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CHAPTER ELEVEN
*Kio “K.O.” - Enforcer*
“We’re keeping our bikes here and walking to the department.” I finish making sure Zane is still properly strapped into all his gear and his black neck gaiter is easily accessible under the collar of his jacket. He’s been expressionless, face pale, since we left the devil dome. No trace of his usual, somewhat naive smile. After this, that naivety will be forever changed anyway. “In and out, got it? Everything has been set. No thinking, just do it. If a single contradictory thought gets into your head, you won’t be able to get the job done.”
He can’t even nod in response. Doesn’t matter. This is it for him. If we get there and I have to take over because he chokes, he’ll be riding north tonight, solo. Then, the chase is on; he’s either one of us or he dies. There is no in between. This boils down to who he values more: himself or our victim.
Thankfully, when I start walking behind the abandoned rides and through the parking lot, he only hesitates for a short time before stumbling to catch up.
I take in a deep breath and, on the exhale, empty my thoughts into the nearby gulf. The only things I let in are the lap of waves, the call of gulls, the rove of tires, and the whoosh of exhaust-filled air as the vehicles zoom past us.
My Zen state lasts about fifteen minutes when retching penetrates the pleasant sounds. I stop walking, close my eyes, and suck in one more lungful of saltwater breeze before turning around.
Zane couldn’t even make it to the bushes a few feet away. Instead, he stopped in his path and vomited his fears just out of reach of the tips of his boots.
Aside from maybe a small snack during one of our travel stops, he hasn’t eaten today; everything beyond the first purge is invisible. The boy dry heaves over and over again until the process alone has him gagging.
I shove my hands into my pockets and wait, thankful the wind is blowing his direction and not mine. In a way, being empty both emotionally and physically makes this easier. This little purge might work in his benefit, resulting in a floaty haze that often comes with fasting.
When done, he straightens and takes a shaky breath and wipes the back of his gloved hand across his mouth, watery gaze drifting to meet mine. I pull my hands free from my pockets, turn around, and continue walking. As soon as the crunch of following footsteps meets my ears, I pick up pace. Our boots eat up the sandy property lines as we leave the road that parallels the beach and weave between commercial buildings. A tall, pointed pediment entrance looms ahead, the department title inscribed across it, and the midday sun bounces off the steel storm shutters angled over each window.
For as long as his footsteps match mine, I keep moving until we can squat behind the shrubs that decorate the entryway. I check my watch and note that we have about five minutes until we have to walk inside. The paperwork never explains what circumstances we will face nor how many eyes might be on us en route; our employer takes care of everything, cameras included, so long as we follow the schedule and get the hell out of here in a timely manner.
For the first time, I get to watch this preparatory, behind-the-scenes activity play out; usually we work under the cloak of night. The department is somewhat bustling with employees filing out for what I assume must be their lunch break. Before long, the number of witnesses has significantly decreased. Once most employees have cleared the property, an officer exits with a surprising companion. A man wearing a leather cut with the Rolling Stones emblem and a prospect patch stitched across the back.
Zane and I duck down lower, boots digging deeper into the landscaping mulch. Our eyes meet briefly before snapping back to the unexpected sight of a rival MC associate. Deep in conversation, the officer and prospect circle around back. I file that away for later, knowing Kal will want to be apprised of that little tidbit, and refocus on the task at hand. Another glance at my watch tells me we have thirty seconds.
Twenty-nine.
Twenty-eight.
Twenty-seven.
Adjusting my gaiter, I give Zane one final piece of advice: “Forget about your God, initiate. For the next few minutes, you serve a different master.”
