Chapter 25
The Price of Freedom
Rune knew what was up. Oliver meant to stick around night and day, watching over him to make sure he didn’t slip away to go after the Lions. Rune knew he meant business, especially after everything with the ultimatum and the cops, but also just from Oliver’s expression alone. It was like he kept imagining it was Rune who’d been shot to death on that tree.
It made Rune feel bad for worrying Oliver so much, but Rune also couldn’t ignore instinct, especially the one as strong as the gnawing pit in his gut demanding some kind of justice for that poor fucking guy who’d been killed.
Because Rune knew on a spiritual level that it was in his power to rain hell down upon those bigots. His rage and fury was intense enough to manifest miracles.
The next day was spent trying to figure out how to skirt both lines. He had to keep Oliver sated and he also needed to get his ass in gear and do something productive. Something smart but effective.
After Oliver returned his phone to him, Rune covertly texted Max, Goat, Jason and as many other Born Soldiers as he could to pull all of the info they had on what was going down. Rune knew they had inside info on what the cops were doing, thanks to a friend in the force, but also because they monitored the calls going out from the local station more reliably than Rune was able to by checking the online feed whenever Oliver wasn’t actually looking over his shoulder.
And it was a weird fucking day because Oliver kept Rune chained to various objects at all times, if possible. For a while he was on the bed, chained to the footboard, and was given a bell to ring if he needed to take a leak. Then he was locked in the bathroom until he was finished. Then he was chained to a pipe in the kitchen while they ate together. Later in the day, he was shackled to a mysterious bolt in the floor in the living room that looked like it had gotten some good wear.
Even the cuffs weren’t enough to pacify Oliver, though. He stopped trying to get work done and mainly just hung out near Rune to physically watch him as well, just in case.
The stress was getting to Oliver. Rune saw it. He looked exhausted.
So Rune played nice, didn’t complain or protest, smiled at Oliver as much as he could without drawing suspicion, and waited for him to doze off.
In his comings and goings from the bathroom, Rune had secured a few paperclips and pins to use to pick the lock on the cuffs, which were not some fancy extra-secure kind but just the normal variety. No sweat.
Just as the sun was going down, with the Discovery Channel playing a documentary on giant squids, Oliver’s eyes drifted shut as he reclined on the couch next to Rune. His mouth fell open, his body went lax.
Rune waited a few more minutes, then got to work.
After five minutes passed, he’d scrawled a note of apology and explanation, ended it with a sincere “I love you” and took off.
It was a decision he would soon, painfully, come to regret.
Rune’s bike was waiting for him in the garage, though the last time he’d used it was before he and Oliver had fought. Max had been the one to drop it off for him.
Climbing on, Rune took a last spare minute to check his text messages, sent one of his own, then sped off with one goal in mind.
Oliver startled awake, jumping up, arms flying into the air, gasping aloud.
He scanned the room.
“Fuck! Oh, you little shit!”
Rune was gone. The cuffs were still there, now unlocked by a damned paperclip. On the seat where Rune’s ass should have been was a note. Oliver grabbed it up, crumpling it in his haste.
Going to the clubhouse. I’ll check in. Just need to help out somehow. I’ll be fine. I’ll check in when I get there. I love you.
“Yeah, my ass are you going to the clubhouse, you filthy liar.”
Oliver palmed his phone, sprang to his feet and placed a call. Keys in hand, he made right for the door and elevator.
“Yeah?” Max growled.
“Looking for Rune again, that little shit.”
“He’s on his way here. Texted me about ten minutes ago. Come on by if you want ‘im.”
“You really think he’s coming there instead of going after the Lions? I mean, come on, Max.”
“After that whole search party we put together looking for ‘im? Yeah, I believe him. I do. He knows we’d skin his hide if he pulled major shit. He’s dumb, but he’s not that dumb.”
“All right. I’m trusting you here, probably with his life. I’m on my way. Keep an eye out for him for me?”
“Will do.”
There was no plan, just intention. He wouldn’t know for sure if the Born Soldiers had been holding back on him, information-wise, to keep him out of trouble until they were face-to-face. He needed reassurance they were keeping an eye on the Lions in whatever ways they could. And he didn’t know how to reassure Oliver he wouldn’t actually go after the murderers alone without a demonstration of being true to his word.
Sure, he was tempted to go straight for the Lions, but all of Oliver’s passionate devotion held Rune back just enough. It was time to start playing it straight, and using help when he could easily get it.
Now, all he needed was to get inside the clubhouse. Get to his crew. It was a simple goal. Even if the Lions were watching, Rune needed to be with his people.
The closer Rune got to his destination, the more he laid on the accelerator, flying faster down the road. The freedom of movement, the righteousness of his cause, it lit him up inside. It gave him hope, purpose. His problems didn’t matter. He wasn’t moping around feeling sorry for himself. He was doing shit. He was alive.
He wasn’t going rogue this time, trying to do everything on his own. He’d gotten Oliver’s message and was going to do the smart thing this time by playing it safe, working with the others and not alone. Already, he imagined Oliver’s relief that Rune had actually come through, that he’d learned. Maybe it would be enough to earn Rune some more leeway and freedom, in showing Oliver how he really could trust Rune to stick to his word.
He broke into a smile, feeling it all the way down to his toes and the ends of his fingers.
In moments, the building loomed up before him, the most beautiful sight he could have wished for. His life’s most familiar landscape welcomed him home, where he’d always have a place, and people. It wasn’t much to speak of—just some scrubby brush and tangled trees crowding in around ramshackle buildings on one side and opening up to a barren field on the other—but to him it was his world. It was his family when he’d had none, his sanctuary when he’d been broken, and his peace when all he’d known was chaos. Oliver was lucky enough to have Adam and Jackson to run to when things got tough. Rune had his crew. A couple of overexcited bigots had no chance of keeping him away.
With something like tunnel vision, he locked onto his target and went for it. Nothing else mattered or crossed his radar.
Not even the pick-up truck that spun out into the road from a parking lot at a gas station across the way, coming right at him.
Rune slowed as he got closer to the entrance, preparing to pull into the lot and coast right up to the doors, and it was good he did. In a sickening echo of his accident, a beat-up pickup truck—the same one as before—cut him off. It had crossed into his lane, swinging out to make a big target of its side to splash Rune’s guts across. Part of his mind played it out like it had happened—showing him how it felt to go flying over the handlebars again only to hit metal instead of pavement. Trying to snap out of it, to keep a firm grip on reality, no matter how much cold fear tried to claw at him, he was just able to get it under control. By some small miracle, he managed to corrected the course of his bike, wobbling to a stop without falling off.
He was jittery though, his head spinning and heart pounding. He instinctively reached out with what senses were still intact, becoming more aware of the bike’s bulk between his legs and the scene playing out around him. His mouth was too dry and the smell of the air was strangely sweet.
Steps away, two men jumped out of the truck. Furious energy came off of them in waves as they locked eyes with him and charged over.
Their arms swung up at the same time, the bright sun flashing off of the metal of their guns, aimed right at him. He resisted the urge to stare down the dark, hollow barrels, keeping his eyes instead on the two men doing the aiming.
And just like before, way back at the beginning, it was so damned quiet.
Perfectly so.
If they were yelling, he didn’t hear it. He couldn’t even see who they were in order to give a description later, though they were almost in grabbing range, thanks to the bandanas tied over their faces, and the sunglasses hiding their eyes.
He raised his hands, exuded calm.
The guy to Rune’s left grabbed at Rune’s arm and hauled him off his bike, then shoved him down to his knees on the asphalt. The rocks dug into his kneecaps, anchoring him to the same earth that shattered the bones in his inner ear, and a breeze blew the scent of freshly cut grass to him. His heart thumped away in his chest as the same guy who’d pulled him from the bike stuck a gun to the center of his forehead. He caught the smell of oiled metal, felt the cool weight of the barrel against his skin. And, somewhere far out of his reach, the two men standing over him screamed warnings he couldn’t hear or lip-read.
He knew was fucked. The truth of it settled on him gently, like a tender apology.
This, he thought. This is how I die.
Deafness was a horrifying obstacle in emergency situations. Especially when those situations were full of people who couldn’t sign.
Oliver imagined a theater where someone yelled, “Fire!” People jumped from their seats, screaming, bolting without warning to those around them in a stampede for the exits, and Rune got lost in the confusion, looking for insight that never came.
He imagined Rune walking across the road while checking a cell phone, and stepping in front of a speeding car, its horn blaring in useless warning.
He imagined a hike through the wilderness, and Rune stepping in the wrong place as a rattlesnake shook its tail.
So many scenes flashed through his head, the helplessness compounding upon itself until Oliver felt strangled by the force of it.
And it all happened in the awful seconds before he jumped out of his car. It hadn’t even come to a complete stop, his foot jammed on the brake but his speed causing the car to hitch and strain, the wheels squealing. He was in the middle of the road with nothing nearby so he didn’t bother steering, just flung the door open, threw himself out from behind the wheel and almost fell into the street on hands and knees as he screamed and screamed in wordless protest.
All of the awful imagined scenes melted before the terrible force of reality, set right there, neatly before his eyes, like the universe wanted him to see this. Like this had been their true destination all along.
Rune, on his knees in the road, his eyes calmly scanning masked faces.
Rune, helpless before a hateful stranger pointing a gun to the middle of his forehead.
Rune, with his hands raised in surrender.
Rune, beyond Oliver’s cries, unable to even realize Oliver was there, because Rune wasn’t turning, wasn’t looking, not even to say one last, silent goodbye.
Mentally clawing at the sight, Oliver prayed it couldn’t end like that, making silent vows to do better, to try harder, sacrificing anything he could, if only…
But it was. There was no denying it, or stopping it.
He was too far away. He had no weapon, and neither did Rune. And there was no stopping the men who wanted to tear Rune down, who were fueled by blind ignorance and hatred alone. It was too late, too little, and no matter how much Oliver loved Rune, it wasn’t going to save him. The fact that Oliver had known that all along only made the hurt more brutal.
But Oliver couldn’t just stand there, doing nothing.
Just wanting to look into Rune’s eyes one last time, knowing it was useless, Oliver screamed again. The bellowed protest exploded in Oliver’s throat, ripping apart.
The man with the gun to Rune’s head—he could hear just fine.
So, he turned to look.
The barrel of the gun swung away from Rune, as if moving in slow motion, pointing Oliver’s way instead.
Watching it happen, Oliver stopped running just before he heard the shot, just before his knees gave out, his body blown backward. Long before the pain—and realization of his fate—had a chance to kick in.
The shrieking was all inside Rune’s head, but it filled the world. It split through the deadly color and primal wrath. It grabbed hold of things and tore them to pieces.
He’d seen the flash from the gun, the recoil, felt the air shift.
He’d followed the gun’s site to its target, even as he denied it was happening, his thoughts an endless howling no, no, no.
Oliver.
His Oliver.
Falling to the road. Twisting to one side as he was knocked back and went down, collapsing, then colliding with asphalt. Crimson bloomed on the front of his white shirt, growing, spreading. His eyes were wide with disbelief as he looked right at Rune, seeing him in ways no one else could, even at the end.
In Rune, something snapped. He let go, let it take over.
There was no logic. No thought. He just moved.
Rune flew to his feet, launching himself at the shooter, who was still turned away, watching Oliver bleed, and Rune was determined to rip him to bloody pieces with bare hands.
He zeroed in on his target. The rest of the silent world fell away.
His momentum allowed him to easily tackle the masked shooter to the road before the other one had time to react. Rune grabbed hold of the gun they’d shot Oliver with, flipped it so it was butt-down, barrel-up and brought it down again, and again, and again. He kept going, unable to stop, his rage at so much unfairness fueling him as he pistol whipped the guy’s head. He heard nothing, and no one stopped him. Soon, the sight of nothing but a wet mess of red filled his vision and the feeling of crunching kept vibrating up his arm.
Then, movement caught his eye.
The other masked man from the truck collapsed where he stood like a rag doll, part of his head obliterated in a cloud of red mist and large disgusting chunks that splattered in all directions.
The sight of that allowed Rune to stop and get control of himself again, just a little.
He dropped the gun with shaking hands. Looked around.
Several paces back, Max held a rifle, and slowly lowered it to the road where the bloodied but still living White Lion lay beneath Rune.
Max waved Rune away.
Goat was there too, holding up a cell phone, the lens of which was pointed at the scene. Nearby, closer to the clubhouse’s entrance, other Born Soldiers flooded out, most of them also using their phones to record what was going on.
Even as Rune acknowledged the sights, he let them go without giving them time to really register.
In a daze, he struggled to his feet, his legs not wanting to hold him up, and pushed himself toward Oliver. Getting to Oliver was all that mattered. Staggering, Rune crossed the few steps between them and fell to the pavement one last time, scraping his knees, and gently pulling Oliver into his lap.
Rune touched his face, his chest, saw him breathing as it rose and fell. Oliver’s eyes stared straight ahead, confused, unseeing, shocked. He didn’t react to Rune’s presence at all.
Rune bent to kiss Oliver’s forehead, put pressure on the gushing wound, and prayed.
Just prayed.
Jackson watched the video playing on the borrowed phone, his numbness too strong to fight.
Tinny voices shouted through the small speaker. On the screen, about a hundred feet away and in the middle of a road blocked by a light blue pick-up truck, a figure knelt with their hands raised and the barrel of a gun pressed to the middle of their forehead. Two men loomed over him, as jittery as he was calm.
Someone a fair distance from the mic said, “Yer the faggot who’s been playing us, ain’tcha? Went after Kurt. Been coming around where you don’t belong. That ends today. Right now. Gonna punch some fresh holes in you the way we did that other cocksucker, huh? Go on an’ cry. Go on an’ piss yerself, you fuckin’ trash.”
From off-screen, farther away, Oliver’s voice cut in—a guttural, formless protest of pure desperation.
The gun previously aimed for a direct headshot swung around to a new target.
A shot rang out.
Or, the first one, anyway.
Wordless, primal howling filled the air as Rune sprang and took out the shooter. Rune’s arm swung down, raining blows on the assailant, creating meaty thwacks.
A second shot blasted through the noise. This one was fuller, louder.
The camera’s view shook a little as the masked man who’d been left standing had his head blown apart in a spray of red, and took his last fall.
Bile rose in Jackson’s throat. He lowered the screen, covered his mouth.
“Jesus…”
“That ain’t even the best angle on it,” the Born Soldier named Mark who stood at Jackson’s side explained. “Cops took Goat’s phone. Steady hands on him, what can I say. He was closer, too. Ran out there at the first glimpse of Rune’s bike. Max was coming up on ‘em with the rifle but couldn’t get a clear shot without circling around. Refused to shoot if there was a chance of hitting Rune. Then Oliver came through with his distraction. Damned effective. Bless ‘im.”
With a thick, heavy hand, Mark patted Jackson on the back.
“He’s tough. He’ll be just fine.”
Jackson nodded, feeling sick and cold, and passed the phone back. “Thanks.”
Police milled about everywhere, taking statements from the leather-clad Born Soldiers who filled the hospital’s hallway. Seated in a nearby waiting area, Rune bent over a tablet, busily providing a written statement of everything he remembered. Jackson was impatient to get to him and give him a hug. There was nothing more he wanted in the world, apart from seeing Oliver.
He wasn’t going to feel steady and his thoughts wouldn’t settle until he did that.
Jackson’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He stepped aside, drifting slightly farther from the crowd to answer.
He muttered, hollowly, “Hey, hon.”
“What’s going on?” Josefina demanded, her voice sounding as rattled as he felt. Panic lent an edge to her questions. “Is Olly gonna be okay?”
“I think so.” Jackson let out a frazzled sigh. “He’s in surgery now. The bullet passed completely through his left shoulder and they don’t think it hit anything vital.”
“Oh, thank God,” she said heavily. “Do you know what happened?”
“I’m, uh, still figuring that out. Sounds like the same guys responsible for the original attack on Rune have been on a spree, trying to take out gay people. They shot and killed that poor person just the other night, and now this. The Born Soldiers are testifying that the White Lions have been doing stake-outs of their club, not even to start something with them but more like they were looking for someone. Like this was premeditated. Now I guess we know they were looking for Rune. Maybe they figured out he was the one gunning for them. I mean, he’s got all of those tattoos. Even when he’s covered up, you can still see some, usually.
“Anyway, they intercepted Rune as he was pulling up to the clubhouse, pulled him off his bike, moved to shoot him execution style right before Olly distracted them. They shot him instead. Then Rune and one of the Soldiers—Max—took both the guys down. One’s DOA. The other has severe head trauma.”
Josefina, horrified, whispered her husband’s name.
“I know.”
“And Rune? How is he? I can’t imagine…”
“I don’t know yet. Haven’t gotten close. He’s still with the police. He looks okay, but… tense. Angry.”
“Can you blame him?”
“No. I just… I almost lost him tonight, Jo.”
“But you didn’t. And now the world has one less psychopath in it to terrorize people.”
Softly, dazed, Jackson wondered, “Why do people do this to each other? I just don’t understand.”
“That’s because you’re a good man, Jackson Whitney. And I love you for it.”
“Love you too, baby. I’ll keep you posted, okay?”
“You’d better.”
Five minutes later, Jackson caught Rune’s eye from across the hall. Rune’s dark, intense gaze locked on him with laser precision, and Jackson couldn’t look away. Not when Rune got up, oblivious to the spoken questions from a nearby officer, or when he walked past the mass of police and crossed the hall to approach Jackson, weaving through the Soldiers, or when Rune took hold of a fistful of Jackson’s shirt and kept voicing the depth of his horror through his eyes alone.
Jackson gently took hold of Rune’s head with both hands, framing his face, letting his own pain and fear rise to the surface, past the composed doctor’s mask he usually wore. Rune seemed to invite it, demand it. The weaker Jackson let himself feel, the stronger Rune seemed to become. It didn’t matter that Jackson was taller, bigger, more muscular, and older. Rune’s spirit was indomitable. He took control, his energy charging until it almost sparked from his skin.
Jackson knew Rune wasn’t done fighting. Maybe he never would be.
Maybe that was okay.
Everything was right there, in the air between them—Rune’s vow to protect them all, to never back down. He would always fight for those he loved with his last breath, follow his heart, and stay with Oliver until the stars crashed down from the heavens.
Rune was not afraid, like Jackson.
No, not a bit.
He was furious.
Jackson gathered him up in his arms and breathed like he could inhale some of Rune’s power for himself. Rune pressed a kiss to Jackson’s neck, rubbed his back. It was the first thing to help calm Jackson down since he’d gotten the text about Oliver being shot.
When they broke apart, Rune had his phone in hand instantly, typing. The phone’s voice read, “No one will ever hurt him again. I swear it.”
Doubt crept into Jackson’s heart. Rune saw it there.
He typed again. “The Lions aren’t a problem anymore. Not after this. Not for a while, anyway. Now, my job is being there for Olly.”
But was it the truth? Thinking of his three- and five-year-old daughters, and the way their most solemn vows were always expressed, Jackson stuck out his pinky expectantly. Rune frowned in confusion. Jackson took hold of Rune’s hand, hooked his pinky with his own.
Rune smiled, understanding. He nodded. Crossed his heart with an X drawn over the spot.
Then he stretched up on his toes and kissed Jackson’s cheek. When he pulled away wearing a warm, affectionate hint of a grin, it sparked hope in Jackson’s heart, melting some of the lingering chill. It made him want to pull Rune close again, and not let go for a long time.
With a raised eyebrow, Rune finger-spelled C-O-F-F-E-E?
Despite the late hour, Jackson knew there’d be no sleeping that night.
He replied in kind: H-E-L-L-Y-E-S.
Rune gently bumped Jackson’s shoulder, took his hand and led him toward the direction of the cafeteria.