Page 25 of Red's Peril: Part 1

“So,” he turns and indicates the ramshackle building behind me, “this is our auto-shop. Hey, Tongue. Get out here and meet our new mechanic.”

Hell, I haven’t said yes.

“Mechanic? Fuck yeah,” a muffled voice comes from under the car. “’Bout time we had someone that knows what they’re doing.” Feet first, the man begins to emerge.

“Shut your mouth, Tongue. I ain’t chopped liver.”

“Never said you were, Blade, but we kind of picked it up on the job.” He’s standing now, and as he talks, I get glimpses of a gold stud in his tongue. He turns to me. “You know anything about carburettors?”

Well, yeah.I resist the urge to roll my eyes and just answer with a shrug and one word, “Sure.”

“Hired,” Tongue tells me with a smirk.

“Who’s the fuckin’ manager here?” A knife has magically appeared in Blade’s hand as he steps forward, making me hold my breath waiting for blood.

But Tongue’s not fazed, just brushes the hand and knife away. “You won the toss, Brother.” His words seem to appease Blade, while I’m left wondering what the hell kind of business they’re running here if no one seems to know what the fuck they’re doing.

Run a fuckin’ mile,I think to myself. I even eye my bike to assess my chances. But as the prospect’s pulled the gate closed again and has been busy applying a padlock to it, I guess I’m kinda stuck.

“What d’you work on? Bikes or cages?” Tongue asks me.

“Everything,” Blade answers for me, doing some weird movements that look like a happy dance. “He’s got certificates and everything.”

“Ooh.” Tongue wiggles his, well, tongue, making that stud catch the sun. “I’m fuckin’ impressed.”

I’m not. It seems an amateur outfit. I wonder how they get anyone to trust them with their vehicles.Maybe they tune getaway cars.Well, probably only other criminals would come here.

Blade shares one of those silent conversations with the man he called his brother—though I can see no familial resemblance—then with a chin jerk, comes back over.

“Guess I better take you to see Drum.”

He’s still holding that fucking knife, twisting it around in his hand like someone else might a stress ball. Straightening my back, as it appears I have no choice, I raise my chin. But I want to know what I’m getting into.

“Who’s Drum?”

“Our Prez,” he replies, then adds, “Come on.”

Only just biting back a comment totake me to your leader,I walk alongside him as we make our way up a paved track, better maintained than the road to the compound, I notice. As I do, I can’t help but look around. If this was anything other than a biker compound, it would be a stunning location. Mountains are all around. A forest is in the near distance, and to the sides stretch miles of desert. Ignoring the evidence of the burned-out buildings, there’s beauty all around. Despite my misgivings, I feel a kind of peace here.

A bend in the path, then a row of motorcycles comes into sight, all parked in front of what makes me recall this was once a resort as it indeed looks like the entrance to a fancy hotel. This is where they’ve clearly focused their reconstruction attentions.

Blade leads me up to a door, pushes it open, then ushers me inside. There’s a bar where I’d half expected to see a reception desk. Mismatching tables and chairs are strewn around, and there’s a pool table off to one side. New woodwork shows in abundance, and some recent brickwork is exposed showing where they’ve done some renovation. It’s clearly been patched up to be usable but isn’t completely finished.

Lefty and the other bikers that had been at the store, along with a couple of others I don’t recognise, are milling around the bar area, demanding drinks from the prospect who’s hastily changed roles from bike minder to bartender.

When the VP spies me, he raises a bottle and shouts at Blade, “Drummer’s in his office.”

“This way,” Blade tells me, marching me through the large room and into a corridor. He knocks at the first door, and a growly voice tells us to enter.

I’d had preconceptions of what I expected to find when I walked through that door, but the reality was different. From the president title, I expected a middle-aged man at least, but the one sitting behind the desk looks like he’s only got a couple of years on myself. Sure, there’s some grey in his temples, but his face is youthful looking and virtually unlined.

“Blade,” he acknowledges, nodding at the man who’s entered after me.

Then, steely grey eyes land on me, piercing through me, making me want to admit to a crime I’d never committed just to get his focus off me. He might not have many years more than mine, but there’s just something about him that shouts power, and that he’s not a man to be crossed.

“This here’s Red. He’s a mechanic,” Blade explains. “Thought he could prospect for us.”

What?I never suggested such a thing.

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