Dominic
The next morning, I was awoken early by a phone call. Bleary-eyed, stiff, yet feeling like a cat fat from warm milk, I fumbled around a bit before I was able to locate my cell and answer it.
It was Thunder.
“We found him,” was all he said.
I grinned.
Stirring from the bed, I rose and dressed without showering. I needed to act quickly. This, however, woke Erica up, and she glared at me, annoyed.
“I thought we’d be done with all this, now that we were together!” She complained.
I leaned down and kissed her beautiful, glowering, puffy-eyed face. “Just one last duty as president,” I said. “And then, I am all yours. Fully and completely.”
“Yeah, you’d better be,” she growled, before rolling over and going back to sleep. I smiled. Nothing fazed this woman. Nothing.
Trying to be respectful, I winced into my heavy biker boots and zipped up my jacket. Though I was healing, my back felt as cracked and dry as an old roadway in the blaring sun. Still, I am proud to say that I was able to manage it without disturbing Erica further.
I grabbed a bagel from the kitchen, ate it in three quick bites, and slipped quietly from the house.
There was nothing I could do about the roar of my motorcycle as it sprang to life. For me, the sound was invigorating–like a fresh cup of coffee and morning sex. The sound of it thundered through the air like my excitement thundered through my veins.
One final mission. One final duty. And a wonderfully pleasant duty it was.
I met Thunder at the compound. He, too, was covered in bandages–mostly around his waist, where he had a couple of broken ribs–but he still grinned broadly at the sight of me.
“You have a good night, eh?” He asked, a devilish look on his face.
“Exquisite,” I shot back, resisting the urge to stick out my tongue at him. He chuckled. “So where are we going?”
“The turnout, past exit 32,” he said. I smiled. The turnout was a barren, desolate wasteland of a place, deep in the desert and miles from civilization or even the main road. It was perfect for our purposes. We mounted our bikes and revved the engines.
“You ready, El Presidente?” He hollered over the noise.
“Ready!” I roared back.
And together, we roared onto the roadway.
# # #
We saw the plume of smoke long before its source, or the group of watchful Broken Spires gathered around it. As we approached, the sight of them–tall, proud, and strong, obeying their orders to the T–filled me with immense pride.
Yes, I thought. They are ready.
What they were guarding soon became apparent: a black, dusty van, its engine smoking and adding heat to the already blazing day. Its tires had been blown out in a gunfight, and its windshield shattered.
The Broken Spires grinned in triumph as we approached.
“He’s inside, Sir,” one said, as the others nodded in agreement.
Next to me, I saw Thunder wincing as he dismounted. There was a smirk on his features nonetheless.
I loosened my gun in its holster, approached the closed doors of the van, and clicked them open.
The heat that spilled out was terrible, suffocating as boiling water and so dense that it made my eyes water. Once they cleared, I saw the source of everyone’s smugness–the center of my final duty as president of the Broken Spires:
Duffle bag after duffle bag of cash, so overstuffed that hundreds of green bills poked out of them like feathers from an old, beat-up pillow. The sight of all this money–spoils of my final heist, which had gone so spectacularly wrong–filled me with a sense of deep, professional satisfaction. But what filled me with personal, visceral joy lay between them.
Raymond Blade, naked and bound like a pig before a slaughter, quivering in terror. I felt no pity for him. Not after what he had done to Erica.
I leaned down and leered at him.
“You can run,” I hissed, “but you can’t hide.”
Blade whispered. There was a sudden trickle of liquid and I realized with disgust that he had pissed himself. I wrinkled my nose and took a step back.
“How much is in here?” I ask Tristan, who had also just arrived.
Tristan grinned. “Oh, ten million, eleven million? We haven’t finished counting yet.”
“And how much per bag?”
“Oh, a couple hundred thousand or so. Give or take.”
“Perfect,” I said.
I reached into the van and plucked one of the duffle bags out, careful not to select any of the ones that had been touched by Blade’s piss. Winking at him, I slung it over my shoulder.
“You have two choices, Blade,” I said, nonchalantly flicking open the bag to glance over its contents. “We can drop you off at the police station, where you can face the persecution of your crimes–”
As I said this, he shook his head in terror. He knew that many of the Crooked Jaws had been arrested, too. If they ended up in the same jail together… well, let’s just say that the Crooked Jaws blamed their leaders for their humiliating downfall. And with La Gancho dead, Blade was the only one on whom they could exercise their terrible hate.
“Okay,” I mocked, grinning. “Your other option is this: we drive you out into the desert–let’s say, ten, twenty miles. That should be enough for an old fuck like you. Then, we cut your bonds, and leave you there. What happens next is up to you.”
“But, I-I’d die out there!” He protested.
I shrugged. “Your choice. The desert…or the police. Either way is fine with me.”
Blade wilted. He seemed like a plant, cut off at the stem. Then, at last, he showed one final act of courage:
“The desert,” he said.
“Good man,” I chuckled. “That, at least, is an honorable death. You heard him, men! Take him!”
A pair of young, up-and-coming Broken Spires surged forward, eager to volunteer. One even had a bike with a sidecar attached.
Perfect, I thought, then ordered them to stuff Blade inside it.
He looked utterly ridiculous. Simultaneously fat and bony, his sagging white skin already burning in the sun, his knees cramped up about his ears as he was crammed into the sidecar, I found his humiliation to be complete.
Winking and honking, the two Broken Spires rode off, to gruff cheers from the remaining bikers.
Thunder smiled, wiped the sweat from his brow, and turned to me.
“Now what, boss?” He asked.
I gazed at him, and clapped one hand on his shoulder. With the other hand, I tore my patch–the one signifying my station as president of the Broken Spires–from my jacket and handed it to him.
He smiled, accepting the gift.
“It’s up to you now, Thunder,” I said. Then, I nodded to the van overflowing with wealth. “And, may I say, you’re off to a pretty good start.”
He chuckled. I chuckled. Then, these sounds of mirth grew and grew, until we were shaking with full-out laughter.
He threw his arms around me, and pulled me into a hug. “Now, Dominic, go off and find a life of peace. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, man,” I murmured. We embraced for a full minute, ignoring the titters and heckles of the other Broken Spires–before finally pulling away.
I said goodbye to the others,–Tristan, Fernando, the lot of them–saluted to the group, mounted my bike, and rode away.
I did not look back. I did not need too. My future lay ahead.
With Erica.