I could’ve been crying for hours. Half a day, even, judging from how dry my throat was and how I have started to ache all over. The cloth that covered my eyes has become drenched with tears, so much so that it kept falling. My captor, one of them at least, kept tightening the blindfold whenever it dropped, never failing to threaten me with lascivious acts if I kept sobbing. I tried to stop, but then, the blisters on my wrists caused by the rope that bound my hands would begin to sting and I would be reminded of how helpless I truly was. And I hate feeling helpless, so tears would fall from my eyes once more and the cycle would repeat itself.

Every time that the cloth fell, however, I managed to look around the area where I was being held. It was a small room, no bigger than the space in an RV. And it was dark, too. The only illumination, as far as I could tell, came from the slither beneath the door and the vents above it. All sorts of junk filled the area - boxes which may or may not be empty, rusty metal sheets of uneven shapes, and bones from the decayed meat of whatever food they just threw here. A couple of tumbledown pipes, huge and long, lining up the corners of the tiny space. It would be safe to guess that it was a stockroom for the house or the building where they took us. Their clubhouse, perhaps? Or a warehouse like ours in San Carlos where they carried out the dirty work?

The last thought didn’t help me calm down.

Nicker was at the other corner of the room, blindfolded and tied up like I was. I didn’t have to see him there, though. I could hear him the whole time, muttering curses and threats of what he’d do if he manages to free himself from his restraints.

Lowlife... Lenny... he wasn’t with us, and remembering what happened to him made the ordeal so much worse. They shot him. I saw the bullet penetrate the back of his neck. I saw blood sprouting from behind his skull as he collapsed on the floor. I saw him fidget and squirm for a few seconds... and then he stopped moving.

He’s dead. They killed him. And then they laughed at his lifeless body.

And I realized that the reason I’ve been crying since then was not because I was afraid of the fate that would befall me. It was because he was gone.

I was terrified. I was sad. But most of all, I was mad.

I was mad at the bikers who gunned him down and spat on his corpse. I was mad at our failure to anticipate that they were there, waiting to ambush us as soon as we arrived. I was mad at the circumstances that led us to Essex... circumstances that only made things worse than how they should’ve been if I was just allowed to stay in San Mateo or return to LA.

And I was mad at him. Him! He didn’t have the right to die. He was supposed to protect me. He was supposed to keep me safe. He swore to that, last night after we made love. And he broke his damn promise.

I started to cry so much that my sobs turned to wails.

“Girl, hush up,” Nicker said. The blindfold prevented me from seeing anything, but I could hear no one else in the room. We were alone at that time. “They’ll keep you alive, if that’s what you’re afraid of. They’ll use you as some fucking collateral to make your father give in to their demands.”

I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t even thinking about that, but my throat has become dry because of all the crying. I only coughed when I tried to speak.

“But that ain’t gonna be good,” Nicker continued. “If the mother chapter goes down, that other chapters will have to follow suit... and we’ll all be answering to those motherfucking Godlesses.”

Even if I was able to talk, I wouldn’t know how to reply to what he said. So I just sniffed and cleared my throat, hoping that my weeping would eventually cease.

It didn’t, though. The harder I tried, the more I remembered Lenny, and tears fell even harder than before.

“Damn it, girl, I told you to stop,” Nicker repeated in a firm but muzzled tone that didn’t hide how frustrated he was with the situation. “If this is about the prospect, he’s gone. People die in this line of work. It’s what we signed up for. We mourn a bit, but we have to move on. You’ve done your mourning. Now, move the fuck on!”

If he was expecting that those words would make me feel better, he’s an idiot. I cried even louder, mainly because he just made me feel more miserable, but also as protest because he was being very rude and insensitive.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelled in vexation. “Girl, shut the fuck up!”

He let out a booming sigh immediately after saying that, which made me think that he probably felt bad about his insistence to quiet me down.

“Look... I think I get it now,” he added with a mellower and kinder tone. “You and the prospect... you had a thing going, didn’t you?”

“What?!” I suddenly managed to muster enough vocal strength to speak. “No... it’s not like that...”

“It’s not like that? Then why does it seem that you care for him so much?”

“He’s just a...” I paused as I found it difficult to come up with anything to say. “He’s just a... a... someone who... who my father ordered to bring me to your club...”

“A friend, then?”

“Not even,” I replied. I didn’t know if that was a lie or the truth.

Nicker chuckled, which left me dumbfounded. How could he snigger at a time like this?

“I knew it!” he exclaimed with a semblance of gratification that, again, I found very misplaced. “Fuck! I knew it! You guys are... were... in love! Damn it! I should’ve known. To think that I actually found you hot and perfectly doable... I was even planning on making the move on you, you know?”

“I’m not in love with him!” I strongly denied. I didn’t even bother to acknowledge the other things he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismissed my refutation. “Heard that, before. But love... alas... this stupid, fucking thing we call love... the more you deny it, the more it becomes obvious...”

“Bad time to wax poetic, don’t you think?” I shot back with irate sardonicism.

“Hey... I told you... you’ll live. Me? I mean nothing to them. They’ll kill me too. I know that. If that’s my fate, so be it. No fucking use spending my last moments of life wallowing in fear and despair and CRYING LIKE A FUCKING BABY!” He emphasized the latter part of his statement with blaring intonation, his way of reminding me that I should stop sobbing.

A few minutes of silence followed. I didn’t know how I’d react to what he said, and he didn’t know what else to add to what he has already expressed.

But there was something about what he shared that rang true.

Was it really that obvious?

Shit! How could anyone even have the slightest clue about something that I have constantly scrambled to renounce?

“What makes you an expert on love?” I asked to break the silence. Our short conversation was quite a welcome relief from the gloom and horror that hounded us since we were captured. I guessed I’d rather have us talking than silently lolling about in fearful uncertainties.

And again, he gave me a half-laugh.

“I don’t look the type, huh?” he asked. I was inclined to answer in the affirmative. I pictured how he looked like - with his topknot, his half-beard, and a couple of missing teeth - he’s practically a long, lost relative of that family from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. So yeah, I didn’t think he was the type who’d spew out romantic outbursts here and there. “But hey... I’m a guy... I’ve been in love once... or twice... or thrice before,” he continued as he began to reminisce. “When I came back from Iraq three years ago, I met this amazing broad from -”

He was interrupted by the sound of the door violently opening, followed by heavy footsteps - from what seemed like a group of people - entering the storage area. My blindfold was then yanked out of my eyes. I squinted a bit to help my sight adjust to the sudden deluge of light. The once dingy room was filled with blinding gleam from fluorescent lamps that were scattered all over the ceiling. I looked around and saw six men - tall and stocky and revoltingly hideous, all of whom were wearing kuttes with red and gray colors on their markings - who flooded the small space that served as our prison. A few feet in front of me sat Nicker, whose blindfold was likewise removed.

“Sorry ‘fer the less than stellar accom’dations, folks,” one of the thugs said with a menacing smirk. He looked at me and his grin got wider. “Need ‘ta pee? I can accomp’ny you, darlin’.”

I robustly shook my head. I did need to empty my bladder, but the sight of that man and the dastardly intent he obviously had made me forget about it.

“Yeah, whatever suits ‘yer sweet ass,” he responded as he made a shooing gesture with his hands.

He walked towards Nicker. Nicker looked at him straight in the eyes and the goon didn’t like it. He slapped Nicker’s face so hard that the thunk echoed all over the room. The other Godlesses laughed.

“‘Ya got some att’tude there, asswipe!” he screamed in rage at Nicker.

Nicker just smiled at him.

“My cat hits harder than you,” he mocked his assailant.

“Well, ah bet ‘yer cat won’t be able ‘ta do the other things we gonna do to ‘yer ass, punk,” the burly man shot back. He turned to face his companions. “Take ‘im to Prez,” he ordered them.

“What about the bitch?” one of them asked.

“Take ‘er, too. She gonna wanna watch this,” he answered.

Two men grabbed my arms and pulled me up. They dragged me and Nicker towards the exit.

I was surprised to see what was outside the storage room. It was an expansive but empty-looking facility, around five hundred square feet in size. The distance from the floor to the roof was equally enormous. The building could’ve easily housed three of four floors instead of the single story that it was. I saw rows upon rows of empty shelves and I was able to deduce that we were in, what once was, a grocery store.

They continued to haul us towards the other end of the property where a huge door was located. Men with similar kuttes lined up both sides of the path we took. There were many of them, more than ten by my estimate. They all gave us excited looks, pumping their fists and yelling words too vile to repeat. One by one, they converged behind us, forming a flock that followed us wherever we were being taken to.

It didn’t take long to find out where that was.

Outside the building was another big group of hooligans, gathered around a campfire like a pack of hyenas over the remains of a deer. They all turned to face us as we approached. And then they flashed the most atrocious grins I’ve ever seen.

From their cluster emerged a man who stood out from the rest of their assembly. He was of medium height, thickset but not muscular, unusually clean-shaven, and wearing a pompadour hairstyle. He wore his leather kutte like it was a tux - buttoned and unwrinkled. He walked forward to meet us as we marched towards the gathering.

“Ms. Cross,” he greeted me with a smile that didn’t look as frightening as those displayed by the rest, though it was more forbidding with its divergence. “I trust that my men have been treating you well?”

His words made it clear that he was leading this band of criminals.

I just gave him a scornful glower.

Nicker, however, wasn’t as friendly.

“Fuck you, Oliver!” he screamed at him. “You killed my brothers! You wiped out my entire chapter!”

“Isn’t that the goal of a war?” this Oliver guy answered without losing his leer. “To eliminate one’s enemies? Anyway, let’s not begin this... soiree... the wrong way.” He cleared his throat as if he wanted to change his tone. He did, with artificial elation that made him sound like a gameshow host. “Welcome to Tulare! The Godless’ pride and joy in the sunny state of California! Home to the Land O’ Lakes, Kevin Costner and, well, of course, yours truly!”

As if on cue, the rest of his flock clapped and cheered in unison.

“Lemme guess what your favorite pastime is,” Nicker was quick to retort. “Dick sucking, right? You prefer them long, stout and black?”

Oliver just laughed at him.

“Why don’t you just kill me now and get this over with?” Nicker continued with his doomed rebellion.

“You’re an impatient little bugger, huh?” Oliver said. “Don’t worry, kid... we’ll get there soon enough. But for now, you still got a part to play, so why don’t you be a good Dog and shut the fuck up?”

Oliver raised his left hand and one of the bikers went to Nicker and punched him on the face. It was a savage blow that sent Nicker to his knees until the men who were restraining him pulled him back up.

Oliver chuckled, then he went to where I was being held, walking around me, his eyes never leaving my body.

“My oh my... never did I imagine that Jonas could produce something as pretty as you,” he salaciously declared as he rubbed his chin.

“Im probably adopted,” I snapped back with contempt. Somehow, Nicker’s defiant stance filled me up with bravado, ill-advised as it may be.

“Oh, ho ho ho... and she’s got spunk, too! And a sense of humor! My type of gal!” The other bikers snickered with their leader. He whacked his forehead with his palm as if he suddenly remembered something. “Oh shit! How can I forget? I haven’t introduced myself to the lovely lass! How ungentlemanly of me! Please forgive my negligence, ma’am. My name is Oliver Tusk, president of the Godless MC, Tulare County chapter.”

It was then when a huge monster of a man stepped out of the throng and joined his leader. He stood behind the president, towering over him - and the rest of the outlaws - with his imposing size. Bald, heinously ugly, and with the lower half of his face blackened by what looked like burn marks, the other bikers made way for him until he reached his position near Oliver Tusk. It was clear that he commanded respect amongst his fellow fiends.

No... it wasn’t respect. It was fear.

I’ve seen him before. Once, the day I arrived in San Mateo when I stole the van and drove straight to my father’s clubhouse. He was there, with the rest of the Godlesses, at the frontline of what ended up as a standoff that led to this war of theirs.

“Oh... and this right here?” Oliver added, tilting his head upwards as his eyes rolled to the side to get a glimpse of the brute behind him. “This is my sergeant-at-arms, Cholo Kreed. But you can call him Cannibal. We all do.”

Cannibal? He surely looked the part. Bikers have a propensity to choose ridiculous road names for themselves in their desire to come up with something intimidating. This character, though, chose an appropriate one.

It’s just a name, I repeatedly told myself. He was terrifying enough as he was. There was no need to make him even more frightening in my mind by thinking that he was really a cannibal. It’s just a damn name.

“Glad to finally meet your boyfriend,” Nicker continued his subversive tirade. He told me that he knew they were going to kill him. Maybe that’s where he got his courage from... the certainty of death and the hopelessness of his fate. A man without hope is a man without fear, after all.

Once again, Oliver just laughed at him.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” Oliver said as he began to pace around the area in front of his men. “Well, as you know, we’re at war with your father’s club.”

“I’m not a part of his club!” I countered in a desperate attempt to convince him that my abduction would be pointless.

“Of course you’re not, sweetheart,” he agreed. “But you’re still his daughter. And if he’s the man who I think he is, and even if he’s just half the father that I am, then I know he’ll do anything just to get his precious little girl back. And that includes agreeing to a patch-over.”

“He won’t!” I contested. “My father doesn’t care about me. Never have. Never will.”

His eyes widened in shock, but he still kept his grin.

“Oooohhh, daddy issues, eh?” he remarked. “Darling, get that sorted out quick. See Cannibal over here? He had daddy issues too, when he was a kid. The old bastard even tried to burn him alive. Can you imagine that? His own son! That’s fucking sick! Yeah, I saved him from that senile geezer, and Cannibal eventually got his revenge. But my point is... you wouldn’t want to end up like Cannibal, right? So do yourself a favor. Don’t go... how do young folks say it these days? Ah yes... don’t go hatin’ on your dad. That would be sad. Really, really sad.” He gave an impression of a downcast face, but his insincerity still managed to show.

“I don’t care about that beast you’re keeping as a pet,” I truculently and carelessly replied. “I’m telling you the truth. My father won’t give you what you want.”

“Well, you can’t speak for him now, can you?” he snapped back. “But you know who can?”

He clapped his hands thrice. One of his men came running from the back of the group that formed behind him. The thug was carrying an iPad.

“Is he on?” Oliver asked, to which his underling answered in the affirmative. Oliver grabbed the tablet and looked at the screen. “Ah... speaking of the handsome devil... Jonas! I never thought that you’d have WiFi in that donut crap shop you’re holed in. How have you been, my friend?”

I couldn’t believe what I just heard. My father’s at the other end of the line, via video chat?

His voice boomed out of the device’s speakers, confirming my shock.

“Tusk! If you hurt her, I’m going to rip your fucking head off!” I haven’t heard him that angry, ever. Even when he was faced with the direst of situations, he always kept his calm. The entire club looked up to him for guidance, and he has always played his role well.

“Oh, don’t worry, Jonas,” Oliver responded. “That’s all up to you, you see. You’ve got all the aces here. It’s just a matter of playing your cards right.”

“What the fuck do you want, Tusk?” my father furiously asked. The desperation and urgency in his voice was very apparent.

“You know what I want, Jonas. This war... it’s stupid. War, war stupid and people stupid, as the saying goes,” Oliver laughed at his own joke. “No one has to die. Uhm... lemme correct that. No one else has to die. If you haven’t gotten the news yet, we just wiped out your Essex chapter.”

“Fuck you!” my father yelled with intensified rage. “You’re going to pay for this!”

“Will I? As I was saying, Jonas, no one else has to die for this war. What I want is quite clear. The patch over. Say yes to it. Join us, and I’ll make sure that your daughter will be delivered to you safe and unharmed.”

My father didn’t reply immediately. I could still hear him though, together with other voices. They were conferring with one another, trying to determine how to respond to Oliver’s proposal.

“I don’t have all night, Jonas,” Oliver impatiently interrupted them. “Just in case you haven’t noticed the obvious, let me spell it out for you. You ain’t got any other options here, man. Don’t even think about trying to rescue her. We got an army scattered all over San Mateo. If any of you will leave your donut shop - Jesus Christ, I still couldn’t get over that choice for a clubhouse! Anyway, if any of you will leave your fucking donut shop, they won’t be able to ride past the city’s borders. And if all of you will ride to Tulare... my God... that’ll be stupid! You’ll leave your clubhouse undefended and we’ll just burn it to the ground, together with all your friends and loved ones inside.”

“Prove to me that she’s safe,” my father demanded, realizing the futility of any rescue attempt he might’ve been planning. “Prove to me that she’s... she’s...” he struggled to continue his sentence. “Prove to me that my daughter’s alive.”

“Your wish is my command,” Oliver answered before turning the iPad around.

And I saw him, together with his brothers who were lined up behind him. His face has become pale with anxiety and dread, but his mouth slowly curved into a semblance of a smile. He was relieved to see that I was still breathing, that I was relatively unhurt.

Then he bowed his head. He was thinking... deeply... as if the weight of the world was on his aging shoulders. Screwdriver, who was the one closest to him, placed his hand on my father’s shoulder, squeezing it to assure him that whatever decision he’d make would be respected. The others wore their faces with restrained fury. They wanted revenge, but they knew they weren’t in a position to be aggressive.

The silence lasted for almost a minute. An unbearable kind of heaviness began to crush my heart... one that became even more overpowering when, for the first time in my life, I saw a tear - a solitary tear - dribble from my dad’s eye until it careened down his wrinkled neck.

It was then when it struck me.

The burden he carried.

The burden he has always carried.

The burden which, at that moment, reached a boiling point.

My father was being asked to decide between the club he has pledged his life to lead, and the daughter he gave life to.

If he was a normal man who lived a normal life, the choice would be easy. But an outlaw’s life is anything but normal, especially if he was the president of the club. Everyone’s lives, including the lives of their loved ones, depended on the decisions he would make. Countless people, throughout the years, have died for the club and if he would just give it up easily, he would be dishonoring their sacrifices.

And I... I was his daughter. For a normal man, I would mean everything to him. But my father isn’t a normal man. For an outlaw, and compared to his club, I was just his daughter.

Yeah, he would choose his club. The more I thought about it, the clearer it became.

His impending choice should hurt me. It should make me mad. It should make me feel insignificant.

But somehow... somehow... at that moment when I saw him weak and broken and vulnerable... his impending choice actually made me feel something else.

Relief.

My father began to raise his head and look at the screen once more. My eyes met his. He was still trying his best to ward off his tears, to put on a brave front, to be strong for me and his men.

Just do it, I wanted to yell at him. It’s okay. Don’t surrender the club. Fight. Survive. It’s what you do.

He began to confer with his men, looking at each brother straight in the eyes, wanting them to know that what was in his heart and what must surely be done.

I expected the patches’ faces to show grim determination, a resolute stance that they were not going to give up the fight.

But they didn’t.

Instead, they showed suppressed rage, a silent understanding, a hint of sorrow.

And it struck me.

My father... he wasn’t going to abandon me to their enemies. He was going to yield the club for my safety.

No.

The club is his life. He couldn’t forsake it just like that... not for anything... not for anyone... not for a daughter who never showed him the love that he deserved.

I never thought about what I did next. It just happened. I flailed my hands in order to free myself from the men who were holding me back so that I could run closer to the screen that served as our only connection. But my captors were strong and all I managed to do was to force them to strengthen their grips.

They were restraining my arms... but they weren’t restraining my mouth.

“Don’t do it, dad!” I screamed. “Don’t surrender the club! I’m not worth it!”

He was startled beyond belief, a sentiment shared by the patches behind him.

Oliver, however, was far from being pleased.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch!” he yelled at me with volcanic rage. It was the first time I’ve seen him lose his cool. His boldness was shattered, his conceited confidence unraveled for the false act that it really was. He furiously turned the screen away from me until he, alone, could see my father. “Listen and listen to me good. I’m giving you twenty-four fucking hours - and I mean exactly twenty-four damn hours - for you to gather up your men and surrender your kuttes. Whether it’s San Mateo or here in Tulare or somewhere in between, it doesn’t fucking matter. I want those kuttes before the next daybreak, or else...”

“Or else what?” I heard my father challenge him to continue.

Oliver’s evil smile returned. “Why don’t you go see for yourself, Jonas.”

He pointed at the thugs who were holding Nicker as he turned the tablet towards them. The goons nodded. They dragged Nicker away from my side to the area in front of the throng.

Someone stepped out from the crowd. He was carrying something long and seemingly rusty. It took me a while before I recognize what it was... and that realization made me scream in absolute horror.

It was a machete.

Nicker saw it too. His swagger immediately disappeared. His eyes told me that he wanted to beg for mercy... but he was trained to stand proud until the very end. He remained resistant, though everything in him was shivering in fear.

One of the men extended his right arm. Nicker tried to defy it, but another guy came in to help. Soon enough, Nicker was lying face first on the ground, his right hand drawn out perpendicular to his body. One of the Godlesses was stepping on his nape, immobilizing him even more.

He knew what was coming. He bit his lips, his way of preparing himself not to screech.

That didn’t help.

When the machete came down, he squealed. The rest laughed and cheered and sang. I was too weakened by terror to even utter a single word.

They pulled his arm off, completely detaching it from the rest of his torso. I heard the sickening sound of flesh being ripped apart and bones breaking off their designed appendages. I saw blood spurting out of a shoulder that once supported a limb. And I saw Nicker, rubbing his face against the muck as he tried his best to suppress the pain, swallowing some soil in the process.

One of the men brought the uncoupled appendage to Oliver. He scrutinized it with a leer.

“Now, what a fantastic show of bravery!” he mocked the fallen Dog. “Come on, people! Give this man a hand!”

His words were met with another round of hoots.

I struggled once more against the men who held me. I wanted to dash to where Nicker was. I wanted to help him. He was bleeding bad. I didn’t want him to die.

I didn’t want to be left alone.

But they weren’t done yet.

The man who was carrying his arm walked to the bonfire which, by now, was blazing even more fiercely than when we arrived. He positioned the limb in the center of the raging flames. The stench of burning flesh made my stomach turn. I wanted to throw up.

“Are you watching, Jonas? Are you watching?” Oliver queried excitedly, though he knew the answer. Everyone from my father’s club has been bellowing and cursing since the perverted show began. The question only begot howls of total rage and hatred.

The man they called Cannibal walked towards the fire with calculated steps.

“That good enough for you, Kreed?” Oliver asked his henchman.

Cannibal didn’t respond. His sight was focused on the burning arm that has turned blackish red.

“Give it to him,” Oliver ordered the lackey who was carrying the limb.

He handed it over to the monstrosity who stood beside him. Cannibal ravenously looked at the appendage as dark smoke seeped out from its pores.

He started with a bite. It was followed by a munch. In a matter of seconds, he was chomping on the entire extremity. Skin and pulp stuck between his rotten teeth, extending upwards like hardened glue whenever he would pull out his mouth.

The Godlesses were silent. They, too, were too jolted - or repulsed - to react.

I had no choice but to close my eyes.

Cannibal.

It wasn’t just a name.

Oliver pulled out a gun. He walked towards Nicker, still carrying the iPad, and planted the barrel at the back of his head.

A single gunshot and it was mercifully over for the last remaining Dog of Essex.

“Twenty-four hours, Jonas,” Oliver firmly reminded my father. “Twenty-four fucking hours, or else, your kid’s arm won’t be the only thing I’ll be feeding my beast.”