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My ribs groan in protest as I stoop to cut the rope, my arm sawing furiously as I make short work of it. Duke fully enters the water, and I don’t hesitate to clamber down the ladder to help him. I doubt he has enough oxygen to stay afloat, let alone find his way to safety. Diving into the dark water, I swim toward him, ignoring how my body screams at the physical exertion.
Diving beneath the surface, I wrap an arm around Duke’s chest and haul him toward the surface. He gasps and sputters as soon as we reach the air, and he kicks in an attempt to help me as I swim him toward the ladder once more.
Dallas is there, his one good arm stretching out to help Duke as soon as I pull the muscular biker up to the first rungs, and despite his clearly weakened state, Duke slowly climbs out of the water. I follow him up, and we both collapse onto the quay, gasping for air as the water trickles from our clothes and hair.
“I fucking hate these guys, whoever they are,” I gasp. “We’re all getting guns, and the next time they show their faces, I’m going to blow holes right through their heads.”
“Amen,” Dallas agrees.
Immediately proceeding with the morning’s events, I hold church, bringing all my crew together to form a new plan of action. To my never-ending gratitude, none of the new members seem to be ready to turn tail and flee. Instead, they’re all fully invested in finding these fuckers who are targeting our club.
With new rules in place, including the requirement that everyone be armed with a gun and that all guard shifts be done in pairs so no one’s left without someone to watch their back, I hope we can stop these assholes before they actually manage to kill somebody. After the meeting, I send my men off with new orders for their day.
“I’m gonna go home and change,” I say to Dally, Rico, and Knuckles before I head toward the door. I should probably shower, too, now that my laceration and the incision from my surgery have been exposed to murky water. But mostly, I just want to get out of my wet clothes, which are starting to stink.
Swinging my leg over my Night Train, I gingerly guide my helmet over my bruised face, then rev my engine and take off down the street. It feels good to let off some steam after all the events as of late, and I gun my bike down the winding New England streets as I race toward home.
It’s been a while since I’ve picked up this much speed. With Whitfield being a tiny town and Winter so pregnant, I haven’t had the chance to let loose, nor have I necessarily wanted to. But after all the shit that’s gone down over the past few days, I need the burst of adrenaline that’s not because of something terrible happening.
I round the final curve that will bring me into our little neighborhood, and I ease onto my breaks, preparing to take the right-hand turn, but my stomach knots as my bike doesn’t respond.When will I fucking learn?Those assholes must have tampered with my brakes while I was in the water helping Duke. I barely have time to register my anger before I’m faced with a sharp turn. I have to pass the entrance to my neighborhood if I’m going to keep control of my bike, but that won’t save me for long. Eventually, this street dead ends.
Bracing myself for the pain I know I’m about to experience, I downshift to try and bring my bike closer to a manageable speed. If I can slow it down enough that way, I can bring it to a stop with my feet. But with broken ribs, it’s going to hurt like hell. I downshift as rapidly as my bike will allow until I’m down to forty, thirty, then twenty miles per hour. I can see the end of the street looming in the distance, and I start to sweat as my speed slowly creeps down to fifteen.
I can’t wait any longer, so removing my feet from their rests, I press the soles of my boots into the blacktop. Jarring force vibrates up my legs and through my torso, making me grit my teeth as my ribs burn white-hot with pain. I can feel the bottoms of my boots starting to grind away, but I don’t let up for an instant. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to stop before I plow into someone’s garage door.
By the time I manage to come to a complete stop, sweat is dripping down my neck and back from a combination of exertion and anxiety. I make it all the way up onto the curb of someone’s driveway before I come to a shuddering halt, and I gasp as I lean onto the handlebars of my bike.
It takes me a few minutes to regain my breath as my injured ribs and lungs throb painfully. My head is pounding, too, making my ears ring. Finally, I regain my composure and dismount to see what they’ve done to my bike. Sure enough, if I had been paying close attention, I would have noticed they cut straight through my brake line.
Nothing more I can do about it now. I grip my handlebars and start to walk my bike back home, just grateful I’m still alive.
I don’t really want to tell Winter about what happened. She’s under enough stress already, and I feel like her knowing someone tampered with my breaks will only escalate her hypertension. I may not know much, but I do know that’s not good.
Still, as I walk my bike home, I know I need to tell her. I guide my bike up the drive and then head inside, my injured lung burning and my ribs feeling strained. I check the clock before dialing Winter. She’s most likely on her break right now.
“Gabe?” she asks, her voice registering surprise.
As soon as I hear her, I feel the tension in my chest start to ease. “Hey,” I breathe, closing my eyes and leaning back against the wall so I can rest my head.
“Is everything all right? You don’t normally call me until you’re on your way.”
“I… it’s been a rough morning. Whoever is coming after us attacked the guys guarding the clubhouse before I arrived.”
I hear the whisper of a gasp across the line. “Are they okay?”
“They will be,” I assure her. “But there’s something else.”
I can almost tell she’s holding her breath, and as I hesitate to continue, the time stretches between us.
“I had to jump into the harbor to drag one of the guys out—”
“Gabriel, your incision!” Winter scolds.
“I know, I know. That’s why I decided to go home after our meeting. To clean up….” This is just excruciating to try and tell her.
“What happened?” she demands.
“I’m okay,” I start, trying to reassure her before I give her the rest of the story. “But they… kind of cut my brake lines.”
