Crank, Shiv, and Pecan arrived back at the Fallen Legion clubhouse after determining the shooter’s location, pulling into the parking lot on the roar of hard-charging Harleys. They stomped into the main room, and Crank headed straight for the bar.
“Find anything?” Duck asked; his hands shook as he held his drink.
“Found where I think the shot came from,” Crank said as he stopped behind the small, polished wooden bar that wouldn’t look out of place in a wild west saloon.
He grabbed a shot glass from the rack, poured a splash of Jack Daniels Black Label, and downed it with a gulp. He bared his teeth as the amber liquid burned down his throat, then poured another, then two more in separate glasses for Shiv and Pecan. They were going to have to go back and get the Tahoe, but that could wait. Right now he needed to let his seething anger subside.
“You’re sure?” Duck sat his glass on the bar for Crank to refill as the rest of the members gathered around to hear what their brothers had to say.
“No, but I don’t see how it could be anyplace else. I think he was in the rec center parking lot hiding behind a car. Maybe under it. Don’t know. But whatever he did, he was a ballsy bastard to pull this off in a public park in the middle of the day like that.”
Tank nodded in agreement. “What are we going to do about it?”
“What do you think?” Duck sneered after tossing back his drink. “We’re going to find that motherfucker and kill him.”
Duck was getting shitfaced and was in no shape to ride, but he didn’t seem to care. He was just trying to drown the memory of Stilts dying under his hands, powerless to prevent it. Crank figured Duck would either sleep in the clubhouse tonight, or his old lady would take him home.
Crank nodded. “The cops are going to be looking for him too, but we’re going to get him first.” He tossed back his third and final drink. He had to stay frosty; he had to think.
“You think it was the Jokers?” Wheels asked.
Crank thought for a moment. The Legion was the only game in Amberton. They didn’t run the city with a heavy hand. That got them noticed, and that brought in the cops, but everyone knew they owned the city. The other two clubs in town, the Palmettos and the Black Aces, were both larger, but they were full of posers and didn’t have the balls to come at them like this. They were full of dentists, bankers, doctors and accountants—men who like to pretend they were walking on the wild side, but when it came time to pull out their cocks, they knew their place.
The Jokers, out of Charlotte, North Carolina, however, were another matter. They certainly had the will, and ability, to hit the Legion. But why? They were a hundred miles away and had never meddled in their affairs before. The two clubs didn’t compete and compared to Charlotte and the Jokers, Amberton and the Fallen Legion were small fish. Hardly worth their notice.
Crank topped off the glasses sitting on the bar, save for his. “That doesn’t feel right, either. Even if they were coming at us, why Stilts? Shiv and I were standing right beside him. If they wanted to hurt the club, you’d think they’d hit one of us. And why all the sneaking around? That’s not how they operate.” He thought for another moment then shook his head. “No. I think if the Jokers were to come at us, they’d come head on.”
He noticed most of his brothers were nodding in agreement. Clubs didn’t hide in the weeds and then sneak up behind you and stab you in the back without warning. That’s what pussies do, and the Jokers were anything but pussies.
Crank met the gaze of every man there. They were looking at him to lead.
“Go home,” he finally said. “Go home and get drunk, fuck your old lady, do whatever you have to in order to get right with this. Tomorrow we start looking under the rocks to find this fucker. We’re going to find him, and kill him, for what he did.”
He paused as the brothers rumbled in agreement. “Shiv, you’ll take care of Stilts? He deserves full honors.”
Shiv bowed his head in acknowledgment, his lips thinning like he was internalizing his grief. Stilts had been a member of the Legion for almost twenty years. He was going to be missed by all the brothers. “I’ll handle it.”
Crank nodded. They didn’t lose a lot of brothers, and even less to violence, but it always hurt when they did. By tradition the VP made the funeral arrangements, the sergeant at arms took charge of caring for the family of the fallen brother, and the president wrote and delivered the eulogy. He hadn’t been president of the Legion long, only two years, and this would be the first time he had to perform the grim task. He wasn’t looking forward to it.
“Let’s make this happen,” Crank said. He had to get out of there. He had to get some space so he could breathe.
He turned and marched out of the clubhouse, swung a leg over his red and white Softail, and thumbed the machine to life after he stood it upright.
He could feel the alcohol starting to affect him. He wanted to find solace on the open road, but he knew he was becoming impaired. They’d already lost one brother today; the club didn’t need to lose another.
He pulled out of the parking lot and turned toward home, racing the booze in his system, so he wouldn’t slide out somewhere and end up six feet under himself.
***
Crank sat in his burgundy red leather recliner, his bottle of Jim Beam sitting on the floor beside him. He stared into his empty shot glass like he was trying to find some meaning in the transparency of it. An answer.
This was wrong. Stilts shouldn’t have died like that. Nobody deserved to die like that. A man should be able to face the person that was going to kill him—to stare them in the eyes and dare them to do their worst—not die from afar, wiped out without a sound or hint of warning.
He picked up the bottle and poured a splash into the glass, his movements slow and uncoordinated as he focused, then carefully sat the bottle back on the floor. He continued to stare into the glass, holding it up as he turned it in his fingers, watching the light from the lamp play and dance through the golden liquid.
It was Fillujah all over again.
He tossed the drink back and growled as it hurt so good. He was totally tanked, but the memories of his tour in Iraq wouldn’t be silenced. Though he’d engaged in no direct combat during his tour, he’d seen his share of death. Death just like this. Swift. Quiet. Unexpected. Death arriving with a ringing snap and a thud of lead into meat, the bullet outpacing the sound of its arrival. A silent killer, reaching down like the finger of God to erase a life.
Stilts was a good man. He’d hurt no one that hadn’t deserved it. He’d never killed anyone. He cared about his brothers and would have given his life for any one of them without question or hesitation. But to die so senselessly? He deserved better than that.
Crank filled his glass half full, being careful not to waste the precious elixir, and then sat the bottle aside, concentrating on his movements, so it didn’t spill. It’d been years since he’d intentionally crawled into a bottle. He thought the demons had been vanquished and the voices silenced, but today had awakened the ghosts.
His phone rang, and he looked at it. He thought about not answering but then changed his mind. He sat the shot glass on the table and picked up his phone.
“‘lo,” he slurred, not bothering to check the screen to see who it was.
“Crank?” Lana asked, her voice thin and tinny through the tiny speaker.
“Yeah.”
“I’m coming on shift, and I just heard. Are you okay?”
He blinked at his glass, his vision hazy, and then picked it up. “Perfect,” he said then tossed the liquid back.
“You don’t sound okay.”
“No? Do I sound drunk? If I do, it’s ‘cause I am.”
“Yeah, I can hear that, but that’s not what I meant. I know—”
“You don’ know shit,” Crank snarled, cutting her off. “You weren’ there. He was standin’ right beside me eating a burger. He didn’t deserve to die like that. Nobody deserves to die like that.”
“Crank,” Lana said, her voice softer, “I know you’re probably hurting right now, but I promise you, the Amberton PD is doing everything we can to find the guy that did this. Every officer is looking for him. We won’t rest until we bring him to justice.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
“We’ll get him. I promise.”
“You don’t know who he is.”
“No, but we’ll find out.”
He didn’t answer; afraid in his drunken state that he would say something that would cause the cops to interfere with what he and his brothers had to do.
“You want me to stop by?” she asked when he didn’t respond. “Ed and I can cruise over and check on you. Or I can stop by in the morning after my shift?”
Something about what she was saying tickled at the edge of his mind, but he couldn’t get his hands around what it was, so he forgot about it.
“No. Thank you, but I’m all right. I just need some sleep,” he said, his voice quieter. His eyes were still closed, and then it came to him.
He hadn’t seen her at the park, and he should have.
“Why are you working now? I thought you were working the three to eleven shift this week?”
“We switched our shift with another officer so he could take his wife to the hospital in the morning. Try to get some rest. That would probably be the best thing for you.”
“Yeah. I’m not going to be able to make our lesson tomorrow.”
“Didn’t expect you would. This shift would have made me groggy anyway. Call if you need anything.”
“I will,” Crank said then ended the call.
He tossed the phone onto the table and reached down beside his chair and picked up the bottle of Beam again. He started to pour another shot then paused, the bottle hovering over the glass. After a moment, he put the glass back on the table and picked up the lid and screwed it on the bottle.
Lana’s call had broken the cycle of pour, drink, and repeat.
He didn’t know why she’d called. Other than fucking twice, a dinner date, and a grappling lesson, they really didn’t know each other. They were little more than fuck buddies, but as he leaned his head back against the chair again, his eyes closed again, and he smiled. It was probably the booze talking—the alcohol and his memories making him melancholy—but hearing her voice made him feel a little better. It was a like a beacon of light as he was being tossed and battered by the dark and stormy sea of his memories. It provided no immediate help but gave him hope and a course—a direction to row to pull himself out of this mess.
His brothers would be there for him, he knew that, but they were dealing with their own loss tonight. Many of them were seeking comfort in the arms of their old ladies, or like he was, in a bottle. He knew from experience the bottle only masked the pain, it didn’t remove it, but Lana’s voice and offer to help seemed to sooth the ache and dull its edge.
He took a deep breath and sighed, the ghosts of his past and their whispers fading, as he began to slide into sleep, lulled away by the sound of Lana’s voice.