Hazard

by Zahra Girard

  “Gunney’s going to be fine, Sam,” I say, and I reach across the table and take her hand. “They’re all going to be fine.”

  “He’d better. I don’t want to think about life without my heart.”

  A waitress appears at our table. She has a cheery smile, curly red hair, and freckles. And young. She’s barely into her twenties.

  “Hi, I’m Cassie, and I’ll be taking care of you. Are you ready to order, or would you like a few minutes?”

  Above the bar, there’s a big chalkboard with different specials written on it; at least a dozen different beers, with descriptions of their flavor profiles, aroma notes, alcohol by volume, and even some kind of IBU number.

  “Cassie, I’ve had a day. One of those days that really, really sucks. What’s going to be the best beer to put this day behind me?”

  She crinkles her nose a second, thinking. “We have a Russian Imperial Stout. It’s really chocolaty and really, really strong.”

  “I’ll have one of those,” I say.

  “Me too,” Sam adds.

  Cassie nods, then looks down at Jake. “And what would you like, little guy?”

  “Can I have a grill cheese, mom?”

  “Yes, honey,” I say. Then, to Cassie, “One grilled cheese, please.”

  “I’ll be right back with your beers, and it’ll be about fifteen minutes for the grilled cheese. Chef Margan is almost done meditating.”

  “He’s meditating?”

  “The bread toasts more evenly when he’s got his aura focused.”

  “Are you serious?” Sam blurts out.

  Cassie nods. “Chef Margan recently got back from a trip through Thailand. It was pretty eye-opening. He went to Bangkok, Chiang Mai, and Phuket and learned a lot about focusing his energies and keeping in the moment.”

  “You mean he went backpacking and got drunk on a beach with a bunch of other twenty-year-olds?” I say, rolling my eyes. “Does Chef Margan play guitar, too?”

  Cassie nods. “He’s very talented. He’s in two bands.”

  I decide to drop it and forgo asking if the Chef will play ‘Wonderwall’ for us. “Ok, well, whenever the chef feels like he’s present, we’ll take a grilled cheese for my son.”

  Cassie leaves to grab our beers and comes back quickly with two full pint glasses. Sam and I spend a minute contemplating our glasses. I’ve never been in this position before: totally free, able to run anywhere I want, and yet not wanting to leave. I’m chained here by choice. I feel so out of sorts and just lost.

  “Hun, you look like you’re already planning a funeral. Cut that s-h-i-t out,” she says, eying Jake as she spells through the curse word.

  “How many times has the club been in a situation this bad, Sam? I feel like I might’ve seen some of these guys for the last time.”

  She shakes her head. “A club is as strong as its weakest member. And every single one of those men has steel at his core. Some might have their head in the clouds — bless Ozzy’s heart — but every single one of them is a force to be reckoned with.”

  “If you really believed that, would you be here?”

  “We’re a family, hun. And in a time like this, even the women in the club are ready for a fight. These Jackals took one of our own. Not a one of us is going to just grab our ankles and take it.”

  “So what do we do now?” I say. I can’t help but think about Jarrett trapped in that house. Surrounded and out-gunned, bleeding from that wound in his shoulder.

  How is it that I finally got the courage to open up to him, to really accept him in my life, to want to make a change in who I am, and now I might lose him?

  It’s the cruelest joke in the world — I finally get my shit together, only to have everything but my son stripped from me.

  “Are you a praying woman?” Sam says.

  “No.”

  “Good. Because you don’t need to put your faith in some figment of your imagination. Those men of ours are all the holy vengeance we need.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Jarrett

  Lying in a pool of congealed death, hope bleeds from me. Bullets scream down at me from every angle. Every exit — every door, every window — leads to my execution.

  I might’ve killed three of them, but I am trapped in this stash house.

  With every minute that passes, I feel myself growing weaker; my strength seeping out from the hole in my shoulder. With every minute that passes, I drift further into those nightmares that refuse to leave me: the lasting trauma of my time in the service.

  A voice calls from outside in between the violent chorus of gunshots.

  “If you come out right now, we’ll make this quick. One bullet right between your eyes. It’s the best offer you’re going to get. So stop wasting our fucking time and get this over with.”

  I shake my head, clear my thoughts. Trauma and dark memories want to drag me under. But the thoughts of Selena and Jake keep me afloat. It isn't perfect, it isn’t a cure, but thinking about life with them is a start and the promise of something better is something I can cling to. It's the first I've felt like I have a life preserver in this horrible turbulent sea that is my life.

  “Give it up or you will suffer,” he shouts again.

  Fuck this man for thinking I’ll take the coward’s way out. I might be bleeding out on this dirty floor, but I’m still a fucking man.

  “Suck my cock, you piece of shit,” I reply.

  “You’re just making it harder on yourself. We’re going to kill you, and then everyone else in your fucking club. You come out now and you’ll save yourself a whole bunch of pain.”

  “Last I checked, I’m not wearing a fucking Jackal patch, so I ain’t a cocksucking coward. Come in here yourself and I’ll show you how a King fights.”

  He answers with a hail of bullets.

  I calm my breathing. Just hearing this son of a bitch’s arrogant voice gets my blood boiling. Being heated in a time like this just means I’m going to make a mistake and get myself killed earlier. I’ve got to stay focused. I’ve got to buy time. I need to do everything I can to make sure Selena and Jake far enough away from this place.

  They’re my priority. They’re worth my everything.

  Round after round that fires into the house and I wait for my moment to strike back. These men aren’t soldiers, they don’t have the discipline to stagger their firing. There’s going to be a break in the shooting and that’ll be my opportunity to strike.

  It comes. One split second. My chance.

  I rise up again.

  My eyes find him instantly. That big fucking gorilla with the fucking smug grin on his face that is just begging for me to put a bullet through it.

  What a sitting fucking duck.

  I aim.

  His eyes lock with mine. They go wide. Pupils dilate.

  That fucking coward.

  I wink at him and I can’t suppress a smile.

  This is for her.

  I squeeze the trigger.

  Fire belches from the barrel of my rifle as I send death right at that hulking son of a bitch. He moves — the fucker’s quick — and two of the Jackals standing next to him go down screaming. I duck and roll back to cover as they return fire. They shoot the house to fucking pieces and shrapnel — wood, paint, sparks, shards of bullets — rains down upon me.

  My head is swimming from the loss of blood and I know it’s not going to be much longer before I can barely stand. Before pulling a trigger is going to be too much effort.

  In the distance, from behind the thundering waves of gunfire, I hear the rolling tide of motorcycle engines coming in hard and the thudding chug of a heavy-duty truck’s motor.

  There’s more of these cocksucking roaches?

  And they’ve got fucking trucks?

  I force my mouth into a snarl. If I’m going to die, I’m going to go out like a man. I’m going to fire every single fucking round I got at these sons of bitches and make them pay with blood for what they’ve done. I kno
w I can take out at least another one before I die. Maybe two, even.

  The bikes are almost here.

  Screaming comes in from outside. More gunshots.

  They know they’ve won. They’re getting reckless.

  Grunting, I force myself to a kneeling position and get ready to stand. This is it.

  Time for me to die.

  I rise above the threshold of the nearest window. And I fire. One round after another out into the screaming scene of total chaos. Half the Jackals are facing away from the house, shooting out towards the road and towards another approaching group. The other half are running for their bikes.

  And in the middle of it all: that big fucking gorilla, shouting orders, shooting his gun, and generally looking like a giant prick that needs to die.

  I focus right on him.

  I don’t care what else is going on, I want him dead.

  Ready.

  Aim.

  One shot. Perfectly placed.

  Yeah, I still got it.

  He goes down, a chunk of his skull missing. Blood everywhere and the gun goes flying from his limp hands.

  The sight of it puts a genuine smile on my face.

  If I die, at least I’ll go out knowing I took down the man who threatened the life of the woman I love and her child.

  Two of the devils turn towards me. They raise their guns and get ready to blow me away.

  I shift my aim. I’m going to go out shooting. I always knew I would die like this.

  Suddenly, there’s an unholy screech and the crash of steel on steel as a huge, heavy 4x4 truck comes flying down the road to barrel into the crowd of Jackals. Bodies and bikes go flying, including one Jackal who goes spinning through the air, whirling like a helicopter’s rotor, before he crashes into a tree with a bloody thud.

  And behind the wheel of the truck: Ozzy, with a big fucking smile on his face.

  He gives me a thumbs up as I just stare at him.

  What the fuck is going on?

  The rest of my club pulls in right behind the club. With no hesitation, Gunney and Bear both leap from their bikes and, in one motion, put bullets in the prone bodies of the Jackals. Crack. Crack. Crack.

  An entire club, wiped out in a bone-shaking crash of steel and bullets.

  “Over here,” I call out to them. My rifle clatters from my hands and I reach out to take hold of the windowsill for support. My head is swimming and I can barely stand from the loss of blood.

  “Get in there,” Gunney shouts, motioning for everyone to approach.

  It’s a welcome sight to see my brothers running towards me: full patched members and prospects. Everyone is here.

  “I got you,” Bear says, sliding his arm around me and giving me a shoulder to lean on. “Come on, let’s get you into the truck.”

  He leads me away as Gunney directs the rest of the club to grab every crate and everything else in the stash house that they can get their hands on and load it into the truck.

  “Good work, mate,” Ozzy says to me as Bear opens the door to the truck and helps me inside. “You good to take a bit of a ride?”

  I nod. “I was good enough to kill those bitches. I can do a few more miles.”

  “Sam’s up in Portland. We’re going to rendezvous with her once we get out of Salem with the cargo. We’ll move you over to her truck and she’ll get you some medical attention.”

  “Did Selena make it out?”

  Bear grins. “Who do you think called us?”

  “I think I might love that woman.”

  The second I say it, I know that’s a lie. There’s no ‘might’ about it — I truly love that woman. Through all the fires, the lies, the violence and destruction, I love her. Her imperfections, her cracks, her scars, they all add character to the wickedly beautiful woman that she is and they echo the pain and damage in my own soul.

  “You know, I think she might love you back.”

  That puts a smile on my face. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

  “Take care, brother.”

  Bear pats me on my good shoulder and closes the door.

  I turn to Ozzy. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  The truck chugs its way back to the highway, followed by the rest of the club on bikes. In the distance, I hear sirens as fire and emergency services try to grapple with the sheer mess we’re leaving behind in Salem. From the sound of things, they’re still trying to get a handle on the explosion over by the Bloody Jackals clubhouse and haven’t even gotten to the stash house. They’ll be cleaning up that wreckage for a long time. It’ll be a long time before any MC gets a foothold in this town again.

  “Mate, there’s something that’s been on my mind,” Ozzy says, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of us.

  “Yeah?”

  “How is it you were so sure that we’d wind up in the same place?”

  I look out the window, rolling over in my mind just how to answer Ozzy’s question. I don’t want to let on about Selena betraying the club — she had her reasons for it, and, if she wants to come clean to the club about it, she can do that herself.

  “Selena’s had problems with them in the past. The Jackals and the Devil’s Riders killed her brother and the MC he was a part of. This war the Jackals have going with the Triads just has the same stink on it,” I say. “I was just thinking with my gut, brother.”

  He grunts. “I hear you. Though when I think with my gut, it usually leads to a good feed at a fried chicken joint. Or some burgers. Not a shootout a state away.”

  My head starts to nod; my strength is fading with the blood seeping from my shoulder. “Save the meditations on fried chicken and bullets for another time, brother. Let’s just get the hell out of here and get this whole guns business over with.”

  Without taking his eyes off the road, Ozzy shrugs.

  “It’s going to be a long time before this is over, mate.”

  “Not until every last one of them is dead.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Selena

  Sam’s phone buzzes like an angry hornet and her demeanor morphs in the blink of an eye. She checks her phone, eyes scanning a text, and, without saying a word, she stands and puts a handful of cash on the table.

  One motion from her — follow me — and I pound the last of my beer, and take Jake by the hand. At a quick walk, we leave the bar and head out to her truck parked on the street out in front of the bar.

  She stops in front of the truck and looks at me.

  “They made it. Your man’s in rough shape, but he’s alive for now. I’m going to hook up with them, make sure your man gets to a doctor who won’t ask questions.”

  “What can I do?”

  I want to be in the thick of it. I can’t stand the idea of staying back while he’s in pain.

  Sam raises an eyebrow at me. “Can you perform surgery?”

  “No.”

  “You have any nurse or medical training?”

  “No.”

  “You ever fished a bullet out?”

  “I get your point, Sam.”

  “The hard truth is you won’t do any good coming with. The best thing for him is to get him to a doc. We got a few up north we work with. Listen, hun, I’ll let you know where he winds up and you can come help take care of him then.”

  She slams the door and, with a quick wave, drives off. Standing there, I watch her go, worrying and — for the first time in as long as I can remember — praying. I have a future with Jarrett, I can feel it… just as I can feel it slipping through my fingers.

  “Come on, Jake,” I say, taking my son’s hand.

  “Mom, is Jarrett going to be ok?”

  “He’s going to be fine, Jake,” I say despite the doubt tearing up my insides.

  “Can we see him?”

  “Not yet,” I say, leading him to the bike and helping him up on it. “First, we’re going to get you a helmet, because you really shouldn’t be riding a bike without one.”

  “Does Jarrett wear a he
lmet?”

  “He does. Every one of the Kings wears a helmet,” I say, smiling at my son.

  “Really?”

  My son’s eyes are so bright, my soul feels so much lighter looking into his eyes and seeing hardly a trace or memory of all the trouble we’ve been through together.

  I wish I could keep him like this forever.

  “They do. Almost every biker wears one, because nobody wants to get hurt if they fall off their bike.”

  “Can I get one that looks like Jarrett’s? I want one exactly like he wears.”

  “Well, I don’t know if they’ll have the very same one at the first store we go to. But I bet when you get a little older, Jarrett might even give you one of his old helmets.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  I get on up on the bike in front of my son and sit back in position. Before I can start it, Jake taps me on the shoulder.

  “Mom, I like Jarrett.”

  I smile at him again over my shoulder.

  “Me too.”

  Chapter Forty

  Jarrett

  “You can do this,” she says to me, with a voice as warm and confident as the midday sun.

  I frown, look down at my hands resting on the handlebars of my bike. It’s been a draining few days. First, surgery in some hack doc’s office to close the wound in my shoulder, with only rotgut whiskey to numb the pain. To make things worse, the bastard doctor only had half a bottle, which was hardly enough to get more than a buzz going.

  Today’s the first day I’ve been able to ride. Even though I shouldn’t.