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“Be careful, bro.”
“I will.”
* * *
As if reading my mind, Reaper had one of the club’s prospects get my bike tuned up and in good working order before I got to the clubhouse. I leave the RV and our follow car on the trailer at the clubhouse and take my bike instead. In a way, it’s like getting back to my roots. It’s channeling the man I used to be. The man who isn’t afraid to roll up his sleeves and get his hands dirty.
The man who doesn’t fear a piece of shit like Hammerhead.
Because make no fucking mistake. This time I won’t bother with subtle shit like poison or sabotage.
This time I’m going to rip out his fucking throat and feed it back to him.
It’s dark by the time I hit the Phoenix city limits. My stomach has been clenched tight the entire way down. At the same time, the rage inside of me has continued to build. By the time I get to Phoenix, I’m seeing red. I stop off at a diner. I need to give myself a minute to calm down and breathe. Blowing into the Howlers clubhouse when I’m so pissed I can’t think straight isn’t going to help anything. And it’s likely only going to get me killed.
“What can I get for you, hon?”
“Coffee,” I say, not even bothering to look up at the waitress. “And… give me one of your cinnamon rolls, please.”
“Comin’ right up.”
She turns away to get my order, leaving me alone. Sugar probably isn’t the best thing to have in my current state. Nothing like getting myself all jacked up before going into a dangerous situation where I need to be clearheaded and focused. But I need something to put in my face right now. I need a distraction.
A moment later she comes back and sets a plate down in front of me that holds a cinnamon roll about the size of my face on it. It’s dripping with frosting and looks delicious. As I dig into it though, I grimace. It tastes like ash in my mouth. With a sigh, I push the plate away and pick up my mug of coffee and take a drink. It’s not much better than the cinnamon roll but I force myself to drink it anyway.
“Everything okay over here?” the waitress asks.
I nod. “Yeah. All good. Thank you.”
She walks away again, and I pick at the cinnamon roll anyway. I check my watch and see that it’s just after ten. I still need a few minutes to cool down, so I sip my coffee, pick at my roll, and think about all the different ways I’m going to kill Hammerhead. I’m not going to make the mistake of leaving anything to chance this time.
My failing last time was in not accounting for the man’s size. The dose of arsenic I gave him probably wasn’t enough for a man his size. I didn’t factor his weight in. My mistake. And it’s a mistake I’m not going to make again. This time, I’m not leaving until the job is done. This time, I’m going to use my Sig Sauer to make sure the job is done right.
I picture putting a round between his eyes and one in his heart. I picture it over and over and over again, and each time it calms me down slightly. Imagining that prick’s death is soothing. Once I feel calm enough to drive, I get up from my table and leave some cash on the table, making sure my waitress is tipped well.
After that, I walk out to the parking lot and get my brain bucket on, my yellow-tinted night glasses, and gloves. Then I fire up the Harley and ride out, heading south and moving toward the clubhouse. I give thought to cutting the engine and coasting in but I’m sure he’s going to be on alert, waiting for me to arrive. And being the paranoid shithead he is, I’m sure he’ll be watching closely. There’s probably no realistic way I’m getting in there unnoticed. So I decide to just roll up boldly and directly.
I rumble into the parking lot and see the clubhouse hasn’t gotten any better over time. It’s gotten worse with age and what seems like disuse. Frankly, I’m surprised it’s still standing after we torched half the place.
There’s only one bike in the lot and I’m assuming that belongs to Hammerhead. I shut off my engine, then take my helmet, gloves, and glasses off and set them all down on my seat. The weight of my Sig at the small of my back, and the Louisville Slugger in a holster on my hip, is comforting. It also helps keep me sharp, reminding me of what the stakes here are.
I pull the gun and hold it down at my side as I mount the steps and walk across the porch. I yank the door open and step inside, leveling my weapon at Hammerhead’s face. He’s sitting at the only table in the place, which is dimly lit and filled with trash. It looks like the literal definition of a rat’s nest to me. Which is fitting.
Hammerhead himself has changed a bit. He’s lost a good fifty or sixty pounds. Maybe his brush with death convinced him to make some real positive life changes. But half a second of thought later makes me discard that. It’s the meth, of course. His jowls aren’t so jowly, but even though he’s lost a good amount of weight, he’s still a pretty heavy man.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” I comment.
“I guess it needed a woman’s touch.”
I tighten my grip on my weapon and am doing my best to keep from squeezing the trigger as the hatred flows through me.
“Where is she?” I ask, my voice cold and low.
“Where is who?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Hammerhead. Where is she?”
“I honestly don’t know who you’re talking about.”
