Chapter Twenty-Five
Roxanna
Think, I scream at myself. You need to get out of here.
I know how to do it. But it’s a long time before I have the courage to do it.
It’s going to hurt.
I grit my teeth. Wrench my body in wrong ways, until joints pop and I’m face-to-face with my handcuffs.
With a dislocated shoulder, I wiggle and squirm until I work a bobby pin free. I struggle with the pin in the lock.
Time is slipping through my fingers. Time I don’t have to spare.
Freedom.
An agonizing few more minutes — with hyperventilating gasps to work up the courage to reset my shoulder and then one boneshakingly painful burst of movement as I slam my shoulder against my father’s desk and ram it back into place.
There’s a wet pop. Joints slide over one another as the ball of my shoulder wrenches itself back into it’s home.
I hear myself scream in the distance.
A staggering walk to my mother’s bathroom to steal a handful of painkillers from her medicine cabinet.
I want to give in, to sit down, to get my thoughts together, but there’s no time.
My feet take me to my old room. Surrounded by my childhood, I fashion a sling from from an old N*Sync sweatshirt. The first concert I ever went to. A birthday present from my dad.
I stagger outside.
It’s not until I’m back behind the wheel of Nash’s truck that everything hits me.
My father’s cut me loose.
That selfish prick.
The weight of that comes down on my shoulders, pressing me until I feel I can’t breathe. The man who stood behind me my whole life, the man who supported my ambitions, who would study across from me each day — me with my textbooks, he with his case files — is too interested in himself and his own preservation to do the right thing.
He’s a coward.
But he’s not going to win.
The truck roars and I unleash every horse housed in it’s engine as I barrel down the highway.
Did you do it? I text to Maria.
Of course. It’s done. Her reply.
The Iron Devils are going to hit the King’s clubhouse tonight. Are the cops ready?
My phone stays silent for too long for my comfort before it buzzes.
Would I ever let you down?
I love you, I reply.
Damn right.
I breathe a little easier, but don’t slow down a bit as I speed down the highway towards Stony Shores.
I turn on the radio to keep myself alert. That handful of pain meds is raising billowy fog in my brain and weighing my eyelids down. I take one hand off the wheel to slap myself back to my senses.
The song on the radio ends and some DJ comes on the air, affecting that possibly-drunk schmoozing tone to remind me that KHOT is the number one station for the hottest pop songs today and that anyone in the area of Stony Shores should be careful and stay indoors because there’s reports of heavy gunshots coming from a known biker bar.
“Nash,” I whisper, and I slam my foot to the gas.
The DJ continues: There’ll be regular updates on the firefight, but, as long as I stay tuned, I’ll get the hottest pop songs with the fewest commercial interruptions.
Good to know.
Justin Bieber comes on and starts singing about how sorry he is as I scree around a corner in my two ton steel carriage, struts and suspension groan, and I struggle with the wheel — my dislocated shoulder screaming — but I will not slow down.
Flashing lights come into view.
The distinctive pop-pop-pop of gunfire.
I speed up, pulled forward by the visions of violence those sounds set off inside my head.
Nash is in there.
A fleet of black SUV’s, ambulances, a lone local PD car, encircle the parking lot, trapping inside some sheriffs cars and at least a dozen motorcycles. Men — some in cuts, some in uniforms — kneel with their hands behind their heads, flashlights and guns trained on them, as men in navy blue FBI vests cuff them.
I park and hop out.
Some man in uniform tries to tell me I shouldn’t be here.
“Go to hell,” I tell him. “I’m the one who tipped you guys off.”
He starts to say something else, but I push past him. Gurney after gurney is being wheeled from the clubhouse and they’re all I can see.
I need to find him.
I hunt for him. Frantic.
“Nash,” I start to yell, pushing past others, ignoring the glares. “Nash.”
One head pops up from the gurney, a familiar voice calls out: “Roxanna?”
Ozzy. I sprint to him.
“Are you ok?”
It gives me pause a second — blood covers his shirt, there’s a bullet hole in a frightful spot on his cut, but his first concern is if I’m ok.
“I’m fine.” I don’t even feel my dislocated shoulder, though whether that’s from the painkillers or adrenaline, I can’t say. “Where’s Nash?”
“Bugger if I know. He’s in hospital, probably. He took a nasty shot and went down. He and Gunney were the first ones taken out of here once the FBI burst in to arrest everyone. Pretty bloody messy scenario all around.”
The paramedics order me to get back and the Ambulance doors slam shut. It peels away, sirens blaring.
This whole scene’s a fucking mess. A huge bust, rooting out a blight in the sheriffs department and taking down a criminal gang, but all I can think about is him.
“Roxy,” Maria says, placing her hand on my shoulder.
I whirl on her, my emotions on a hair-trigger, and I pull her into a hug.
“Do you know if he’s ok?”
“It’s good to see you, too.”
“Right. Sorry. Thanks,” I say, swallowing the ball of panic rising in my throat. “Do you know where he is?”
“I don’t. Everything’s a fucking mess. But what do you expect for a last-minute disaster like this?”
I look around, trying to take it all in. I know I should be proud, in a way, of what I’ve accomplished. This was the right thing to do, but it doesn’t register with me. I push past Maria and grab one of the agents who looks like he might know what the hell is going on.
“Where are they taking the wounded?”
He shrugs. “Do I look like a medic? Stay out of the way and let us do our jobs.”
Maria’s back at my side, and takes the agent by the collar of his shirt. “Pull that stick out of your ass and show some compassion for my friend. She knows someone that was hurt in this mess — which hospital are they fucking taking them to?”
“Tacoma General, probably, that’s the nearest one with any sort of ICU.”
Maria lets him go, giving him a small shove as she does so.
“You better hope he’s there, or I am coming back here, Agent Klein,” she says, peering at his badge. “And I will ruin your day. Come on, Roxy.”
I’m already racing to my truck, my heart driving me forward.
I need to see him. I need to be there for the man who means so much to me.