by Zoey Parker
He'd never been good at handling loss. It was one of the reasons he was such a fiercely-protective leader to the other Eagles. The idea of any of them losing their lives under his command was almost more than he could bear.
“Look, I love you, an’ I value the fuck out of you,” Hunter said, still not making eye contact. These kinds of declarations were difficult for him. “I don't want you to be bored or unhappy, okay? You know I'd do just about anything for you. But I'm askin' specifically what you've got in mind, but it don't sound like you really know either. So how 'bout we head over to the Knife an' do what we gotta do, and while we do that, we can both think it over some. That way, we can talk it out an' come up with somethin' solid together, either tonight or tomorrow. Sound good?”
Missy nodded. “Yeah. That works. And thank you.”
“Don't mention it,” Hunter said. He picked up his plate, fork, and coffee mug, taking them to the sink. But instead of leaving them there for Missy as he always did, he squirted some dish soap on them and started scrubbing them with the kitchen sponge. Missy saw this for what it was—a quiet apology for his own sexism, and for the inability to really change it, for the most part.
It was a small gesture, and Missy knew that she'd probably have to re-wash them anyway. Hunter's cleaning skills were roughly on par with his coffee-making ones.
Still, she appreciated it.
Chapter 3
Cain
Cain knocked on the door of the motel room again, and a moment later, it opened to reveal a short, skinny guy in his thirties with a green mohawk and yellow teeth. His watery blue eyes bulged briefly as they took in the matching black leather vests worn by Cain and Keith, and he broke into a wide grin.
“Hey, I was wondering when you guys would come around,” he exclaimed. “I'm damn glad to see ya!”
“If that's true, then I doubt you actually know who we are,” Cain replied.
“No, come on, of course I do, ha,” the skinny man insisted. “Blood Eagles, right? You heard I was dealin' and you're here to collect your cut, I bet. Come in, come in, ha!” He stood aside, gesturing grandly for them to enter.
Cain and Keith stepped into the cramped, filthy room. The sheets on the bed were crusted with stains, and there were small baggies of meth and 'shrooms arranged on the blanket. The place smelled like piss and mildew.
“Pleased to meet you both,” the skinny man continued. “Folks call me Nostril. Prob'ly 'cause I snort so much crystal, ha.”
“Or because you look like you got picked out of one,” Keith murmured.
Nostril blinked, confused, then brayed out a laugh, slapping his knee. “Picked out of one, ha! That's a good one. I gotta remember that one, ha.”
“So if you knew you owed us, Nostril, why the fuck didn't you just pay up?” Cain asked. He was trying to sound tough, but the unexpectedly cheerful greeting they were receiving had thrown him off a bit, and he was actually curious. “Why did you make us come to you to collect? You had to know we wouldn't be happy about that.”
“Yeah, no, I figured that,” Nostril said, “but what was I gonna do? It's not like you guys got an 800 number I could call or somethin' to introduce myself an' set up a payment. Or a website where I could register, right? 'Click on the boxes indicating which drugs you intend to sell, submit yer email address, an' a representative will follow up with you within one business day,' like that, ha.”
“You could’ve come to the Lost Knife,” Keith growled. Cain could tell Nostril's stupid jokes and weird little chuckles were getting on Keith's nerves, and he couldn't blame him.
“Lost Knife,” Nostril mused. “That bar on the other side'a town? That's yer hideout, is it?”
“It's our clubhouse,” Cain said. “We don't fucking hide from anyone.”
“Well, now that we're properly acquainted, I'll know that fer next time, ha,” Nostril said, nodding. “But guys, you really think I'd try to cheat you outta what's yours? Heh, yeah right! Maybe when my asshole learns to smoke cigarettes, right?”
“Your asshole's gonna learn how to smoke a .357 if you don't hurry up and give us what you owe us,” Cain said. He suddenly wanted to be out of there as quickly as possible. This Nostril clown looked like he'd probably lose a fight against a crippled hamster, but even so, something about this didn't feel right.
“Sure, sure, keep yer cuts on, boys, ha!” Nostril tittered. “Lemme go grab yer cash. I got it stashed in the toilet tank, just in case anyone decided to come by an' rip me off.”
Cain rolled his eyes, knowing that would be the first place anyone would look for the money if they came to steal it.
Nostril disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, calling out to them. “I mean, not that I gotta worry about that shit anymore, right? Now that I'm kickin' up to you, anyone comes to rob me, you'll hunt 'em down an' fuck 'em up to get it back, ain't that how it goes?”
“That's how it goes, all right,” Keith agreed. “You pay your taxes to us, an' we'll be your personal cops. You don't, an' we'll be your fuckin' executioners. Simple as that.”
Nostril emerged from the bathroom carrying a stack of cash. “Fair enough, ha,” he chirped. He handed it to Cain, who jammed it in his pocket without counting it. It looked like a decent amount given Nostril's setup, and if it wasn't, they could always come back and settle up with him later.
“Glad you think so,” Cain said. “Because we'll be expecting you to pay this up to us every week, no excuses. You come to the Lost Knife an' put it on the table in front of me or Keith. If we're not there, give it to the lady behind the bar. You try to duck us, we'll find you no matter where you hide.”
“An' wherever we find you, that's where we'll fuckin' leave you,” Keith added.
“Sure, sure, I gotcha,” Nostril nodded. “No need to worry 'bout me. I'll pay up, no problem. Pleasure doin' business with you, ha.”
“There's one other thing,” Keith said. He glanced over at Cain, smirked, and spoke his next two sentences slowly, enunciating every word. “Before we go, can I hit up yer bathroom for a tinkle? My molars are floating.”
Cain pressed his lips together, trying hard not to laugh. That was Keith all over. Never afraid to chastise other Eagles for spitting or pissing in public, or to use words like “tinkle” with a straight face. After all, no one who knew Keith would ever dare to call him a pussy.
And anyone who did never did it a second time.
Nostril giggled again. “Sure, go ahead,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the bathroom door.
“I'll wait outside,” Cain said as Keith headed for the bathroom.
Cain pushed the motel room's door open and stepped out into the fresh air, taking a deep breath. The stink of the place was starting to make his head ache.
The tire iron that connected with the back of his head a moment later made it ache a lot more.
Before Cain could react, a sharp-toed boot kicked the back of his left knee, sending him to the ground. Even through his jeans, the gravel lining the motel's parking lot bit into his knees. He reached for the gun in the holster at his side, but the tire iron smacked his upper arm and he felt the sickening snap of the bone breaking. He let out a sharp cry of pain as a hand yanked the gun away from his belt, tossing it away.
Cain looked up just in time to see the night sky above him quickly eclipsed by four shadowy figures wearing ski masks. They lifted their boots and began to bring them down on Cain's body, over and over.
He tried to raise his arms to ward off the blows, but their boots seemed to immediately find his unprotected areas and stomp them hard. Several of the kicks struck him in the ribs, and he felt the bones snap and grind together. He hoped none of them would pierce anything vital.
The owner of the pointy-toed cowboy boot that had kicked his knee out earlier seemed particularly focused on mashing the hard heel into Cain's face and head. Cain saw his own blood pattering on the pavement inches away from his face like drops of rain. He felt consciousness swimming further away from him with
each kick. He shut his eyes, willing himself to stay awake through the agony.
Cain knew these men weren't here to kill him. If they were, they'd have done it already. So he figured he just had to hang in until they'd finished sending whatever message they were sent to deliver, or until Keith finished peeing and came out.
He'd taken beatings before.
But none of them had been this sustained or savage.
The kicks just kept coming, and his body felt like it was being tossed around and smashed in a trash compactor. He felt the sharp jab of one of his fractured ribs again, and started to worry that if these men kept it up, they'd end up killing him whether they intended to or not.
Cain had given out his share of beatings, too, and he knew that it was probably the least predictable form of violence. When he shot someone, he knew where he was putting the bullet and what damage it would do. Likewise, when he put a blade into someone, he knew exactly what was being cut and the effect it would have.
But when it came to beatings, there was no telling what might get broken inside someone or which organs might get dislodged. He'd seen men survive getting bludgeoned half to death with a baseball bat, and he'd seen a single lucky kick to the temple kill a man instantly.
The boots kept rising and falling, rising and falling, as relentlessly as pistons. Cain's vision started to grow dark and sparkly around the edges.
He might succumb to unconsciousness or worse after all.
Suddenly, a gunshot rang out. At first, Cain thought he'd been wrong. The beating had only been a bit of foreplay before they shot him through the head. His skull certainly felt like a bullet had ripped through it, and as the seconds spun out in front of him, he wondered how long it would take for him to die.
Then he heard a second shot, and a third, and realized that his attackers were retreating. He turned his head, every bone in his neck creaking and shooting off firecrackers of raw pain.
Keith was running over to him from the doorway of the motel room, his gun in hand. “Yeah, you'd better run, motherfuckers!” he yelled at the fleeing men. “You hurt a Blood Eagle, you pissant cowards! Go home an' kiss yer kids, 'cause they're about to be fuckin' orphans!”
Keith kneeled next to Cain, inspecting his injuries. “Holy shit, brother. How bad is it?”
Cain's lips parted and a mouthful of blood dropped out, splatting onto the ground. “Not so good,” he slurred through bruised and bleeding lips.
“I'll call Hunter,” Keith said, grabbing his cell phone from his pocket. “He can come pick us up so we can get you looked at, okay?”
Cain shook his head slowly. “Nostril,” he said. It took him several tries to form the word with his battered mouth. “Set us up. Get him.”
“Right,” Keith nodded, getting up. “I'll grab him so we can fuck him up an' find out who did this. Just sit tight, man. It's gonna be okay.”
Keith jogged back to the door of the motel room. He tried the handle, and when he found it was locked, he kicked the door in and rushed inside.
Cain sprawled on the ground, groaning loudly. His eyes flickered over to the window of the adjoining motel room, and he saw a young girl staring out at him, wide-eyed with fright. She looked like she was about two years old.
How about that, Cain thought. Keith was right about the little girl after all.
Cain couldn't imagine what a traumatic sight he must have been at that moment, but the expression on the girl's face was making him feel even worse. He was worried she'd probably have nightmares. To try to alleviate her concern, he raised an arm that felt like it weighed a ton, opened his bruised fingers, and bent them in a feeble wave.
The girl returned the wave solemnly.
Cain wanted to pull himself to his feet, go over to the door of the room, knock on it, and warn the girl not to go playing around behind the motel.
Instead he laid his head back against the gravel and watched the world spin away from him until he was enveloped by the deepest darkness he'd ever known.
Chapter 4
Keith
Keith looked around the motel room with his gun in one hand and his cell phone in the other, breathing hard. Nostril was gone, and so were the baggies filled with drugs that had been on the bed. Even though he'd been busy shooting at Cain's assailants, Keith knew there was no way he'd have missed Nostril running out the door and away from the room.
He kicked the bed to one side, hoping to find Nostril cowering under it. Instead, all he found was the dried husks of a dozen dead roaches, a pen, and an even older set of stains than the ones on the blanket.
Keith roared with frustration, dashing into the bathroom. As he did, he tapped Hunter's name on his cell phone screen and it dialed the number. Keith yanked the shower curtain aside, but the tub was empty.
Hunter picked up on the third ring. “Yeah, Keith?” His voice sounded moody and distracted.
“We need help, man,” Keith said urgently. “Cain's been fucked up bad.”
Hunter's voice snapped into focus. “What happened? Are you at the motel?”
“The dealer set us up,” Keith said. “Four guys jumped Cain as he was leavin’ the motel room. From the look of him, fuck, I dunno, Hunter, I don't think he's gonna make it...”
“Don't say that,” Hunter snapped. “We'll be right there.”
Keith heard Hunter lower the phone and say, “Bones, get the van. The rest of you, get on your fuckin' bikes. Cain's been hurt.”
There was a murmur of confused and angry Eagles stirring in the background, and Hunter raised the phone again. “We need to know who was behind this. Please tell me you grabbed the dealer.”
“I'm tryin’,” Keith said, looking around the bathroom and wondering what he'd missed. Nostril couldn't have just gathered up his shit, snapped his dirty fingers, and vanished in a puff of smoke.
“Well, fucking try harder,” Hunter spat. Keith heard the van door slam shut and the engine start. “We're on our way.” The call ended.
Just as he was about to give up and head back outside to stay with Cain, Keith noticed a light dusting of paint chips resting on the lid of the toilet. He looked up and saw that just above the toilet, there was a small, narrow window which had clearly been painted over numerous times. It had been slid open.
“Oh, no you don't, you skinny little fuckrat,” Keith hissed, hopping up on the toilet lid and peering out the window.
Nostril was running across the weedy, trash-strewn lot behind the motel, his arms full of baggies. He'd only gotten less than a hundred feet away, and based on the long scrapes on his arms and legs, squeezing through the window had slowed his escape.
Keith knew that there was no way he could force his own 280-pound frame through the tiny window.
But Keith also knew he had six friends along with him, all of whom could run a hell of a lot faster than Nostril.
He stuck his arm through the window, aiming his .357 carefully. Nostril's legs were galloping too fast for Keith to reliably shoot one out from under him. His lower back made a perfect target, though, and his white undershirt made it especially visible in the moonlight.
Keith took a deep breath, exhaled, and pulled the trigger. The massive gun recoiled in his calloused hands, the sound exploding off the tiles around him like a dynamite blast in a mine shaft.
A large red hole appeared at the base of Nostril's spine and he screamed. His arms flailed upward, sending the bags of meth and 'shrooms in every direction. Nostril fell forward and started rolling around on the ground, shrieking and leaving wide, wing-shaped swathes of blood around his body like a child making a snow angel. As Nostril curled up on his side, Keith saw that the bullet had exited through Nostril's belly, leaving a huge, ragged-looking wound.
Missed the spine, Keith thought. Good. We might need him to have some feeling below the waist later if he won't cooperate under questioning.
More than anything, Keith wanted to head back to the motel parking lot and stay with Cain until the others got there. Keith and Cain had
joined the Eagles around the same time, and Cain had always been like a brother to him. But Keith knew that if he turned his back on Nostril, the scumbag might somehow find a way to drag his sorry ass away before reinforcements turned up, and they might never learn who made this move against them.
So instead, Keith darted out the door of the motel room, sneaking a quick glance at Cain to make sure he was still alive before going to collect Nostril.
At least no one staying in this motel is eager to be a witness, Keith thought. Most of them are probably into some shady shit themselves and won't call the cops. But the motel's manager certainly will, so we'd better haul ass before this gets more complicated than it needs to be.
Keith charged around the corner and ran across the lot behind the motel. Nostril was still yowling like a scalded cat and flopping around on the ground. “You've killed me!” he screeched when he saw Keith coming toward him. “You killed me, oh fuck, Jesus, fuck, you've fuckin' killed me!”