A bullet laced the air beside my ear, and Boon released a guttural cry, but I couldn’t spare a second to look back and check on him. The last thing I saw before we rounded the corner was my old man, staggering from the front door he’d obliterated, and falling to his knees.
Now, I felt all the rage in my body collect in my heart.
These motherfuckers were going to pay.
Maybe I’d sworn to protect them. Maybe I’d rode and drank and swore and fought beside them. But my father had fallen, and they were going to pay.
One man stood in the kitchen window, a rifle aimed out into our backyard. Creeping up, staying pressed to the shingles and out of his view, we watched the rifle’s barrel move back and forth. Who had they put there, safely away from the worst of the shootout?
Soldier’s face looked comically surprised before my bullet hit him between the eyes and jerked his body backwards. His finger pulled the trigger, firing wildly into the sky. The window was clear; we lit our rags and threw them into the kitchen, one by one, hearing the crash of glass and feeling the heat blasted from the windows.
Something inside the clubhouse boomed, and my ears rang, the world suddenly hushed and muffled. Blade was shouting again, and waving his hands, rushing us back towards the trees; now, we pulled our guns, and shot against the clubhouse while we ran. Blade’s call for retreat reached the old guard, and one by one they began to file back, running with their guns still firing, towards safety. Flames licked at the corners of the windows. I watched Fleet and Mack dragging Porky between them, Mack still firing with one hand. And in the distance, another wave of engines, the Blackhawks coming in to finish the job.
Dutch was the first man out of the house, and believe me when I say that every single one of us aimed right at him and shot. But providence or the devil wanted Dutch to live a while yet, and he ducked and rolled himself to safety, firing back at us blindly while the rest of his recruits spilled forth. The Blackhawks appeared en masse, blazing onto the scene, a cavalry. We were all safely behind the tree cover now; all except Grinder, who lay at the mouth of the fire, his body a stumbling block for the boys fleeing their burning barracks.
And one by one, they fell or flew; they made it to their bikes, or they didn’t. The Blackhawks were more than merciless, firing on anything that moved; half their crew kept riding, chasing down the ones who were trying to get away. The rest lined up on the street, gunning down the men I’d once called brothers, one by one. Prospects and patched members alike. I felt sick to my stomach, heaved, but nothing came out.
Most of us had turned away by then, unable to watch our clubhouse burn, our men shot down like deer in hunting season. But Blade and I, we kept watching. It felt like our duty, our penance. We would bear witness to this, so we could tell the story and be sure it never happened again. We owed it to these men, misled and paying the highest price for it. We owed it to Grinder, and (I suspected) Hunter. I wondered if I’d ever stop being sick. It didn’t seem likely.
The gunfire slowed as Dutch’s crew either escaped on their bikes or crumpled on the pavement. Smoke rose like a sentinel into the sky, the smell of it starting to drift our way. Soon enough, the tree cover wouldn’t be safe anymore. Already, the parking lot was covered in ash and smoke, and the heat was only beginning to build.
If any of the bikes in the parking lot were going to be saved, it had to be now, and we started filing out of the trees to collect them and bring them to the street, where a small faction of Blackhawks were still sitting on their bikes, watching the clubhouse burn. In the distance, sirens demanded that we beat a hasty retreat.
We would split up, Crusaders and Blackhawks, with barely a word exchanged. But Lip, straddling his bike in the very back of the crowd, nodded at us as we passed. It was enough to tell us that it was over. The truce was on once more. We were free.
Blade led the men back to his house, where they’d try to make sense of the future and mourn the broken past, and take care of the wounded. We had a doctor who’d come and do any work we needed him to, without asking questions.
Porky had been shot in the thigh, and Boon ended up taking one in the shoulder. Mack had a hole clear through his hip. Freight, a man who rarely spoke and never complained, had an elbow blown out, but no one knew it until he asked someone to give him a ride. Otherwise, we were blessedly unharmed, outside of some grazing scrapes and cuts. Except for Grinder, of course, who still lay in the blast zone, the air too hot to rescue his body now.
I dropped Freight off at Blade’s, but I didn’t stay. I went straight for the forest. I went straight for Bex. My father’s death was heavy in my heart, throbbing. I craved the comfort of my brothers, and the wisdom of men who’d known my father better than I ever would. But not as much as I craved her, riding behind me, her hands clasped around my chest, safe and sound and all mine.
Bex
“I killed her.”
Cross stood there, staring down at Sylvia’s body. The minute I heard his bike approaching, I jumped for the door. Before that, I’d mostly been sitting on the couch and staring into space. When he crossed the threshold, I leapt into his arms, feeling something for the first time since Sylvia drew her last breath. He lifted me like a feather, squeezing me tight, kissing my temple twice before letting me back down on my feet.
“Holy shit,” Cross hissed, looking over my shoulder, seeing the body for the first time. “What the hell happened?”
In case you couldn’t guess, I’d never killed anyone before.
Self-defense or not, I was feeling a bit uneasy about it.
“Right after y’all left, she…and she had a gun so…I had to…”
I gestured to the body, trying to get him to understand without having to say the words again. He got the picture alright.
“Did you win?” I asked, suddenly realizing that there were bigger issues than just Sylvia’s dead body.
“Win?” Cross looked confused for a minute. Then he realized what he meant. “Oh. Yeah, baby. Maybe not in so many words. Doesn’t feel like winnin’, to me, you know. But yeah. We won.”
I was silent for a while, considering this.
“I won, too,” I said. A smile threatened the corners of my lips. I didn’t know whether or not to let it out. If I was happy about that dead body, what did it mean? What did it mean about who I was, if I could smile over someone I’d killed?
“You sure did, baby,” Cross said, stepping towards me and pulling me into his arms. “You won. Right proud of you.”
“Yeah?” I was torn between crying and laughing. “Is this how it’s supposed to feel, Cross?”
He pulled back, looked me in the eye. I didn’t know how to tell him how it felt, because I didn’t rightly know how it felt. It just felt...
“Yeah, freckles,” he said. I guess I didn’t need to tell him. I guess he saw it. “That’s how it’s supposed to feel. Not too good. But not too bad, if you do it for the right reasons.”
Did I hear a lie on his lips? Did I want to hear a lie on his lips? I buried my face into his cut, grabbing the edges and pulling him like I wanted to crawl into the safety of his chest.
“My father,” Cross suddenly said. I felt his chin moving against my scalp. My spine stiffened. I hadn’t even asked if everyone was okay. Grinder…
“No,” I moaned, pulling away, trying to get his eyes to meet mine. “Baby, no. Are you saying…”
“Just…let me take you home, Bex,” he said, confirming my question by not answering it at all. “I need to take you home, alright?
“Wait,” I said, hating what I was about to do. But I knew I had to do it. Cross had to know.
I went and retrieved the prospect’s cut from where Sylvia had thrown it on the floor. Bringing it back, I saw Cross’ body go limp the moment he saw it.
“The kid…” I started to say.
“Hunter,” he finished, reaching out for the leather. I gave it over. “I guess they didn’t leave us a body to bury.”
I shook my head, tea
rs welling in my eyes while I watched Cross hold a dead boy’s cut.