Deathtrap

by L. M. Somerton

  The hours passed more quickly than Rogue would have liked. He dozed and worried about Orlando. The temptation to mount up and head out to the hospital gnawed at him. He wanted to be with Orlando, at his bedside. He wanted to be the first person Orlando saw when he woke. He trusted Crow and Shelton to look after Orlando, but it wasn’t the same as being able to witness his lover’s recovery with his own eyes. His emotional attachment to Orlando was uncontrolled and unsettling. It was a feeling he wasn’t used to. No other relationship had come close, and although he was loyal to his club mates and, by necessity, to Horatio Trap, that duty was forced on him by circumstance.

  There was a tap at the door.

  “Rogue, you up?” Hatchet’s gruff tones cleared his mind.

  “Give me a few minutes,” he responded.

  In order to keep Orlando safe he had to focus on the job in hand. Dealing with the Longhorns came first. Other concerns had to wait. He changed his clothes, selecting thick leather pants and his heaviest boots. He pulled on his Wyverns jacket over a plain black tee then grabbed his shades from the dresser. He strapped a sheath to his forearm and slid a knife into it. His gun went into his waistband, under his jacket. When he got to the kitchen, Hatchet, Teddy and Bull were all seated around the table. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the room and there was a stack of pancakes piled on a platter in the middle of the table. Artie stood at the stove pouring batter into a sizzling pan.

  “Didn’t know you had it in you, Artie,” Rogue commented as he sat down.

  “Figured you couldn’t have a last supper,” Artie said. “So you had to get last breakfast instead, and my pancakes will give you added weight for fighting Wayne. That’s if Hatchet doesn’t eat them all first.”

  Hatchet shrugged. “I need my strength. Gotta look after the boss.”

  Bull grunted. “Yeah, make sure you bring him back because none of us wants to deal with the brat if you don’t.”

  Rogue munched on a pancake, heavily doused in syrup. He shook his head. “Can’t believe you lightweights are all afraid of Orlando.”

  “Not afraid,” Teddy clarified. “Wary. He’s like a baby raccoon—all cute but bites like a fucking rabid dog.”

  “Says the man who wants to mess with the law.” Hatchet swigged coffee then lifted his mug in a toast.

  Teddy gave him the finger.

  “And on that note, we should ride.” Rogue pushed his empty plate away then shoved his chair back. He strolled to the door without a backward glance.

  * * * *

  Mozzy’s was a well-known meeting spot for local bikers and Rogue understood why the Longhorns had chosen it for the challenge. It was an abandoned gas station and service center situated on a quiet road, a good distance away from residential neighborhoods. Used for maintaining big trucks, there was an enormous pit inside a vast shed. As he and Hatchet rode into the lot, twenty-five maybe thirty bikes were lined up in neat rows. Either the Longhorns enjoyed early mornings or they’d been camping out at Mozzy’s.

  Hatchet switched off his ignition and turned to Rogue. “What the hell are they doing here, Rogue? There’s a whole fucking state between here and Texas. Why couldn’t they irritate some club in New Mexico?”

  “Fucked if I know, but this could work out just fine. I have an idea.”

  Hatchet groaned. “Shit. Whenever your brain starts revving, I get worried. Trap’s rubbing off on you.” He snorted. “That’s quite the visual—or it would be if we knew what the fuck Trap looked like.”

  “You’re supposed to be calming my nerves and giving me some kind of pep talk, not making me nauseated.” Rogue stripped off his jacket and laid it across his saddle.

  He kept the knife but handed his gun to Hatch, who shoved it into an inside pocket. The two of them circled the building and approached a rusting metal roller door at the rear that had been cranked up a few feet. Two men wearing Longhorns’ colors lounged outside. One slipped beneath the door, presumably to announce their arrival. The other gave a toothless grin.

  “Didn’t expect you chicken-shit lizards to show up.” He spat a gob of chewing tobacco onto the dirt. “What the fuck’s a wyvern anyway—some kind of gecko?”

  “Says the man who rides with a bunch of cows,” Rogue replied with a grin.

  “Head on in, smartass. Wayne’s primed and I can’t wait to see you sliced and diced.”

  Hatchet went first, ducking low beneath the door. Rogue followed but paused while his eyes adjusted to the brightness inside. Arc lights were set up at each corner of the pit and bikers, drinking and smoking weed, surrounded the rim.

  “Fuck, it’s barely dawn. These guys start early,” Rogue said, looking around.

  “Maybe they just ain’t finished from last night,” Hatchet replied. “That’s good. Wayne won’t be sharp if he’s been up all night. This must be him coming over now.”

  The two guys who had showed up at The Wyverns HQ flanked the man walking across to them.

  “Still speaking in a squeaky voice, Spike?” Hatchet asked the one Crow had floored.

  A flick knife appeared in the man’s gloved hand, but Wayne pushed Spike away.

  “This is a challenge for territory, stop fucking around.” He switched his gaze to Rogue. “Jackson Wayne. Please be assured that whatever the outcome of the challenge, you both have safe passage out of here.” He turned to glare at his men. “Understood?”

  He got grudging nods from both men.

  “Then let’s get this dance started. Knives in the pit. One blade each. Last man standing wins.”

  Rogue gave a single nod. He didn’t feel inclined to indulge in small talk.

  “Shirts off. We pat each other down.”

  “Fair enough.” Rogue removed the sheath around his arm and handed it to Hatchet.

  He stripped off his shirt and stood still as Wayne gave him a thorough search. He returned the favor, then the two of them jumped down into the pit. The base was covered with a slimy film and several puddles of oil-slicked water. In the center there were two identical knives and a length of heavy chain. Wayne gestured to Rogue.

  “Go ahead—take first pick.”

  Rogue picked up one knife and wound one end of the chain around his wrist. Wayne did the same.

  Wayne pulled the chain taut. Rogue kept his stance loose and watched for sudden moves. Wayne was a big guy, standing about six foot five. He had heavily muscled bulk that Rogue hoped would made him slow and cumbersome. Light glinted from the blade of Wayne’s knife as he turned it in his hand. Rogue hefted his own blade, adjusting his grip. He wrapped his wrist in a couple more loops of chain and grabbed a few links, folding his fist over them. The metal was cold. It dug into his palm. Wayne shifted, and Rogue realized that his opponent was trying to get into a position where one of the arc lights was behind him. Rogue resisted the move and stepped the other way, avoiding the pools of oily water that would be slick beneath his feet. Sweat coated his bare chest. Heat seemed to gather in the pit and the noise of the baying men above him made it hard to concentrate.

  “Last chance to walk away. You and your boys get to ride off into the sunset, holding hands like the fags you are.” Spittle sprayed from Wayne’s mouth.

  “I didn’t come here to talk. You have nothing to say that I want to hear.” Rogue stepped slowly, knees bent.

  “Your choice. We can do this the hard way.” Wayne’s oily hair gleamed in the light. He held his knife on an angle and took a couple of small steps forward. He stood, lips twisted into a sneer, waiting.

  Rogue didn’t fall into the trap of making the first lunge. Wayne made kissing noises and beckoned him forward. “Come on, pretty boy.”

  He feinted to the left and passed the knife sideways at Rogue before stepping back. Rogue sucked in his belly and the blade missed him by a hair’s breadth.

  Too close.

  Above them, the crowd jostled for position. Shouts of encouragement for Wayne echoed around. Their shadows danced on the walls of the pit. Wayne tugged hard on the ch
ain. He came in low, from left to right, and the knife flashed past, almost too fast to see.

  Rogue blocked the blade with his chain-wrapped wrist, shocked at the force of the blow. He ducked low and shook the chain as a distraction. He caught Wayne’s forearm, drawing threads of scarlet from the flesh. Wayne barely seemed to register the wound, though blood dripped, marring the rainbow swirls in the puddle at his feet. He swung the knife back and forth before him like a hypnotist attempting to lull his victim. He turned suddenly, presenting his back to Rogue, then swung around hard.

  Rogue bit back a curse as the thick leather protecting his thigh parted and the sting of a cut set his nerve endings on fire. Attempting to take advantage of his hit, Wayne crouched and feinted left, then stepped in and tried a backhand slash. This time he failed to make contact. Rogue edged sideways then lunged. He scored a hit across Wayne’s hip that drew a curse as well as blood. The feints and circling continued. Rogue wanted to tire his opponent, so he moved constantly, wearing Wayne down.

  Wayne lost patience and slashed twice in quick succession, yanking hard on the chain at the same time. Rogue became unbalanced and dropped to one knee. He recovered enough to twist away, avoiding what might have been a fatal blow, but taking a strike to his upper arm. He surged to his feet. Wayne grabbed his wrist and they wrestled, hacking at each other with their weapons. Rogue shoved Wayne away and backed up to the maximum length the chain would allow. A small cut decorated Wayne’s pec, just above a pierced nipple. Rogue had taken another small cut on his arm but nothing that would slow him down.

  He heaved on the chain, leaped to one side and aimed a kick at the back of Wayne’s knee. As the bigger man went down heavily, Rogue scored a line across his lower back. Wayne swore and twisted but Rogue was ready. He looped the chain around Wayne’s neck and pulled, choking him. Wayne dropped his knife as he tried to get his fingers between the chain and his neck. Rogue got behind him and pulled harder. Wayne’s fingers flexed, his breath came in wet gasps. Rogue held the point of his knife to the indentation below Wayne’s chin and applied enough pressure to draw blood.

  “I should gut you right now. A stomach wound. Make you bleed long and slow into the dirt.” He looked up at the now silent crowd standing around the edge of the pit.

  Nobody made a move to help their leader. Hatchet stood at one corner, arms crossed, smug grin fixed on his face.

  “But I won’t.” Carefully, watching for any sign that Wayne might attempt to jump him, Rogue unwound the chain and took a step back.

  Wayne sucked in air with a ragged gasp then vomited into an oily puddle.

  Rogue picked up Wayne’s discarded knife and handed it to Hatchet. He took a couple of steps back toward Wayne and waited, his own blade held casually in his fist. Wayne got unsteadily to his feet.

  “S’pose you want the crew?” he rasped.

  A few gasps sounded from around them. Rogue shook his head.

  “You couldn’t pay me enough to take this bunch of vermin off your hands. I want you all to get the fuck back to Texas and stay there.”

  “There must be something you want, Rogue? You won… There’s gotta be a price. No one’s gonna say that I backed out on a deal.”

  “There is a small favor you could do me.” Rogue grinned. “Let’s talk.”

  Epilogue

  Rogue strode purposefully around The Wyverns HQ seeking out his men. Orlando and Shelton were already installed in the communal area, sprawled on one of the large couches, watching The Princess Bride. Both of them seemed to be able to recite the entire script word for word, which scared Rogue on a level that he could hardly describe. He had to go outside to find the others.

  Teddy and Hatchet stood on either side of a partly disassembled bike and a pile of random parts. They were deep in discussion over the merits of a new brand of oil.

  Rogue listened for about thirty seconds before he got bored.

  “Need you both inside, if the pair of you can stop yapping for a few minutes?”

  Teddy looked at him as if he were a purple alien with three heads. “Huh?”

  “Inside. You might want to scrape some of the oil off first.”

  Hatch scowled. “Aw, I was cultivating that look that the girls seem to go for—sweaty and dirty.”

  “Why the hell would you care what attracts women?” Teddy asked.

  “I don’t, but I figure it might work on Smith as well. He’s always so clean… I’d like to rub some dirt into that pristine skin and see how he reacts.” Hatch rubbed his hands on the legs of his already filthy jeans. “I need to get a peek at what he’s hiding beneath those designer labels.”

  “Stop daydreaming and get inside,” Rogue snapped. “We have more important things to talk about than your fantasies.”

  “Nag, nag, nag… A dirty mind is a healthy mind in my humble opinion.” Hatchet hitched his jeans up and stalked toward the building, Teddy trailing behind him, grinning.

  Rogue followed the dirt path that circled around to the back of the adobe structure. About a hundred yards away, Bull and Artie had a target set up against a couple of straw bales and were practicing their knife throwing. For a couple of men more used to handling guns, they weren’t bad. Crow stood off to one side giving them tips and criticizing each throw.

  “Better, Bull, much better. But you still need to keep your elbow up and stand slightly more sideways.” He moved across and demonstrated the correct stance. “Like this.” He pulled the knife from the sheath attached to his belt then threw it with a smooth, effortless motion. The blade sank into the crudely drawn paper target, dead center.

  “Fucking show off,” Artie complained. “You make us look like a pair of amateurs, Crow.”

  “Yeah, but have you seen him try to hit a target with a gun?” Bull asked. “Couldn’t hit a fucking boulder from ten yards away.”

  “Practice is over,” Rogue interrupted. “Everyone’s gathering inside.”

  Crow nodded and immediately headed down the path. Artie and Bull collected their weapons and followed. Rogue climbed the slight rise behind the target and scanned the view. The sky was bleached blue and in the distance vultures swooped in lazy circles. Behind the haze, Rogue could just make out the rocks that Orlando had walked to a few days earlier.

  He sighed. So much had changed in a few short days. His entire perspective had shifted and now consideration for another person colored every thought and decision. He kicked at a loose rock and watched it bounce across the dry ground. He twisted his lips into half a smile.

  “Who’d have thought that one bratty sub could have had such an impact on a bunch of ruffians like us.” His grin widened. “On a ruffian like me.” He took a few more moments to absorb the bleak beauty of the scene then headed inside to join his men.

  Rogue closed the door behind him and let the chill of the air conditioning wash over his skin. The men he’d come to think of as family were sprawled on the couches in the communal area. Several condensation-slick bottles of Mexican beer rested on the low table, surrounded by a scattering of discarded metal bottle tops. Teddy perched at one end of the biggest couch, hugging a bowl of chips and fighting off Artie as he tried to grab a handful. Bull twirled a knife as if still practicing his throwing moves.

  On the second couch, Crow had taken his usual position next to Shelton and they sat as close as two men could get without actually touching. Orlando was next to Shelton. He had his knees pulled up, bare feet sticking out of skintight leather trousers. His toenails were painted blue to match his T-shirt, which had a picture of a Harley on the front and the slogan Bikers Never Stop Riding on the back. It was a get-well gift from Hatchet.

  Hatch gestured at the empty space next to him and raised his bottle. “Come and give us the bad news, boss. Then we can decide how much anesthetic we all need to drink.”

  Rogue snorted. He grabbed a beer, snatched the remote from Bull then sat down. Orlando immediately scurried over and clambered into his lap.

  “If you could all stop na
ttering for a damn minute, there’s something you need to see.” Rogue turned on the news channel. The screen filled with images of a prison riot somewhere in Florida.

  “I ain’t going near no prison, Rogue,” Artie whined.

  Rogue held up a hand. “Just wait. This isn’t the story I want you to see.”

  The images changed to shots of a number of patrol cars and ambulances scattered across a dirt road, lights flashing.

  “And now on to the discovery earlier today of more than twenty bodies after a gunfight between the Bellazi cartel and The Jackals Motorcycle Club. Local law enforcement believe that an exchange of a large quantity of cocaine went bad, but whatever the true story, the incident has left twenty-one men dead including Arno Bellazi.”

  Pictures of lined-up body bags came onto the screen and the announcer quoted figures about cartel-related crime.

  Rogue and Hatchet clinked their bottles together.

  “What the fuck, Rogue?” Crow asked.

  “Rogue here, is not just a pretty face, boys,” Hatchet announced. “As payment for winning the challenge against Jackson Wayne, Rogue asked the Longhorns to sort out a little problem for us. He told Jackson about the exchange that was going down and Jackson was only too happy to let his bloodthirsty mob loose.”

  Crow laughed. “So the Bellazi clan and the Jackals didn’t fall out over a deal gone sour?”

  “Nope. Though once the shooting started I doubt either side waited to see who took the first shot.” Rogue swigged his beer and enjoyed the slide of cold liquid down his throat. “Three problems solved. The Bellazis will be off our backs. The Jackals will need to regroup and won’t be causing trouble for some time, and the Longhorns will head back to Texas with some of their pride intact. I doubt their horns will be seen in these parts anytime soon.”

  Orlando wriggled in his lap, and Rogue’s cock jerked.