Page 11 of Hawk's Cry

“Beatdown.”

I start to breathe again, but then when it’s his turn, Marvel says, “Satan.”

Bullet looks at me, then shakes his head, his brow furrowed in misery. “Satan.”

Lady says, “Let him leave,” but Joker’s for a beatdown.

Wraith mouths sorry to me, then agrees, “Beatdown.”

Peg’s eyes are full of pain. “Satan.”

Blade can’t meet my eyes. “Satan.”

It’s come to me. I can’t vote that he gets away scot-free, I wouldn’t be serving my club properly. Hardening my heart, I propose, “Beatdown.”

Rock’s for a beatdown, Heart too.

Mouse stares at me, seeming to need a moment to make up his mind. When he shakes his head and pronounces, “Satan.” I can’t find it in myself to blame him. He’s about protecting information after all.

Shooter hesitates, then votes for death.

Jekyll says, “Oh shit. Fuck it. Satan.”

Truck’s for lenience, Drifter’s for making Hawk hurt.

Roadkill votes for Satan, as does Cast.

Fuck. This is close. Mentally I’ve been tallying it up. If I’m right, there are nine votes for a beatdown, eight for death, and two to let him out unscathed. Hound and Wizard are yet to vote.

Hound exchanges a chin lift with Peg. “Satan.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath around the table. Seems I’m not the only one who’s been keeping count.

“Fuck,” Wizard rasps out, knowing he’s got the deciding vote.

I forget how to breathe. It could be seconds or just one minute, but when Prez opens his mouth, I wish he’d give me more time. I’m not ready. But who could ever be ready for this? The rest of my life won’t be long enough to cope with the consequences if Prez votes to end my son’s life.

He picks up the gavel and brings it down once. “Beatdown.”

Even from the ones who voted for death, there’s a sigh of collective relief.

“That boy of yours,” Hound looks down the table at me, “he steps one foot out of line, he says one thing he shouldn’t, and I’ll be taking him out myself.”

I give him a sharp nod. That’s just how it should be. Betrayal and there would not be a second chance. Eli wouldn’t deserve one.

As Heart’s tapping on the tablet, recording our vote for prosperity, Wizard looks directly at me.

“You throw the first punch, Drummer. Then you get out of there.” I shake my head and start to object, but he stops me. “No arguments, Drummer. Things are going to happen that no father should see.”

The murmuring of agreement around the table stops me disputing that I should be there for my club. For my son.

A beatdown sounds like he’s getting an easy ride out, but I know he’s not. With tempers running as high as they are? Hawk, or Eli as he’ll now forever be, may not survive.

Perhaps a single shot to the head might have been easier.

The table is silent as Eli’s called back in. Understandably, he’s not directed to a seat, instead instructed to stand at the end of the table.

Wizard stares at him, his gaze almost as steely as mine, then without emotion pronounces, “You’ve disrespected every man at this table, Eli Felis. There’s not one brother that’s immune from the pain of being abandoned by their VP. You vowed to respect the club and abide by the regulations when you were patched in. That vow should not be taken lightly. The club has decided to let you leave, but not without punishment. The club has voted for a beatdown.”

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