Falcon

 

Falcon took another long drag off the butt of his cigarette before dropping it to the sidewalk and grinding it beneath his foot. He was still on his first pack for the day. Fucking progress.

 

“You sure it was Martin’s guys?” he asked.

 

Benny scuffed his boot against the sidewalk, still scowling at the ground. “I know it was, man. I would know those weasel-faced bastards anywhere.”

Falcon resisted the urge to slip another cigarette from the pack he kept tucked against his chest. He was gaining his self-control back bit by bit, but what Benny had told him was putting him over the edge, and that meant another smoke was that much more tempting.

 

It had been six years since he’d last seen the drug lord. He instinctively lifted a hand, brushing it across the thick, ridged scar that ran from the bridge of his nose all the way to his right ear. What he wouldn’t do to get his hands around the bastard’s neck…and now Martin and his boys were stirring up trouble in his hometown.

 

Falcon leaned back against the warehouse wall. “Shit,” he muttered. “They say what they were after? He’s not still kicking over rocks looking for me, is he?”

 

“Nah, man. My buddy said he forgot about you soon as he realized the cops weren’t coming for him and his product. I told you that years ago. You’re still good. All I know is they’re looking for something that got stashed or stolen. It was a big package. Martin’s going to be out a shit ton of money if they don’t get it back.”

 

Falcon ran a hand through his thick black hair, trying to decide what to do.

 

Goddamn it. Six years was no small amount of time, and they said time healed all wounds, but he still had no desire to go back home. There were too many bad memories there, too many mistakes, too much bitterness. He didn’t want to relive the darkest part of his life.

 

# # #

 

He’d always been a bit reckless. He’d started dealing pot on the side in high school just to make a little extra cash. He’d smoked a little himself. His girl hadn’t minded the occasional bowl herself, if he remembered right. It wasn’t like he’d been running a meth lab or looking for serious trouble. It wasn’t his fucking fault that trouble had come looking for him.

 

He’d been a stupid kid caught up in a puppy-love romance with his high school sweetheart. They’d ditch class to go for rides out of town through the endless stretches of Texas countryside. If he concentrated hard enough, he could still recall the sublime feeling of her tiny arms wrapped around his waist for dear life, the press of her body against his back, the way she would nuzzle her head against his shoulder and beg him to go faster.

 

The fragrance of her shampoo was tangled in those memories, too, linked to the velvety warm press of her lips and the soft fullness of her body. Some days he thought he would have married her. If things hadn’t happened as they had.

 

He hadn’t wanted to leave, especially not without a word to his girl. Thoughts of her still gnawed at him at night when he lay awake in bed, no one at his side, his mind humming too much to sleep.

 

But leaving had been the only way.

 

It had been his own damn fault, in a way. He’d been twenty and off on another one of his rides. This time out to a cluster of abandoned industrial buildings southwest of town. The complex had been a shell for years. The decline of the steel industry had left them empty and decaying and virtually unsellable. The chain-link fence that enclosed the property had toppled over in many places, and even the padlocked main gate leading into the area had rusted out to the point that anyone with a little muscle could push it open and enter with a full motorcade.

 

Falcon, who’d still gone by Kyle back in those days, liked the place because it was out of the way and he could do whatever the hell he wanted away from prying eyes. Mostly he would just go there to smoke, but sometimes he’d load a few empty bottles and cans into his side bags along with his little .22 pistol for some target practice.

 

The cops had spotted his bike once and written him up for trespassing. Luckily he’d left his weed tucked away in his favorite spot in the warehouse. After that, he’d always been careful to drive his bike around back, out of sight, so no one would bother him. Which had been fine, until the day he had the bad luck to be there when the local drug cartel planned to make a sale.

 

He’d been hanging out back by a few rusted industrial storage barrels when he’d heard the telltale rumble of tires over gravel. He’d pressed himself against the side of the building, keeping out of view as three long black cars rolled into the open area between the cluster of facilities.

 

He’d known immediately this was bad news and he shouldn’t have been there. He’d thought about kick-starting his bike and getting the hell out, but too many action movies made him think twice.

 

They’d see him, and they might decide to hunt him and take him out to keep him quiet. So instead he’d decided to keep crouched behind the building until they’d finished their business. Then he’d leave, and no one would know he’d been there.

 

Kyle watched the two groups fan out facing each other. There had been two men in business suits—one thin, tall man in a sleek white suit and a blood-red tie, the other a portly man in a tailored black suit. Both had worn sunglasses. Alongside each of them had been a handful of bodyguards carrying semi-automatics.

 

Kyle hadn’t been able to make out the words the men exchanged. He’d been too far away, and they spoke too quietly. The man in the white suit had motioned to one of his guys, who’d brought a big black duffel out of the car and tossed it at the black-suited man’s feet. One of the black-suited man’s guards had shifted his weapon to one hand, unzipped the duffel, and given a short nod to his boss, presumably affirming the quality of the product being traded.

 

Then, without warning, the black-suited man’s bodyguards had opened fire on the white-suited man’s guys, and in seconds, before they’d even been able to react, they all lay dead in the dust, blood still pouring from the bullet holes riddling their bodies.

 

Kyle had backed up fast at that. Animal instinct had taken over, and he’d wisely chosen flight rather than fight. Waiting be damned, he’d told himself. He wasn’t about to get wasted by some kingpin’s henchmen, not that day.

 

But in his panic he’d turned and kicked one of the half-rusted barrels that were scattered all over the place. The resounding metal ringing had drawn the kingpin’s men, and before he could hope to book it, he’d found himself staring down the barrels of four different guns manned by four ruthless killers.

 

He’d had no choice; he’d put his hands up and plastered on a brave face because he wasn’t about to let anyone see how close he was to pissing himself.

 

The man in the black suit had taken his time picking his way through the carnage over to the side of the building where his men had cornered Kyle. His leathery face had remained unperturbed, and he’d looked for all the world as if he was just taking a leisurely stroll, admiring the locale.

 

“Well, well,” he’d begun, coming to a halt just a few feet away from Kyle. He removed his sunglasses, folding them with great care and slipping them into his pocket.

 

Kyle had immediately seen the contrast between the man’s collected expression and the fury burning in his eyes. His stomach had tightened painfully at the intensity of the hatred that blazed there.

 

“Who do we have here?”

 

Kyle glared up at him defiantly, refusing to speak.

 

The man locked eyes with one of his men and jerked his head forward. Kyle had been a skinny kid in those days, scrappy enough in a pinch but too small to hope to fight off the ripped killer who moved forward to grab him.

 

The bodyguard smashed the butt of his gun into Kyle’s stomach, knocking the air out of him. The guard took advantage of that moment to loop his arms beneath Kyle’s, lifting him up in front of him like a shield and locking his hands behind Kyle’s neck in a Nelson hold. The position left Kyle face-to-face with the drug lord, and a prime target for the remaining henchmen.

 

As Kyle recovered from the blow, the man in the black suit drew forward until nearly touching Kyle. “I asked a question. Now, Bryan can start breaking fingers, or you can just answer me and make this easy on yourself.”

 

“Kyle Parker,” he grunted out. “And I didn’t see nothing—“

 

The drug lord let loose a cold laugh. “Now, we both know that’s not true. You’re telling me Georgie didn’t send you out here as insurance? That you just happened to be snooping around here today? Oh no, my friend, I’m not stupid. Now, you’re going to tell me who sent you and who’s sticking his fucking nose in my business, and then one of my boys is going to put a bullet in your head.”

 

Kyle’s blood turned to ice. “Killing me’s not a real good motivator,” he growled. His words came out a lot braver than he felt.

 

The drug lord grinned, flashing bleached teeth that were as white as bone against his tanned face and black mustache. “Oh, it’s going to be after my boys get through with you. You’re going to be begging for that bullet. I got all the time in the world, you see. And even if you don’t crack on your own, I’m willing to bet good money that you’ve got someone out there that you care about. A mother. A sister. A girl.”

 

Kyle couldn’t keep himself from reacting to that. He struggled against the man holding him, but there was no getting out of his grip.

 

The drug lord’s grin widened. “That’s what I thought. So, you can save me and my men some time and just tell me right now, or things can get ugly.”

 

“No one sent me! I come here sometimes—”

 

“Wrong answer.”

 

# # #

 

They’d tied him up and thrown him in the trunk of a car. It had been a long, bumpy ride to some unknown destination. They’d blindfolded him and led him indoors and down a flight of stairs into a dark basement lit with flickering fluorescent lights and furnished only with a metal table. The place looked like it had been ripped straight out of a crime drama.

 

Then the torture began. They kept him down there for days, carving into him, pummeling him until he was coughing up blood. His whole body was covered in bruises. The drug lord—whose name he’d learned was Martin—was sure Kyle had been sent by a rival gang who’d been tipped off about Martin’s plans. The kingpin was convinced there was a mole in his organization, and he wasn’t going to rest until he’d ferreted him out.

 

Martin’s men handled most of the dirty work, but occasionally the man himself would roll up his sleeves and get involved, especially when his guys proved ineffective at getting the name of a loved one out of Kyle.

 

One day, Martin had come in waving a long, wicked-looking buck knife.

 

“How is our tight-lipped friend holding up?” he’d asked saccharinely. “Comfortable, Kyle? I hope they haven’t roughed you up too much.”

 

Kyle could taste nothing but blood in his mouth. Every inch of him screamed with pain. But his pride kept him strong. He spat across the table at Martin.

 

Martin only laughed as two of his men moved forward to hold him in place. One locked Kyle’s head in place in his vice-like grip.

 

Martin circled around behind Kyle and gently laid the blade of the knife against his cheek. “You have a name for me?” he asked. “Or am I going to have to ruin that pretty face of yours?”

 

Kyle bit his tongue. And Martin cut deep.

 

When the drug lord decided he wasn’t getting anywhere, and he was tired of carving Kyle up, he left him tied up at the table, bleeding, letting his men resume the torture.

 

Kyle had held out as best he could. On the outside he kept his cool, repeating over and over that he wasn’t sent to spy. But inside he was a nervous wreck. With every passing hour the sickness in his gut grew. He was certain that at any moment one of Martin’s thugs would haul Bridgette down in front of him, sobbing and terrified, and there would be nothing he could do to save her.

 

He didn’t give up on escape. He could see Martin was losing interest in him, either because there hadn’t been any retaliation since the bad drug deal or because he had other things on his mind.

 

And one night the opportunity came. After a scheduled trip to the bathroom—a leaking toilet in an unlit closet—the man Martin had left to guard him left his restraints just a little loose and stepped out for a cigarette break.

 

Kyle was able to work himself out of his restraints fairly quickly. He didn’t know enough about the location to seriously plot an escape. He decided he would have to wing it and hope for the best. They would either shoot him or catch him again. Things weren’t going to get much worse, and at least if he died, there was no chance Bridgette would get caught up in this mess.

 

He crept up the stairs. It looked like some kind of office building, but the inside was gutted. The whole place was quiet—mostly abandoned. He started to think he’d caught a lucky break. He slipped outside into the parking lot, every inch of his abused body protesting. He gritted his teeth, and pushed through it, thinking of Bridgette. He had to get out and get himself far away from her. It was the only way.

 

He spotted the guard smoking around the other side of the building, gazing off into the distance. He knew he didn’t have much time, so he hurriedly scanned the parking lot. There were a few assorted cars parked around, but they were likely locked, and he couldn’t waste time checking.

 

Then he spotted it. A chopper. If he could hotwire it in time….

 

He stole one last glance at the guard before sprinting over to the motorcycle. Thank God they’d let him keep his shoes. He bent down and retrieved the copper wiring he always kept taped to the inside of the tongue—an old habit that had gotten him out of a couple of fixes over the years.

 

He dug under the shroud of the motorcycle, pulled out the cord he was looking for, and arced the wire between the two top ports. Wasting no time, he straddled the seat and pushed the ignition. To his immense relief, it roared to life.

 

The guard had noticed that. He saw the lit cigarette fall from the man’s mouth, but he didn’t wait for him to reach for his gun.

 

Instead he kicked up the stand, gave his new ride some gas, and tore across the lot toward the nearest road. He heard a few gunshots behind him, but nothing hit. He roared out a victory cry as the wind breaking over him whipped at his eyes, sending his tears of relief streaming behind him.

 

From there he’d stopped at the nearest gas station to get himself oriented. He found out that he was just twenty minutes out of town. He had no cash, no ID, no credit cards on him. They’d stripped all that from him before locking him in the basement.

 

He hated what he had to do, but there was no other choice. His parents were broke, and he’d never gotten along with them. He had no relatives who could lend him cash. And he didn’t have time to waste. Martin was likely on his trail. He had to put miles between him and home, and fast.

 

He wasn’t about to worry Bridgette. The less she knew, the better. She didn’t need to come looking for him only to end up in Martin’s hands. So he sped back to their apartment, snuck in while she was still sleeping—she’d always been a heavy sleeper—and gathered up every last bit of cash he’d stashed in their dresser.

 

He would have left her something, but there were only a couple hundred dollars there, and he would need every penny to get himself out of town.

 

He did let himself have one final good look at her. She lay cocooned in blankets, her beautiful red locks framing her delicate face. He knew he’d probably put her through hell, but at least now, lost in her dreams, she looked at peace.

 

“Bye, baby girl,” he whispered to her, and blew her one last kiss.

 

# # #

 

After that he’d ridden south, far south, down to the border, where he hoped to bury his old life and start fresh. He’d found work with a group of bikers that served as drug runners from Mexico up to the States.

 

They were a small operation, a motorcycle club known as the Raging Reapers, but they kept themselves independent of the messy politics between the cartels and rival kingpins. And for the most part, they all stayed clean.

 

It wasn’t long after joining the Raging Reapers that Kyle became Falcon. The prominent scar on his face—and the other, lesser marks on his arms and chest—along with his fierce reputation as a man you didn’t fucking mess with, led his brothers to refer to him as such.

 

Falcon was bitter and distant for a while, still torn up over the life he’d given up, but after a few close calls on the road, his fellow Reapers learned that his loyalty ran deep. They kept using the nickname they’d bestowed on him, but they uttered it with respect.

 

For six years he ran drugs with them, growing harder with each passing year. He loved the Reapers, but the work started to wear on him. He never touched the product, but he did take up drinking, and his once light smoking turned heavy.

 

And then Benny called him one day. All the Reapers knew about Falcon’s history with Martin, and occasionally they would pass on whatever rumors they’d heard about the kingpin and his operation. Mostly it was just tidbits, but when Benny called, he’d insisted it was urgent. Falcon hadn’t been far out from Benny, and he preferred talking face-to-face anyway, so they’d met up in one of the storage yards that one of their suppliers sometimes used.

 

That was when Benny told him about Martin and his boys stirring up trouble in his hometown.

 

“You didn’t hear about anyone stealing from him, did you?” Falcon demanded. He didn’t want to go looking for a fight, but he wasn’t going to have the bastard who’d taken so much from him having free run of his town.

 

“No way. Martin’s massacred people for less. He’s got a reputation. But he could be keeping it quiet, too, to keep people from getting ideas.”

 

Falcon slid his hand to the .22 pistol holstered at his side. The hard lump was there; he felt reassured. “You sure Buddy can handle the run for me?”

 

“Yeah, man,” Benny reassured him. “He don’t mind. You sure about this?”

 

Falcon nodded. “Thanks for the info.” He clasped Benny by the forearm and met the man’s eyes. He’d saved Falcon more than once, and he’d been the first of the Reapers to treat him like a full member rather than a newbie or outsider.

 

“Any time. Just don’t come back with a bullet in your back.”

 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

Falcon watched Benny kick-start his bike and head off. He drew another cigarette from his kutte, deciding that one more before hitting the road wouldn’t kill him.

 

He took the first drag deep into his lungs, trying to absorb the meaning of his decision. Likely he was going to confront Martin, or at least a few of his men. A risky move, but things were different now.

 

He wasn’t some young, scrawny kid. And he wasn’t alone. He had the Reapers behind him now. Whatever he needed, whenever he needed it, his brothers would be there, ready to stand by his side.

 

He exhaled slowly, watching as the smoke concentrated into a thick, opaque cloud before dispersing.

 

He was going home.