Dominic
After Thunder and I left, I felt thoughts of Erica threatening to occupy my attention, but I pushed them away. The day of the heist was approaching, and for the safety of my men and myself, I needed to be absolutely focused.
I delivered Thunder to the Vet, who stitched him up in minutes, and gave him some antibiotics for good measure, so that was one less thing to worry about. I wanted Thunder with me the day of the heist, and I took comfort in the fact that with rest, he would be recuperated enough to join us. I, too, needed rest. I had a lot on my mind, and I wanted to make sure my mental faculties were in pristine condition.
So, as tradition, all of the Broken Spires got drunk.
The next day, blinking away our hangovers, I called a meeting. Fernando, I was told, had important news. I allowed Thunder to continue resting in the back of the clubhouse. I could tell him anything he needed to know later.
At last, once the main men of the Broken Spires were assembled, amid a clouded room of cigarette smoke and the fumes of alcohol, Fernando spoke.
“Alright, everyone,” he said, enjoying the readied attention. “Tonight’s the night. The heist is set. Our scouts have verified that a particular shipment entered the Jaws’ compound on the outskirts of town, which means the money is in place.”
At his emphasis, a smattering of gleeful chuckles broke out among the club members.
“But!” Fernando interrupted, and the group was silenced. “The money will only be in place tonight. Tomorrow morning, it will be shipped off to a variety of Crooked Jaw business to be laundered. That means tonight is the one shot we have. We start at midnight.”
The silence that followed was apparently not what Fernando expected. Judging by his prideful grin, he had been hoping for applause.
“What’s the matter?” He demanded, annoyed that his plan had not been met with a more satisfying reception.
It was Tristan who stirred. “I didn’t realize we’d only have one night,” he admitted. “There’s no time to scope out the place, and see how they’re guarding it.”
“Yeah, and we must assume that it will be well guarded. This is the Crooked Jaw’s most vulnerable point. They would know that.”
I let them discuss for awhile, without getting involved. It was important that they learn how to solve these issues without too much of my intervention. “After tonight,” I promised myself, “I will be retired.”
“And then I can go spend some time with Erica without putting her in danger.”
I acknowledged the thought, then brushed it aside. This was not what I should have been thinking about. I needed to focus, to stay sharp, one last time.
Instead, I pulled at the frayed and bruised thought that we were missing something. Some aspect of the Crooked Jaw organization that we didn’t know. Was it safe to put my men through such uncertainty? Through such danger?
I returned my attention to them, listening as they naturally came to their own decision.
“It’s worth it,” Dorian was saying. “Sure it’s dangerous, but why else did we join the motorcycle club?”
“Oh, you mean it wasn’t for the women and fast bikes?” Tristan commented.
Everybody laughed.
“Alright, we’re in then!” Fernando exclaimed excitedly. “Sir?” He asked, addressing me. “What do you think?”
“We should do it,” I answered. “We’re strong, tough, and smart men. I’m sure we can take whatever the Crooked Jaws think they can throw at us.”
“Hurray!” The men cheered, rising to their feet to clank glasses and shove one another in anticipation.
I smiled. While I would not miss the danger, I would miss this: that sense of camaraderie. We were a family, we Broken Spires.
Smiling to myself, I grabbed a pack of cigarettes for Thunder and marched to the back room, thinking he’d appreciate me lighting one for him. I paused next to the door, thinking fondly back to the meeting moments before, and how I was going to relay all the details to him, then opened it.
“Jesus Christ,” I growled, and dashed into the room.
“Thunder!” I hollered. “Thunder!”
He was nowhere to be found! There, the rumpled couch where he had been sleeping, his blanket tossed on the floor. I rushed to it, and touched the cushion. It was still warm.
And there! Across the way: one of the windows was shattered, as if something large had crawled through. And between these two things: a long, winding trail of blood, smeared across the floor.
“Thunder!”
Fear pounded in my heart, but so did something greater: the need for action.
Without thinking, without calling to my men, I sprinted to the far side of the room and leapt up to the shattered window, slipping through it as quickly as a snake. My leather jacket protected me from its biting shards, while I noticed that the blood sticking to my palms––Thunder’s blood, left behind from his reopened wound, or God knows what other horrible injury––was still liquid and warm. It told me that they’d only just escaped with him. He was nearby.
Once out of the building, I looked left, to the parking lot, and right, to a dark and winding alley. In the parking lot was my motorcycle––by far the quickest way to catch up to whomever I was chasing. But a motorcycle meant noise––announcing my presence––and sometimes stealth is needed.
Without a backward glance, I sprinted down the dark and winding alleyway.
There! On the ground, ten yards away. Another puddle of blood, this one even fresher. From the spray of drops surrounding it, I could tell they had turned left.
I slowed, drew my gun, and jogged forward.
Suddenly, a pair of men came into view.
One was opening the door of a pickup truck, calling back to his buddy, “Hurry up! Those damned Broken Spires are bound to be here soon!”
The other, meanwhile, was loading a large, black bag into the back of the roofed truck. From it, I could hear the sounds of muffled screams, and the rustling of motion. Every few seconds, its corner dripped blood.
“Thunder!” I murmured, leveling my gun at the man stuffing the bag into the truck. Ready…aim…
Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz! I felt my phone go off in my pocket.
“No!” I grunted, fumbling for it to terminate the call, to silence it before the Crooked Jaws noticed.
Too late!
BOOM! The sound of a gun exploded in my ears, and I dove behind a dumpster. Frantically, I rearranged my aim and fired back into the fray––at the driver, who had emerged from the truck to shoot me.
“Uh-uh, asshole,” I heard, followed by the cocking of a gun.
I froze. The first guy––the one holding the bag with Thunder trapped inside, had his gun leveled––but not at me.
The muzzle was right against the outline of Thunder’s head.
“Drop your gun,” he ordered, and I had no choice but to comply. My gun fell and skittered away across the pavement. I heard Thunder moaning, immobile, as the corner of the canvas bag steadily dripped blood.
“Now back away,” he continued, and, slowly, my mind whirling for options, I did so. Distantly, I heard the ding of my phone as it went to voicemail.
With me defenseless, the driver leveled his gun at my chest while the second guy finished stuffing Thunder into the back. He slammed the doors and wiped his hands with a satisfaction that boiled my insides with anger. Then, he marched around and hopped into the passenger seat.
“Your friend is ours now,” the driver sneered, backing to the door, his gun trained on me the entire time.
The first flicker of panic––real panic, not controlled fear––surged through me.
“Why?” I demanded, lunging forward. “What do you want with him?”
The driver grinned and jumped into the seat. “Go back to the room we stole him from,” he growled. “An old friend is waiting to speak with you.”
“An old friend? What the hell does that mean?”
The asshole winked, slammed the door, and with that, they drove away. I forced myself to watch, even as they disappeared into the distance.
“Don’t worry, Thunder,” I murmured. “I’ll find a way to get you safe.”
My heart and my mind set, I turned around, and jogged back to the clubhouse.
# # #
When I arrived, the club was in an uproar.
“Dominic! Jesus Christ!”
It was Tristan, running towards me as I entered through the doorway.
“What happened?” He demanded, as the rest of the group surged around me.
“Thunder is gone,” I said dryly. “He’s been kidnapped.”
“Why?” “By who?” The questions bounced around the room like bullets.
“I can’t be sure, but I’m guessing the Crooked Jaws. I don’t know why. They must want something from us.”
“But what?”
“Hey boss, over here!” It was Fernando, emerging from the back room where Thunder had been kidnapped. I rushed over, thinking he had found a clue, and was surprised when he handed me a cell phone.
“This was on the table,” he said, “right where Thunder slept. I don’t recognize it.”
“Me, either,” I admitted. “It’s not Thunder’s.”
I scrutinized it, holding it close to my eyes for examination, and yet I found nothing remarkable. It had no saved contacts. There were several missed calls.
“Hey, Fernando, do you know this number––”
Before he could answer, the phone began to ring.
I hesitated, glanced at Fernando, and then answered.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Dom, old friend,” a rough, growling voice replied. “I’d wondered when you’d pick up.”
My heart skipped a beat.
It was not an old friend, but my oldest enemy. Marco “La Gancho” Herrera.
The Hook.