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"Burned?"
"Incinerated is more like it. I think he put some kind of alternative fuel in it. It smelled like bacon, to be honest. Mayhem is a..." He pauses. "A fucking lunatic."
"He going to be coming by sometime to pick it up?"
Rook shakes his head. "Nope."
"What do you mean ‘nope’?"
"He's in Oakland."
"How'd he get there with no ride?"
"He just dropped his bike off and said he'd walk the rest of the way."
"That's forty miles."
"That's Mayhem."
"So, how's he going to get his bike?"
"I was going to ride it out there and deliver it to him. He gave me a latitude and longitude and a phone number to call when I was on my way." Rook pauses and gives me a half smile, which makes me take a step back, because he never smiles. "If you're looking for something to do, you could deliver it for me. You'd get a ride, and I'd get to go home to Eliza. It'd be a win-win."
Probably not, but it would give me something to do that doesn't involve Danielle. And, if this Mayhem guy is anything like his reputation, there may be some action involved as well.
"Fine."
Rook gestures to the bike and then hands me a scrap of paper, upon which are scrawled the coordinates and the phone number, alongside what is either a smear of blood or devil's food frosting. Or both. "She's all yours. Call that number when you're close, and he said you'll get further instructions."
Thus equipped, I ride.
Thirty minutes later, I'm just a mile out from the coordinates, and I dial the number. There's a loud mechanical screeching that reminds me of a fax machine receiving a signal, and then a voice that sounds like it's being relayed through a walkie-talkie answers.
"Is the bird approaching the roost? Have the chess castles reached their positions?"
I blink and stare at the phone. "Who the fuck is this?"
"You're not Rook. Where's Rook? He’s the chess castles I was referring to."
"No, I'm not Rook. This is Striker. Rook went to go be with Eliza. Said he'd rather not drive his ass across the Bay Area just to deliver your bike."
"That sounds like him."
"So, I have the coordinates. I'm nearly there. Are you at the drop site?"
"I am. You're right on time, too. The deal's just about to go down."
"What deal?"
There's no answer, just a click as the phone cuts out.
Undeterred, I ride on to the coordinate location, but I pat my gun just to reassure myself that it's there. I have a feeling I'm going to need it.
The tires screech as I come to a stop in front of an abandoned fish cannery that smells like oily death heated in a microwave. There's a lone man standing outside the building, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, lounging casually against the brick wall of the cannery. He's sporting a shaved head, with tattoos twining around his exposed arms and neck, and a cut that identifies him as the man I'm looking for. I pull the bike up next to him and hop off.
"Mayhem?"
He nods. "Striker."
