Red
Bron and Ryan are shooting pool when I stumble into the bar. Chains and a couple of his lieutenants sit at the bar, sipping whisky and watching football on the wall-mounted TV. A pledge sweeps the floor. It’s a slow February day. Maybe it’s the pain in my head, or maybe it’s the fact that Jordy and the unpatched are out there with my woman and The Faithless are in here doin’ fuck all, but I get angery the second I set eyes on the scene.
“Chains!” I snarl, pacing to the middle of the room. “Jordy—the unpatched fuck—has kidnapped Christina. He’s fuckin’ taken my woman. So we need to gather every single one of our men and do a sweep of all his known hideouts. No more playin’ it safe waiting for him to show himself. No more careful stakeouts. He’s taken us for fools and it’s time to change that.”
Ryan, a bit more meat on his bones since he joined the club, his head shaved, wearing a black bandana and looking all in all like a different person from the strung-out druggie I met a few months ago, lays his pool cue down and walks toward me. Bron picks up his leather from the back of a chair and does the same.
The lieutenant sitting beside Chains is a tall, thin man with a sharp nose and bowl-cut brown hair. He snorts. “You don’t give the orders,” he says. “Chains is the boss—”
“Keep talkin’,” I snarl, “and I’m going to shove a knife so far down your fucking throat you’ll be shitting blood for weeks. He has my woman, so right fuckin’ now I don’t care who’s in charge.”
“Calm.” Chains rises to his feet, waving a hand at his lieutenant. “When did he take her?”
“Just now—fifteen minutes ago. You all need to learn to answer your fucking phones.”
Ryan looks at me uncertainly. “I think you need to go to the hospital, Red.”
“Hospital? Fuckin’ hospital?” I wheel, feeling crazed, anger infusing me. “Chains, mobilize the men. I’m takin’ Bron to the warehouse—you know the one, the one we think he’s using as his main base of operations. If any of the men find him somewhere else, call me on my cell.” I turn to Bron. “You with me?”
“’Course,” Bron says without hesitation. “Let’s go.”
“Still trying to give orders,” the lieutenant mutters.
I don’t think. I just pace across the bar and stand over him, fists hanging at my sides. “Listen,” I growl. “I don’t give a fuck about the command structure or any of that shit. All I care about is getting the mother of my child away from that psychotic fuck. So if you think I’m tryin’ to step on your toes or I’m gunnin’ for your job, you’re wrong. I just want to stop a woman from being hurt. Do you fucking understand? Not everything is about the club. But if you’ve got a problem, fucking come at me now. Come on!” I slam my hand down on the bar, causing his glass of whiskey to lurch into the air. Spit slides down my chin, blood weeps down my neck from where the bat struck me.
The lieutenant shakes his head. “No,” he says, voice becoming hoarse. I must look pretty damn crazy to make a Faithless lieutenant’s voice go like that. He turns to Chains. “Are we looking for her?”
“We are,” Chains says. “Selling drugs is one thing; kidnapping one of our enforcer’s women is another. You taking the warehouse, you said?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Alright. Go—I’ll rally the men.”
I turn at once and make for the door, Bron at my shoulder. As we push out into the snow, Ryan jogs after us. “I’m coming, too,” he says.
“No,” Bron says. “You’re not ready.”
I don’t stop as they can have this talk. I just keep walking toward the pickup. I’m about to climb in when I realize I’ve forgotten something.
“You can come, kid,” I say, ignoring Bron’s look of surprise. “But first, back inside, fast. Ask Chains where the guns are. Bring some rifles. Don’t take longer than three minutes. Go, now!”
At once, Ryan wheels one-eighty and sprints for the clubhouse.
I sit in the passenger seat and Bron takes the driver’s seat. We do this without discussing it. Bron doesn’t need to ask to see that I’m in no state to drive; it’s a miracle I wasn’t killed on the way here.
“Are you sure about this?” Bron says. “Taking the kid, I mean.”
“I don’t care about anything but Christina,” I say, meeting his gaze. He winces. Looking past him, I can vaguely see my reflection in the car window. The sky is darkening, the winter afternoon cloudy, so the windows are partially reflective. My nose has swollen to twice its original size, one of my eyes is bruised and purple from where I slammed into the snow, my heard is soaked and dripping from melted snow. I look back to Bron. “You once told me there was more to family than the club. You used to talk about having a woman, kids. And I never believed you. I never thought it was meant for men like us. Well, I was wrong. You were right. I’ve found that, Bron, and I’m not letting it go. So if the kid wants to go, if he wants to make our two guns three, I’m not going to stand in his way.”
“You love this girl,” Bron says quietly.
It’s not a question, so I don’t offer an answer.
A couple of minutes later, Ryan comes running out of the clubhouse with a duffle bag over his shoulder. I’m still shocked each time I look at the kid; it’s like looking at a different person. And all ’cause of Christina, I reckon: all thanks to kindness, her willingness to check in on him, keep him motivated, all ’cause the mother of my child is the kindest woman I’ve ever met. Ryan climbs into the back seat and places the duffle bag between us.
“Drive, Bron.” I grip the handhold. “Drive fuckin’ fast.”
“How do we know he’s at the warehouse?” Ryan asks, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of Bron screeching out of the parking lot, the snow kicking into the air.
“We don’t,” I reply. “But it’s the best place to look first.”
Bron slams the pedal down and sends us hurtling through the city. The kid’s question stabs at me as we drive. He’s right, I know. Jordy could’ve just taken her to some field somewhere and killed her…or he could be doing other things to her, to the goddamn mother of my child. Perhaps he’s driving her out of the State. But no, I can’t think on that. I have to believe he still wants his petty club, even if he is a psychopath; I have to believe there’s some logic in his lunacy. Bron drives with skill and speed, getting us to the warehouse in about fifteen minutes. He parks just across the street, under a broken streetlamp, and the three of us step out into the semi darkness.
Ryan drops the duffle bag in the snow and we kneel down.
“Good, kid,” I say, taking an automatic rifle and a few ammo clips. I shove the ammo clips in the pockets of my leather, and then I take a snub-nosed pistol and put it in my boot for backup.
Once we’re all armed, we start walking across the street toward the warehouse. The building is large and long, a building that was once a factory, which became a warehouse, and now is nothing but a large abandoned cavern. It sits on the outskirts of a built-up industrial estate, ignored, with a few working factories a quarter-mile down the road. Bron and I have been here a few times to stake it out. We’ve watched men walking to and fro, leather-wearing men, but we’ve never seen Jordy here. But still, this is the place he would come if he had any kind of plan. We’ve seen more of his men here than any of his other locations combined. The plan was to raid all his places at the same time in a coordinated hit. But that’s out the window now. I don’t give a shit about the big plan; the big club-versus-club battle can sort itself out. All I care about is getting Christina back.
We make our way down an alleyway, the ground slushy beneath us. I hear the kid breathing heavy, hefting the gun in his hand, and I want to turn to him and tell him that everything is going to be okay. But I can’t think about anything other than Christina and Bump. I never knew emotion like this existed. I never knew a protective urge like this existed. It’s crazy to me. I never knew a man could care this much: that a man’s mind could be completely consumed with two people, one a woman he could not live without and one a child he has not met yet. I used to look at men who were in love and wonder what the hell had come over them, wonder why they didn’t just fuck and move on. And now I can’t understand how I used to think that; I have a deep ache in my chest when I think of my family, terrified and alone, waiting for me to save them. I think of Bump, my son…or my daughter. Right now, as we approach the small door which was once used for the workers of the factory, I don’t care if Bump is a boy or a girl. I just want my child to be safe, the mother to be safe: my family, in my arms.
I wipe snow and blood from my face, the pain still sharp. I ignore it as we gather outside the door, Ryan and Bron on one side, me on the other. Bron tries the door, but it’s locked.
“Alright, let’s smash this fucker down,” Bron says, hefting the butt of his rifle and aiming at the handle.
“Wait,” Ryan mutters. “Wait a sec.”
Bron, holding his gun ready to strike, raises an eyebrow. “Huh?”
Ryan reaches into his pocket and brings out a small black pouch, similar to a wallet. He unfolds it and reveals lock-picking equipment. “No reason to be loud when we don’t need to be,” he mutters.
Bron directs his arched eyebrow at me.
I shrug. “If he’s quick, I don’t care.”
“Where did you learn this, kid?” Bron asks, as Ryan kneels down and starts fiddling with the lock.
“Junkies learn lots of useful stuff,” Ryan says. “Problem is, we forget most of it. Luckily I didn’t forget this.” He fiddles with the lock, and after about twenty seconds, there’s a click and the door opens into a dark passageway, creaking on its hinges.
“Okay,” I say, aiming my rifle and walking into the building. “Stay alert, watch the corners, listen. Be careful, and be ruthless if you have to be.”
The three of us creep into the passageway, rifles aimed ahead of us, me in the front, Ryan in the middle, and Bron in the rear. Bron and I don’t need to discuss the details; he’ll watch our backs without us having to talk about it. We’ve been doing this long enough so that speech isn’t necessary. We walk through the building for a few minutes before coming to a large factory floor. I hold my hand up, meaning for everybody to stop, but Ryan walks into my back.
“Sorry,” he says, too loud. His voice echoes into the rafters above, his sorry reverberating around us.
We all freeze as the echo gets quieter and quieter and finally becomes silent. Alright, nobody heard. I point forward, and we keep walking. I guess we’ll scout the factory floor, and then move up the staircase which is off to one side, barely visible in the darkness: the only light being the waning sunlight which shines through slit windows set high in the wall, near the ceiling. The factory floor is dotted here and there with disused equipment and crates.
We’re walking by a large, squat metal machine when gunfire explodes from the top of the staircase and across the room, clanging off the metal and peppering the floor at our feet.
“Get the fuck down!” Bron roars, and the three of us jump to the floor, ducking down behind the machine.