Cutter
Cutter slammed into the front door of the clubhouse at a dead sprint. He hoped against hope that he wasn't too late. He still couldn't believe he'd been tricked so easily by Wyland, been conned into letting his guard down like this. He shoved through the doors, and the old, familiar smell of gunpowder filled his nose. He ran through to the rec room, calling for Liona, Smalls, Squirrel, anyone. Only silence answered him. He rounded the corner into the rec room, his feet pounding the floor, and came to dead stop. He looked around, eyeing everything, until his gaze fell on a crumpled form sitting up against the wall. Squirrel.
Cutter called out to him as he ran over, but it was clear even from this distance that he was dead. His shirt was covered in blood from a group of tightly spaced gunshots in his chest, and a long languid trickle began at the corner of his mouth and ran down his neck. Sticky thick blood covered his hands, had pooled around him on the tile. Just beyond him lay an empty beer bottle, tumbled over on its side.
“Squirrel?” Cutter asked again as he knelt down next to the corpse.
No response from the cracked lips. No blink from the cool, glassy gaze of the eyes. Cutter stood up, leaving his brother there, and went over to the bottle. He picked it up, smelled it, wrinkled his nose in disgust. There was something off about the beer, a kind of smell that was too skunky to be just beer. He took the bottle and went over to one of the tables in the rec room, set the empty down, and looked at the shattered beer bottle there. Almost no liquid was mixed on the tile with the shattered amber glass. So, it had been an empty, too.
Next, his eyes glanced up to the pool table. Two cues leaned precariously up against the side. That was a particular pet peeve of Smalls's. He hated it when you leaned the sticks like that, complained about how it warped them over time. It looked like Wyland and whoever was with him, had come in during the game. They'd struggled, maybe? Squirrel hadn't given up, so Wyland had him executed?
That would explain the broken bottles, and the flipped over chair next to the table. Cutter shook his head. Something about this whole setup seemed off to him. He walked over to the pool table, tapped the nine ball and sent it into a nearby pocket. Whoever had been playing had just barely missed.
But, then a thought occurred to him. Where the Hell was Smalls? Surely, Wyland wouldn't have taken him along with Liona. Would he? That was when he heard it. A muffled pounding, back in the bunkhouse. He picked up one of the pool cues from where it leaned against the table and, grasping it in both hands like a makeshift club, headed off to the find the source of the noise.
The noise grew louder as he stalked down the hallway, deeper and deeper into the bunks. A thudding, thumping sound like a shoulder or a boot on the wall. It could be Smalls, locked away by Wyland for whatever reason. Or, hell, it could be one of Wyland's men. If he had men, of course. He gripped his cue tighter, his knuckles white, as he crept down the hallway.
As he got closer to the source, he realized it was coming from Smalls's bunk. He padded down the silent hallway till he reached just short of Smalls's door. “Smalls?” he called, his voice booming in the tomb-like silence.
There was more thumping and bumping, clearly on the other side of the door. Cutter reached out with one hand, the pool cue still gripping the other, and twisted the nob. He flung the door back and stepped away, ready in a heartbeat to start swinging at whoever came out.
Nothing burst out at him, though. Instead, there was a muffled cry for help from just inside his second-in-command's room. “Cutter?”
At least, that's what he thought he heard. He poked his head in through the door, taking it in slices, and looked around. There, tied up in a chair with a gag in his mouth, was Smalls, his eyes open and pleading for Cutter to untie him.
“Goddammit, Smalls,” Cutter muttered as he tossed the cue aside and drew his pocket knife. He went over and tore the gag off began cutting the bonds from his wrists.
“Cutter, man,” Smalls said, “I'm so fucking sorry. That bastard Squirrel attacked me and must've put me in here.”
“Squirrel?” Cutter asked. “Squirrel did this to you?”
“You'd just left, and Liona had gone back to your room for something, then all a sudden Squirrel just starts wailing on me with his cue stick,” he said as rubbed his tender, previously constrained wrists. “Messed up my leg and beat me unconscious. Woke up in here, all tied up. Heard some gunshots, then a bunch of guys talking.”
“They got Liona,” Cutter said, cutting right to the point, as Smalls leaned down and started to untie the bonds around his ankles. “And Squirrel's dead, shot to death.”
Smalls glanced up at him, winced, and shook his head. Cutter returned the look. Squirrel had been there brother, even if he had ended up being a real rat in the end. “So it was all bullshit, then? The meeting, all that?”
“Wasn't even there,” Cutter said, groaning. He wanted to curl up in a ball and die. Not only did they have the woman he loved, they'd killed one of his brothers. And he still didn't have any evidence to ruin Wyland.
“Well,” Smalls said with a sigh, “not only all that. But, Wyland's got help.”
“Help? Who? The cops?”
He shook his head. “Bolt Riders.”
Cutter shook his head and ran a hand down his face. Shit. “How the fuck did he get them?”
“Dunno,” Smalls said.
“Are you sure?”
“Heard 'em through the walls, man. Recognized one of their voices. Who else is gonna have that many bikes with 'em?”
“Any idea where they took her?”
Smalls frowned and shook his head again. Cutter turned and kicked the wall, putting a hole in. He cursed and wiggled the tip of his steel tip boot free. “Well, he did mention something. Dunno who he was talking to, but it sounded him important to him.”
“What was it, brother? Anything can help.”
“Something about Memory Lane.”
“Like, taking a trip down it?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Smalls shrugged. “I dunno.”
The gears pulled together in Cutter's head. Wyland had mentioned the same thing, or something similar, over the phone to him, towards the end of the conversation. Then, it clicked. What had been their most important experience growing up? Where had they all first met?
“The old high school,” Cutter said. “It's the only thing that makes sense.”
“Really?” Smalls asked, making a face. “He'd go back there, you think?”
Cutter shrugged. “Got any better ideas?”
Smalls grunted. “No. I just know the guy's an asshole.”
“You said he's got the Bolt Riders with him, huh?”
“Yeah,” Smalls replied “We can't get past all those guys. Can we?” he asked as he went to stand.
Cutter lunged forward and caught him, his reflexes fast as ever, as Smalls's leg gave out on him. “We?” he asked. “Ain't no way with that fucked up leg of yours.”
“You gotta let me help, man,” Smalls said as Cutter eased him back down into the chair. “This is as much my fault as anyone's.”
“’Cause you let your brother-in-arms blindside you?”
“Fuckin' A, Cutter,” Smalls hollered. “Lemme help you, man.”
“Fine, fine, just stop your yelling,” Cutter said as he offered him an arm and helped ease him up out of the chair. “We'll think of something. Meantime, we better check to make sure the stash is intact. No telling what Squirrel spilled to Wyland.”
Smalls put his weight on Cutter and slowly rose from the chair. Together, they crept down the hallway, back to the linen closet where they kept all the sheets and towels stored away. “Should be fine,” Smalls said. “I didn't hear any noise down this way.”
“You know, old man,” Cutter said as he opened the closet and reached inside, “them not coming over here is probably why you're still alive, old man.” On the right, just behind the door frame, was a small catch. He searched with his fingers, probing the area, until he found it. He pulled the latch till he felt a click, then shoved back a false wall they'd installed years ago. A small portal lead through the back.
He glanced back at his second-in-command, just to check on him, then pushed through the stacks of towels and sheets, and into the small secret compartment. The Vanguard had built this room a couple years after Cutter had joined up with the MC. He'd noticed while taking some measurements, and looking at the floor plans, that there was this small vacant space in the wall. Even if you were paying really close attention to the dimensions of the outside versus the inside, and really looking for a secret cubbyhole like this, you'd still have a real pain in the ass trying to find it.
Together, they turned it into their stash, the place where they kept their guns, ammo, and other contraband. It was a good hiding spot, Cutter thought. After all, what cop was going to look in the linen closet for a machine gun? He reached up and grabbed the pull cord for the single bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. It flared into brilliance, washing the small room with stark white light. Shotguns, submachine guns, handguns, rifles, pistols. They had it all, here, with crates and crates of ammo.
All untagged, untaxed, and completely illegal. And, most importantly, it was more than enough to take down a small banana republic.