Falcon

 

Shark paced back and forth on the sidewalk. Falcon watched him silently from his bike, fighting the urge to break something. He hated this. He wanted to check the time again, but he'd glanced at his phone just seconds ago and knew more time had already passed than he would have liked. They had maybe twenty-five minutes left before Martin's deadline.

 

Falcon had ridden with Shark, Bill, and Leo down the deserted stretch of highway that led to the warehouse where Martin was keeping Bridgette. He'd told all three of them that he had to go alone, and that for his plan to work they'd have to hang behind and let him walk in there on his own.

 

They weren't taking it well. Especially Shark, who was convinced that it would be a blood betrayal if he let Falcon risk his neck like that.

 

"We're going with you," Shark announced for the third time. "There's no fucking way I'm lettin’ that asshole blow your brains out."

 

"He's not going to do that," Falcon replied through gritted teeth. He wanted to be on the road, but he needed to know that the guys—Shark especially—would listen to him and keep their distance. Bringing extra bodies into this was just asking for trouble, and if things went wrong, they would end up throwing their lives away for no reason at all.

 

"Martin needs me alive, Falcon continued. He may think Bridgette knows where his stash is, but he's not one hundred percent sure. Which means he's not about to risk blowing my brains out. As long as he's still looking for his drugs, I'm safe."

 

"You think you're safe," Shark retorted. He folded his arms over his chest. "Fuck, I don't like this at all. Why the hell did she have to go get grabbed? I thought you told us you had her handled? Stupid bitch—"

 

Falcon was off his bike and at Shark's throat in an instant, dragging the smaller man up by the collar of his shirt. Falcon pressed his face close to Shark so his eyes were just inches from his. So that Shark could see how serious he was. "You don't talk about her like that. Ever."

 

Shark backed down immediately. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean it. It's just, you know..."

 

Falcon released Shark. "Going out on her own was a stupid move. I know. I'm sure Bridge knows that now, too. And sitting here talking about how stupid it was isn't going to change a damned thing, is it?"

 

Shark said nothing. "You're at least carryin’, right?" he asked after a moment.

 

"No. If I walk in there armed, that's just asking them to hurt Bridge. And I'm not about to stand for that. Besides, what the hell can I do with one gun? Martin's probably got himself surrounded by the best in his crew. I'd get maybe one shot off if I was lucky—"

 

"It only takes one shot to put the sucker in the ground," Shark cut in. "And if you cut the head off the snake, the body just flops around."

 

"We're talking about enforcers who get paid good money to fuck up anyone who messes with their employer or his business. Guys armed to the teeth who wouldn't have an income after I take out Martin. Not some goddamn decapitated snake. We stick to the plan, you hear? You don't move near the place until you get my signal."

 

Shark still looked utterly unconvinced. He glanced over at Bill and Leo, who stood by quietly, their faces absolutely neutral. Falcon knew those two may not have been happy with his plan, but they were willing to trust him. Or, at least, to respect his choice of how to handle this.

 

Shark, on the other hand, was up in arms, ready to fight Falcon every step of the way. He had always been opinionated. And he was fiercely loyal, too, and unafraid to show it on his sleeve. But that wasn't always a good thing, especially not in their line of work.

 

Falcon knew his brothers in the Raging Reapers were more important to him than any job. That was just how it was with them. They'd always stuck with each other, and there was nothing any of them wouldn’t do to help a brother out, even if that meant burning bridges with one of the cartels. They always had each other's backs, no matter what the price.

 

But Shark sometimes took it too far. He didn't see Bridgette's life as being worth all this trouble. Falcon knew, in his mind, she was a lost cause the moment she'd been picked up by Martin's guys. Shark didn't see why Falcon was risking his neck in some doomed-to-fail suicide mission for the slim chance that he could get her out. In Shark’s mind, Falcon was gambling everything for a piece of tail.

 

Falcon didn't think he could make Shark understand. Time was running short, and he needed to go. But he needed to be sure Shark wouldn't do something stupid, like storm in, balls out, and shoot the place up in order to give Falcon a chance to get out.

 

Falcon drew in a deep breath. "I need you to just stick with Bill and Leo. I'm going to be fine, man. I'm going to get my girl out of there and finally pay this bastard back for this." He indicated the scar on his cheek. "The others will get here. I know them. I just need to time this right. I need you to hang back so you can cover me when it’s time."

 

Falcon saw the small shift in Shark's expression. Now he could see a trace of concession. "Fine. But I'm not burying you. You hear that? I will never fuckin’ forgive you if you don't get yourself out of this alive."

 

Falcon couldn't blame Shark for trying to stop him. Shark had been with the Raging Reapers for a lot longer than many of the other brothers, which meant he'd seen a lot drug runs end badly, and a lot of relationships with various cartels and kingpins turn sour. It was only natural that he wanted Falcon to play it safe. Or, as safe as anyone like them could play it.

 

But that wasn't an option here.

 

Falcon hopped back on his bike and started it up. The thrum of the engine beneath him was comforting in a way. Something so familiar at a time when every nerve in his body was in full-on overdrive. He knew his mind hadn't fully wrapped itself around what he was about to do, or the risk he was about to take.

 

It was better that way. He needed that protective barrier to keep his nerves in check. He had to be numb now, numb and clear-headed.

 

"Fuck him up, Falcon," Bill called to him.

 

"Give him hell," Leo added.

 

Falcon directed a short salute at them. He didn't turn to Shark. He didn’t want to give him a chance to change his mind.

 

He gave his bike some gas and tore off down the road. He was ready.

 

# # #

 

He felt the wind rush past his face, arid and warm. He could smell the tar baking in the sun, the deadness of the landscape, as he continued to make his way toward the warehouse. He tried to take it all in.

 

It might be the last time, he thought to himself. And God would he miss it. There was nothing like the feeling of the road beneath him. The freedom of riding off, alone and unburdened, with no destination in mind.

 

That was the life he'd led with the Reapers for six years. He took work when he wanted it, and when he was in between jobs he could play the nomad. He'd driven through the greater part of the Southwest at some point, and even made his way around the northern parts of Mexico. It was him and the world, no one else, and he loved that feeling like nothing else.

 

Except Bridgette. Being with her was a thousand times more powerful than any one extraordinary moment of freedom he'd experienced over the past six years. When he'd first rolled back into town, when he'd first realized it was her he'd saved, he knew what he'd left behind all those years ago was much greater than anything he'd gained since.

 

He would gladly give up every bit of that freedom just to be with her. He loved her. It shouldn't have taken him so long to put it into words, but there it was.

 

He had always loved her. He had known that in the lonely nights when he dreamed of her body, the days when all he could think about was going back, finding her, picking up the pieces, and risking everything he'd tried to protect her from just to be with her again.

 

And if he couldn't pull this off, he would never get to tell her. It was the worst cliché of them all—the tragedy of not being able to acknowledge his feelings until it was too late. But, then, stubbornness had always been one of his worst flaws.

 

He saw the industrial yard down the highway. He would be there in a few minutes.

 

He couldn't afford distractions now. He had to stay completely focused. And he had to believe this could work.

 

Falcon pulled up to the rusting chain link fence that surrounded the group of buildings. The fence was in even worse condition now than six years ago; large sections of it sagged to the ground, making it a completely ineffectual barrier.

 

Martin had stationed two sentries out at the road leading into the building. Both were dressed ominously in black. Black jeans, black t-shirts, and black semi-automatics slung over their chests. Their faces were grim, and their hard glares locked on him as he approached. They raised their weapons in perfect synchronicity, training their barrels on him.

 

Falcon came to a stop just twenty feet out, shutting off his bike and dismounting. He raised his hands to show that he wasn't planning on pulling a gun out on them.

 

One approached him, his weapon still up, and yanked at Falcon's kutte. Using one hand, the other cradling the semi-automatic, he patted Falcon down. Satisfied, he stepped back and nodded to the second sentry.

 

"He's clean."

 

The second sentry pulled out a phone and placed a call.

 

Falcon could hear his heart hammering in his chest. On a primal level, he was starting to doubt his plan. His body was screaming at him to get the hell out of there and to prioritize his own survival. It was a struggle to remain in place, his hands above his head.

 

"He's here," the second sentry informed whoever he'd called. He waited for a second. "I don't know." The sentry turned to Falcon. "Where's the goods?"

 

Falcon stared the sentry down, unflinching. "I didn't bring them. I want a guarantee that Bridgette's going to get out of this first. I'm not stupid."

 

The sentry glowered at Falcon. His finger seemed to twitch toward the trigger. Maybe that was just Falcon's overactive imagination, though. "He says he doesn't have it."

 

Falcon could hear the string of expletives that whoever the sentry was talking to—likely Martin—shouted over the phone. Then the conversation calmed for a moment. The sentry's face shifted from irritation back to a more neutral expression. "All right. Fine."

 

The sentry hung up the phone. "He said to send him through anyway."

 

The sentry at Falcon's side jabbed the barrel of his gun into his ribs. "Move," he snarled. He turned back to his partner. "You gonna search his bike?"

 

The other man nodded.

 

Falcon walked as slowly as possible, measuring his steps. He could feel Martin's guard growing impatient with him, mostly by the increasingly painful pressure of the barrel of the gun, punctuated by the occasional jab meant to hurry him. But Falcon was content to take his time. He knew as long as he could make Martin believe he knew where the drugs were, he held the upper hand. Which meant they would be conducting this meeting at his pace.

 

The trek up to the area with the warehouses was a long one, at least half a mile, and all of it in the open. He could feel the blazing midday sun scorching his face, the sweat gathering against his collar. That heat, coupled with the bone-dry clouds of dust they kicked up as they made the march irritated his throat. He wished Martin had picked somewhere with air conditioning for this fucking meeting.

 

As they approached the main cluster of buildings, he struggled to make out the loose half-circle of figures that had gathered out in the empty space in the middle.

 

The very same space where he'd witnessed Martin's massacre of all those men nearly six years ago. The images of that day flashed back into his mind, accompanied by the strangled screams of Martin's victims. He saw the blood splattered across the ground again. So much blood. Pools that soaked into the soil like rainwater.

 

He'd grown a lot harder since that day. He'd seen his fair share of death in his days with the Raging Reapers. It came with the work. It had ceased to move him long ago.

 

But today it was different. This wasn't just the possibility of seeing strangers or acquaintances strewn across the ground or dumped into shallow graves. The blood he saw in his mind's eye foretold the way this day would most likely end for him—with Bridgette's bloody body on the ground instead of some nameless drug dealer.

 

It was the stress of the moment, the feeling that he was walking to his execution, that made his overactive imagination so potent. But the closer he drew to the group of people gathered before him, the more his memories of carnage mingled with Bridgette's face, until all he could see was her lifeless corpse and Martin's sick, twisted, grinning face lording over her.

 

He wasn't going to let that happen. He just had to draw this out, he reminded himself. Keep Martin talking. Give him the runaround.

 

They finally reached the center of the buildings. Martin stood in the middle of the loose half-circle, flanked by five of his body guards, all of them dressed like the sentries and armed with semi-automatics.

 

Seeing Martin again for the first time in six years provoked a visceral reaction in Falcon. It was the same feeling he imagined a wolf felt right in the moment before it went in for the kill. If it hadn't been for all the guns, and the certainty of death, Falcon would have lunged straight at Martin and tried to tear the bastard's throat out with his bare hands.

 

He wanted to see him on the ground, helpless and terrified. He wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp. He wanted it so badly that he could almost feel the satisfying impact of his fists against Martin's face, could almost hear the snap of the man's nose and the sound of his blows connecting with the drug lord's face.

 

The look on Martin's face was almost unreadable. A satisfied smirk played around his face, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly beneath his mustache. He was obviously happy to see Falcon there alone and unarmed and completely at his mercy. But his dark eyes remained completely cold, filled to the brim with a caustic loathing. The result was an unnerving expression—a juxtaposition that made the man look slightly unhinged.

 

Falcon forced himself to remain calm. He forced his own expression into a mask as opaque as granite. It was time for the biggest bluff of his life. He couldn't lose his composure now.

 

"Martin," he called out. "How are you doing, you sack of shit?"

 

Martin's lip twitched a little. Falcon couldn't tell if it was in rage or amusement. "My, my, Kyle. All grown up. And so handsome, too." Martin paced forward, making his way around Falcon like an appraiser at a statue gallery.

 

Falcon made a point of keeping his front toward Martin. He wasn't about to give the man even the slightest feeling of superiority, not if he could help it. He had to maintain his position of power right now. If Martin thought for a minute that he held all the cards, there was no way Falcon would be able to string him along. And he needed to draw this out.

 

Falcon did his best to grin cockily. "You're starting to look your age, Martin. Do your boys here have to help you change your Depends?"

 

"Let's skip the pleasantries. Where the hell is my package, Kyle? I thought I was very clear. You bring my product or your girl suffers. So…"

 

"You thought I was going to walk out here with a couple hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine, no guarantees, no questions asked? No, Martin. You need me. You aren't going to see a dime of that shit unless you give me some very specific guarantees."

 

Martin snorted derisively. "You seem to think that you're in a position to be making deals. But you're not. It was noble of you to come out here, but if you can't follow simple instructions, you're of no use to me. So I'm going to count to three, and if you don't tell me what I want to know by three, my friends here are going to fill you with bullets. And you get to die knowing your girlfriend in there is in for a hell of a lot worse than what I did to you the first time around. Because believe me when I say she'll be paying for your sins."

 

Falcon had to fight hard not to react to that. Any little crack in his expression and he was lost. His gut clenched at Martin's last words, because he knew only too well that Bridgette still might suffer in the end, even if he came close to pulling off his plan. But for now he had to play it cool. He had to pretend everything was fine.

 

"You go right ahead," he said. "She doesn't know a damned thing. You kill me and you kill any chance you had of recovering your product. Besides, I'm not really here for her. I'm here to talk terms."

 

"Terms?" Martin hissed. "Here are my terms. You tell me where the stash is right now, or I drag your girl out here and start cutting parts off until you talk."

 

Falcon shrugged. "I'm not asking for much. Just a finder's fee. I'm thinking forty percent of market value. Cash. Like you said, I could use a little nest egg."

 

Martin moved to strike Falcon across the cheek.

 

But Falcon wasn't a lanky teenager anymore. He dodged the blow easily, sidestepping to the left. He didn't dare to strike back, though. Not when he was outnumbered and unarmed.

 

"Like I said, you're getting old, Martin. Your Depends are slowing you down."

 

Martin growled and jerked his head at the sentry who'd escorted Falcon. The man stepped up behind Falcon and rammed the butt of his gun into his side, causing Falcon to double over in pain.

 

"You've got some nerve," Martin growled, "I'll give you that. But no brains. You think you're smart enough to lie to me. To come here after our little chat earlier and pretend you're over your girl, that you just want to cut a deal with me. I see right through it."

 

Falcon struggled back to his feet. The pain radiating through his side was nothing, he told himself. "You think forty is too much? I mean, hell, I thought I was being generous. I didn't turn around and sell the stuff right away, did I? I could have kept one hundred percent and headed off to a new country. Shit, that’s enough pure coke to start a new life, especially when you know how to cut and push the stuff yourself. But then you invited me out here, and I thought to myself, you know, fair's fair. Moving’s a shit ton of work, and I’m pretty comfortable right here. I figured, I can negotiate a fair bonus for myself and move on with my life. Now, I’m pretty sure forty’s the market rate. But for you, Martin, I'm willing to go down to thirty-five. And that's my final offer."

 

"Shut him up," Martin snapped at the sentry, who immediately dealt Falcon another blow, this time to the small of his back.

 

Falcon buckled again, a reflexive reaction to the sudden onslaught of pain that ran up his spine and through that whole region of his body.

 

"And bring the girl out here. I'm done wasting time."

 

Falcon's vision blurred a little from the force of the pain he was experiencing. When his vision finally cleared and he managed to stand up again, he saw two of Martin's men leading Bridgette, her hands bound behind her back and her face tear-stained, out into the middle of the space between the buildings.

 

Her eyes locked with his. He saw a fleeting bit of relief there, which was immediately engulfed by dread and uncertainty.

 

He felt his resolve weaken a little as soon as he locked eyes with her. He desperately wanted to reassure her that she was going to make it out of this alive. But he didn't trust himself enough to make her believe those words.

 

He wanted to take her in his arms again. To make her feel safe, to dry those tears. He wanted to tell her that he had more than just a half-assed plan that was entirely dependent on a lot of good luck.

 

But all he could do was stare at her, dumbstruck, trying to burn every line of her face into his memory. Because if he died today, he was going out thinking of her and nothing else.