Page 6 of Crow
“Think she’s good enough to beat me in a race?” he asked. I revved my engine.
“You’re on. Loser buys the drinks!” I sped down the road, tires kicking up dust clouds and the engine roaring in my ears. I could hear the sound of Ripper shouting insults behind me, but I was too far away to pick out the actual words. He raced after me, and I laughed as the freedom of moving at eighty miles an hour rushed through me. I didn’t slow down until the road began to curve, the fear of eating asphalt only just winning over the euphoria of the adrenaline rush.
“Best two out of three,” Ripper demanded as he joined me.
“No fucking way.” I laughed. “Just ’cause you’re a sore fucking loser.”
I felt lighter already. Ever since moving to Mascid and joining the Blazing Rebels, going for a ride always helped to clear my head. The rush of feeling the wind in my hair and the smell of gas and engine oil in my nose was like nothing else in life. Ripper had introduced me to this stretch of road the first week we met, claiming it was the best place to drive, and he wasn’t wrong. When I was flying down the tarmac, I felt like I could forget everything that weighed me down, including the confusingly pretty stripper.
We were just about to head back into town when my phone started to buzz in my pocket. The caller ID said it was Ink. Ripper and I exchanged confused frowns. Ink and his brother, Claymore, had been members of the Blazing Rebels for almost as long as the club had existed. Claymore had been the enforcer for a while now, and when Snake was killed, he elected his brother to take over his position as club secretary. You wouldn’t think the two were brothers to look at them: Claymore dwarfed his older brother, built more like an ox than a person. Meanwhile, Ink got his name from the countless tattoos covering his slim body, but it was a standing joke in the club that despite his physical approach to solving problems and disregard for any injuries this could cause, Claymore was piss-scared of needles. He went green at even the suggestion of getting tatted. They shared the same green eyes though, and the same whip-like mind. The club had voted in Ink’s favor, and though I missed Snake, even I had to admit he was a fucking good secretary, taking almost no time at all to adjust to the added responsibility of his new role.
“Fucking answer it then,” Ripper hissed. I flipped him off as I pressed the ‘answer call’ button.
“Hey Ink,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Where the fuck are you?” His voice was sharper than usual, and my frown deepened.
“Beating Ripper’s ass in a race. What do you need?”
“Good, you’re together. Both of you get your fucking asses to the Tavern, now.” Ink hung up before I could reply, and I could feel my shoulders tensing as I stuffed my phone back into my pocket and told Ripper we had to go.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Not sure, but Ink sounded nervous.”
“Shit.” Ripper’s face hardened. I agreed. Ink didn’t get nervous. He just didn’t. So something must be very fucking wrong. Without another word we sped toward town, and fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on one of the stools at the bar in the Ironhead Tavern.
The inside of the Tavern was mostly wood, with old worn photos of Rebels and posters of motorcycles covering the back wall. There was a row of booths with cracking vinyl seats along the front wall below a window with more smoke stains than glass, and in the corner next to the toilets was a pool table and a pinball machine I couldn’t remember ever working. Behind the bar was a ceiling-high shelf cluttered with half-empty bottles of liquor, illuminated by some neon pipe lighting, and I had to stop myself from reaching over and downing some neat tequila. Instead I was anxiously tapping the fingers of one hand against the counter with the other hand clenched around a bottle of beer. The other club members were trickling in, with expressions spanning from curious to anxious to pissed off. There was a low murmur of conversation as we waited for the church meeting to begin, mostly people asking if anyone knew why the fuck we were here. No one did.
It wasn’t long until almost the entire club was crowded into the Tavern, about fifteen of us altogether. Claymore stood at the front of the room, huge arms crossed and a scowl on his brutish face as he stared down the crowd. Ink was politely but firmly ushering out the regulars, weekend warriors, and club whores. Every so often, he checked over his shoulder in a nervous tic I had never seen from him before. He even stopped by the table where Archer sat with Rose tucked under his arm as he talked to Vegas. Ink spoke quickly, gesturing up the stairs to the second floor of the bar. Evelyn stood near the bottom of the steps, a stoic look on her face and her arm around the shoulders of a miserable-looking Samantha, Wrench’s old lady. Rose looked confused but nodded, slipping from beneath Archer’s arm and heading over to the other women, grabbing the barmaid and waitresses along the way. The group of them disappeared upstairs, out of earshot of anything that could be said during the meeting. I lit a cigarette, taking a long drag as I mentally marked that down as another unusual thing; most of the club member’s old ladies were discouraged from coming to church, but Evelyn had always been welcome. I looked, but I couldn’t see Tank or Wrench anywhere.
I got more agitated as the clock ticked on and they still didn’t appear. I could tell everyone else was too, bodies shifting and whispers hissing through the air. Tank was always at the bar unless he was riding with the club because he and Evelyn lived upstairs, and the fact that he wasn’t here was disturbing. The tension in the room kept rising. It felt like electricity, raising the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. I lit another cigarette, trying to calm my nerves as I looked around the room.
Everyone was so on edge that when the Tavern’s front door swung open, almost everyone jumped out of their skin, heads whipping around to stare. Tank strode into the room, a grim look on his face and a scrap of paper clenched in his hand, with a furious-looking Wrench close at his heels. Everyone in the Tavern went silent, their footsteps the only sound echoing through the room as they walked to the front of the room. Claymore gave them a nod as they passed him. They didn’t reciprocate; another glaring warning sign that something very bad was happening. Every eye followed them. It was like the room was collectively holding its breath; even I had to remind myself to breathe as I watched Tank face us and clear his throat.
“There has been a threat,” was all he managed to say before the club erupted. The tension and anxiety from the buildup became an uproar that was close to deafening, overlapping voices shouting demands for vengeance and payback drowning each other out.
Ripper got up on the table he was sitting at and hollered for everyone to, “Shut the fuck up!”
The hush that fell was, if possible, even more uneasy than before. When he was satisfied we were all paying attention, Ripper nodded at Tank, who nodded his thanks back. He took a deep breath and spoke again.
“I found this.” He raised the piece of paper crumpled in his fist. “Nailed to the tire of my bike.”
Ripper sent the crowd a warning look before any shouting could begin again. I took a swig from my beer, already calculating all the ways I could return the insult, with interest.
“It is a list of our names,” Tank continued. “Allof our names. Even the women. And that’s not the worst part.” Here, he took a deep breath. “Our dead have been crossed off. Snake, Hollywood, all of them. And our officers’ names are circled.”
I saw Claymore stand a bit straighter behind Tank, looking between him and Ink with a scared, guilty look on his face. Ink was an officer now, and while I was sure the man could handle himself, I could understand Claymore’s feelings. He had put Ink up for the secretary role, so it was his fault if anything happened to him.
Again, the room burst into a flurry of movement and sound, everyone arguing back and forth about what should be done about it. Hollers of “Blow their clubhouse to hell!” overlapped with shouts to “Find their women and see how they fucking like it,” and claims that we should build our defenses before any more of us got killed. I stayed silent, mind racing almost as fast as my pulse.
Memories slammed into me: the news of Snake’s murder, holding Hollywood in my arms as he bled out and thinking I should have been able to prevent it, should have been able to take the Freeway Fucker out before he got a shot off. I remembered how scared I had been when Archer got shot a few years back, not knowing if he was going to pull through or whether I would lose another brother. I remembered Jeannie, smiling until she wasn’t, until the tumor in her head made her waste away into nothing while I watched, helpless.
I felt helpless now.
I took another swig of beer to settle my stomach, but it was hard to swallow past the lump in my throat. There was no doubt in my mind that the note was a threat from the Freeway Kings. From the sounds of it, the rest of the Rebels had come to the same conclusion while I was distracted, but they were still bickering over the best course of action.
“I say we take them out first,” Claymore growled, one hand on Ink’s shoulder. I nodded approvingly and saw several others do the same, but Tank shut that down with a frown.
