Hatchet looked around the dingy jail cell and sighed. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the inside of a cell since he’d started running with the Roadburners. It probably wouldn’t be his last. But it was damned uncomfortable. Ever since he’d gotten back from Afghanistan, he couldn’t stand small places, and right about now it felt like all four cinder block walls were closing in on him inch by inch.
“How are you doing over there, Hatchet?” Jackrabbit’s voice penetrated through some of the claustrophobia. Hatchet was starting to sweat bullets, but other than that there was no other outward sign of his discomfort. He’d spent years making sure of that. But he couldn’t hide anything from Rabbit.
“As well as could be expected.” Hatchet forced the words out through jaws that felt wired shut from how tightly he clenched them. “Talk to me.”
“What?”
“Talk, Rabbit. You know. You open your mouth and words come out. You’re pretty good at it.” Hatchet leaned his head back against the wall, trying to get comfortable on the hard cot he was sitting on. “Just talk, man. It helps.”
“So, you and Elsie, huh?” Jackrabbit said, and Hatchet rolled his eyes over to find his friend giving him a shit-eating grin. “Elsie McLaurel.”
“I know. I know,” Hatchet groaned.
“McLaurel,” Jackrabbit said again, drawing out the word and Hatchet wished he had something to throw at his friend.
“Shut up, Rabbit.”
“I thought you wanted me to talk.”
Hatchet glared at him, but it didn’t dim Jackrabbit’s grin one bit. After a moment his face grew serious again.
“Listen, Hatchet. I need you to know that most of the crew wasn’t cool with Mad Dog’s decision. He and his little group of ass kissers were the only ones willing to go after you guys. Everyone else stood up for you. Mad Dog was pissed.”
“I can only imagine,” Hatchet said, whistling silently. “I hope that didn’t cause you too much trouble.”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Rabbit shrugged. “What do you think is going to happen to us now?”
“I have no idea.” Hatchet leaned his head back again. “I want a lawyer, and a bathroom break.”
“No, dumbass. I mean the club. The Roadburners. You weren’t there, man, but something shifted when they stood up to Mad Dog. He doesn’t have as much control over the crew as he thinks he does.”
“Oh, is that right, Jackrabbit?” a malicious voice interrupted, and a moment later Mad Dog himself stepped up to the bars of the cell. “Well, you can tell me all about it on the ride back to the clubhouse. I’ve posted your bail, you ungrateful piece of shit.”
Rabbit shot a confused look towards Hatchet and then back to the president. “What about Hatchet?”
“Ain’t that just the question. What about Hatchet?” Mad Dog repeated the question with a forced casualness, but Hatchet could see the rage burning in his eyes. “I’ve always said you got balls, kid. But you forgot who you work for.” Mad Dog’s voice turned harsh as he grasped the bars, spittle flying out of his mouth when he spoke.
“Give me your patch, Hatchet,” the president demanded, and at first Hatchet wasn’t sure he had heard the man right.
“What did you say?”
“Are you as deaf as you are stupid? I’m only going to repeat myself one more time, you bastard.” Mad Dog threw the words at him. “Give me your patch. You’re out.”
Shock went through him. No one was ever kicked out of the club. Hurt, yes. Killed, he had his suspicions. But Mad Dog never just let anybody leave. But then he remembered what Jackrabbit had said, about the crew standing up for him, supporting him against Mad Dog. Maybe the old man was afraid of what would happen if he tried to have Hatchet killed. Maybe that would be the last straw that would make the crew turn on him.
With no other choice, though, all he could do was slide off his leather jacket and flip it over. He swiped his hand over the patch he’d worn there for over a decade, the patch that told him he’d always have a home, always have a family… until Mad Dog had turned it into something else.
He grabbed the edges and ripped it from the leather, leaving just an outline of loose thread. It felt as if he’d ripped out a part of himself as well. With a sneer, he tossed it at Mad Dog.
“Take it,” Hatchet said, feeling a little like he’d just been thrown overboard and was adrift in unfamiliar territory.
Mad Dog leaned forward, pressing his face into the bars as he glared at Hatchet. “This isn’t over, Hatchet.” Mad Dog spat out the words and each one hit with the force of a bullet.
The look in his snake-like eyes was beyond crazy. In their depths, Hatchet could see a promise of pain, a promise of revenge, and it sent icy cold shards shooting through him.
“This isn’t over yet, not by a long shot. You’ll regret that you ever went up against me, boy. You and that pretty little whore of yours.”