by Naomi West
“So now I’m going to have to kill Spike. It’s the only thing for me to do.”
I remember Justin, Spike’s VP, the one whose mom has cancer. Justin, playing Spike the whole time. This changes everything. I can’t play the Scorpions now. I’m foiled before I’ve even begun. I open my mouth with the hopes of salvaging the situation, but then I remember his threat. I have no doubt that he’ll follow through with it.
“I need to kill him, yes, but don’t think that means I care one whit about you. It’s about respect. And, anyway, my man has given me some interesting information. The Vipers are going to raid us tonight. They’re going to come to my castle and try to knock it down. Ha!” He looks even uglier when he smiles. “I’m going to cut off Spike’s head and serve it to you on a plate. When the dust has settled, we’ll deal with that little spawn of yours. We can’t have half of Spike running around the place. Then it’ll be your time to marry Christopher, I think. That or die.”
He waves a hand at the door. “Go back to your room, whore. Wait for the shooting to start.”
I leave the office, feeling numb and foolish. Rust grabs me by the elbow and drags me back through the bar toward the bedrooms. I was going to play them. I was going to play them all. I was going to smile and look pretty and put on the best performance of my lifetime. But now it’s all gone down the toilet. Justin, Spike’s second-in-command, Spike’s friend, a traitor . . . And Spike’s coming after me. He doesn’t know they’ll be ready for him. He thinks he has the benefit of surprise. When Rust shoves me back in my room and slams the door, I pace for what feels like a day. I pace and pace and try to think of a way to get word to Spike. They’re going to kill him. I touch my belly, stroking my baby. They’re going to kill his father.
I sit on the bed and stare at the wall, chewing my lip until it begins to throb. I keep telling myself that Dad has known all along about Spike, that Dad has known all along about what the Vipers have been doing, but I find it difficult to believe. I can’t believe that the father of my baby is going to die today. I just can’t. I need to warn him.
I go to the window and study the bars. Maybe if I could break the glass, I could . . . But the bars are set too close together, even for me. I’d hurt myself if I tried to squeeze through. I walk around the bedroom, trying to think of a plan. Maybe I could break down the door and . . . And what? Charge into the hallway where Dad has obviously placed a guard, fight him to the death, and then sprint to the Vipers’ clubhouse, outrunning several dozen bikes?
There has to be some way. I look around the room. A bed, two bedside tables, a wardrobe, some dresser drawers.
I root through them madly, tossing clothes onto the floor, spilling out the contents of the bedside table. When I find the sheaf of A4 paper, I feel like I’m making progress. I go into the bathroom and open the mirror cupboards, but there’s nothing in there I can use. I dig to the bottom of the wardrobe, but there’s nothing. I search the bedside table at least ten times, but I can’t find a pen. I think about using my own blood, but that’s the type of thing that only works in movies. I’d end up smearing useless red patterns onto the paper. I find a box of toothpicks in the bedside table, buried right at the bottom.
Holding the toothpicks in one hand and the paper in the other, I walk up and down the room, willing my brain to come up with an idea. I need ink, dark ink, ink that will be visible from outside. An idea hits me. It seems stupid but right now I’m all up for stupid ideas. Any ideas are better than nothing. I return to the bathroom and look at the shower. G was good about cleaning the shower, but Dad’s men are not. The grooves between the tiles and along the rim of the floor are covered in fine layers of grime. I empty the toothbrushes from their cup, collect some grime, collect some toothpaste, and mix it all together with the bottom of the toothbrush.
My fingernails are crusted black by the time I’m finished. It’s worth it, though. When I dab the toothpick into the cup and bring it to the paper, I’m able to write out a crude message, the words jagged, but words all the same. I write: They Know You’re Coming. Stay Away. Then I place it on the bed and wait for the “ink” to dry. I wait for a long time, not waiting to smear it against the glass. When it’s done, I kneel down next to the window and press the piece of paper to it, knowing that it’s going to hurt my arm but having no other option.
I turn on the lamps in the room when it gets dark so that the sign will be visible. My shoulder is already throbbing with the effort, my forearm aching, but I can’t let it go. I can’t let Spike get hurt. Holding a piece of paper shouldn’t be this hard, but I’m exhausted. All I want is sleep.
I knew a girl once who grew up without a father and it really screwed her up. It screwed her up so badly that when she finally found her father, she went to him even though he was an evil psychopath who killed her mother. It screwed her up so bad she forgot who she was for almost a year. I won’t let that happen to my kid, ever.
Night comes and I change my arm. I can only hope Spike sees it in time.
Chapter Nineteen
Spike
As the sun sets, my men surround the compound, hiding in the woods and watching and waiting. From the number of bikes in the parking lot, we know there’s at least forty or so men in there, which is around the same number of men we have. I’ve posted scouts at our rear to watch for dogwalkers and lovers out on a stroll, as well as watching for the off-chance that some Scorpion come walking by. If there’s anything I learned in the army, it was always to watch your back.
I stand with Justin, watching the windows of the dormitory wing. I remember creeping across to there what feels like a hundred years ago, spying into the window and seeing nothing but the finest piece of ass I’ve ever laid my eyes on. It’s mad how life can switch up so quickly. She was the finest piece of ass and now she’s the mother of my child, the love of my life, somebody I can’t stand the idea of living without. Life can be damn strange like that.
I’m watching the window and loading my weapon at the same time. It’s nine o’clock. In two hours we’ll hit them, and hit them hard. We’ll wait for them to get drunk and sleepy and then storm in there with all the sudden violence of an air bombing. I’ll kill every man who stands between me and Yazmin. I’ll never stop. I’ll never give up. I’ll kill and kill and kill until each one of the bastards is dead. I’ll—
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Justin says, shifting from foot to foot.
“You’ve said that.” I’m getting goddamn tired of his grumbling, but there are men all around us and having them see the president and the VP at each other’s throat hours before a raid ain’t a good idea. “Your opinion is noted.”
Justin sighs. “Come on, Spike. Doesn’t this seem like a bad—”
“Is there something you wanna say to me?” I lead him away from the men with a nod, standing out of their hearing beneath a massive tree. “What is it, man? What is this shit? If you’re scared, stay at the back like I told you. But don’t start questioning my decisions where the men can hear you. The fuck’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t want anymore of our men dead, is all.”
“This will work. It’s time. It’s past time. Knuckles was right.”
“If he was right, why didn’t you agree right away? The only reason you’re agreeing now is because your girl’s at risk.”
“So what?” I snap. “She’s carrying my fuckin’ kid. I didn’t expect to get shit from you about caring about family.” I’m about to go on when I see something strange in Yazmin’s window: what looks like a white piece of fabric, or a piece of paper, with what could be her arm shaking against the glass. “Wait a sec.” I return to the men. “Has anybody got a scoped rifle?”
“Boss.”
One of the men hands me a scoped M16. I return to Justin, make sure the safety’s one—it’d be a cruel joke if I came this far just to accidentally shoot her—and then look through the scope. I was right. It’s her arm, the paper fluttering as she trembles. She must’ve be
en holding that sign up for ages. The words are written in what could be tar, thick and black and sticky-looking. They Know You’re Coming. Stay Away. I toss the rifle to the undergrowth, cursing under my breath.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
But how?
“They’re expecting us,” I tell Justin. “The fucking Scorpions are fucking expecting us.” I’m about to kick my bike when I remember that there’re men everywhere. In the army whenever we saw the officers showing emotion it was always a bad sign. They were meant to be tougher than us.
“Maybe they saw us riding in. Maybe they had lookouts.”
“Maybe,” I mutter, but that pisses me off because I sent men out beforehand exactly for that purpose. If they’d had lookouts we should’ve known about it.
“What now, boss?” one of the men asks from the darkness.
“We return to the clubhouse,” I say, knowing it’s the only smart move. We can’t hit them now, not if they’re ready for us. We have to wait until morning, make them think we’ve given up. “Justin, gather the men. Get the order out to return to the clubhouse. And get the order out that at 0700—” I cut myself off, wondering. If they know, it could be lookouts, or Snake could’ve paid one of my men to tip him off. One of the lower-ranking men, somebody who needs the cash and doesn’t feel allegiance to the club. “Get the order out that the men need to be ready to hit the club at any time. I want them on standby all night and all day tomorrow. We’re gonna hit these bastards with everything we’ve got. Just let them relax first. And Justin.” I turn to him. “If you say one more word about backing out of this, I’m gonna smash your teeth into the back of your skull.”
Before he can reply to that, I climb on my bike and kick it into a growl, staring at the rectangle of light and the shaking sign. I’m coming back for you, I promise her. I’m not leaving you. Just stay strong.
Back at the clubhouse, I sit in my office, staring at the clock, Desert Eagle resting against my knee. I watch as the seconds tic by, trying to picture the Scorpions getting sleepy, the Scorpions getting drunk. At two o’clock in the morning I lie down on the cot, getting a few hours of fitful sleep. I wake at six with my belly growling in hunger. But I won’t satisfy it, not until my other hunger has been satisfied.
I stand up and roll my neck in my shoulders.
“Time to go to war,” I mutter.
Chapter Twenty
Yazmin
At around two o’clock in the morning my arms are so tired I can’t hold them up anymore. I crawl away from the window, leaning against the bed and hoping that Spike saw my message. Dad mentioned that they were going to attack tonight, so I can only assume Spike has seen my message and retreated. Otherwise the shooting would have started by now. I climb to my feet and sit on the bed, wondering if I should try and get some sleep. I want to, but I feel wired, as if somebody has slipped a stimulant into my system. My body is weary but my mind is on speed.
I stand up and go to the door, pressing my ear against it. I’m not sure exactly how many hours I spent like this during my time here, listening to the men in the hallway, saving the information for a rainy day. Or in the bar, pretending to just be sitting, looking pretty, when really I was listening to every word spoken.
“. . . boss might be paranoid.”
I hold my breath. The men are down the hallway, at the end of it, their voices quiet.
“Yeah, right.” The man scoffs. “You shouldn’t say things like that, not if you value your life.”
“Oh, come on, man. They were meant to hit, what, at like eleven or midnight? Maybe his mole has fucked him over.”
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we? I’m sure we’ll get word when they’re really coming to hit us.”
“Yeah, I hope so. I ain’t dying today. I’ve seen how I’m gonna die, in a dream.”
“Is that right?” The man laughs. “And how’re you goin’?”
“In bed, surrounded by women, and when I bust my nut into the back of her throat, it’s lights out. Oh, and I’m one hundred and ten years old.”
The men chuckle, their laughing growing quieter as they leave the hallway. I stay like that for a long time, waiting. Sleep tries to drag me to bed, but I can’t sleep at a time like this, when at any moment Spike might return and the shooting might start. I think of soldiers waiting for battle, wondering if this is what they feel like. I don’t hear anything else for the rest of the night. I lie down. I might as well try and rest, if not sleep. I lie there staring at the darkness of the ceiling forcing my eyelids open every time they fall closed.
Despite my efforts, I must sleep for an hour or two, because I open my eyes to the sound of gunfire. It’s like hell has been unleashed on the clubhouse. All around, the guns are being fired, bullets ricocheting loudly off metal and wood, man roaring, men screaming, men calling out for their mothers. I roll off the bed, hardly able to hear myself breathe for the sound of combat, and crawl under the bed, hands over my ears. I don’t think it’s possible to know how truly terrifying gunfire can be until it’s all around you.
I move to the center of the bed, knowing how much danger I’m in. All it’ll take is one of Dad’s men to find me instead of one of Spike’s, and that could be the end of me. Or a stray bullet. Or a piece of unlucky shrapnel.
“Get the fuckers!” somebody roars, their voice just audible below the unceasing tat-tat-tat and boom-boom of the bullets. “Get the fucking bastards!”
When I was a girl I would often hide under my bed like this with a book, so small that the dark place beneath the bed felt like a whole separate world. With a flashlight and a profound sense of peace, I would turn the pages until I was sinking into the world of the book, the dark place forgotten. Now I’m large and unwieldy, a grownup with too-big arms and too-big legs. The bed isn’t a large one. I’m squashed beneath it, my chest tight. It gets tighter when the door squeaks open. I notice that more than anything. The door squeaks open. It isn’t kicked open. Which means whoever’s opening it has the key.
I tuck my legs up, tuck my arms in, trying to make myself small. I wish I could turn back into that tiny girl. Nobody would find that tiny girl. The man is wearing thick boots, but that doesn’t tell me much. All of them wear thick boots. He snorts and spits, but that doesn’t tell me much. Many of them snort and spit on account of how much they smoke and how much coffee they drink. When the man starts talking, though, there’s no doubt about how he is.
Closing the door, he says, “It seems your boyfriend is smarter than I guessed. Maybe he rooted out the mole. Maybe he worked around the mole. In any case, the mole was useful to us and now he’s not. Oh, you’re wondering to yourself, why isn’t he panicking? Why isn’t he looking for me? Let me tell you something, little slut.
“I met up with your mother once or twice over the years, more like nine or ten times if I’m being honest. You see, despite what ended up happening between us—she never should’ve borrowed that money; it’s not my fault she was bad with her finances—despite what happened, she still liked the odd fling. She couldn’t help herself. That’s probably where you get your sluttiness, I reckon. I think she wanted me to love her, poor woman. Sometimes she would sit up and prattle on about this and that. The only reason I let her do it is because—” He pauses as what sounds like a shotgun blast tears through a hunk of metal, maybe a bike. “Don’t worry. I’ve got good ears. If anybody comes down the hallway, I’ll see them.
“Where was I? Oh yes. The only reason I let her is because she still looked good naked, despite her age. She would go on and on about her boring job and her boring friend and her boring life and, once or twice, her boring daughter. Oh, my daughter did this, my daughter did that, until I wanted to put a bullet in her head. I guess I did, in the end. Life’s funny like that.”
I feel tears sting my eyes. I want to roll out from under the bed and attack him, flail at his face, disfigure him, and hurt him. But even though I’m sure he knows I’m here, there’s still that one percent chan
ce that he’s bluffing, or that somebody will get to him before he gets to me. So I stay where I am, despite the rage working its way through me.
“Once she told me about how her sweet boring daughter would lie under the bed with a flashlight and a book, reading until the sun came up sometimes. She told this to me like I was going to be so proud I’d sweep into that apartment and give you a kiss on the head.” He snorts out a laugh. “What a stupid bitch. Anyway.” His boots move to the edge of the bed. I’m so close I can see how the laces crisscross, that one of the lace-holes has worn away, so the toe of his right boot is scuffed. “Time to get out of there, Yazmin. Hellfire is raining down all around me and I need some leverage. Don’t make me kneel down.”
I keep quiet, holding my breath.
He sighs heavily. “I’m going to give you three seconds. Let me explain to you what’s going to happen at the end of the three seconds. I’m going to shoot into the bed. This is a heavy-caliber pistol, by the way, so there’s no chance of the mattress eating the bullets. They’ll go straight through. I’ll shoot until my clip is empty, and then count to three again, reload, and shoot until my clip is empty. So either you crawl out breathing or I drag you out dead. One . . .”