CHAPTER THREE

"What's that up ahead?" shouted Tomahawk to Nick as the driver of the semi signaled into the turn lane. They'd been riding for an hour and were only ten miles out of Cincinnati, alongside a storage facility labeled A-1 Mini Storage, with a deserted parking lot that was evidently unstaffed since there didn't appear to be an office. In fact, Nick wasn’t even sure the place was still open. "Why is he stopping here? This isn't where we’re supposed to unload."

 

Nick didn't say anything; he was too busy examining the driver, a skinny, swarthy guy with a mustache who had put Nick on edge right away. He wasn’t the regular driver, but whether it was this fact, something about the man himself, or that he was still uneasy from what Kirrily had told him, he couldn't say.

 

"Pull in," said Nick, gesturing to Tomahawk and Martin, and Huck “Tight Lips” Lee, the other rider, a tall, silent young man with arms like tree trunks, who had been patched just a few months ago but had already proven himself a valuable asset to the club. Tomahawk did so immediately, but Martin barely slowed, as if he thought Nick’s order was beneath his notice. "Let’s see what's going on."

 

Nick pulled to a stop in the parking lot, flanked by Tomahawk and, close behind, Martin. Nick stood up in the saddle, unconsciously reaching for the gun in his waistband. The driver hopped out of the cab and took out a cellphone. He disappeared behind the side of the storage units as if he hadn’t noticed the three bikers lined up a few feet away, watching him with hawks’ eyes.

 

"What's he doing?" asked Tomahawk.

 

"Follow him," Nick told Tomahawk. He nodded. "The rest of us will stay here with the truck. If anything goes down, we'll be right behind you."

 

"I don't trust this guy," spat Martin.

 

"I don't either, but Tryg evidently does," said Nick, trying to appeal to Martin’s loyalty to the club. He didn't mention that Tryg's desperation to get ahead of the Vipers might have compromised his judgment, but bringing that up wouldn't help anything at this point. It would only serve to raise tensions higher. Nick took out his gun and walked around the cab of the semi, one hand on his pistol.

 

The hazy sun was almost directly above them, unnoticeable on the road, but now it warmed his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt. Nobody else seemed to be around; the early spring thaw had awakened the chickadees and crows, and the noises they made from the grove of oak trees surrounding the grain silo a quarter-mile off, were the only noises from the afternoon. Gripping the metal bar, Nick vaulted easily up into the cab and picked up a fluttering piece of paper: a receipt from a hardware store in New Jersey with an address near Prudence scribbled on the back. As he tried to puzzle it out, his thoughts were interrupted by a gunshot and a scream.

 

"Tomahawk!" Nick yelled, sprinting around the side of the building, adrenaline screaming through his body like an ambulance siren. There was no sign of Martin or Tomahawk anywhere as Nick rounded the corner.

 

The driver lay on the ground a few yards away, motionless, his limbs splayed, moaning in pain. Nick started toward him, hand curled around the barrel of his gun. The man's eyes were closed. Nick knelt down to examine him.

 

“Tom?” Nick called. “Where are you?”

 

"Nick, don't," Tomahawk yelled from behind the storage building. "I think he's--"

 

But it was too late. In a split second, the driver's eyes flew open, his hand darting to Nick's gun. Nick was almost too fast for him, grabbing him by the arm and flipping him backwards, but the driver was undeterred; he pushed back against Nick, grabbing for the gun, trying to wrench it out of his hands, fumbling for the trigger. Tomahawk yelled as Nick felt something collide with the edge of his shoulder like a brick, splitting apart skin and tissue, too fast to dodge, or even see what had hit him. He crumpled to the ground, long enough for the driver to disappear around the corner of the building, Tomahawk in hot pursuit. The semi’s engine was already in gear; no doubt the driver had had an accomplice hiding somewhere; somewhere he should have sent someone to check. How could he have let this happen?

 

He now heard Martin and Huck shouting, kicking their bikes into gear, preparing to give chase. He had to avoid looking at his shoulder; there was no time for that. Gritting his teeth to stave off the first wave of nausea and pain, he grabbed his gun and fired two useless shots into the distance, then dropped it, hearing the gun clatter to the pavement beneath them, a hollow sound of defeat. He knew all he would do by firing more at this point would attract needless attention from the cops – or worse.

 

Slowly, Nick raised his hand to his shoulder, where an unpleasant, warm wetness went along with the pain. His head wasn’t working right; it spun as he held up his hand, glistening with streaked blood. He steadied himself with one hand, trying to hoist himself to stand.

 

He shakily called back to Tomahawk. "We've got to--" he stammered, a little disoriented, brushing his hair off his face, trailing blood across his forehead and ear.

 

"Shit, Nick, you got peppered," said Huck as Nick slowly sat up. Huck wrapped a hand around Nick’s shoulder, helping him down to the ground again. The asphalt beneath seemed to shimmer like diamonds. "You'd better sit down."

 

"Forget about me. What about the truck?" he pushed Huck away, staggered to his feet, then reeled back. Tomahawk was there to catch him. This wasn't over yet. "There were two other guys hiding off behind those trees," said Tomahawk, pointing. "It was a setup. To separate us so they could get the cab."

 

Nick buried his head in his hands, trying to shut out the light. Even then, dizziness overcame him. The world was spinning out of control, literally. "Shit."

 

"Do you want me to call somebody? Tryg?" asked Tomahawk.

 

"No," said Nick quickly. "Not yet. Maybe we can still catch them." But even as he spoke the words, doubt seemed to spread over him like a raincloud, blanketing him with the hopelessness of knowing he’d failed, that the trust that had been placed in him had been unearned, that he was no better than Martin like so many others suspected he was.

 

"They left with the driver. It looked like he was running the whole operation."

 

"I knew something was wrong with that guy the minute I saw him,” growled Nick, though he was reserving his anger for himself. He swung his head up to look at his friend, who crouched down, taking off his hoodie to stanch the bleeding in Nick’s shoulder. Nick pushed him away. He didn’t deserve another Black Spark to tend his wound. He’d take care of it himself. “He set us up, Tom. He knew Tryg wouldn't be here, and he used it. I bet Tryg's thing in Dayton was a setup to get him out of the picture."

 

"The Vipers?"

 

Nick stared down at the blood-streaked pavement, head swimming, trying to grasp onto some piece of logic he could use. “Did you get a good look at the guy? Did you see where they went? We'll go after them."

 

Nick stumbled to his feet again. "Whoa, kid, you've got to sit down,” said Tomahawk. “You're in no shape to go after anyone."

 

"I'm fine," said Nick, taking a slow breath, in and out.

 

Martin stepped forward. "I’ll go on ahead. See if I can track them down,” he said flatly. His words were helpful, but his tone dripped with contempt. He was looking Nick up and down as if the wounded young man were a stray tire thrown in the road in front of his bike – worse than useless: actively harmful. Nick heard him start his engine and peel out of the parking lot, but it offered him little comfort. All he could think about was what he was going to tell Tryg.

 

“Think you can ride?” asked Tomahawk after a second.

 

“Fuck yeah,” said Nick. “We'll get these guys."

 

"Nick, it's too late,” protested Tomahawk. “They're gone. They got everything."

 

"I know," replied Nick. "But we'll get them."