Dante

 

I have to keep reminding myself that Selena’s safe with Whisper, that Whisper would never hurt her or let anything happen to her. I feel strange, like I’ve fallen out of a twenty-story window and yet I’m alive and relatively unharmed. I was supposed to be dead now. I came to terms with it. I readied myself for it. And yet I’m still alive.

 

I drive through the city, heading to Sun Town, preparing myself for violence. The gun rests on the passenger seat and my leg hurts less. If it comes to fighting, I reckon I’ll be ready for some fighting. But how many, and who will I have as backup? I think of Lion and Timmy and all the rest of them. Are they dead, or just captured? Maybe I’ll get to the clubhouse and find a tomb, all my men hacked and bloody. I know that Brose is capable of that kind of savagery, Gentleman or not. He’d have no qualms turning my men into red mush if it brought him some sick kind of pleasure. Maybe he’s angry at not being able to kill Selena and figures he owes my men nothing.

 

I force myself to stop overthinking it. I’m on a job. I need to stay focused. That is all.

 

But I find I can’t close my mind as easily as I once did. I keep thinking about Selena. Everything is higher risk now. If I die, I don’t just die. I lose Selena. I’ll never get to sleep with her again, kiss her, hold her, laugh with her. It’s a selfish way to think about dying, maybe, but it’s something I can’t ignore. When I die, my relationship with Selena dies. And I can’t pretend that there’s no chance of me dying. In fact, there’s a big damn chance of death.

 

I pull into Sun Town and stop on the outskirts. I climb from the jeep and put the handgun into the back of my jeans. Then a thought occurs to me. I check the trunk and find a shotgun and a submachine gun, as well as a backpack of ammunition. I load the submachine gun and sling it over my back by the strap, and then carry the shotgun at my side. I walk away from the road, cutting across a basketball court which is dead silent at this time of night.

 

The Saints’ clubhouse is about a three- or four-minute walk, but with my wound it takes me around ten, limping and pissed at myself for limping. Suddenly the idea of me saving my men seems pathetic: one man, injured, with three guns. Versus how many? Ten, twenty? I almost turn back, it’s so absurd.

 

I round a corner and the clubhouse comes into view. I go to the outhouse we sometimes use for meetings and crouch down behind the door, listening. There’s nobody in the outhouse, but noise comes from the clubhouse. I close my eyes and listen closely. Music, playing quietly, and under that, men talking. I hear glasses clinking together, the general sounds of life and activity. I wonder for a moment if it’s my men, but I push the idea aside quickly. My men wouldn’t drink and listen to music while their boss is prisoner. Maybe some of the fellas who really thought I was giving away ours guns, but Lion, Timmy? No damn way. Which means that somebody else is in the clubhouse—my fuckin’ clubhouse—and they’re treating it like their own.

 

I grit my teeth and take a deep breath. I have a tribal sense of possession for this clubhouse. More than any other place in Texas, it’s where I grew up. This was my stomping ground from the age of twelve to the age of twenty. This is where I learned how to fight, how to outlaw, how to ride and how to gun. The idea of some Wraith bastards taking it for their own makes me sick.

 

I creep toward the back, shotgun aimed in front of me, and then press myself flat against the wall.

 

“You never played it?” a man says from inside the kitchen. His voice drifts out from the slit window at the top of the wall. Something makes a sizzling frying noise.

 

“No. You’re into that video game shit. Not me.”

 

“It’s good,” the man says. “It’s damn good. You ought to give it a try. It’s probably the best game I’ve ever played.”

 

“Yeah, but I don’t play that video game shit.”

 

I move along the wall, walking as quietly as I can. Every step squeezes down on the bullet hole in my leg, but I ignore it. I can’t let pain rule me. I can’t let pain cripple me. I won’t. I stick in the shadows until I’m at the side door which leads into a hallway and then into the meeting room. I stop on the corner, holding my breath. Two men stand at the door, not more than two feet from me.

 

“Do you reckon he’s dead yet?”

 

“No word.” The man exhales. I’m so close, I see the smoke from his cigarette drift into the air. “Who knows, though? Some of these bastards are real weirdos. Might be doing stuff with his body, Edmund Kemper style.”

 

“The fuck you talkin’ about?”

 

“He’s a serial killer, man, one of the weirdest.”

 

I clear my throat loudly and then back away to the bush, crouching low.

 

“What was that?”

 

“What was what?”

 

“Are you kidding me? It sounded like a cough.” A man steps around the corner. He’s built stocky, with a flat face and a Norse rune tattooed between his eyebrows. In his hand he holds an automatic rifle. “Who’s there?” he calls into the darkness.

 

I move around the bush slowly, fully in predator mode now. I feel like I’m on the hunt. I creep around the bush as the rune-tattooed man walks further into the darkness. I end up close to the remaining man. He’s about my size and holding a pistol. He has a nasty scar down one side of his face, snaking down his chin and neck. I wait for his friend to disappear completely into the darkness and then leap forward.

 

“What the—”

 

But that’s as far as he gets. I smack him across the mouth with the butt of the shotgun, twice, three times, and then catch him as he falls and carry him into the bushes. I hit him once more to completely knock him out and then move back down the bush.

 

“Sam?” the rune-tattooed man says. “What’s going on? Sam?”

 

He stops, turns back to the door. I circle with him, keeping the same distance from him at all times, and when his back’s to me I leap over the bush and bring the shotgun down on his head like a baseball bat. There’s a sickening crunch and then he collapses to the floor, on his face. I hit him again and drag him to his friend, and then search their bodies. I know from experience that Brose’s men sometime carry cuffs, or rope. The rune-tattooed man has a set of cuffs in his pocket. I handcuff the men together, back to back, squeezing the cuffs tightly around their joined wrists.

 

Then I take their guns and return to the rear of the clubhouse, stow them, and go back to the side door. I crouch low, automatic rifle aimed forward, and then step slowly through the side door. The hallway offers memories. I see a little Dante tugging at his older brother’s sleeve as his older brother goes into a biker meeting. I see a little Dante sitting with his legs stretched out on the floor and a comic book in his lap. I see gruff men, mostly dead now, patting my big brother on the back. I nudge open the meeting-room door with the barrel of the rifle.

 

The room is empty, but beyond it I hear noise. I head to the bar door and nudge that open a sliver, just enough for me to see into the bar. I catch a glimpse of Lion, his mouth taped over with duct-tape, his hands bound in his lap with rope. And then I see the other men, all of the men, sitting in the middle of the bar like war prisoners, mouths taped, hands bound. Lion looks up and catches my eye. His face becomes angry, and then settles. He’s a practical man, and he knows anger will give me away.

 

“Do you think I enjoy this?” My blood runs cold when I hear his voice. “Do you think I get some sick pleasure out of this? I don’t. I truly, sincerely, don’t. I wish the world could be all rainbows and love and kumbaya. Really, I do. But it seems your leader is intent on making my life difficult. Was intent on making my life difficult, I should say, since he is now dead. Yes, that’s right. Your esteemed leader is currently lying blood-soaked at the bottom of a sandy ditch, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Do you want to know the funniest part? He died for some slit!” Brose laughs madly. “His brother was a fool. Markus was perhaps the biggest fool I have ever met. But he would never have given his life for some slit like your moronic leader.” He steps into view. I see him from the back, a shadowed figure with a claw gripping his cane. “You might be wondering why I’m keeping you alive. Well, the reasoning goes like this. I want to give some of you a chance to see the light and agree to work for me. Oh, I understand that not all of you, or even most of you, will see the light. But surely some of you don’t want to give your life for a man who stole your money and guns and gave them to me?”

 

Some of the men nod at this, but not many. They may like money and guns, but insulting Markus was a mistake. Markus was loved by everybody. Markus was the leader I can never be. Markus was the true hero of this club. And some of them know about the trackers, so they know I’d never give away our goods without taking precautions.

 

“I’ll give you another hour or so,” Brose says. “Then a river of blood will flow through this clubhouse, and your corpses will be stacked like logs ready for winter, and I’ll burn each and every one of you to the ground.” He smacks his cane against the floor. “Each and every one of you!”

 

I back away from the door, wondering what to do. I need a plan, something to even the odds. The life of every man I’ve sworn to protect relies on it.