Page 129 of Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son

He braced his hands in the mud, pushed himself up, and struggled out of the sinkhole.

After, he lay panting on firmer ground, overwhelmed by a wave of exhaustion so intense he thought that if he closed his eyes, he would fall asleep right here, on a bed of moss and old, dead leaves.

But something rustled off to his left, so he got back on his feet, and pressed onward.

~*~

Bob Boudreaux was piloting the boat.

The rest of them were manning the guns.

It was Aidan who spotted Fallon in the enemy boat as they swung around broadside. “There, right there!”

Tango saw him. In the flash of the boat’s spotlight, his face a big-eyed, petrified white disc, Tango saw him not as the grinning, cruel-handed man he could only remember in fits, and snatches, and a sense of unbeatable dread, but as a sad and pathetic wretch. One living a lie, married to a woman he didn’t love, soulless enough to pay to rape boys held captive in a brothel. Just a loser caught between a barrage of gunfire and a lake full of hungry gators.

How had Tango ever been afraid of him? Ever shivered, and wanted to hide, and shrunk down into his own collar beneath his sly questioning?

A single gunshot cracked from the other boat, and a narrow splash proved it had gone wide and struck the water, harmless.

Bob gave the wheel one last spin and brought them alongside.

RJ swung the spotlight around.

“Now!” Albie shouted over the roar of the engine. He and Aidan were armed with Albie’s beloved Skorpions, and strafed the side of the boat, hitting fiberglass and flesh alike.

Tango had a Skorpion of his own, but he dropped it, and let it dangle on its strap in favor of pulling his usual sidearm: the .45 that had terrified him as a teenager, and become as comforting as a well-hugged teddy bear in the years since.

He was far from the best shot in the club, but tonight, with the spotlight beaming on his target like the helpful flare of heaven, he took aim, and fired, and had the pleasure of watching Fallon’s head kick back, red entry point blooming blood on his forehead, before the boats screamed apart.

When he twisted around to look back, he saw a pale body in the water, and then saw it get pulled under.

~*~

Walsh hadn’t come to America expecting to become important amongst the Yank Dogs, but he’d recognized the startled, impressed looks on James and Ghost’s faces when he had Knoxville’s finances sorted and in the black within a month of his arrival. Six months after that, Knoxville began investing in new businesses. Ghost had told him, a year in, over late-night drinks in the office after James had gone home, and Ghost had stayed, already president in all the ways that counted, that he had dreams – big ones. And he thought Walsh was the missing puzzle piece he’d needed all along to make them come true for his club.

He was then tasked with consulting with the other chapters, and showing them how to haul themselves up out of the typical MC poverty. No more money lost on hookers and blow and extravagant parties; smart investments, proper laundering, receipt management.

Walsh got them turned around – but, of course, none of the other chapters would become as successful as Knoxville. No one had ever expected the boss mannotto be on top of the pile anyway.

But the other chapters did well for themselves these days, and it was why Bob had been able to equip them so well on such short notice.

He would have much preferred his Harley on a stretch of open road, but needs must. Walsh squeezed the brakes, cranked the handlebars, and ducked a low hanging branch as his Honda dirt bike bucked and jerked its way over the uneven ground. When he was clear, he stood up on the footpegs again to let his arms and legs distribute the shock better.

Mounted on a dirt bike of his own, Michael rode ahead of him, and, as promised, Crassus the Dane kept pace easily withtheir subdued swamp speed. Michael had his uncle’s current stud dog on a short leash attached to his belt, and Walsh kept waited for disaster – a branch, or a stump, or thick tangle of brambles to catch the tether – but so far so good. And despite the rev and surge of their motors, the hounds ahead could still be clearly heard.

They’d caught their scent, and they were running it to ground.

Walsh just prayed they wouldn’t be too late.

~*~

Harlan felt like he’d been walking for hours. No matter which way he turned, he couldn’t seem to get away from the glittering black expanse of the lake, nor its roaring boat motors, or its cracking gunshots. Eventually, though, the shooting ceased, and the boat activity quieted to low, idling murmurs.

He tripped on a root, nearly fell again, and made the decision to move closer to the water. There, at least, the trees thinned, and the moonlight shone on the white sand of the shoreline, and he could keep his feet. He glanced out across the lake, and saw the distant, dark shape of the island, and the even more distant pinpricks of boat spotlights. Well-away and with no chance of spotting him at this distance.

He let out a ragged sigh of relief.

That was when he heard the first howl.

---