The Rising Sons Motorcycle Club

by Davida Lynn

  Trask sighed. “Cecil and I are the only ones left who know it.”

  Faith looked around. “I don’t give a damn if we lost every last dime the club earned. Just don’t let anything happen to any more of my boys.”

  Trask nodded. “I’ll call one of the Sons to come with me as backup. We’ll hit the safe and get some cash for people to get out of town.” A pained look appeared on his face. “Trigger was a true Son, Gunner. He was a Rising Son through and through. If there’s anything you need, you let me know.”

  “Of course, brother.” Gunner gave a solemn dip of his head.

  Raven smiled. There was something nice about seeing her man and Trask working together. She was worried about Gunner, because he seemed to be taking his little brother’s death in stride. She knew bikers, and Gunner especially, were masters at hiding their emotions.

  She turned to Faith. “I’ll get on the phone to the rest of the bikers. We can have everybody ready—”

  “You’re not doing a thing, dear.” Faith put on the kind of stern mother’s tone that you didn’t disobey. “I’m sure you haven’t had a good night sleep in days. I see the same look on your face when I look in the mirror. You get home and get some well-deserved rest. I can make the calls and start arranging things.” Raven started to protest, but Faith wasn’t having any of it.

  “It’s not a damn request. Keep your phone on, but for the love of God, get some sleep.”

  Outside the hospital, Gunner held Raven against him. They were both facing the impending sunrise. “She’s right, you know.”

  “About what?” Raven turned her head up to Gunner.

  “About sleep. Those cots suck. Go home. We’ll take care of things here. Trask and whoever he calls will get the cash from the safe, and we can send Hope, Jenny, and all the wives and girlfriends on a little vacation. They won’t know the difference.”

  Raven thought of Sam’s wife, who had cooked for them the first night they stayed at the bar. She thought about who would tell her, and how she would begin to grieve. The sisters and mother that had lost family—had they been told yet? Who would do it? Her thoughts came and went without cause, melting and forming from one to another.

  “You’re right. I am beyond beat. I know this is going to sound morbid, but I liked our time together tonight.”

  Gunner kissed the top of her head, “Me, too. It…” Raven watched Gunner as he struggled to find the words. “It helped me forget about Trigger for a few. As soon as things calm down, we’ll go somewhere that didn’t used to be a meth lab. Deal?”

  Raven laughed. “Deal.” She turned and bent up to kiss Gunner. He squeezed her ass and held her close for a few tender seconds.

  “All right, get home. Be careful. Seriously. Don’t go weaving all over the road or nothin’.” Raven could see the love in Gunner’s eyes as he spoke. Maybe it had been there before, but he had disguised it well enough for her to miss. Maybe because she was always pissed off at him she didn’t bother to see it, but in that moment, there was no way to miss how much he cared for her.

  “I live five minutes from here. I think I’ll make it, Gunner.” She flashed him a warm smile, then mounted her Harley. He was already heading back inside for his shift outside Bear’s door when she rode out of the parking lot.

  Raven was kidding herself. It was only a five-minute ride, but every time she blinked, she lost a second or two. The last mile was a fight against exhaustion. She rode through a red light after scoping out both oncoming directions. She saw no one and barely slowed down through the intersection. When she spotted her place, she let out a sigh of relief.

  Leave your phone on. Faith’s words echoed in her head. It was the last thing she wanted to do. If she got one more interruption in the middle of a great night’s sleep, Raven figured that she’d have an aneurysm and wind up next to Bear.

  For the first time in days, Raven fell into her own bed. She managed to get her dirty jeans and bloodstained t-shirt off before sleep overtook her. Then she fell hard into blissful blackness.

  “Don’t look at me. If your hired guns had done their job, we’d have the money in our hands right now.” Vegas smiled at Carlos, knowing it was the last thing the Mexican man wanted to see.

  Carlos threw his hands up. “I sent ten guys.”

  “I guess that wasn’t enough, was it?”

  “What do you want me to do? Send them all? Because eighteen is all we have, now.”

  “You didn’t believe me. I mean, I told you, but you didn’t believe me.” Vegas’ gravelly voice rang out through the small bodega. Far in back, hidden behind aisles of groceries, Vegas and Carlos sat in a booth. Vegas had a Dos Equis in front of him. Carlos was drinking sweet tea.

  “Let me tell you a little bit about biker culture, jefe. Bikers live for three things. Booze. They love drinking. They can drink more than Russians. You put it in front of them and promise an altered state of consciousness, they’ll drink it. Bear was at that bar six nights a week. Take away their whiskey and you bring death upon your house. No bueno.

  “Next is pussy. Bikers love to fuck. I don’t know how they do it so much, but they do. Women literally line up outside the bar for a chance to get with a Rising Son. It’s not just there—it’s all over California. If you’re a biker, all right, but if you’re in a club? Shit, better start taking antibiotics now, because you are going to be riding your fair share of sweetbutt.”

  Carlos sat back and took some of the information in. He didn’t care much about the bikers. He cared that four men had died in the attack, and the others came back with no money. He hadn’t heard all sides of the story, but something had to have gone wrong. Ten guys should have been enough, especially with the element of surprise. Still, Carlos would nod at the appropriate times while Vegas talked.

  Vegas went on, talking more for himself than for Carlos. “And the number one thing they’ll never give up? Their bikes. They’d rather lose the booze and bitches before they have to stop riding. I mean, these guys die for their bikes. I’ve seen it happen, Carlos.”

  “No offense, but that doesn’t mean a goddamn thing to me if I can’t pay the men I hired.”

  Vegas shook his head. He threw three pain pills into his mouth and knocked back his beer, washing them down. “No point now. They’re probably on their way to the bar right now to empty the safe. That was the one shot to clear them out of cash.”

  Carlos stood up from the table. “What the fuck do we do now? I promised my guys money, boy.”

  The smile vanished from Vegas’s face. He pushed himself upright at the table. The pills hadn’t kicked in yet, and the last ones were wearing off, so he grimaced as he stood. “You watch your fuckin’ tone, or I’ll bury you myself. The money is there. We just need a bargaining chip. Tell your guys to grab anyone close to the club. Girl, wife, brother—it doesn’t matter. We just need someone to trade.”

  Trask decided that staying off the motorcycles would be a better route, especially with cops crawling all over the area since the fire. Trigger agreed. Gunner had a pickup, so they headed to his place to pick it up. As the dawn was coming up, Trask and Trigger headed back to Los Bandoleros to dig through the ruins.

  On the way, Trigger was on the phone most of the time. He contacted many of the bikers, telling them as much of the plan as the emergency executive board had come up with. As soon as they had a location for Vegas, they would strike with iron and fire. Until then, everyone was on lockdown for safety.

  They drove past the bar once, to make sure the police department hadn’t left anyone there to guard the shell of a building. On the second pass, Trask killed the lights and pulled into the parking lot. Part of the eastern wall had collapsed, and they parked right at the edge of the crumbled cinder blocks. The other three walls were sagged inwards and broken near the top.

  The two men got out and surveyed the damage in the early morning light. The place was unrecognizable. Trigger kicked at a piece of wood that had belonged to the rafters. “Fucked up. I can’t b
elieve it’s gone.”

  Trask walked around to the back of the bar. “The bar is gone. That’s all. The club is alive and well. We can rebuild. We can start from scratch. Grab the shovel and axe from the bed.”

  Trask was already at the back door when Trigger handed him a shovel. The stainless steel kitchen resembled airplane wreckage. The floor was soaked from the firefighters, and creaks and groans came from the metal inside.

  The two men navigated over the fallen wall and roof, which had collapsed inwards. They stepped with care, measuring each step before putting their weight down. It took them ten minutes to get from where the back door used to be to the bar area. From there, it was another twenty minutes of hard labor. Trask and Trigger had to cut through the collapsed roof, then shovel out all the burnt remains of the bar. Charred wood, broken bottles, wires, and insulation were shoveled and kicked from the floor. Trask and Trigger were sweating by the time they got to the trap door.

  “Jesus. Fucking finally.” Trigger panted the words out, wiping his brow.

  Trask laughed at the lack smudge that Trigger dragged across his forehead. “Wide your forehead, dummy.” Trask tossed him his bandana.

  The two leaned against the wall that used to be the back of the servers area. Trigger pushed a piece of drywall off of a cooler and pulled out a tallboy. “They’re warm, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Trigger tossed a can to Trask. He caught it with a light touch, but even still, when he cracked the pop top, foam shot out. Trask held the can out as the foam drained down the side of the can.

  Trigger laughed, “Cheers.”

  The two men banged the cans into each other with no care for spilled beer. Trigger had been right, the beer was warm, but after a half hour of hard work, they didn’t care. The two took a break and drank their beers in silence.

  When both cans were tossed into the guts of the building with the rest of the rubble, Trask grabbed onto the hook and pulled up the trapped door.

  “Fuck me.”

  “What is it?”

  Trask threw the door open all the way, and Trigger saw the problem. Water from putting out the fire was halfway up the stairs.

  Trigger looked at Trask, “You gonna be able to get to the safe?”

  “Getting to it’s not the issue. I need to be able to see the combo to open it. If that’s under water, well. Fuck.”

  “I’ll find a bucket or something.”

  As Trask took each step, sinking into the brown water, he yelled up, “Yeah, you’d better.” He flipped on the flashlight app on his phone, “It’s about six inches under the waterline. We’re not done workin’, yet.”

  ***

  For another 15 minutes, Trask bucket of water and handed it up to trigger. The water inside the cellar moved down at an imperceptible rate of speed. Both men were dripping sweat, again. The sun was beginning to rise, and the temperature was following. Bucket after bucket was lifted and handed to trigger. He would step over the rubble and sling the bucket over what was left of a wall.

  Trigger got down on his haunches and handed the bucket back, “God damn, are we getting anywhere?”

  “Two inches to go. I just need to be able to see the top of the spinner.” Trask grabbed the bucket and dunked it under the dirty water once more. As he lifted it up and handed it to trigger, more water splashed over his body. Trask was soaked in the cool water, but he was determined to get to the safe and get the cash. The wetness and aching in his muscles didn’t even register in Trask’s mind. The physical labor was keeping him warm enough for the moment.

  Trigger took the bucket and followed the same path he had done nearly one hundred times. This time, though, he didn’t hurl the water from the bucket. “Shit. We’ve got company.”

  “Who is it?”

  Trigger crouched down, setting the bucket in the rubble. “Fuckin’ cops.”

  “How far?”

  “Not far. You afraid of the dark?” Trigger was coming back towards the trap door. There was no way they could get out and to the pickup truck in time to get away. Trigger figured that if one of them was going to get arrested, it might as well be him and not Trask.

  Trask knew what his partner was thinking. “Close the door, put some shit on top of it. Don’t let them see the trap door. “Trask backed down the stairs, deeper into the cool water. He let out an angry sigh; they had been just a few minutes from getting to the safe. At the very back of the corridor, Trask was waist deep in the water. Trigger closed the trap door, and all Trask could do was listen as his partner piled crap on top of the door to conceal it.

  “Ditch your cut. If they find out you’re a Rising Son, they’re gonna know you’re up to something.”

  Trigger responded in a half whisper. “Got it. Be right back.”

  Trask pumped a fist into the ceiling of the cellar and listened as Trigger climbed back towards the kitchen. Trask turned his attention to the ceiling above him. Using the light from the phone, he looked for a place to stow it so it wouldn’t get wet and die. The wood beams that supported the bar floor didn’t give many good spaces, but one of the beams had electrical wires running across it. Trask wedged his phone between the wires in the wood. The phone gave no impression that it would slip out and drop into the water. The biker closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing.

  Trigger made it back to the kitchen area just ask the cops pulled into the parking lot. They parked directly behind the pickup, ensuring it was blocked in. When they got out, trigger saw that neither of them were in a good mood. He gave them a friendly wave, anyway.

  “The fuck you think you’re doing?” the cop on the driver side asked. Trigger could see the top already had his hand on his holstered gun. He sighed. Nothing was easy for bikers, that was fore sure.

  Trigger kept the forced smile on his face, and he made sure to keep both his hands visible. “Just heard about the bar burning down, and I wanted to take a look for myself. Lots of good memories here.”

  The cop on the passenger side slammed his door and walked around the pickup truck. ”Boy, this here’s a crime scene. You are currently breaking the law, and I would love nothing more than to slap some cuffs on you and take your picture.”

  “I’m sorry officer, I didn’t realize.” Trigger kept his hands up, his tone friendly, doing everything he could to keep the cops from doing something stupid.

  “Bullshit.” The driver said. “Why don’t you step over here and put your hands on the hood? I want to see some ID.”

  Triggered it is the man ordered. He fished out his wallet with deliberate slowness, laying it on the police cruiser’s hood. “Of course, officer.”

  The driver came up behind Trigger, “Any weapons or sharp objects on you?”

  “No, sir.” As the cop patted Trigger down, the other one looked through his wallet and pulled out Trigger’s ID. He called in the license plate on the truck, too. Trigger glanced over, hoping to God they wouldn’t go rooting around inside the wrecked building. The thought struck Trigger that they already knew about the safe. If they started sniffing around, Trigger would have to create a distraction.

  The driver cuffed Trigger and spun him around, not trying to be gentle about it. “Play nice, and this will only be a cautionary measure. Do I have permission to search your vehicle, sir?”

  Trigger’s blood was boiling. He knew what was going on, and so did the cops. “No sir, you do not. And since you have no probable cause, it would be unlawful of you to do so.” Trigger knew he should have played it cooler, but he was being fucked with, and Trigger hated that more than he hated cops.

  The driver started walking back towards the pickup truck, despite Trigger’s explicit instructions.