The Rising Sons Motorcycle Club

by Davida Lynn

  “Hey, asshole, I thought I told you to stay away from my truck.”

  “DuBois, throw his ass in the squad, I’m getting sick of listening to him.”

  The other cop grabbed Trigger by the cuffs and pulled him towards the back of the squad car. Trigger looked back to the burned out building. The sudden realization hit him that Trask wouldn’t be able to get the trapdoor open by himself. If Trigger was sent to jail, it could be hours before he could get to a phone and send someone to free Trask.

  He changed his attitude in a heartbeat, “Alright, there’s no need to throw me in the back of the black and white. You can search the truck. I’ll even save you some time. There’s a handgun in the glovebox.”

  The driver turned around, a shit eating grin on his face, “Oh, now you want to play nice? Well, alright. If you can keep your dumbass mouth shut, you can stay.”

  The other cop stopped, and Trigger breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to stay, especially once Trigger couldn't produce the permit for his gun. All he could do was stand by and watch.

  The cop pulled open the passenger door. He reached for the glovebox without looking at anything else. The cop pulled out the handgun and checked the slider. Trigger felt lucky that he didn’t have a bullet in the chamber, not that it would make much of a difference.

  The cop came back and laid the gun on the hood of the squad car. He gave Trigger a look. “Naughty boy. I’ll bet you a cool hundred bucks, DuBois, that this greasemonkey can’t provide the proper paperwork for this firearm.”

  “Only a fool would take that bet, Officer Hargrave.”

  Trigger’s heart raced. The cops were dragging things out. They were being dicks and would only arrest him if he gave them cause. The two cops wouldn’t go through the hassle of the paperwork over trespassing or not carrying a permit. Trigger felt like the clock was running out. He had to get rid of the cops and get Trask out from the cellar.

  “Look, officers, you got me. I don't have the permit with me. If you’d be willing to hold onto the pistol for me, I would be more than welcome to go home and get the permit. I don’t want any trouble.” Trigger was doing something he detested: he was begging. It wasn’t in his voice, but it was in his words.

  The driver, Hargrave, looked for a long time at Trigger. Trigger could tell when he was being read. Had he been too eager? Too quick to give in? He didn’t recognize either cop, and without his cut, he was just another redneck in a pickup truck with a curious streak. trigger’s forehead prickled with sweat.

  “Well, DuBois, there’s not a mess of copper wire in the bed of this truck, so I guess we showed up a little too early to catch this scavenger red-handed.” Hargrove looked Trigger up and down. Trigger could hear the cop thinking it over, but he was leaning in the right direction.

  His partner wasn’t as eager, “We can easily take him in for the firearm. Up to you, I guess.”

  Trigger looked back and forth between the two cops. He must’ve thought the sweat was visible, and he would’ve done anything to have a free hand to wipe it away. He looked at Hargrave and gave an innocent shrug.

  “Nah, I’m not wasting my time with this punk. Uncuff him.” Hargrave waived Trigger away like he was a fly.

  Again, his partner wasn’t satisfied. “You sure? We don’t even know what the hell he was doing here, And I smell beer on his breath.”

  “ Oh, he’s just another god damn redneck looking for scrap to sell. Just uncuff him. Let’s send this hayseed away.”

  Trigger’s heart raced as the cop unlocked the handcuffs. He kept his mouth shut what he realized that the police wouldn’t leave before him. Once his hands were his own again, trigger reached for the gun.

  Hargrave stopped him, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Now, you know I can’t let you take that pistol with you.” Triggers hand froze in place. “If you can come on down to the station with the proper paperwork, I’ll have no problem handin’ your firearm back to you, but something tells me I’ll never see you walk in the front doors. Prove me wrong, you dumb hick.”

  Trigger was filled with rage. It was exactly what the cop wanted, and he knew that. It didn’t make it any easier. He knew the cop was trying to goad him into doing something stupid. Any other day of the week, it would’ve worked. Trigger had no problem spending a night in the drunk tank if it meant one punch from the biker to a cop. Trigger took the big step of thinking beyond himself. He had Trask to worry about, and he had the club to worry about.

  “Thank you very much, officer.” He tried not to speak through clenched teeth. Neither cop moved, and he knew they’d never leave before him. “If you would be so kind and back your patrol car up, I’ll be on my way.”

  Hargrave walked past trigger and got in the car, giving the biker a dirty look as he passed. Despite triggers raging heart, he nodded at the cops, fired up his pickup truck, and left the parking lot and Trask behind. It was one of the hardest things he’d done, but he already had the asshole cop’s face, name, and badge number memorized.

  ***

  Trask tried his best to listen over the sound of his shivering, but it was useless. The water was only up to his waist, but he was soaked up to his chest. The cellar had cooled the water to 65 degrees, and Trask feel it sucking the body heat from him. Ripples sailed over the water from his shaking body to the walls around him. With clenched teeth, Trask tried to think of anything but the cold. The sound of trigger’s pick up pulling away didn’t help matters.

  When the display of his phone lit up, he grabbed for it. Trask’s fears were confirmed when he saw the text from trigger. Cops searched me, took gun, still there. Sit tight.

  Trask tried to think of some way to get the cops away from the bar, but his mind was blank. Even if he could come up with an idea, his shaking fingers would have struggled to type out the message. He replied with a simple K.

  Wedging the phone back into the wires running along the rafter, Trask heard voices. He moved with a slow stiffness into the far corner, backed against the safe. The soaked and cold biker clinched every muscle in his body to keep from shaking. The voices were getting clearer along with tentative footsteps through the debris.

  “You really think he was just some junker looking for scrap?”

  “Fuck no. I know biker scum when I see it. Five’ll get you ten he’s a Rising Son.”

  Trask Look up into the darkness the footsteps and voices grew nearer. He knew his body was still shaking, and he had to control it or risk them hearing the water splash. Trask closed his eyes, put a hand on either side of the cellar wall, and pushed.

  The cops were still wandering around inside the ruined building, occasionally tossing a piece of wood out of their way. The one Trask guest was the leader spoke, “I fucking knew it. Look at this.”

  Trask didn’t need to look to know what was. They had found triggers cut. The cold wasn’t the only thing making Trask shake. His veins were throbbing, his heart thundering in his chest.

  “Well, God damn. He did a pretty piss poor job hiding it.”

  “They ain’t too smart, that’s for damn sure. The fuck was he doing snooping around here?” Trask heard the leader getting closer as he spoke. There was too much curiosity in the cop’s voice; Trask didn’t like it. They were getting too close, and trap door had been covered that well. Trask’s hands moved up the wall, and his right hand bumped into a hose line. Trask wasn’t sure if it was drainage, or connected to the kegs. He ran his fingers around it, said a small prayer, and when footstep fell would floor right above him, Trask yanked on one end of the hose line.

  “You think he was looking for something, Alan?” The other cop wasn’t far behind.

  Trask breathed a sigh of relief that the hose didn’t pour out any water. Trask thought that his heart was thundering so loud it would give him away.

  The leader, Alan, spoke, “Yeah, Charlie. I do.” Trask realized they hadn’t covered the trapdoor well enough. “I don’t know about you, but this looks little too clean to me. Give me
a hand with these two by fours.”

  Trask stood frozen, quite literally, at the back of the cellar. He heard the men on clearing the debris from the trap door. As the shingles and would disappeared from on top of it, Trask could see light beginning to come through. He was worse off than a rat in a cage. At least in a cage I’d be warm, he thought with dark humor.

  Allan yanked on the ring of the trap door, throwing it open to fall back against the debris behind it. Charlie stepped back as the heavy door flew past him.

  “Anything?”

  Allan shook his head. “A pit filled with dirty-ass water. Toss me your flashlight.”

  Charlie fished it out and gave it to Allan. The cop squatted down and shined the bright light into the cellar. All he could see was the brown, murky water. With a grunt, he lowered down two steps, just above the waterline. He bent down further, shining the light to the back of the cellar.

  “Looks like there’s a safe, or something. The water’s up pretty far. I’m not getting this shit in my boots to find out it’s still locked. You feeling squirrely, Charlie?” Allan looked up at his partner with a smarmy grin.

  Charlie gave a deadpan look in return. “Does the pope shit in the woods? No, I’m not getting soaked for nothing. Fuck it. This scene ain’t going anywhere. We wait until the water dries up, then we come back.”

  Allan stood up. “Charlie, how far up your ass is your head? What do you think that shit licker was doing here? He was bailing out water to get to the safe. We don’t have time. We gotta move on this. We’ve got one day to figure something out. Close this door. We gotta cover it up better than the redneck did.”

  Charlie flipped the door upright, and when Allan took a step back up, he let the door slam back over the hole. Dust and dirt flew up, Charlie waving his hands to clear it away. Allan was already throwing two-by-fours and burnt debris onto the door. “I guess the Rising Sons pissed someone else off, too.”

  “How’d they piss you off?”

  Allan sighed. He had said too much—not that it mattered. “This chick I was fuckin’ is a member now. She owes me a lot of money. If you and I can’t get into that safe, we’ll make them get the cash for us. If you want to play vigilante justice with me, I’ll split the profits with you.”

  Allan liked Charlie. He was a younger cop looking to make a good impression, and that meant he was eager to please. He was especially eager to please his partner. Allan had to frame things right, but if he could get Charlie on board for this, Allan would own him for the rest of their careers.

  He smiled. “Look, that money is either going to us, or the criminals. It’s not evidence—it’ll never go back to the station. If we don’t take it, it’s just going to buy more guns and a new club for the outlaw jerkoffs.”

  “This isn’t a crime scene? Hell, there’s shell casings every few inches.” Charlie didn’t want to disagree with his partner. He just wanted to be clear.

  Allan nodded. “Yeah, technically it’s a crime scene. Technically. Do you think the mayor wants us to spend money investigating who shot up a biker bar? He’ll come down on the department hard saying it’s a huge waste of money. When you think about it, isn’t it a waste of money?”

  Charlie looked around. “Yeah, I mean, the only thing we could do, I guess, is give the people that trashed this bar an award, right?”

  Allan laughed, not because it was funny, but because he’d snagged his partner hook, line, and sinker. “I’d let you give ‘em the key to the fuckin’ city.”

  “All right, I’m in. What’s the plan?”

  Allan looked around and spit, thinking it could only cheer the place up. “I need to have another chat with that little bitch.” He looked around, satisfied that things were falling in line for him. “Let’s get the fuck out of this garbage pile.”

  Trask fought against the shivers until he heard the patrol car fire up. He was soaked from head to toe after submerging himself under the water. The taste of something acrid and foul stained his tongue, and Trask spit up to try and erase the flavor. Whatever the hose was for, it hadn’t been changed in a while. It had allowed him to breathe while he was beneath the water, but while he was under, it took everything he had not to gag.

  The biker waded to the stairs and pushed up on the door. He knew it wouldn’t budge. The cops had piled way more debris on top than Hoser had. He laid his shoulder against the door and shoved up with all his remaining strength. He let out an exhausted grunt, but the door didn’t shift.

  Against his better judgment, he moved back into the water and fished out his phone. He had two people to call. He knew that Raven was in danger. The cop that was blackmailing her was done blackmailing. Now it was going to come down to a kidnapping.

  His hand shook as he stared at his phone. There was another important call to make. He needed to get Hoser back as soon as possible. Trask refused to accept that he could die from hypothermia in Southern California beneath a bar, but the danger was real.

  Willing his fingers to stay still, he pulled up a contact and dialed. Each ring seemed like an eternity, and the time between each one was even longer. The call went to voicemail, and Trask let out a grunt and pounded a fist up onto the trap door.

  As soon as he heard the beep, he spoke quickly. “It’s Trask. That cop friend of yours is after you. He’s going to force you to give him the money that’s in the safe. Just be on the lookout and be careful. I don’t know how much he does or doesn’t know. Stay safe, Raven.”

  By the time he’d killed the call, Trask’s whole body was shaking. He almost couldn’t dial the second number. It rang only once this time.

  “Yo, they gone?”

  Trask couldn’t contain the chattering of his teeth. “I sure as fuck hope so. Get back here, fast.”

  “You got it. I’ve got some backup, too.”

  He had nothing left to say, so Trask hung up the phone. Setting it on the top step, he got as much of his body out of the water as he could. He pulled his t-shirt off and wrung it out. His mind tricked him into thinking that heat was sinking through the trap door, but it was so covered over there wasn’t even sunlight seeping through the cracks.

  He lost track of time. He took his boots off and rubbed his toes to keep the circulation moving in all his extremities. Claustrophobia was setting in, not because of the small, dark space, but because he could feel his strength leaving him. He kept the phone’s screen on and facing up. He didn’t want to see the chilly water that was sucking the life from him. He stared up at the slats of the door and waited.

  When the truck pulled up, he wanted to yell out to Hoser, but it wouldn’t help any. He knew where the door was, even if it was buried. The truck door slammed, and Trask thanked God. He heard another door slam. Muffled voices kept him hanging on to consciousness. He heard them climbing over the rubble that used to be a bar.

  As hands pulled the destroyed pieces of the building from the trapped door, Trask could her them calling out to him. The most he could manage was a grunt or two. He was leaning against the wall of the cellar, fighting to keep his eyes open. He didn’t notice the first rays of lights coming through the slats.

  “Almost there, brother!” a voice called out to him. Trask tried to reply, but nothing came out of his mouth.

  His eyes shut when the door opened and sunlight streamed inside. He judged it to be almost noon. Warmth bathed him in that instant, and he let out a long sigh of relief.

  Hands grabbed Trask and pulled him upright. Later on, he wouldn’t remember some of what happened when Hoser and Hope dragged him out of the cellar. Trask’s memory faded back in with his beautiful girlfriend toweling off his chest. He was lying in the back of the pickup, and he had the sudden thought that his back was warm. He tried to sit up, but Hope’s hand on his chest stopped him.

  “Whoa, there, cowboy. Easy does it.”