another drag off his cigarette and scoffs. “What kind of faggot-ass name is Angel?”
For a split-second, no one moves, and the air seems to still. Then, in a flash, Jude is lying on the ground. With a cry of alarm and pain, his hand goes to his face, the dropped cigarette rolling away from him.
Hale looks down at him with disgust. His mouth contorts, and he spits. It lands inches from Jude’s head.
“Next, time, I ain’t gonna stop with one punch, little man.” Hale’s voice is quiet, menacing. “Respect for your sister will only get you so far, and you’ve reached your limit.” Glancing at me, he continues. “You’ll want to keep that piece of shit away from here, Jewel.” Then, without waiting for a reply, he turns on his heel and walks inside, leaving the prospects to gape and snicker.
“Jesus Christ, Jude!” I stammer. “You’re lucky Angel wasn’t here when you said that.”
“No shit,” the second prospect says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’d be eating the barrel of a gun for that.”
Wordlessly, Jude gets up off the ground. His lip is split, his nose bleeding freely. I take a step forward, but he snarls and brushes me off. The prospects start to laugh openly as he yanks open the car door and throws himself into the driver’s seat. A second later, he jams it into reverse, then drives off, tires squealing.
“Well,” I sigh as I watch him go. “That went well.”
9
Angel
We have the guy who set the bomb.
Brick did a pretty good job remembering the physical description of “O. Lawson.” With that, and some master-level intel, Tweak was able to get a name, a home address, and a place of employment for this son of a bitch. He goes by T-Jay Wexler, turns out. Works the night shift as a security guard at a local brewery. Wexler ain’t an Outlaw Son, but he’s in their pocket, doin’ shitty jobs they need done, probably in exchange for them lettin’ him live. From what Tweak was able to find out, the dude’s got a gambling problem, and is in debt up to his fuckin’ eyeballs.
For a security guard, he’s an easy motherfucker to grab. Gunner, Tank, and Brick nab him in the control room of the brewery, while he’s sittin’ around eatin’ beef jerky and watchin’ Jackass videos instead of monitoring the security camera screens. Tweak disables the cams so there’ll be no record when we take Wexler into the massive area of the brewing floor to interrogate him.
When they bring him in to me, Wexler is still doin’ the false fuckin’ bravado thing, but he’s already startin’ to show signs of being the sniveling weasel that he is. He’s a scrawny motherfucker, not even six feet tall, with beady brown eyes, a thin hook nose, and hair that looks like a thatch of straw on his goddamn head. He’s tryin’ to yank away from Tank, who’s got one arm locked around his neck and the other wrenching his bicep behind him. It’s so goddamn ridiculous I bust out laughing. That seems to give Wexler some small hope that this situation isn’t as serious as he thought.
He ain’t gonna believe that for much longer.
“O. Lawson,” I call out as Tank and the others bring him to me. “It’s about time I got to meet you.”
Wexler flinches, but does his best to cover it up. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Was that name your idea, or Razor’s?” I continue. “I’m betting it was yours. Because Razor? He ain’t really ever struck me as all that intelligent a guy.” I chuckle. “Not MC president material, for sure.”
“I don’t know any Razor,” Wexler insists, struggling as Tank shoves him into a folding chair. Gunner produces a small roll of duct tape from the pocket of his cut and tapes his wrists together behind him, then starts attaching his ankles to the chair.
“Don’t you, now?” I smirk. “Well, that’s gonna suck for you, T-Jay.” Wexler blanches at the sound of his name. “Because you’re here to give me some information about ol’ Razor. And, well, if you don’t know him, I ain’t gonna have much use for you. Know what I mean?” I reach for my back pocket and pull out a switchblade, flipping it open. “‘Course, I’m gonna have to know for sure that you don’t know him. And there’s only one way to find that out, if you ain’t gonna tell me.”
I take a step forward. I see the full range of emotions play through this sorry-ass motherfucker’s eyes. For one second, he doesn’t believe what I’m about to do. Then, a second later, he’s fuckin’ sure I’m gonna do it.
I almost feel sorry for this piece of shit. If there was ever a poster boy for In Over His Head, he’s it.
Almost, I said.
Before Wexler knows what’s happening, the blade of my knife is stuck up against his Adam’s apple. Giving it a slight flick, I nick him just enough for the blood to start flowing. He freezes and lets out a high, shrill moan.
“I guess it woulda been more poetic if I’d brought a straight razor,” I say conversationally. “Razor, get it? But this switchblade’s gonna have to do the trick.” In a flash, I’ve grabbed his chin tightly in my hands. Placing the tip of the blade against his cheek, I start to carve a first, straight line. Wexler screams and begins to struggle, but Brick steps behind him and yanks his shoulders back against the chair.
I pull the blade away, letting my victim see his blood adorning the tip. “So,” I say as I carve the second line, joining the first in an upside-down V. “Where’s Razor, T-Jay?” Wexler lets out a garbled noise deep in his throat. “You might be thinkin’ that he’ll kill you if you talk. But, I’m gonna kill you if you don’t. So, if I were you, I’d take my chances.” When I’m done with the second line, I dig the tip of the blade in a little, twisting it at the bottom of his jaw. Wexler yells, his mouth and eyes contorting in fear and pain. Leaning back for a second, I raise my left arm and backhand him, hard.
“You shut the fuck up, you piece of shit,” I snarl, leaning close and grabbing his chin again. The blood from his cheek stains my knuckles. “The only thing I wanna hear from you is where Razor is.” I plunge the knife in and make a third, deep cut, across the other two lines:
A.
Wexler opens his mouth and screams silently,
his breath wheezing in his throat. A stain appears on the crotch of his uniform. “Please!” he begs in a hoarse whisper. “Please! No more!”
“T-Jay, I ain’t the one doin’ this. You are.” I stand up for a second, admiring my handiwork. “You know what you need to do to stop this.” I toss the knife from my right hand to my left and lean forward to start on the other cheek.
“No!” he howls. “Okay! Just stop! Stop! All I know is where he had me meet him, one time! I promise! He gave me a burner phone so he could call me! He made me destroy it and throw it away afterwards!” His eyes are wild, pleading. “I swear, I don’t know anything more! I don’t know where their clubhouse is, or anything! I wouldn’t be able to contact him now, even if I wanted to!”
Carving the second A on his right cheek doesn’t change Wexler’s story, so in the end I choose to believe him. He babbles out the location of the bar where Razor set up their meeting, and tells me where he threw the burner phone in a Dumpster, though he says it’ll be long gone by now. I push for anything more I can get out of him, but those are the only useful things he tells me.
By the time I’m done interrogating him, Wexler’s eyes are fixated on the blade in my hand. His breathing is rapid and shallow, loud in the cavernous and mostly empty room. Blood and sweat run down his cheeks and neck, staining the collar of his uniform and the yellowed T-shirt under it. I can see him trying to convince himself that I’m done torturing him. That I’m going to let him live.
Yes to the second part.
“You know about justice, T-Jay?” I ask. “Club justice is Old Testament shit. You know: an eye for an eye.” I lift the switchblade up to the light, twisting it until the reflection glints in Wexler’s face. “You killed one of our employees in that blast. You know that?”
“No! No! I didn’t mean to, man! I was just doing what Razor told me to do!” He’s panicking now. Tears start to stream down his face, mixing with the blood and sweat. His body writhes on the chair, desperately trying to get loose. “I didn’t mean to! Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!”
“I ain’t gonna kill you,” I mutter. “Lucky for you, the guy you took out wasn’t a Lord. Even so, I don’t think you’re gonna like this next part.” I look over at Tank. “Gimme your bandana,” I say. “I’m gettin’ kinda sick of the yelling.”
With a smirk, Tank steps forward. He pulls the bandana off his head, stuffing it into Wexler’s mouth just as he starts to shriek.
It takes both Brick and Gunner to hold Wexler still as I slip the knife in between his left eye and the bone. With a twist, I cut all the muscles and pry the eye out. The blade’s sharp enough that the vitreous globe is still pretty much intact. Wexler is screaming and sobbing through the bandana, blood and fluid leaking freely from the newly empty socket.
I toss the eye into his lap. Then I reach down and with the same knife, slice apart the duct tape binding his hands.
“Go tell Razor,” I instruct him. “Tell him Angel did this.”
Wexler continues to wail softly into the bandana, but shock is starting to take over his body. One of his shaking hands scoops up the eyeball as Brick and Gunner let go of his shoulders. I nod at them and Tank. Together, we leave the brewery.
Outside, Tweak is waiting, smoking a cigarette.
“You done?” he asks. “Sounded gruesome.”
“Yeah.” Tank shrugs and shoots him a grin. “I’m hungry. Pizza?”
As we start our bikes and ride away, the grim satisfaction of doing what needed to be done fills me, as it has in the past.
I know I’m not a good man, because good men don’t enjoy hurting. Good men don’t enjoy killing.
I’m not a good man.
By the time we get back to the clubhouse, I’m already planning what happens next. We’ll need extra security now. This is going to stir shit up. We’ll need to prepare the families for the possibility that we’ll have to go on lockdown soon.
Next step: flush the Outlaw Sons into the open.
And when they do, we’ll be ready.
10
Jewel
Since the day Hale split Jude’s lip, my brother hasn’t asked to borrow my car once.
Though at first that seems like a blessing, I soon realize it means that I have essentially no idea where he is the vast majority of the time. Since he’s not about to volunteer the information — and since I can’t exactly force it out of him — I resign myself to just hoping he’s not getting into too much trouble. Though one day not long after the incident at the clubhouse, I see something that causes me to have serious doubts about that.
I’m on my way to the grocery store to stock up on food and supplies before work, when I pass a city park a few blocks from downtown. Cooper’s Park is run-down, the paint on the playground sets faded and chipped. It’s a favorite hangout for burnouts and delinquents. Parents with small children hardly ever venture to go there.
As I’m passing the park, I see a familiar figure hunched over a picnic table. His back is to me, but I’d know my brother’s teenaged slouch anywhere. He’s in a group of eight or ten people, all male. Most of them sport similar jackets to the one the guy who was in my apartment that day had with him.
Driving closer, I’m struck by how, as a group, they all look so similar: buzzed haircuts, brown jackets, white T-shirts or worn flannel, faded jeans or camo pants, boots. A couple of the older ones sit on the picnic table, yelling and gesturing — looking like they’re holding court. Jude is one of the only ones not dressed in the same way. I notice that the jackets all have a similar scrawl on the back. Squinting, I can just make out the words on one of them:
Krow Klan.
The name sounds sort of familiar, but I can’t place it. But as I’m trying to jog my memory, my eyes slide up to the shaved head of the jacket’s wearer, and I notice a tattoo that makes my blood run cold.
A swastika.
For a couple of seconds, I almost don’t believe my eyes. But then, as I take in the entire group, it all starts to make a horrifying kind of sense: the similarities in their appearances isn’t accidental. Not at all.
My God. Is there a neo-Nazi group in Tanner Springs?
Just then, I see Jude start to turn around. Reflexively, I sink down into my seat, praying he won’t notice the car and see that it’s me. It’s a cowardly move, I know. But I’m so shaken up by what I’ve just witnessed that I don’t know what to do. If I try to approach him now — try to get him to leave — I’m almost certain it will backfire. He’ll be angry at being humiliated in front of this group, and what if that just pushes him farther toward them?
My stomach is roiling by the time I get to the grocery store. Once inside, I mechanically throw a bunch of food and other supplies in my cart, barely registering what I’m buying. The blood is rushing in my ears so loud it’s hard to think. Somehow, I must pay for my groceries, because suddenly I’m outside at my car, loading bags into the trunk. On the way out of the lot, I almost hit the cart of an old lady in a floral dress crossing to her car. She flips me off with both middle fingers. Instead of laughing or calling out an apology, I almost start to cry.
“Jesus, Jewel! Watch where you’re going!”
Angel manages to catch the two bottles of beer just as they slide from my tray. The tray itself clatters to the floor, the noise so loud it makes me jump and let out a little yelp of dismay.
“I’m so sorry!” I babble, looking up at him guiltily. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I lean down to pick up the tray, shoving under my arm as I rise and reach for the beers, which he’s holding out with a scowl on his face.
Just as I have been on and off since I got to work, I’m suddenly on the verge of tears yet again. Scurrying around Angel, I bring the bottles over to Tank and Striker, who are playing pool in the back. They grunt their thanks but I don’t trust my voice to reply. Instead, I dump the tray hastily on a table and head toward the restroom, where I lock myself in for a few minutes, breathing deeply with my eyes closed.
Back outside, I grab my tray up from the table and hurry back to the bar. It’s a relief to have the counter there as a barrier between me and other people. I feel fragile, like the slightest touch could make me shatter into a million pieces. More than anything, I just want to make it to the end of the day. Then I plan to go home, crawl under the covers, and try to block out the pangs of worry gnawing at my insides.
But if I thought I could fly under everyone’s radar until the end of my shift, the sight of Angel approaching the bar with his purposeful stride tells me I was dead wrong. Suppressing a groan, I flash my brightest smile at him and hope it’s enough.
“Jewel, what the fuck was up back there?” he asks me with a frown. “You okay? You been droppin’ things and fuckin’ up drink orders all day.”
Shit. I guess he must have seen me put tequila instead of rum into one of the club girls’ drinks earlier.
“I’m fine,” I say hastily. “Really.” Smile.
Angel cocks his head. “No you ain’t,” he says flatly. He pulls up a stool and sits down. “Set me up with a shot of Jack.” Looking at me expectantly, he makes it clear he’s not about to leave me alone without an answer. My gut does a flip, making me feel a little sick. I do as he says, setting the glass in front of him and pouring it slowly, until the brown liquid reaches all the way to the top of the rim.
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