Chapter Thirty Seven
The Hayabusa started with a scream. Angry and ready to choose violence.
The sound vibrated through my chest, through every nerve that had been wound too tight since I’d woken up.
It was chaos and control all at once. A mechanical heartbeat syncing with my own.
I closed my eyes and listened, letting the rhythm connect with me, stilling the raging thoughts and the half-cooked plans in my brain.
It made me think clearly. Or maybe I didn’t think at all.
In the deafening scream of the bike, I felt peace.
My brother had done what he could, but under the gleam of the garage lights I could still see the scars across the fairing, a reminder that I’d been run off the road and taken.
My fingers curled around the throttle, that deep familiar snarl echoing in the little garage my father had built many years before.
I waited for the electric door to rise all the way up and then I pulled the throttle back towards me and raced forwards, dropping my leg to counterbalance the turn into the alleyway.
I slowed the bike before I turned into the carpark, letting it drop to almost an idle, easing it in over the rutted concrete, making as little noise as possible. Mam had said they were in church, so there should be few people around, and I had a good idea where I’d find him.
The pub's side door was locked, inaccessible from the outside, but next to it, the kitchen windows were decaying, offering me hope of access. The old president, Ste, had barely spent a penny on the place, and Indie had updated where he could. But those kitchen windows hadn’t been high on the agenda.
I pulled the flat-head screwdriver from the tool pouch, wrapping the leather back up and securing it to the bike.
I jammed the screwdriver between the glass and rotted wooden panel, twisting the handle and pushing.
The frame was so damp it hardly made a noise as the glass panel popped out far enough to get my fingers under it.
I eased my fingertips between the wood and the frame, moving slowly.
Inside my chest, my heart hammered, tension building.
If I dropped the glass and it smashed, someone would hear, and that would be game over.
I exhaled slowly, sliding the glass away from the frame a millimetre at a time.
And then it popped free, and for a moment I lost contact with it.
It slid against my fingers, gathering speed.
I gripped harder, holding my breath, waiting for an ear-piercing shatter as it hit the ground.
There was a crack. Pain stung in my palm.
The glass had broken in two as it dislodged from the frame.
My hands gripped each piece firmly. But the jagged edge of the glass in my right hand had caught across my skin, tearing it open, claret bubbling to the surface.
But I breathed, willing the marching beat of my heart to slow down.
Lying the glass carefully on the ground outside the window, I pushed my palm under my armpit, squeezing hard as the pain pumped red-hot from the laceration.
Fuck. I hissed the word almost under my breath.
I didn’t have time for this. I needed to get Chase out of there before this fucking meeting finished.
Padding through the kitchen on my tiptoes, I eased the door open and moved out into the corridor, keeping my back to the wall as I navigated the dark. The door to the cellar wasn’t locked, and I reached for the handle, just as the door was pulled inwards and a big arm grabbed mine.
“What are you doing, Jazz?” Reap whispered in the dark.
“You know what I’m doing. I’ve come for him.” I pointed into the darkness to where a shadow hung.
“Jazz…” Reap warned.
“You going to hit me, Reap? Because that’s the only way you’re going to stop me.”
“Jazz?” a deep voice in the distance called.
“You need to step aside, Reap.”
The big auburn man did as I asked, flicking on the lights as he stepped away. The cellar lit up. Bright white lights showering the man hanging in the middle in a sterile glow. I swallowed hard, choking down the words at the sight of him.
Blood dripped down his face, red trailing down his chest, over his groin, down his thighs.
He looked like he had been crucified, folding forward onto his knees.
His hands were suspended from a rope in the ceiling.
His shoulders pulled behind him at an excruciating angle, like they may just be wrenched off at any moment.
Bile rose in my throat, nausea digging into my stomach.
“Why, Jazz?” Reap asked quietly from behind me.
“Because he saved me from them. From his own club. And now I’m going to save him from ours.”
“And then what?”
“I dunno, Reap.”
“Jazz. I can’t let you…”
“Yes, you can. Would you leave someone you love here to be killed?”
Reap’s eyes darkened. Sadness fighting anger for dominance. And even though I’d known him all my life, I felt that stab of fear, that maybe I’d overstepped the mark.
“You hardly know him.”
“I know him enough. The rest I’ll work out later.”
“Jazz…” Reap’s voice softened. “Think about this.”
“I’ve done a lot of that recently.”
Reap said nothing, jerking his head in Chase’s direction. I nodded in acknowledgement.
“You have a knife?”
“I’m not helping you, Jazz. But I won’t stop you either.”
“Could you at least get him some clothes? He’s gonna stand out a bit on the back of a bike like that. Don’t need the police after us, too.”
“His jeans and hoodie are in that corner. The Viking didn’t want any evidence of him left behind.”
Reap turned walking away, metal clanging off the concrete floor. My eyes followed the noise, glancing at the big knife that had dropped at his feet. Reap’s eyes were there too, snapping back to me in an instant.
“How did you know I’d be here?” I whispered as he turned his back and headed for the stairs.
“Mamma Dot sent me a message. Told Indie I needed to step out and make a call.”
“Thank you, Reap.”
“Oh, and Jazz?”
I tilted my head in response.
“Hurry the fuck up. Church’ll be finished soon, and I didn’t fucking see you. So do me a favour and either take that knife with you or kick it under those barrels and I’ll get it later.”
Reap didn’t wait for me to nod or agree. He bounded up the concrete steps and was swallowed by the darkness.
“Can you walk?” I asked Chase as I sawed through the ropes that suspended him from the beam.
The ropes popped, and Chase fell forward onto the rough ground.
“I’ll walk, Tiger,” he said breathlessly.
“Good. Then we need to go.”
We moved through the Dog on the Tyne, Chase limping beside me, his arm over my shoulder, half his weight draped over me.
He was limping badly, his face contorting with every step.
And now and then he would hiss loudly. My stomach tightened with tension the closer we got, my heart pounding, every tiny noise jolting through me, my fight-or-flight senses ablaze.
And with every step closer to that door that led out into the back of the carpark, that tension grew. One step. Two steps. Closer. Closer. We were almost there. We were almost out.
Floorboards creaked overhead. Footsteps. Church had finished.
And there was the door. Just ahead. The fire exit sign above glowed in a sickly green neon. I moved quicker now, half dragging Chase, panic that had been welling in my stomach rising to a crescendo. I pushed at the bar. The door clattered open noisily. An alarm blared in the background.
Fuck. Since when did Indie have this door alarmed? Chase’s head reeled around, craning over his shoulder.
“We need to move. Come on.” I instructed, grabbing at the keys in the inside of my jacket.
I threw a helmet at Chase, and he spun it in his hands
“It’s Fury’s spare. Put it on!” I shouted, sliding my leg over the bike and starting her up.
The Hayabusa screamed. A battle cry. Ready for war.
“I’ve never fucking ridden pillion in years,” Chase grumbled, sliding the black helmet down to cover his face, his eyes squeezing shut for a second as he pulled it over the bruises swelling over cuts.
“Just get on, Chase.”
He slid in behind me, his arms closing around my waist, the weight of him shifting the balance of the bike.
The Hayabusa dipped slightly under us, heavier now, tighter.
The back end felt anchored, less responsive, the power twitching for release under the extra load.
I revved once, the engine snarling like a caged animal, and we shot forward, tyres spitting gravel and dust across the broken car park.
The sudden drag of his weight made the bars fight against me, the steering sluggish until I leaned hard into it, forcing the Busa to obey.
My pulse matched the revs as I shifted gears out on the road, the bike clawing for grip, the rear wheel kicking over a patch of oil, and my heart raced faster than the motorbike.
The bike pulled on into the night, streetlights streaming past in ribbons of bright white light.
The cold ripped tears from my eyes but never stole my concentration as I weaved around traffic crawling on the A1.
Faster and faster. And the bike took every pull of the throttle, every turn of the handlebars.
Eventually, I couldn’t feel Chase on the back.
I’d adjusted to the extra weight, and he stuck to me effortlessly.
The tap on my shoulder came after Durham, Chase signalling to pull over.
“Where we going, Jazz?”
“South. I dunno. Anywhere.”
“I need to go back to my shop. There’s some things we’re gonna need.”
I nodded. “Where?”
“Middlesbrough.”
I slid my visor down, pushed the kickstand up and pulled the throttle.