Logan
I barge into the clubhouse, ears ringing with the sound of Cora’s screams, heart beating quicker than it ever has before. I’ve been in this game a decade now and I’ve never felt fear like this. Even when killing men, torturing them, riding from the cops or a rival gang, adrenaline like this has never torn through my body. I feel like I’m breaking into pieces, like each part of me could break away and fall bloody to the floor until only my heart remains, still beating fast even though it’s not attached to anything. I try and focus, try and stop myself from being so goddamn melodramatic. But I keep thinking of Cora being tortured, Cora being raped, Cora being killed.
I kick through into the bar area, where the men are getting tooled up. There’s about fifty of them in all, pumping shotguns, loading revolvers, the sound of metal on metal filling the room. Velcro tears and pops as they put on bulletproof vests. Some of them sharpen knives, the edges glinting from the electric lights. I go to the front of the room where Spider stands, near a table of my gear: a vest, a submachine gun, and a shin-length machete. It’s good to see Spider’s bald head, the spider tattoo covering it, his small mouth and his flitting yellowish eyes, never resting.
“Boss,” he says.
“How’s it looking?” I ask.
“Good, except some of the men …” He glances up at me. “Never mind.”
“No. What is it?”
“Some of the men’ve been grumbling, well—more wondering why we’re attacking the mafia. They don’t know if it’s for a job or what.”
“Don’t tell me which men.”
Spider nods. I go about getting myself ready. If I know which men were grumbling, trying to stall the plan, I won’t be able to control myself. A job usually means some cash, or maybe some respect, or both, but this job means so much more to me. This job is like a weight on my chest, pressing my ribs into my spine, crushing my heart. Every second my mind fills with worse horrors: Cora spread-eagled on a bed, bleeding; Cora screaming as her tongue is cut out; Cora blood-eyed and gazing at me in judgment, demanding to know why I didn’t save her sooner. I load my submachine gun and look down the sights, and then spot Mom at the back of the room, sitting in the corner with a cocktail and talking with the men. She’s still in mourning; she looks like the Angel of Death come to bless—or curse—today’s business.
Spider leans across to me. “About ten men are making noises about backing out. They don’t see why they ought to—”
“This never woulda happened with the old man,” I mutter. “Can you imagine that? It’s ’cause I’m younger’n half of them, isn’t it? Maybe they see this as their chance to make a bid for my position. Or maybe they’re just chicken-shit.”
I climb onto the table and fire two rounds from my submachine gun into the roof. Plasterboard and wood flakes away, dust particles clinging to the air around me. They sting my eyes but the men are looking at me now. I reckon it’d ruin the effect if I rubbed at my face.
“I need you all to listen to me,” I call across the room. “And listen fucking closely. I reckon you’re all wondering what today is about. Maybe you think we ought to leave off the mafia. Maybe you think we ought to mind our own business if we ain’t doing them any harm.” I spot a few men nodding from the corner. I was right. They’re older, around forty and fifty, gray-haired and white-bearded. “I’m gonna tell you the truth now. There’re two reasons we’re going after these pricks. The first is that they have my fiancée.” I can’t just say girlfriend, or woman, ’cause not many men will risk their hides for a girlfriend or a woman. “They kidnapped your president’s fiancée to try and make us look weak, to try and make us look like fuckin’ cowards. They’re sitting together now, having a fine old laugh about it. What do you think’d happen if we let them keep her? Do you think they’d ever respect the Demon Riders again?” That gets through to some of them, but I read another message on other faces: so what if they have the boss’s girl? That ain’t their problem. “There’s something else, too.”
I raise the gun, watching as the men tense up, wondering if I’m going to fire it again. “Some of you know this man’s name. Moretti. And some of you know what he did to our club back in ’09. He burned this place to the fucking ground. He did that, and he’s still breathing. I would never speak ill of my old man, but I reckon it was a mistake that he didn’t put Moretti in the dirt where he belongs. He should’ve killed that bastard the day he found out it was him who tried to kill us where we drink, where we plan, where we sleep when we’ve had a real tough night of it.” A few of the men laugh at that. I feel rotten for speaking badly about my dad, but it’s the only way to get through to them: replace the old with the new. “What’re we gonna do, fellas? Are we gonna stand here with our tails between our legs, or are we gonna go out there and end this now?”
The old men in the corner harden, their faces going from traitors to followers in an instant. The oldest man turns to the others, nodding, and his friends nod along with him. I jump down from the table and make for the door.
“Logan!” Mom’s voice cuts through the din.
I nod to Spider to lead the men out, and then return to Mom. “What is it, Ma?” I ask.
“Was that true?” She clasps her black-painted hands together, staring at me with wide eyes, the sort of eyes which are desperate to believe. “What you said about that girl being your fiancée, is that true?”
I watch her face for a moment, the aching emotion in it, the trembling lips, the eyes which are always a second away from brimming with tears. Her hands tremble and though her fingernails are painted skillfully, they are bitten and jagged. She stares at me like a child, desperate for me to give her some hope. But then, I don’t want to tell her something now that might not turn out to be true. Maybe Cora and I will get married one day. I’m surprised to find that the thought doesn’t seem absurd to me. But not like this; I won’t be one of those saps who’s forced into a relationship because it makes his mother happy.
“I had to tell them something,” I say. “I had to make them listen to me and follow me. No, she ain’t my fiancée. But I care about her a whole lot. I care about her more than I’ve ever cared about any other girl. I reckon that counts for something.”
“It does,” Mom says, squeezing my shoulder. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Then I better go save her.” I swallow, turning away. With my back to her, I say: “I’m scared, Ma. I’m scared of what’s going to happen if I don’t save her. But I’m also scared of what’s going to happen if I do. She’s a real amazing woman, the sort of woman who deserves better than me. I’m just an outlaw. She’s so much more than that.”
“I don’t want to hear that,” Mom snaps. “You’re my son, and you’re a good man. Now get out of here and stop this self-pitying nonsense.”
I nod to her, thankful. Then I rush outside and jump on my bike. “The boys found the place?” I ask Spider.
“Just got word,” he says. “It’s nearby.”
“Knew it. Let’s roll out.”