Page 39 of Unveiled Wounds

“They’re coming,” I said. “You know the deal. Don’t answer questions, but don’t be an asshole.”

“You don’t really think they’re looking for us, do you, VP?” Slate asked.

I didn’t have time to respond before the sirens were right on top of us. They appeared down the street, and we all turned to watch three squad cars blow through the red light.

“That’s not a co-inky dink,” I heard a brother say in my helmet.

The first squad car skidded on two wheels as the cop made the tight turn into the parking lot. He pulled right behind our club car and stopped, waiting for the other two to form a line behind him.

“We could outrun them, but they would just show up at the clubhouse.”

“Yeah, asshole. That’s not a good plan.”

Time slowed down as they each threw open their driver’s side doors, cocked their weapons, and pointed them right at us.

“Get the fuck on the ground.”

I held my hands out in front of me as I dismounted my bike, making sure the other brothers were doing the same thing.

“Get the fuck on the ground. I won’t ask you again.”

My knees cracked as they hit the pavement. I was getting too old for this shit.

***

If Slate didn’t stop tapping his boot on the concrete, I was going to kill him, and there would be no way to make that look like an accident in a holding cell. I didn’t care how old he was, or if this brought back memories: brother needed to calm the fuck down. We were all trapped in this fucking shit show together.

“If they put a scratch on my bike, I’m going to—“ How gritted out between his teeth.

We weren’t the only ones in the holding cell, and I shoved my elbow into his side. These people weren’t our friends, and they could quickly become our enemies if they heard something they shouldn’t have. We were easily recognizable. The police had left us with our club cuts, almost as if they wanted it known we were Iron Shield.

“You won’t do a damn thing. Grease will fix it for you once the new garage is ready,” I said, letting my eyes roam around the rest of the cell.

We occupied one corner, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, and that was a red flag if I ever saw one. Our affiliation was clear, and yet the officers had left us together. Their stupidity made my life easier, as I could keep a head count, but I was sure they had some bullshit policy about separating us. If we really had committed a crime, they were giving us plenty of time to get our stories straight. This was a sham, but I couldn’t prove it.

A teenager was curled up in the other corner, his knees pulled up to his chin as he rocked back and forth. Moaning, he asked any officer that walked by for the nurse.

I didn’t have a clue what the kid’s story was, and I made some assumptions as I watched him. His gaunt frame and sunken eyes resulted from drugs and malnutrition. His clothes hung off of his body, and while they were clean enough, they had seen better days.

“Man, I just need a hit. Something to get me through this,” he said each time.

I wanted to scare him straight, but I wasn’t copping a real charge playing Good Samaritan. The kid was going to have to learn on his own that there were better coping mechanisms than taking it up the nose.

“If he throws up, I’m going to spew. The sound gets me every time, and it makes my stomach curdle until I’m on the floor, too.” Grease was watching the kid, too.

“There’s only one urinal, so aim in a different direction,” Wreck commented drily.

“I thought bikers were fucking tougher than that.” There were three members of a wannabe street gang occupying the corner across from the kid. Their leader was in his early twenties, and either he’d risen to power quickly, or was about to lose his territory. It was hard to tell. He wore gold jewelry around his neck, but his jeans weren’t designer. He had plain white sneakers on his feet. I didn’t care either way as long as they didn’t challenge us. We’d win, easily. There were eight of us, and Count was the equivalent of two or three more.

I really wanted to pace across the cell, but there were too many people. The movement would piss someone off, and they’d try to step up to me. The brothers would be obligated to have my back, and it would be another clusterfuck on top of the original shitshow.

“I wonder what they did with our bikes,” Slate whispered.

“Probably impounded them. When we get them back, I’ll do oil changes and repairs.” Grease locked his fingers together and raised them above his head, stretching.

An officer walked up to the cell with a clipboard. “Eric Hastings.”

I looked at How, and he met my gaze openly.

---