Dominic
“We’re missing something, damn it!” I roared for what must have been the eightieth time, slamming my fists down on the table and making the numerous maps, diagrams, and lists scattered there tremble.
Thunder did not say a word. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out another cigarette, handed it to me, then held a flame up to my lips. I puffed at it, my eyes not once leaving the information spread out before me.
“This is not typical Crooked Jaw behavior,” I repeated, sitting down and drawing a map of downtown over to me. “It’s too coordinated. Too…elegant. And look here!”
I pointed to a list of figures, stolen from a very scared bank accountant, that described the mysterious changes in the Crooked Jaw’s funds.
“This much money floating around? There’s got to be police involvement. Deal-making. It stinks.”
Thunder nodded. He knew I needed him most as a sounding board. When he finally did speak out, I knew it would be important.
“We must do something, Thunder,” I said at last, sagging into my seat. I ashed the cigarette to prepare another big drag. “I’m not sending my men in with so much uncertainty.”
“The old Dom would have,” Thunder commented. “He would have been in a month ago, guns blazing.”
It was not an insult. Merely an observation.
“I know,” I sighed. “But the old Dom would have gotten a lot of people killed. The Broken Spires haven’t had a major casualty in years. I’d like to keep it that way.”
I was glad this meeting was private. If my other subordinates heard me talking like this, they would have thought I’d gone soft. Thunder I could trust. He understood the president’s job: temper the violence. Redirect the flame. Don’t allow for wildfire.
“We could plug someone for information,” Thunder suggested quietly. “Use a little violence to prevent it on a massive scale.”
I blinked, then sighed again. This was a proposition I had thought of hours ago, but had wanted to avoid. Once competing biking clubs started kidnapping each other’s members, the horror tended to escalate quickly. The same, however, applied to situations where one goes charging in with their eyes closed.
“Yes,” I agreed. “I believe it to be inevitable. Who would you suggest?”
Thunder thought for a moment. “There’s Wolf’s Head. He’s always been an idiot, and way too public with his whereabouts. I bet if we hit the red light district, we’ll find him within three bars.”
I smiled. Yes. He was perfect. Too many bikers thought this life was about bravado and showing off, but no. That just made you an easy target. Like Wolf’s Head.
Our decision made, we prepared ourselves for the mission: thick leather jackets with two very key features. First, there were no recognizable Broken Spires badges, and second, they had hoods. We pulled them low over our faces, hunched our shoulders to disguise our walk, and left.
Thunder was right. Wolf’s Head did not turn out to be hard to find. He was at the second strip club we tried, out for everyone to see:
Splayed at the bar, his legs spread open, and his erection obvious through his leather pants as two cheap strippers writhed and twisted in front of him. The stupid, hungry look on his face made him easy to spot, but even that was not the kicker: it was the horrible, gaudy tattoo of a wolf he had all over his neck that highlighted him like a bull’s eye. He thought it made him look tough. I thought it made him look stupid.
Careful to hide our faces, we took a seat across the platform from him, and watched. This arrangement ensured that if he happened to glance in our direction, his gaze was sure to fall not on us, but on the stripper dancing between us.
She emerged. Her stripper name was Wanda. She was the color of a caramel latte, and her naked skin looked delicious enough to lick as she posed with feline grace for the show. Thunder grinned, his attention shifting immediately to her, but I at least maintained my discipline. I continued to watch Wolf’s Head.
By the end of Wanda’s show, however, I was forced to admit I was wasting my time. Wolf’s Head was probably the most predictable, boring, and stereotypical biker there could be. Drooling over Wanda, under-tipping his two lap dancers, and grunting and cat-calling like a misbehaving teenager, he gave the rest of us a bad name. I was even pretty sure that, by his twitching and eye-rolling, that he had creamed himself over Wanda’s finishing move, but fortunately nothing showed.
Thank God for black leather.
I, meanwhile, was having a different problem. I did not find Wanda or the other strippers too distracting. That, at least, could be solved with some self-discipline and experience. In my line of work, I have seen plenty of strippers. No, the problem was that my mind kept drifting off; not to the strippers, but to that damned goodie-two-shoes again. Instead of gazing at the real-life Wanda posturing before me, I imagined what Erica would look like, in thigh-high stockings, a thin, lacy garter, and her tits yanked up by a corset, dancing across the stage. What made the fantasy even odder is that I quickly halted her stripper-clad dance, thought, “She’s much too classy to do that,” and brought her down to sit beside me at the table, wearing a sexy-but-presentable red dress. Why the fuck would I do that? All I knew is that that was what my mind kept going to, whenever I allowed my attention to wander.
I shook my head, annoyed with myself. This preoccupation with that woman was really getting ridiculous. It was not fit for the president of the Broken Spires. So, instead of thinking about sex, I decided to resort to my more usual daydream: me, on a beach, drink in hand, and all this violence and nonsense behind me.
Outwardly, I trained my eyes upon Wolf’s Head. Inwardly, I imagined my eyes closed, a bright tropical sun beating through them as my copper-colored skin grew even darker.
“More sunscreen, dear?” The woman next to me asked, and I opened my eyes and saw that it was Erica–
“Goddamn!” I muttered, snapping back into reality. I was back at the strip club, and even though Wanda and her new partner Glitz were busy shaking it on stage, I had to struggle to get the image of Erica, bathed in golden sun, out of my head.
“I really need to retire,” I thought. “I’m getting too easily distracted.” Rippling with annoyance, I screwed up my will and focused it, like a laser, upon my target. I focused on him––his gaping face, his stupid tattoo––and all the while nursed my disgust for him into a pulsing, angry energy that gave me the determination to think of nothing else. The man could not have picked his nose without me knowing about it.
A number of other performers followed Wanda, until at last, the show ended, and the strippers (along with us) were rewarded with a break. Thunder and I stiffened in our chairs when after slapping the ass of a passing waitress, Wolf’s Head finally teetered to his feet and made for the door. We tossed our payment on the table, and, and stealthily as we could, followed him outside.
It was good that we acted so quickly. By the time we reached the exit, Wolf’s Head had nearly disappeared. We caught just a glimpse of him––a flash of a leather-clad shoulder and a wink of that tattoo––disappearing down a side street. Even as we followed, I was forced to acknowledge that I was impressed with his speed: in the bar, he had seemed almost too drunk to stand.
Thunder and I looked at each other, slipped our hands down to the holsters of our guns, and hurried after him. We did not, of course, plan on firing our guns, but when messing with the Crooked Jaws, it was always better to have some security.
Down the side street, past the entrances of several more clubs and bars, past several hookers, offering us their services as we blew by. And still, Wolf’s Head eluded us. Distantly, I wondered what had him running off in such a hurry, but so intense was our pursuit that I was too distracted to follow the thought.
For this bit of stupidity, I nearly paid with my life.
We were getting farther away from the red-light districts, and down into the docks––dark places where even criminals are wary. Giant storage bins lined the street, and on one side of us, black water lapped menacingly against concrete walls. It was a weird horizon of tight corridors, and glaring, open plots of vulnerability. Thunder and I stuck to the shadows, as did, fortunately, Wolf’s Head.
At last, caught between two enormous shipping crates, our target paused. He pressed his hands against his knees to catch his breath before finally turning to face us. Knowing that he’d recognized our presence, Thunder and I stepped plainly into view.
“What do you assholes want?” He demanded, foregoing subtlety.
I smiled. “Strange place for a stroll, don’t you think, Carter? What is it that made you run all the way out here?”
He spat on the ground. “Fuck you,” he growled.
I unholstered my gun. A slight click from my left told me that Thunder had done the same.
“Now, there’s no need for that sort of language, is there, sport?” I said, slowly approaching. Wolf’s Head growled and stood at the ready, but did not draw a weapon.
“Oh, did you forget your pistol?” I mocked. “Were you afraid it might scare off the hookers?”
Even as I said this, a little warning bell sounded in my brain. No one, not even Wolf’s Head, would be traveling unarmed when tension was so high between our gangs. The asshole seemed to read my mind, and smiled.
“Don’t need no gun,” he replied. “Won’t be no problem here.” He was backing up, deeper and deeper into the shadows of the shipping crates. I was tired of this race. If we were going to act, we should do it soon.
“Really?” I said. “Because I see a problem for you, buddy. A big problem. There are two of us, and one of you, and you are all alone––”
As soon as the words had formed in my mouth, I knew.
I whirled, opening fire behind me as three more Crooked Jaws swooped down from above, guns blazing. I hit one in the chest. The other two dove for cover inside the open shipping crates. Even so, with them before me, Wolf’s Head behind me, and God knew how many more, we were surrounded.
I seized Thunder by the shoulder. “Run!” I cried, and we made straight for Wolf’s Head. He was the only one in sight without a gun drawn, so the path through him was the clearest.
“Argh!” He roared in outrage, leaping back. The Crooked Jaws behind us emerged, knocking metal chunks the size of sand shovels from the crates as they fired after us. Wolf’s Head hit the ground, shielding himself from friendly fire, while Thunder and I sprinted onwards into the unknown.
“Where to?” He gasped, as we dodged round another crate. I could hear the Crooked Jaws whooping to one another to form a pursuit, sounding more and more like a wolf pack with every savage cry.
“To the loading station!” I grunted back. “We cannot be caught in the open!”
If the crates in the storage yard formed hallways and corridors, then the crates at the loading station formed a labyrinth. Piled to incredible heights, these gargantuan boxes made a jungle in which it would be just possible to hide––our only choice. We had no chance of outrunning the fresh legs of the new Crooked Jaws.
Between us and the loading station was a single line of crates, open pavement, and water.
Hiding in the shadow of the crates was our best option.
“Come on,” I murmured to Thunder, who was breathing heavily. I’d have to be careful. He was older than me, and not as fit. It was his brain that had made him so useful in the club––not his athleticism. I’d need to make sure he kept pace.
With both our guns drawn, we nodded towards each other, and bolted for the first crate.
“There they are!” Someone cried, and I heard the sounds of feet pounding pavement behind us. It sounded like at least five of them. I dove into the open crate, hurling Thunder behind me, and waited for the first of the approaching Crooked Jaws to pass.
He paused right in front of me, looking for us. “Where the hell did they––” BOOM!
My gunshot echoed through the night, striking him in the chest and knocking him down. BOOM! From behind me, Thunder fired at the next Fang in line, hitting him in the throat. With a gurgle of blood and surprise, he was down.
“Come on!” I urged Thunder, not wanting to give the Crooked Jaws time to regroup. We had taken out three of them total, but there were at least three left, plus Wolf’s Head, who was armed, I was sure by then. Now that I had made them taste blood, they would be more cautious.
In a flash of movement and speed, we darted behind the second crate. From the widening of a Crooked Jaw’s eye, I could tell he saw us, but he did not rush forward like the others.
“Come on then, you scared?” I called to him, trying to provoke him into range. I heard him chuckle in response, and then a sound that at once was familiar and mundane and yet unequivocally dangerous:
The sound of a lighter being struck.
I heard the Molotov cocktail soaring through the air before I saw it. And yet, even with this forewarning, what could I do? I could not shoot it out of the air. That would light it just as effectually. Perhaps I could catch it.
“Dominic, no!” Thunder cried, sensing my intention in his intuitive way and seizing me by the collar, yanking me back and through the doorway just in time. The bottle shattered against the pavement, and the ground and half the shipping crate were immediately engulfed in flame.
For a split second, I could not believe it. They’re gonna burn the whole place down! I thought. Who knows what’s in these crates? I said a quick thank-you to Thunder. My chances of catching it would have been slim, and, if I had failed and we remained where we were, we would now be trapped inside the crate, blistering with heat.
Thunder had saved us from the fire. Now, we were in the open.