Axle scrambled to catch up with reality. He grabbed Voski by the arms and shoved her to the ground, pitching his body protectively over hers. His movements were awkward, still stiff from the 1,000-mile ride. Horizontal, he fumbled for the lethal bulge of the Taurus International tucked in the back waistband of his jeans. His senses were hyper aware, the way it usually happened in crisis. The metal of the Taurus’ handgrip was warm from his body heat and the weight pulled at the calluses of his palms. He’d need to remember to rub olive oil into his hands later – if there was a later.
Axle flipped the hammer on his Taurus and squinted through the sights. He couldn’t see the inside of the vans clearly enough to aim at any bodies, and the windows were too dark around the drivers’ and passengers’ seats up front. Leveling the barrel, he aimed at the only marks he could see clearly – the sparking muzzle flashes from the hidden automatic weapons.
The backfire and roar of his firing pistol snapped his brain out of slow motion. He shot at the muzzle flashes, to the right, left, and slightly above. He went down the line, pop pop pop, from the first van to the second to the third. He shot all the way down the line and then started up again.
Lifting the sights slightly, Axle aimed at what he knew must be the driver’s seat and fired. He emptied his magazine when he returned his aim at the first van, and dug in his pocket for more ammunition.
Around the parking lot, more Ruiners had regained their bearings and were responding to the attack with counter-fire. Bullet holes popped up in the sides of the van, splintered the tinted windows, and ricocheted off hubcaps. Someone on the outside must have hit someone on the inside. At any rate, the element of surprise was wearing thin, and the mysterious attackers seemed to sense a shift in the tide.
The first van screeched into a lower gear and burned rubber in its haste to accelerate away, the sliding door snapping shut. The two remaining vans followed suit.
They were running away.
Axle soared to his feet, chasing the vans and shooting at their retreating windows. His own voice rang in his ears, a primal roar. There were no license plates on the vans, of course. No distinguishing marks.
Axle could imagine the newscasters voice in his head already, the crisp cold summary, “At five pm three unmarked white vans attacked the local clubhouse of the Ruiners Motorcycle Club. It is suspected the shootings were in some way connected with gang activity in the area.”
It was always unmarked, white vans: the hit-and-run vehicle of choice. The vans disappeared around a corner and screamed away into the maze of Las Vegas streets, leaving Axle wearier than he’d ever felt in all his sixty years. The adrenaline was ripping through his veins, drumming in his ears.
The thunder of Axle’s pulse let up enough for him to shake his head clear and look around him. Jesse, Rex, Smiley and Dolce flanked him, guns in hand. When had they arrived? He hadn’t heard or seen them. Behind them, Axle could see the ruined picnic, the Bleeding Cheeks Run banner torn and billowing limply in a stifling breeze.
There were bodies on the pavement that weren’t moving.
Axle saw Rex’s face change as his eyes riveted on a still, crumpled form near the clubhouse doors. Voski was kneeling over it, rocking herself and pressing her hands over a bleeding gunshot wound. Veins in his neck popped out as he shouted, “Mara!”
Jesse and Axle watched as Rex sprinted back toward the parking lot.
“Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary,” Dolce swore under his breath. He ran after Rex with heavy steps, his boots scraping the pavement. “Come on, Smiley!” he called behind.
Smiley trotted obediently after his Vice President and Treasurer, his face screwed up in emotion. If he were a dog, his tail would have been between his legs.
Jesse crossed himself.
Someone was wailing, others cursing or sobbing in the parking lot. The police would be here any minute; there was simply no way around it. They would need ambulances, hospitals. There were women and children. There was blood on the asphalt.
Axle bent over double, his hands on his knees.
Axle forcefully tried to calm his breathing, surveying the aftermath of the shooting. Never in his years as an outlaw had there been an attack on the families and never had there been an attack at the clubhouse. It was one thing to go after a storage facility, interrupt a trade, attack an enemy’s holdings. But an attack in broad daylight, at home base? Attack the women?
No biker gang would attempt such a ruthless move. It was unthinkable.
Already Axle could hear the wail of sirens in the distance, growing louder with their approach. Clearly the paradigm had shifted. This was not his world anymore, but a terrible new reality that he couldn’t control. The adversary behind such an assault was not engaging with honor.
Jesse broke through Axle’s shock.
“Shit!” Jesse shouted, kicking the curb in an explosion of anger and frustration and grief. His voice echoed off the hot air and bounced back over them from the neighboring buildings. “Motherfuckers!”
With an effort, Axle took a firm steadying hold of Jesse’s shoulders, forcing the younger man to stand still and meet his furious eyes.
“It had to be the Auditores,” Axle hissed. No biker would attack another biker’s family. This was more than retribution. This was attempted annihilation. “Who else?”
Equally furious, Jesse’s eyes flashed back into his. Axle was somehow strengthened by Jesse’s shared vehemence, the blank black rage whirling behind his stony face.
“Yes,” Jesse rasped, spitting into the street. It had to be. The storm had come. “Who else.”
Chapter Seven
The crackling florescent lights made everything in the waiting room shine bluish in an unholy, antiseptic light, bathed in unnatural sheen. The ultra-polished linoleum floors were the color of sand. No matter how much they were waxed, they’d never look clean – only shiny and slightly blue, like a million slugs had oozed over. Even the green plastic leaves of the fake potted plants were bleached and wearied by the light.
Jesse blinked. Was it just his imagination, or was the linoleum turning into sand, an hourglass, shifting in the desert? No. He was just antsy as fuck. There was nothing to look at, nothing to say. He tapped his foot in the rhythm of a fandango to keep from going crazy.
The walls were painted a too-cheerful blue. A wacky, wavy streak of yellow was painted across the ceiling and floor. Now and then a purple circle or square was painted on the floor as an accent, an orange chair added to the rows of blue.
To add what, color? Follow the yellow wavy line to Oz? Jesse was going stir-crazy.
Jesse was standing behind Rex. Rex’s six-foot frame was folded sadly into a blue pleather chair that was covered in a rash of polka dots and the sickly fluorescent shine. Everything glowed, bouncing too-blue and too-harsh rays of light. It looked like they were in a dirty fish tank. Jesse sure felt like he was choking, under water.
He knew whatever came after this would be real, real bad. He knew the club would need him. He knew he’d chosen sides in his heart years ago, and that this was not the time to question the path he was on. And yet somehow all Jesse that could think about was a pair of dark eyes and full red lips, the intoxicating and impulse spirit beneath that exquisite flesh, the euphoric way he had felt with her only a few hours ago. It didn’t seem possible that all that pleasure had happened in the same day as today. Could the world really twist itself inside out that fast? Jesse couldn’t reconcile Celestina’s face with the present situation, and along with the cancerous weight of anger in his stomach was a pit of gnawing dread and foreboding. He had always trusted his gut, and he didn’t like what his gut was telling him.
It was going to be bad.
It was already bad.
Rex’s head was clutched in his hands, bent over as if the weight of the world had crushed it down. Axle and Voski sat on either side of their distraught son. The tight-knit Derian family was zoning out, all possible comforting talk long since devolved into a fearful,
breathless hush.
Rex’s sister Taline sat next to their mother, holding her hand, her eyes closed dejectedly. Smiley and Dolce paced nearby, hands deep in their pockets, impatient and fidgety. They were all waiting to hear back from a club member, Crisp, who was trying to trace the attack vans, and was out with a Prospect doing some sniffing around.
Luther was standing across from Axle playing candy crush on his iPhone, the volume unreasonably high and jarring for the circumstances. It was like Willy Wonka had stumbled into a scene from The Expendables. Jesse stared at him for a long moment, wondering what it was like to be so blissfully out of step with the energy of other people. In a way, Jesse envied Luther’s obliviousness. He wished he could step outside of himself, leave his brain and memories behind. Oblivion must be the next best thing to peace.
“Yo,” Jesse croaked, his voice out of practice. “Put down the game and go get the girls more coffee, will you?” He nodded his head at Luther when he looked up. “Yeah, you. Those sound effects are making me crazy. Beat it, will you?”
“Yeah man, sure thing.” Luther was annoying sometimes, but Jesse had to admit it was never intentional. “I’ll run to the cafeteria. So Voski, cream or sugar? You ladies want cookies or anything with it?” Luther fumbled to drop his iPhone in his vest pocket but missed. Before it hit the floor, he caught it with the toe of his shoe and balanced on one leg to retrieve it, inching his foot higher until his fingers could reach the phone. “Whoa, did you see that! That was awesome.”
Voski answered with a glare that could shrivel bones.
“Just get some coffee,” ordered Jesse testily. He checked himself, and forced out the word, “Please.”
“Right,” said Luther. “Coffee. I’m on it.”
“I’ll go with him,” Dolce volunteered, pulling his hands out of his pockets and rubbing his face like he’d just woke up. “You know, make sure he doesn’t get his dick caught in any doors.”
Jesse caught Taline’s eyes by accident and attempted to smile. She blinked back at him, just as tired. Taline tried to smile back at Jesse, but it turned into a yawn instead.
“Thanks Jesse,” she rasped. “Coffee sounds good.”
“Sounds better than fucking candy beep beep,” muttered Voski.
Taline was a civilian, her and her husband not at all involved in the Ruiners MC other than socially, but she was still family – and good family. She had rushed to meet them at the hospital when she got the call from her father Axle, sending her husband home with their baby and Rex and Mara’s kids. There was no reason the kids should be here, waiting, eating their hearts out in the soaking stress and suspense. It was hard enough for the grown-ups.
Axle checked his watch and sighed, letting his gaze wander aimlessly up to the stupid yellow line on the ceiling. Jesse wondered idly if the line went through the whole hospital down into the morgue, the pharmacy, the kitchens, and out a window. He wondered how many people had stared at the yellow line wondering the same dumb thing.
Voski patted Rex’s knee, over and over.
Whoever designed these waiting of rooms must truly, deeply hate people, Jesse thought. They must say to themselves, how can I make this experience, this waiting, even worse for everybody? Take an emergency. It’s not bad enough on it’s own, no way. So, add kindergarten shapes, garish primary colors, florescent lights and – presto – misery.
A club member from Albuquerque, Rusty, had been shot in the leg but he would be all right, it had only hit the muscle. Another woman, a sweet butt named Ginger that nobody really knew well, had been killed. Jesse didn’t even know her last name. A few others had been scraped up off the pavement at the clubhouse and taken away in ambulances. The living ones had been admitted to Desert Springs Hospital, and were showing improvements all around.
Mara was the main worry.
Mara was the only one still critical. They had rushed her to surgery right away, ripping Rex away from her gurney despite his shouts of protest and forcing him to stay in the waiting room for hours while they worked to save her life.
Jesse dropped resignedly into a chair. Where was that buzzing sound coming from? Was it the vending machines, the florescent bulbs, the fax machine behind the admissions desk, or just his strung-out brain?
As soon as he hit the hard cushion of the chair, the wide gray swinging doors of the hallway leading to Trauma and Emergency Surgery swung open. All heads turned to see the source of the disturbance. A pretty, tired looking young Indian woman in green scrubs approached the group. There was a middle-aged brunette woman at her heels, holding a clipboard.
“Mr. Derian?” Axle and Rex both jumped to their feet. The woman slowed to a stop and looked between them quizzically, trying to figure out whom to address. She seemed to decide, took a deep breath and focused her gaze on Rex. “Mr. Derian, you are the husband of Mara Derian?”
“Yes.”
“I am Dr. Adhav. I am the surgeon on call and it was I performing the surgery on your wife. Please, sit. I have both good news and bad news for you.”
Rex collapsed obediently onto the nearest polka dot chair with a heavy plop, but Axle remained standing at attention at his son’s side. Jesse didn’t move, and noticed that Smiley too had frozen in his restless steps. The young doctor was the magnetic pole in the room, and all attention was riveted on her.
“First the good news, Mr. Derian.” Dr. Adhav’s voice was low but crisp, professional. She reminded Jesse of the field doctors in Afghanistan, too efficient to show any sorrow or fatigue on duty. “Your wife will be fine. She pulled through with flying colors. We have stopped the internal bleeding. After a few days’ rest and monitoring in the hospital, she can be discharged home.”
“And the bad news?” chirped Voski, who had catapulted from her seat and now stood by her son, clutching his shoulder and jutting her chin defiantly at fate.
Dr. Adhav swallowed, making a visible effort to concentrate on Rex’s face. “We were not able to save the baby.” The doctor paused and a vacuum of silence opened in the room. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Derian.”
The ticking clock could be heard. Jesse averted his eyes, giving the shell-shocked family as much privacy as he could, his gaze darting pell-mell around the closed system of the waiting room. There was an actual fish tank next to Jesse. It seemed oddly out of place. He wondered briefly how, after all these hours, he had only just noticed it, or whether he had in fact already noticed it and simply forgotten.
Dolce and Luther clunked their way back into the room at that moment, their heavy booted steps ceasing abruptly when they saw tableau of the doctor, the Derians, and the Ruiners scattered about the room, stock still.
“Shit,” said Dolce, realizing he’d interrupted something important. “I’m sorry, doc, don’t let me stop you.”
Coffee sloshed onto the linoleum floor, splattering loudly. Rex, Axle and Voski turned and stared at the puddle of coffee with stoic, blank faces. Jesse locked eyes with Dolce, and his jaw tightened.
“Mr. Derian,” Dr. Adhav said softly, “I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Derian. Do you have any questions for me right now?”
“Shit,” Dolce repeated, under his breath.
“Mara is gonna be ok,” whispered Axle. “It’s the baby. Gone.”
“Shit,” said Dolce, again. It was the only word that he could think of.
Voski inhaled sharply, took a few steps toward Dolce and Luther, and snatched the coffee cups from their hands. She brought one to Rex, foisted another at Taline.
“Drink,” she said.
“No,” Rex said vaguely, frowning up at the doctor and absently accepting the coffee from his mother. He slurped some coffee, loud, like an old man with soup. He was very still. “Thanks, Dr. Adhav, no questions right now. Not for me.”
The doctor nodded. She turned to the brunette woman at her side. “This is Mrs. Grey, a hospital administrator. She can inform you of the next steps and answer any questions you might think of.”
“Next steps?” Rex repeated,
blankly.
“For the baby,” Voski whispered.
“Hello,” said Mrs. Grey, softly.
“Wait,” said Voski. “One question. My daughter-in-law. Can we see her now?”
“In the morning,” said Dr. Adhav. “She is sleeping now.”
“Visiting hours begin at ten,” said Mrs. Grey.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Axle said, suddenly stirring. His voice was firm and decisive. “I am sure you understand, doc, Mrs. Grey. Luther, come here. Mrs. Grey, you’ll please give all the information you want us to have to our family friend here. Luther, use that goddamn phone of yours for a purpose and take notes of everything she says to you. Do your job. Voski, Taline, you should go home. There’s nothing else to do here.”
Eyes downcast, Voski kissed her husband on the cheek, took her daughter by the arm, and walked away. Axle waited until the door closed behind them.
“Everybody else come with me,” boomed Axle, President once again. “There’s a Red Lobster down the block. I’m starving. Thanks again, Dr. Adhav. Rex, get up. Let’s go.”
Jesse scrambled to fall in step with Axle as the older man marched from the building, speed walking into the abrupt desert night outside. The brothers of the Ruiners MC fell in line behind him, a dark parade.
“Why the fuck you want to go to the Red Lobster, Prez?” asked Dolce, skipping beside Axle.
Without stopping Axle yelled, “Because I’m hungry, asshole. I rode a thousand miles today and my barbecue was sort of interrupted. Got a better place in mind? Somewhere with four stars?”
Dolce was quiet for a second, then he rallied, his voice neutral. “No, no, not at all, it’s just…weird, us at a Red Lobster. Like, too normal, weird.”
They walked through the parking lot past their orderly row of gleaming, parked motorcycles and down to the sidewalk of East Flamingo Road. No one spoke. Dark had fallen while they were in the waiting room and there were stars littering the sky, blinking competitively at the city lights below. Jesse stole a glance at his cell phone. It was ten o’clock.
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