Page 21 of Sweet Revenge for the Bikers

She must’ve thought it was worth it, but was it?

Mad Dog lifts a hand from his handlebars and covers mine with it. I didn’t notice how cold my fingers had gotten until I feel the heat from his palm. I give him a little hug in thanks. I wonder if he notices.

As we get closer to home, I start to regret suggesting this. It feels like crossing two streams that were never meant to meet. People turn to look when we roll through the center of town. I keep my eyes down and my face buried in Mad Dog’s back. Hopefully nobody recognizes me. Everything looks smaller and shabbier than normal. I have a perfectly normal life. In a normal ranch house on a normal road, with a normal job in a normal diner. A couple days ago I would’ve said I was content. Not happy maybe, but close enough.

After twenty-four hours with Rebel, Mad Dog and Riptide, the thought of sliding back into my normal life feels like putting on clothes one size too small.

It’s not hard to find my place. An endless road out of town with a number instead of a name. Every so often a house stands alone on a patch of dry earth. The lots are actually pretty big. We have five acres, but it’s five acres of dust, weeds and a few scraggly trees. I point when we’re getting close. Mom had our driveway paved when I was in high school. A serious upgrade.

My car is still in the carport, but Dad’s bike is nowhere to be seen. A small knot of worry untangles itself in my chest. That he might be at the house didn’t occur to me until after we were already on the road. He stops by sometimes. More so since Mom passed. Riptide pulls in first, and then Mad Dog with me on the back, and Rebel bringing up the rear.

After I slip off the back of the bike, Mad Dog swings his long leg over it and gets behind me, putting a reassuring hand at the small of my back. “You live alone out here?”

Rebel looks equally surprised. “Pretty fucking remote for a single woman.”

“I guess?” I look around, trying to see it through their eyes. “It’s not like I’m one of the off-gridders. I’ve got water, electric, and everything.”

I empty the mailbox and lead them up the rock lined path to the front door. The house is so quiet compared to the Screaming Eagles compound. I can see why they might think it’s the middle of nowhere. Once inside, I toss the mail on the counter that divides the living room from the kitchen. “Make yourselves at home. I’m going to go throw together a⁠—”

I pause.

“Something wrong?” Mad Dog asks.

It takes me a moment to realize what’s off. I can hear the creak of the neighbor’s rusty old windmill. Outside that wouldn’t be unusual, but inside the windows should muffle the noise. I know for a fact I didn’t leave a window open.

There’s no way they know what I’m thinking, but the three of them are instantly alert. Rebel points at Mad Dog and then toward the hall that leads to the bedrooms and bathroom. He points to Riptide, and then to the front door, making a sort of ‘go around’ motion. Then he pushes me into the kitchen and points to the ground. Maybe a couple days ago I would’ve pushed back against being ordered around, but I’m stubborn, not dumb. I crouch down behind the counter.

There’s a crash in the bedroom, and a male grunt that I’m pretty sure is from Mad Dog. Who’s in my house? I wince at the sound of breaking glass and a sharp thud that doesn’t spell good things for the state of my walls. I peek around the corner in time to see a man come flying from the hall. He crashes down in the living room, and Rebel’s on him in a second, flipping him to his stomach and shoving a knee to the back of the guy’s neck before pulling one of his arms painfully around to his back.

Mad Dog stalks out of the hall, blood on the side of his face but looking more angry than hurt. “You know this asshole, baby?”

I inch forward. The guy’s face is smooshed against my carpet, so it’s hard to tell. “Is he one of the men in Emily’s photo?”

“Excellent question. Got any rope?” Rebel asks.

“Um…” Inside the kitchen junk drawer, I find the roll of butcher’s twine that was probably used once and has been in there for as long as I can remember. “Will this work?”

“Close enough.” Mad Dog holds up his hand and catches it when I throw.

“Asshole! Get the fuck off me!” the guy on the floor snarls as they tie his hands behind his back, wrapping the twine around and around until there’s no way he’s getting loose.

Outside, a gun goes off, the loud crack scaring up a flock of birds out front. All of us freeze, even the one being tied up like a Christmas ham. Mad Dog stands and draws a gun from inside his jacket as he moves toward the front door. Just before he puts his hand on the doorknob, there’s a knock from the other side. Three in a row, and then three more. Mad Dog and Rebel visibly relax.

Mad Dog opens the door and Riptide comes in. “Run into trouble out there?”

“Handled it. But we’ll need a little clean-up help later.” Riptide looks down at the man on the floor. He nudges the man’s jacket with his boot. “More Devil’s Brigade. What a funny coincidence.”

Handled it? Clean-up?

“Guys, what’s going on?”

Rebel pulls out his knife and waves the tip lazily in front of his captive’s eye. “The lady asked a very good question. Care to explain what you’re doing in her house?”

“Fuck you!”

“No thanks.” Rebel pushes the guy’s face into the carpet, and drives the knife into the floor, right in front of the guy’s nose.

The sound the bound man makes is more animal than human.