TRACE
The club was quiet at such an early hour. Or late hour, depending on perspective. Most of them had either drunk themselves stupid and retired to rooms down the hall, or were dragged there by other, less inebriated brothers.
The club whores, if they had been there, were all long gone. Sometimes the party lasted until the sun came up, but not tonight.
Not when they were on the verge of war. The men might want to drink to forget that their loving Prez might be about to command their sacrifice, but there was no revelry in it. If they survived the impending war, that was another story. The debauchery would go on for days.
Trace thought that he’d have to find Bone either in his office, deep in the heart of the club, or in his rooms. It turned out, he was sitting at the bar on a decrepit stool, a half empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. He was upright, eyes glassy, but wild, dark hair mussed, shoulders forward. Even drunk off his rocker, he was still easily the most intimidating man Trace had ever met.
It was his eyes. They were dead. Devoid of life. Devoid of emotion. Devoid of anything at all. Bone lived for blood. He lived for vengeance. He lived for the thrill of taking back what was his and taking what wasn’t. He lived for the road, a bike roaring between his legs. He lived for power. If he didn’t have it, he’d stop at nothing to gain it.
“Bone.” Trace slid into the bar stool beside him. Already he was wary, his heart beating faster, adrenaline rocketing through his veins, the hair on the backs of his arms on edge. “I have information.”
Bone lifted the bottle and took a long pull like Trace wasn’t even there. He slammed it down after and wiped his hand with the back of his mouth. “It better be fucking good,” he growled. His voice was no different drunk than it was sober. Menacing. Frightening. A horrible growl that sent the fear of god straight to a man’s soul.
“You have your rat,” Trace said. “I have something else for you.”
Bone’s frown gave away his interest. His eyes burned through Trace. “You want something. I can tell. Spit it the fuck out then. I haven’t got all night.” He feigned boredom. It was obvious he wanted to know what Trace had to say, but Bone had never been the kind of man to give up the upper hand.
“I want a trade. A life for a life.”
Bone stiffened. His leather jacket crackled as he shifted, his hands folding over themselves on the bar. It was a casual pose, too casual, and Trace wasn’t fooled. He braced. He had a knife strapped to his leg, just above his boot. He wouldn’t be able to go for it on time. The gun at his back was a better bet. He knew how fast Bone was though. The guy could put a bullet through his head before he’d even get his hand halfway to his own weapon.
Instead of going for his firearm and killing Trace on the spot, Bone turned away. It was eerie, not being able to see the guy’s face, but Trace was good at reading body language and Bone’s spoke of deadly violence not far into the future.
Trace knew he had to push on or he was going to become a corpse carried out the back fucking door. He didn’t want to drown in his own blood. He couldn’t. He couldn’t give up. He wanted his fresh start. He’d already decided he’d go to Sandy again. Beg her again if he had to. He’d find a way to prove to her that he belonged in her life. He had to have her by his side. His life wasn’t worth living without her. Without his son.
He was a father. He wanted a chance to prove to himself that he could do it. That he could be something other than what he was and what he thought he’d always be.
He wanted that chance.
“I have information,” he began. “But first, I need your word. A life for a life. Mine for yours.”
There was no other way to say it, but just to come straight out and offer it up. Trace thought he was ready, but nothing could have prepared him for the explosion beside him.
Bone erupted out of his seat. The bar stool fell to the ground, a dull thud drowned out by the rush of leather. Trace tried to go for his gun, but he already knew it was too late. Bone slammed him down on the bar so hard that all the air rushed out of his lungs. His shoulders took the brunt of it and his neck snapped back painfully. He was pinned, Bone’s meaty hand around his throat. He stared up into the blood shot, wild eyes of the man he’d sworn allegiance to. Metal rings flashed and glimmered in the overhead lights on the very hand that was wrapped around Trace’s throat.
Garbled sounds came out of his mouth as he rasped for air, but couldn’t find it. His lungs burned and tears spilled out the corners of his eye. The pressure building behind his eyes made his fucking eyeballs feel like they were going to pop right out of the sockets. His throat was being crushed, slowly, methodically. Bone knew what he was doing. He liked to watch the life leave a man’s eyes.
“You want out?” he spat, literally spraying spittle all over Trace’s face. “You fucking want out of this? I’ll give you a way out. The only way that anyone leaves here. You think you can barter your way out? You fucking idiot. You’ve gone soft, just like the rest of them. You’re going to go out, just like Big Ted, just like the others who think they can cross me and trade information for a ticket out of here. This isn’t some fucking school girl party. I’m the Prez. If you can’t give your life for this organization, then your life is forfeit.”
Trace’s vision darkened at the corners. His lungs felt like someone had ripped them out while he was still alive and filled them full of fiery coals. His throat was about to cave in from the pressure of Bone’s unrelenting hold.
His last thoughts were of Sandra. Her beautiful face, her silky soft hair, her cornflower blue eyes. He thought of Alex, the son who would never know his father.
He’d tried. He’d fucking tried and like so much of his life, he’d failed.
Bone’s body jerked sharply in front of Trace. He couldn’t see it, but he felt the jolt. The horrible death grip on his neck relaxed and just enough that some of the black faded from Trace’s vision. Though his throat still ached and his lungs were on fire, though he was half fucking gone himself, his eyes focused and he watched, in horror, as a trickle of bloody spittle flowed between Bone’s parted lips. The terrible look of shocked surprise remained in his eyes long after they saw anything at all. The hand on his neck became limp and the dead weight of Bone’s lifeless body slumped against him for a second before the weight was hauled off of him.
He stared into Tommy’s face. His eyes were as cold as ever, his lips twisted in a vengeful snarl that turned into a smirk when he hauled Bone away and dropped his body on the floor. The knife handle protruding out of his jacket was as wicked and deadly as the blade had been. A deep, wine colored stain spread below the body of the man who had been as ruthless and horrible in life as his death was.
“You live by the sword, you fucking die by the- oh wait. That was just a little butter knife. Surprising how effective it can be.” Tommy actually grinned as he bent and retrieved his knife. He gave it a sharp tug and it came free, the wicked blade bloody. It was no fucking butter knife.
“What the fuck did you just do?” Trace’s eyes flew to Tommy’s face. He knew he looked like a stunned moron at the moment, clutching his throat, rasping for air, but he couldn’t help himself.
Bone was dead. Truly dead. He’d tried to kill him and somehow he was still alive and Bone was the one on the floor, the lifeblood seeping out of him. Tommy wiped the blade on his jeans and stuffed it back into the sheath near his boot. He wore the knife in almost the exact same spot Trace did.
‘I knew the fucker wasn’t going to let you go. There aren’t any exchanges here. You were going to tell him and then my plans would have been ruined.”
“Your plans?” Trace gaped.
“That’s right. I made the deal.” He stared down at Bone’s corpse, entirely bored. “I was the rat all along.” He laughed at the horror on Trace’s face. “Don’t look so surprised. I was fucking sick of this place. Sick of doing the bidding of a murderous mad man who had only his best interests at heart. That’s not a club. That’s not a brotherhood. It’s a fucking dictatorship and dictators usually end up dying violent deaths.” He indicated Bone’s body. “Just like that. Stabbed in the fucking back by yours truly. I’m quite proud of the placement actually. Right between the ribs. Straight through to the heart. Exactly as I wanted, even though he was angled completely the wrong way.”
“Tommy!” Trace rasped. “We have to get the fuck out of here.”
“Oh, I’m leaving. Don’t worry. I’ve already got my exit planned. I had that down all along. Bone was supposed to die at the end of this week. I couldn’t let that not happen. I couldn’t let you tell him. I actually came in here planning on killing you both, but I’ve changed my mind. You’re harmless enough. You want out as badly as I do. I gave us a way. Now you can leave. Take that family of yours and get far away from here. Not one of us is going to come after you. The men all wanted out as badly as we do. Ever since Big Ted. That was the last straw. They won’t die for a lunatic. They won’t march to the orders of a mad man. We aren’t fucking puppets. We were supposed to be brothers.”
“And that kid in the basement that you tortured as the rat?”
“Oh that.” Tommy laughed that sickening laugh again. “Bone was never going to check up on me. I gave him a few minor cuts and bruises. Pulled out a tooth. Big fucking deal. He’ll live. If I was you, I’d go untie him. Otherwise he might rot down there forever, forgotten completely. I’m shipping out now. It was good knowing you.” He stuck out a bloody hand, but Trace didn’t shake it. He didn’t know if he could find the strength to even lift a hand, let alone get himself the fuck out of there.
“I…”
“Suit yourself.” Tommy dropped his hand. “It was good knowing you. Good look with the family life and all that.” He turned and sauntered away, his footsteps fading down the hall until they were gone completely.
The acrid scent of death choked Trace when he was alone with the body. Sharp and coppery, it coated and filled the air.
He forced himself to move. Forced his lead feet, his aching body, his lungs which were still screaming, the pain radiating out from his throat into the rest of him, slowing him down… he forced himself forward, in the direction of the basement.
A life for a life.
Except Bone was dead and he was still alive.
He’d get free. He’d get free and he’d find Sandy. He’d take her and Alex and he’d start over.
He’d been given a second chance. A third chance. Fuck, he was probably on his hundredth chance. He’d finally woke the fuck up and he wasn’t going to waste it.
For the first time, he was finally, finally, going to live.