Chopper
He could feel Kelsey’s eyes on him as he put his phone down onto the bedspread and sat back against the pillows, a million thoughts racing through his brain. He glanced at her, and the look on her face was unreadable. She didn’t say anything, but they both knew what was coming. Chopper sighed, tossed the covers back, and swung his feet down onto the floor. She gathered up the blankets around her, watching him.
“I gotta go, babe,” he said, his voice a mixture of resolve and regret. “I’m sorry.” When he leaned down to kiss her, she raised her hand to his cheek, tracing the contours of his face with her fingertips. Chopper lingered for a moment on her lips before reluctantly pulling away. Everything in the room—the light, the air, her skin—was warm, and the things he was going to do were so cold. He turned away from her as he pulled on his clothes, but he knew her gaze was still there.
“Be careful, Jesse,” she said softly. He stepped into his boots. She was a dream, and right now he was waking up.
“I’ll try,” he said. Kelsey didn’t answer. He stole one last look at her on his way out the bedroom door, and she was staring at her own hands clutching the sheets against her body. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. Maybe he should have given her more, something to hold on to until he got home safe. But he couldn’t.
Chopper locked the front door of his house behind him, the night air slapping him in the face. It smelled like rain, heavy with uncondensed water, and he wondered for a moment if his trusty leather jacket would be enough in a potentially torrential downpour. The sky was too dark to gauge the clouds, so he just shrugged and jogged across the driveway to his bike. Another message from Dean popped up, casting him in the white glow of the screen. It was an address. Chopper swung his leg over the seat of the bike and made his reply.
“Don’t go in without me. 10 minutes.”
He drove away without looking back at the house, afraid his convictions would falter if he did. The image of Kelsey sitting up in the bed, blankets gathered around her like a dress, stuck in his mind no matter how hard he tried to dislodge it. She hadn’t stopped him, but that inscrutable expression was nothing short of haunting. What had she been feeling as she saw him get up and get ready to commit murder, no matter how justified? What had she been thinking? He was almost surprised that she hadn’t asked him even once if he would stay, but then again, no one knew better than she did that Spike deserved everything he was about to get.
Chopper told himself to stop worrying about the situation he’d just left behind and focus his energy on the one he was riding into. He leaned into the damp wind, easing toward the upper reaches of the speed limit. The hungry creature inside of him who fed off his Outlaw exploits was beginning to pull on the chain, igniting a fire he hadn’t really felt since Kelsey’s rescue. Her fear had tamed him somewhat, but now he was hot in the trail of vengeance. Pieces of his old self emerged from the depths. His mouth settled into a grim line. Someone was going to die tonight
The address from Dean was in a slum, on the end of a row of dilapidated houses that were practically collapsing under their own weight. All the run-down buildings were dark as tombs — abandoned, Chopper bet, as well as condemned. It was not beyond the realm of imagination that Spike was squatting there with the ragged remains of his crew, hiding in squalor until they could scrape together some kind of plan. Chopper smirked to himself as he parked up the block, far enough away that the voice of his motorcycle couldn’t reach their ears. Whatever plans they had managed to drum up were about to go straight in the trash.
He approached the house on foot, keeping his head low so that he wouldn’t be easily identified by anyone standing watch. On the way up, he passed a few bikes that he recognized, dotting the curb inconspicuously. They were not the custom rides favored by Outlaws on joyrides, they were junkers taken from the back of the chop shop, cobbled together out of old, shitty parts. He had to laugh. Some of those rust buckets probably weren’t even road-safe; maybe when this was over, he’d have them towed back rather than let his boys take their chances.
As he neared the side of the old house, he made out a figure half-hidden in the overgrown brush, signaling at him. Chopper double-checked the front windows to be sure he hadn’t been spotted, then moved stealthily to join Dean in his hiding spot. They both dropped to a crouch, the coarse grass scratching at their faces.
“Tell me what we’ve got,” Chopper whispered.
“We’re not a hundred percent sure he’s in there,” Dean replied, “but there’s definitely someone who knows where he is, at least. All the Mongols we followed ended up coming back here. I don’t know how many there are. I’m guessing five, tops.”
“Do you know if they’re armed?”
“Not with anything big.” Dean made a vague gesture toward the street. “This neighborhood is technically city property. They can’t do anything to any of these buildings without being charged.” He raised an eyebrow. “And they are not in a position to be inviting legal scrutiny.”
Chopper chuckled. “To be fair, neither are we.” He glanced around. “Where are the rest?”
“Around the back. There’s a broken glass door on that side.” Dean pointed. “I figure we’ll just go through there. It’s the easiest way.”
“Traps?”
“No.”
Chopper nodded. The adrenaline began to race through his veins. “Call ‘em. Let’s go.” He and Dean stalked through the grass to the far corner of the house, where Dean paused to alert someone Chopper couldn’t quite see. Three more shadows came out of hiding and drew into position around the door, which stood crookedly off its track, a star-shaped shatter punched into the center. The five Outlaws held their breath for a few seconds, listening. After they were met with nothing but silence, they all turned their eyes to Chopper. He motioned them forward.
The broken door didn’t make any sound as it was lifted away and set carefully to the side. The Outlaws filed in one-by-one, checking the corners of the room and scanning for threats. The air inside smelled stale, thick with decay. Even in the pale moonlight, Chopper thought he could see mold climbing the walls. No wonder these houses were abandoned—they were a hazard. If Spike’s beating hadn’t killed him, Chopper was willing to bet that living here sure would.
No one said anything. They stepped carefully through the debris-filled living room and into a hallway with stairs on one side and a severely neglected kitchen on the other. Just as two of Chopper’s men made to split off into the kitchen, footsteps sounded from the floorboards above. They all froze, their bodies tense, ready for anything. The footsteps came closer and closer to the top of the staircase, until Chopper caught a brief glimpse of someone peeking over the top banister.
“Oh, shit,” said a voice. “I think it’s Slater.” The voice did not belong to Spike.
“You’re damn right it’s Slater,” Chopper said loudly. His words seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. “And I think you know what I want.”
“He’s not here,” came the reply.
Chopper folded his arms. “Bullshit.” He leaned against the railing, causing the whole thing to creak ominously. “Don’t make me come up there. I’d rather not even deal with you, if I’m being honest.”
“Really, man. Spike’s not here.” There was a tinge of desperation in the Mongol’s tone now, which gave Chopper enormous satisfaction.
“Then where is he?” Chopper put on an air of great patience as he exchanged glances with Dean, who rolled his eyes.
“We don’t know.”
Chopper sighed. He climbed one step, making sure that the men upstairs knew exactly what was happening. In the old days, he might have simply shot through the floor and made his point that way, but he was serious about not wanting to deal with them—and besides, he didn’t trust the integrity of the house’s construction to withstand the force of even one bullet. All he wanted was to find Spike Lawler and kill him. Was that asking so much?
“Wrong answer,” he said out loud. “I’m starting to feel like my time is being wasted.”
“We swear, we don’t know! We’re the only ones left here. Everyone else has been sent away.” A pause, during which Chopper climbed another step. “Spike said he wants to put down new roots, so he’s spreading us out to do it.” The Mongols sounded like they were slowly backing away.
Now Chopper was three steps up, and moving for a fourth. He could see the top of the first landing.
“He thinks he can do that before I find him? We have a score to settle, and it’s gonna happen sooner rather than later. You guys know how many of my boys died because of him?”
The second pause was longer. When the Mongols spoke again, it was in hushed tones, as if they feared that Spike himself might somehow hear them.
“We think he might be crazy,” they said. The Outlaws looked at each other. Chopper stopped on the fourth stair. “He’s out of it. He’s been meeting with a doctor in some clinic out of town, and we don’t know what he’s getting there, but…” The sentence wasn’t finished, but it didn’t have to be. Chopper got the picture.
He went back to Dean. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked quietly.
“What, that Lawler’s off his rocker on drugs?” Dean looked more confused than anything. Chopper couldn’t blame him.
“And he might be getting ready to do something insane. What’s he been saying to make his own men spend days hiding upstairs in this goddamn hellhole?”
Dean shrugged. “What do you want to do?”
Chopper glanced at the semicircle of serious, expectant faces. “Bear with me,” he said, and before they could voice any sort of dissent, he called up to the Mongols. “Hey, come down. We’re taking you with us.”
“You can’t,” was the answer, but it wasn’t very convincing. “If Spike gets back and we’re gone, he’ll lose it.”
“What do you care?” Chopper asked nonchalantly. “You won’t be there to see it.” He put his hand on the faded banister, letting a note of impatience creep into his voice. “Look, it’s not really a choice, all right? Come down, or I’m coming up after you.” As an afterthought, he added, “No one here wants to hurt you. We won’t complain if you turn out to be bait for your glorious leader, but you’re not gonna die today. Okay?”
Silence for thirty seconds. Finally, two men appeared at the top of the stairs. They looked like ghosts, their faces gaunt, pale faces sheathed in days — or weeks — of grubby beard growth. Chopper signaled for his men to back away as the two Mongols descended into their midst; soon, he didn’t have to tell his boys to give them space. The Mongols stunk oppressively from such a long time spent in a place without the luxuries of running water. “Sorry,” the shorter one mumbled, his head hung low. “We been here a while.”
Chopper took one of the Mongols back to the compound himself, ahead of his crew. He sent the guy to the showers, with instructions to meet him in the war room as soon as he was done. As he sat waiting in his chair, Chopper propped up his feet on the table. They were playing chess now, and he had just captured two of Lawler’s pawns.