6. Baja
6
BAJA
After another long day of back-to-back appointments, I lock the shop and head home, dragging my feet and feeling like a zombie from the lack of sleep over the past few days. Usually, I would hop on my bike, head to the strip club, and enjoy a few beers with my brothers, but tonight, I’m not in the mood. No matter how hard I try, Alice lingers in my thoughts, a constant presence I can’t shake off. She’s deeply embedded in my mind, stirring feelings I can’t quite describe.
When I unlock my apartment door, I find Ozzy waiting like a fluffy overlord. He lets out a long, dramatic meow, scolding me as if to say, ‘Took you long enough, human! I’m hungry.’
“I’m only ten minutes late, dude.” I fumble with my keys before finally slinging them onto the wall hook. Ozzy struts his way into the kitchen, taking his post on the counter, his piercing yellow eyes locking onto me as I prepare his dinner.
As Ozzy devours his food, I stride to the fridge, yank open the door, and grab a cold beer. With a flick of my wrist, I pop the cap and chug down half of it as I make my way to the bedroom. Just as I’m about to kick off my boots, my phone buzzes. I exhale a frustrated sigh, pull the phone from my pocket, and swipe the screen. “What’s up, brother?”
“We’re needed at the clubhouse. Prez is expecting company,” Mystic informs me.
“On my way.”
Not long later, I roll up to our clubhouse, a weathered stone church standing amidst a sprawling, ancient cemetery. The gravestones, staggered about the property, are marred by time. The air is thick and heavy with the musty scent of moss and damp soil. Everywhere you look, there’s a constant reminder of the death surrounding us. Most would shudder at the sight, feeling a cold dread creep along their spine. But for the Fallen Ravens, this hallowed ground is our sanctuary.
My bike growls beneath me as I cut the engine. I notice my brothers are already here, and I’m the last to arrive, so I head inside, pushing through the heavy wooden doors that used to open for people seeking refuge and salvation.
I find no one lingering inside the main room, so I head toward the back of the clubhouse to the meeting room, located beneath the church in the cellar, looking for my brothers.
As I step down the damp stone steps, the earthy smell hits me—a mix of wet dirt, aged wood, and a whisper of something rotten lurking in the background. The air feels thick with mustiness. The lone light that hangs from the overhead rafter sways, casting shaky shadows on the worn walls.
In the center of the cellar, Salem reclines in his chair, arms resting casually across his chest. The dim light struggles against the shadows where Mystic, Laredo, and Juneau stand. I stride over and join them. Moments later, the quiet is broken by the sound of boots striking the stone steps.
With Harlem behind him, our guest walks into the dim light, his steps heavy like he’s dragging a weight behind him. His sharp, tailored suit screams wealth. He looks like he walked off Wall Street and stumbled into the wrong part of town, and he has. At his side, he has a death grip on a black briefcase. You can sense he’s debating every move that brought him to this point.
Salem’s gaze pins the man in place. “Sit.”
The guy wavers, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. With a nod from Salem, Harlem slaps a hand down on the man’s shoulder, pushing him into the vacant chair. The wood creaks under his weight as the man sinks, glancing nervously around the room.
“Why are you here?” Salem asks, wanting the man to speak the ugly truth because there is only one reason men like him seek us out.
The man swallows, his throat bobbing. “Because I know your club works in… the shadows. I’ve heard… I’ve heard you help people when they need it, even if it’s not legal.” His attention drifts around the room, feeling the weight of all our eyes on him.
Harlem lets out a low, menacing chuckle. “That’s one way to put it.” His tone is mocking, but there’s a dark edge to it.
We’ve all heard sob stories before. Most of the time, we deal with people who don’t have many choices. This guy… he’s desperate in the same way.
Salem leans in, elbows propped on the table, his eyes boring into the stranger. “What price are you ready to shell out for your sin?” The air buzzes with tension as his question hangs.
“My sin?” the man stammers, but there’s a fire burning behind his eyes.
“You walked in here on your own two feet, asking for a debt to be settled, didn’t you?” Salem’s voice is icy.
“I did.” Our guest’s back straightens.
“And what’s this debt you’re so hell-bent on collecting?”
I catch the moment a shadow clouds the man’s face, wilting his bravado, while a desperate look flickers in his gaze.
“Death and retribution.” The words spit out of him, sharp enough to draw blood.
Salem tilts back, arms crossed, his gaze laser-focused on the man, demanding answers. “Where’s the cash?”
Pulling a cigarette from my pocket, I lean against the cool, rough stone wall then flick my lighter. This is the make-or-break moment for those who come here seeking our services. Once the deal is made, there’s no turning back.
The businessman in front of us sweats under his tailored suit, and his fingers shake. He clears his throat and places the briefcase on the table between him and Salem, metal latches clicking as he flicks them open. When the lid lifts, the soft glow from the light overhead highlights the cash inside—stacks of crisp bills, more green than I’ve seen in a long time. He looks at Salem, his voice a rough, low whisper, “Five hundred thousand.”
I feel the smoke clinging to my lungs, burning like hell, and my eyes watering as I try not to choke. Did he say half a million?
“If you can seal the deal tonight.” The businessman’s words hang thick in the air.
This guy just grew a pair of brass balls.
I cross my arms, watching Salem’s stone-cold expression as his eyes lock onto the guy’s face like a bull ready to charge. The tension rises in the room—everybody’s on edge, waiting for our president to either snatch the deal or shove it back down the businessman’s throat.
“Who do you want to see six feet under, and what did they take from you?” Salem growls, his voice low and gritty. His intense gaze remains locked on the man.
“His name is Michael Clearwater. Everything you need to know about him and his location is in there with the money. He murdered my wife and daughter. He has police, lawyers, and judges in his pocket.” The man clenches his jaw, fists curling and uncurling in his lap. “He’ll do it again. He’s dangerous,” he says, sounding like a broken man.
I remember the name Clearwater. The news was buzzing with his story. This guy’s family and what they went through was straight-up brutal. Michael Clearwater is associated with a sick crime ring, an organization that zeroes in on the rich, squeezing them for every cent. The bastard walked away free, thanks to some clever technicalities and slip-ups in the evidence. Justice is a twisted game, and Clearwater played it better than the rest.
This dude’s entire world is flipped upside down. Now, he sits broken but unyielding, with fire in his eyes, tossing a cool half million on the table. “I want my pound of flesh for this nightmare I’m living in.” His words are heavy with bitterness, and rightfully so. The businessman swallows hard, clutching the table’s edge like he’s holding onto his last bit of sanity.
Salem nods slowly, the kind of nod that says he is all in.
From the shadows, Mystic emerges, stepping forward and taking the briefcase.
Like always, Salem slides a liquor bottle and two shot glasses to the center of the table. He pours the tequila. “You ready to seal your deal with the devil?” he asks, waiting for the businessman to make his final move.
The man nods, raising the shot glass to his lips with a steely gaze. Not a word is exchanged—none needed. They down their shots in unison, solidifying the grim contract of death.
After gathering all the intel we needed on our target, we hit the road. A half million dollars isn’t something to spit at, and we agreed to execute the contract immediately, something we’ve never done before, so we are moving fast.
The sting of the cold night air helps to keep me wide awake as we close in on Clearwater’s place, two towns over. Micheal Clearwater is bottom-of-the-barrel scum. He’s the kind of man who deserves to rot in hell.
We cut our engines, bringing our bikes to a slow stop outside the entrance to the upscale upper-class neighborhood. We push our bikes off the road, hiding them in the tree line. Clearwater’s house is in a neighborhood of big, expensive homes with manicured lawns and stone driveways. His lavish lifestyle undoubtedly paid for off the backs of the rich people he steals from.
“We walk from here. Keep your eyes peeled,” Salem says, keeping his voice low. “He might not be alone.”
Keeping to the shadows, we trek to Clearwater’s location, a two-story brick house hidden by a thick line of trees. We lay in wait, watching the place for over an hour, detecting no signs of movement in or around the home.
Salem signals for us to move in and get a better look, but we stop approaching as a car rolls up the street and into his driveway. The headlights flick off, and our target steps out.
He’s not alone.
Clearwater strolls around to the car’s passenger side and opens the door. He helps a blonde woman to her feet, who stumbles on high heels while hanging onto his arm.
“I don’t feel too good,” the woman slurs, but Clearwater keeps a steady pace, practically dragging her toward the house.
“It’s okay, baby. I’ll make you feel better in no time,” Clearwater says.
The woman looks like she’s had too much to drink, or worse, she’s been drugged. Clearwater leads her to the front door, and something in the way he grabs her arm makes me lurch forward, but Laredo pulls me back.
“Not the time to lose your shit, brother,” he says, his voice tight.
As they approach the door, she hesitates, shaking her head. “No, wait. Stop! I... I want to go home.”
Clearwater’s face twists into a sneer, and he jerks her toward him, his hand clamping around her neck as he opens the door. “You’re not going anywhere.” He forces her inside the house.
Salem growls. “We’re moving in.”
With weapons drawn, we move out of the trees, crossing the lawn quickly and silently. Clearwater doesn’t notice us until I’m standing right behind him, pressing the cold end of my gun against the back of his head. “Touch her again, motherfucker, and I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”
“The fuck—” He reaches beneath his jacket, and the glint of metal is all I see before instinct takes over. Clearwater spins and lunges forward, gun raised. I knock his wrist sideways, and the weapon clatters across the floor. He swings at me, and I shift, avoiding the blow, and slam the grip of my gun into his jaw. He staggers backward. Recovering, he lunges at me again. I take aim, and he comes face to face with the barrel end of my gun, stopping him dead in his tracks.
The overhead lights come on, and Clearwater raises his hands. A few feet away, I notice the blonde woman passed out on the floor, lying on her side.
I keep my gun aimed at the motherfucker’s head and glare at him. “Is the only way you can get your dick wet by druggin’ innocent woman, you sick fuck?” Salem doesn’t hide his disdain.
Clearwater sneers. “Fuck you.”
Salem delivers a fist to the side of his face.
“Fuck!” Clearwater bellows. “Do you know who I am?” His voice is a low, venomous hiss. “You don’t want to mess with me. One fucking phone call and I can make all of you disappear.”
“Big threat comin’ from a soon-to-be-dead man,” Salem taunts.
“Listen closely. I don’t know who sent you, but trust me when I say I hold far more value alive than I ever could dead.” He gasps, desperation lacing his voice. “What do you want? Name your price.”
Salem’s icy stare bores into Clearwater. “Your fate is already sealed, paid in full.”
My hand tightens around the grip of my gun, eager to end this creature’s pathetic life.
Clearwater’s eyes bulge as the weight of his fate crashes down on him. “You won’t get away with this,” he warns, his voice trembling.
“You won’t be around to find out.” Salem’s voice drips like poison sliding off his tongue.
Salem looks at me.
Without hesitation, my finger coils tightly around the trigger, putting a bullet in his head, sealing the motherfucker’s fate.
A beat of silence passes before it’s broken.
“What about the woman?” Harlem asks.
Laredo walks over and kneels beside her. “Her pulse is steady. There’s no tellin’ what he gave her.” He looks at Salem. “We can’t leave her here.” He sighs. “I’ll take her to Celeste,” Laredo offers. “I’ll have to take the fucker’s car and ditch it after.”
Celeste is a club friend, mainly through Laredo’s connection with her. She’s a doctor at Salem Medical. Off the record, she’s helped us on several occasions.
We share a silent understanding, exchanging glances that convey our intentions. We clean up the area, methodically eliminating any signs that we were here. We take a moment to survey the surroundings one last time, making sure not a single piece of evidence is left behind—no forgotten item, no overlooked detail—before we blend into the shadows.
Laredo lifts the woman off the floor, and I dig through the dead man’s pockets, retrieve his car keys, and toss them to Laredo.
Eager to put time and distance between us and the crime scene, we head out of the house. Laredo puts the woman in the car’s back seat, gets behind the wheel, and backs out of the driveway.
The rest of us break into a jog, racing across the yard and weaving through the trees. We retrace our steps to the spot where we ditched our bikes. We hop on our rides and hit the road, putting as much distance as we can between ourselves and the dead man before we finally pull into the hospital parking lot. Laredo slides out of the car without missing a beat, looking tense as he pulls the unconscious woman from the back seat and strides through the emergency room doors, carrying her inside like he owns the place.
We linger outside, waiting in silence because no one is in the mood for conversation.
A heartbeat later, Laredo’s back. “I need one of you to leave your bike here and follow me in Celeste’s car. After we take care of Clearwater’s vehicle, I’ll need a lift back to my ride.”
Juneau jumps at the chance. “I’ll do it.”
Laredo flings a set of keys his way. “That black Corvette over there.” Laredo gestures toward it.
“Sweet.” Juneau jogs off.
“Check in once you’ve handled the job,” Salem barks as he watches Laredo and Juneau leave. Then he turns to Mystic and me, voice low and firm. “I’m heading home to my woman. We’ll discuss the outcome and money later. Go home.”
On that note, Salem starts his bike and exits the parking lot.
“Catch ya later, brother.” Mystic salutes me, and then he leaves.
I’m left sitting on my bike, alone in the hospital parking lot. Midnight has come and gone, dragging every ounce of my energy with it. I’m beginning to feel the weight of a long day again as my adrenaline rush fizzles out. Exhaustion settles into my bones as I start the engine and kick up the stand. I want to get home, close my eyes, and not get out of bed for the next several hours.
I pull away from the hospital onto the open road.
Halfway home, I realize I’m nearing the turn for Alice’s place.
My grip tightens on the handlebars.
The magnetic pull toward Alice is overpowering, more intense than ever before.
But then, I snap out of it.
What the hell am I doing?
I twist the throttle, revving the engine and speeding past the turn to Alice’s, battling the fierce urge to turn this bike around and head right back to her.