by Hazel Parker
Damon and the Bloodhounds had to be killed at all costs, no matter what it took.
And fortunately, the Savage Saints had more than stepped up their work to get the bastard.
Reconnaissance done by Fitz and Uncle had listed a warehouse just on the outskirts of Brooklyn, right by the edge of Queens, that Damon had been seen near. We had sent a couple of members out on a drive-by—a casual drive that happened to intersect with the warehouse—and they had at least confirmed the sight of multiple motorcycles. It was too early to say if this evening raid would give us Damon, but there were a few things I knew about the monster.
He liked to launch his attacks late in the evening. So it was likely that he would be up at this hour. He liked to jump from spot to spot each night, so while we didn’t have a guarantee of him being there, we had to take the risk now. And he surrounded himself with thugs, even back before he had become part of the Bloodhounds.
All of the evidence supported the claim.
Two other Savage Saints and Biggie pulled up next to me on their bikes. We were like the four horsemen of the apocalypse, if this were the end of Damon’s life. With any luck, it would be.
“Kill anyone that points a gun at you,” I said. “Otherwise, knock them out. I want to have a word with Damon before we put an end to his life, and I want our entry to be a surprise as much as possible. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the other three said.
It was all I needed to hear. I fit my helmet on tightly, revved the engine, and sped into the night toward our target. I cleared my mind by tuning in to the high-pitched whirring of my bike and keeping my head on a swivel. It was hard to let it go to some other places—such as last night—when I had to stay on high alert for my own sake and the sake of my men.
The warehouse in question appeared on our right after about ten minutes of driving along empty New York streets. Even by New York standards, which were unusually grimy and old-school, this particular building looked the part. Rust was visible even from the streets, and a few of the windows were knocked out. If Damon was looking to hide from the police and us, he sure had come close to picking hell on Earth.
I waved the others in, and we parked our bikes as far away as possible. Inevitably, our bikes would have made some noise, but the less obvious that we were coming up to attack, the better. All of us slung our rifles over the edge as we approached the building, which at this point only had one bike in front of it.
This didn’t make me feel great. Damon would not have slept or gone anywhere alone, at least not at night. And even if he had, he would have had plenty of hidden security. It was more likely someone was staying behind as a decoy, but even decoys could prove useful.
“Let’s go,” I said.
I wished I had some of the technology of the Vegas Saints, but we were too far along in the process to be playing wish-fulfillment right now. I pried open a door with my rifle, stepped in, and scanned the room.
It was…almost empty. There was nothing of storage inside. There were no cars, no trucks, nothing.
But the keyword was almost, because there, standing in the middle of the warehouse, was a single Bloodhound. He was very much alive. But he had his back turned to us and was humming to himself. He looked like he was either waiting for someone or had to guard something and was bored out of his mind.
I held up the hand for the other three Saints to stop. If he was the only person here, it didn’t make sense for us to knock him out. He was more valuable conscious and talking than dead and silent. I raised my gun.
“Hands up! Hands up!”
I stormed to him, ready to shoot if necessary. The Bloodhound did immediately as commanded. I turned the corner and looked him in the eye.
“You with the Bloodhounds?”
“Who?” he said, but it sounded too rehearsed.
“You play dumb with me, I get dumb with my trigger,” I said. “Do you understand? Don’t make me repeat myself.”
The man gulped. Sweat poured down his face.
“Yes,” he said. “They took me in. They didn’t give me a choice. They said—”
“Shut it,” I said, pressing my gun into his sternum. “You talk to us, you live. You play games, we kill you. Got it?”
The man nodded as the other three Saints surrounded him.
“Keep an eye out for any ambushes,” I said to the other three Saints before turning my attention back to the man in question. Even with the cover of darkness, with only the moonlight providing a picture of the man’s face, the abject terror was obvious. “Who are you? What’s your name?”
“Charles. Charles David.”
“Charles. You said they forced you to join? What the hell do you mean? Explain.”
Charles nodded quickly, the sign of a man more than willing to talk. I hoped that the rest of the Bloodhounds were like this; it suggested that Damon had conscripted these men, coercing them with threats. That might have raised numbers quickly, but it also meant people would betray the cause at the first sign of danger. Score one for the organic approach of the Saints.
“Damon, he knew my criminal background. I don’t know how, but he knew that I’d done a lot of shit. He tried to lure me in with promises of prosperity, women, all the drugs I could have want. ‘Riches and bitches’ he said.”
I was tempted to smack Charles for being so stupid. Only my sense of duty kept my rifle and hands down.
“I said I wasn’t looking for that, I was looking to change my life around for the better. Damon kept trying to charm me, but when I said no for the third time, it, it was like he became a monster. He said that he would find my family and torture and kill all of them. I, I can’t let anything happen to them. I had to. I’m sorry.”
“Save it for God,” I said. “Why are you here right now?”
The man gulped as if revealing the secret would get him in even more trouble.
“Talk,” I said, my eyes going wide. “Or you’re going to wish Damon was in front of you.”
“Niner!” Biggie yelled.
I took a couple of deep breaths. I knew what Biggie was doing—he wanted to make sure I didn’t repeat the mistakes that had cost me the job at the NYPD. The politics weren’t as present, but most of the other conditions sure were.
“Damon wants one of us at all the locations he goes to,” he said. “Well, two.”
I looked over at Biggie.
“We scouted the area. No one’s here. Just some chains on the ground.”
“They will be,” Charles said. “He just went to talk to Damon.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, I swear! I swear, I don’t know. I, I—”
“Stop repeating yourself and get a grip!”
Same applies to you, Niner. Don’t lose your shit here.
“I really don’t know. He got a phone call that he stepped outside to take and then said he would return.”
“Shit,” I said. “Then tell me this. You’re a new MC. Why the hell are you targeting the Savage Saints? What the hell have we done to you?”
“You think I know?” Charles said, almost defiantly. “You think I have any fucking idea?”
“Yes.”
Charles bit his lip. He knew I’d called the small, fear-driven bluff he’d produced.
“I don’t know details. But what I know is that I see Damon with a man who sometimes hands him a suitcase. I assume that suitcase has a shitload of money in it.”
“And this man?”
“He’s, he’s super skinny, black hair, looks like he’s in his late twenties maybe. Rail thin. White-collar.”
Kyle…
I think we had all suspected that Kyle was behind this. Many of us, in fact, probably just assumed it as fact, though we had largely done so without evidence. But hearing it so viciously and brutally confirmed…
“Where is this man?” I roared. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know, I—”
My frustration got the better of me. I butted Charles i
n the head with my rifle, knocking him out.
“Niner!” Biggie yelled, running over to me and pushing me away from doing anything worse to Charles. “The hell, man? That’s our only source of information, and you just knocked him out!”
“He’s a Bloodhound, and he works for Damon; he deserved it.”
“Niner!” Biggie said, but his voice had calmed down significantly. “This isn’t like you. I know that Damon is triggering you hard. I need you to calm down for me, though. OK? You’re most effective for us when you have a level head.”
Goddamnit, I fucking hated when Biggie was right. I hated that he was the only person in the club who understood me. Even after I’d shared the story of my past with everyone, only Biggie had been around longer than the duration of the Savage Saints’ existence.
“Fine,” I grumbled. “Kill him and let’s get out of here.”
“Woah! We are not killing him. You want the cops on our asses? You’ll play right into my brother’s hands. You think he doesn’t hope that we get arrested for suspicion of murder? They’ll trace it back to you somehow. Even if there isn’t hard evidence, Kyle will work his channels to make sure you’re the prime suspect.”
Again, I fucking hate you, Biggie. Especially since you’re right.
But we couldn’t just leave Charles to rot. As soon as he woke up, he’d go running to Damon and tell him that we’d come for him. In the absolute best case, Charles would just desert everyone and everything, but I’d learned long ago in the NYPD not to rely on the best case happening—there was a reason it was the “best” case of many, not the “only” case.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s tie him up and plant him with something. He’s got a gun. Let’s tie him up here and get him in the hands of the police and off our backs for a moment.”
Biggie seemed to accept that as a response enough. Emotions were running high for me, and it was difficult for me to process. But if I couldn’t kill him, I still wanted him removed from the scene.
“If there’s nothing else here, let’s get back to the clubhouse. We can discuss everything with Marcel.”
I started to leave.
“Oh, and one more thing,” I said. “Destroy his bike.”
* * *
Twenty minutes, one destroyed bike, and one criminal called in on later, we had returned to the repair shop without the prize that we wanted, but something that I supposed somewhat counted as progress. It absolutely wasn’t what I wanted, but I had to remind myself this took time. Time that will allow Damon to rape and murder more women if we don’t hurry the hell up.
“So it’s official, then,” Marcel said. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I think we all suspected that Kyle might start fighting dirty. I am surprised he’s using an MC against us.”
“You know who kills the greatest number of gang members?” I said. “Other gangs. It’s not cops. It’s certainly not vigilantes or heroic citizens. Gangs kill gangs. And, similarly here, Kyle rightly believes the easiest way to kill an MC is to create another MC. He might have created a monster that he can’t control, but that’s something we won’t be around to experience if we don’t kill them first.”
This was so frustrating to me. It pissed me off that Damon’s return had created a sort of role reversal, where I had become the emotional and violent one and the rest of the club had become the calmer, more collected ones. The only one who seemed to keep his personality was Uncle, and with his age and utility to the club, he wasn’t someone that was going to go into the fight with guns roaring as much as his mouth.
“What do you propose that we do then that we aren’t already, Niner?” Uncle said.
“We can’t bring this to him or to his superiors? Use our knowledge to pressure him?”
“That’s fighting on his terms, and while I’m good at it, Kyle has the upper hand,” Uncle warned. “Kyle’s played in politics for some time now. He knows how to cover his trails. We can eventually win if we get him to slip up.”
So we’re already trying to pressure him.
“Are we not getting him to fight on our terms?” Biggie asked. “We forced him to create the Bloodhounds. If that’s not getting him more involved on the violent level, I don’t know what is.”
“By proxy, but that’s not good enough,” Marcel pointed out. “He’s not on the streets fighting us. He’s not shooting guns. He’s paying a criminal to do it for him. It’s fucked up, but it’s sadly brilliant for keeping his hands clean.”
He’s right. So with all that we had accomplished tonight…we were basically right back where we started; we just had a little bit more information and confirmation than before. I suppose the Stones would be satisfied to know that their suspicions were right, but we weren’t the police; we were an MC. We couldn’t use the law or influence to get Kyle out. We could only use violent means or shady tactics to win the fight.
And while Uncle seemed to have ways of making it work that I didn’t know, it clearly wasn’t enough at this point. And in any case, my concern in the short term and on a personal level wasn’t Kyle.
“We can’t worry about Kyle right now,” I said. “I know that killing Damon isn’t getting to the root of the problem, but if Damon is a thorn sprouting from the root, he’s going to be the sharpest and most lethal thorn that there is. We need to kill him as soon as possible. Kyle has just caused us trouble. Damon has raped and killed more people than I care to count, and it was bad enough at one.”
“Agreed,” everyone said at once.
The conviction was there. But it was frustrating to know the actions of the evening so far had not worked.
“We’ll pick this up tomorrow,” Marcel said. “I can see people yawning and getting tired. Niner, I know you’re not happy with how tonight turned out, but it’s progress. It’s the best that we can do. And Niner.”
“Hmm.”
“Be careful,” he said. “Your head is your best asset. You lose that, you lose the ability to be an effective SAA.”
Probably says something if both Stones are on my ass about that. As if to prove the point, I just nodded back.
But no matter what I showed on the outside to the club, I knew this problem was going to bug the hell out of me until I got it resolved. Kyle was a bigger club problem, but Damon was a bigger personal problem. I was too devoted to the idea of structure and group to sway from the club and do something stupid, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t influence our direction.
It also didn’t mean that temptation wasn’t there to go at it on my own.
Nevertheless, I still headed straight home when the night ended. I was exhausted and disappointed, and a part of me struggled to sleep, fearful that Damon might be out there, ruining someone’s life or outright murdering them. A look at the NYPD social media and scanners reassured me a little bit, but that only told me they were responding to nothing.
I had to see what would happen when I woke up.
* * *
I barely slept.
I think I got four hours that night. As soon as my eyes popped open, I immediately rolled out of bed and checked the news. There were no reports of rapes or murders in the Brooklyn area.
I felt only moderately relieved.
But in the moment of relief, another concern arose in its place.
I hadn’t spoken to Carrie since I ducked out suddenly last night. If I wanted her to be something special to me and not just a side piece, I needed to do a better job, even in the most stressful of moments.
I pulled up our text history and prepared to ask her how she was. But then I saw something curious.
She was writing to me right then.
The message…
Was ominous.
“Can you come to the store as soon as you can? We need to talk.”
The four worst words for any significant other to see.
Chapter 14: Carrie
I was almost out of options and thus had to default to the one that circumstances had forced me into.
I had to le
ave New York City.
I had to go home.
I had to leave everything that I had built and was developing here.
I didn’t see any way out of the situation that I had found myself in. There was no escaping the inevitable closure of the store and my sole source of income. Unless I wanted to take an investment from a creepy man who wanted to control my life, there was nothing I could do.
But I owed it to Lane Bentley to invite him to the store to see if his presence could spark anything that would change my mind. I honestly didn’t see what could be done. But if I had made a difference in his life and turned things around, maybe fate would give me something back.
I didn’t know. I was desperate for ideas, even far-reaching ones. I had the brief thought of asking Lane for investment money, but that was complicated for reasons that differed from Damon.
Damon was about controlling my life. Lane was most certainly not about that, but if he invested in me, would I be able to separate the romantic investment from the economic one?
I was probably just making excuses. But I’d heard too many horror stories of blood and money mixing, and while we may not have been family, we were much closer than I was with anyone in my family. I didn’t want to say I was too proud to do so, but I hadn’t taken in any investment money yet, so…
I kept scanning the numbers in the minutes before Lane’s arrival. There had to be something, anything. My dream couldn’t die like this.
My budding relationship couldn’t die like this.
But everyone and everything died eventually. It just seemed inevitable that this would be an earlier than expected death.
At least I would get to go back to Georgia. I wouldn’t see my father, but at least I’d get to see a whole lot of other great parts of the state. I’d get to reunite with a lot of my college friends. And I could launch a good business there.
It wouldn’t be so bad. I’d come to New York City and taken a worthy risk. And found someone I was really compatible with. Not like I did back there…