Chapter 7 Augustine
Augustine
Ipushed the Nipple Tip’s door open with my shoulder, trying to keep Melissa tucked close behind me, but she was already walking ahead, chin high, the echo of our fuck-you bathroom exit still clinging to her like cheap perfume.
Outside, it was dead quiet. Not even the usual gaggles of drunks pissing against dumpsters.
Just a sea of beat-up trucks, two dozen parked bikes, and that thick New Mexico mist rolling in off the river.
The only movement was the bar’s neon sign stuttering its last, the N dead and the rest bleeding pink into the haze.
I scanned left and right, then thumbed a cigarette out of my pocket and stuck it between my teeth, buying myself a second to take the temperature.
Even the wind was holding its breath. Melissa stopped on the curb, toeing a puddle with her boot, her ponytail bright in the bad light.
I loved her in that jacket, even though I knew it was a goddamn target.
That’s when the Leatherbacks stepped out of the fog.
Five of them. They fanned out with military precision, each one in a different color of asshole.
The tank in front had a broken nose and crocodile smile, two skinny shits in mirrored aviators, and a pair of nondescript soldiers flanking.
Their cuts glowed under the streetlight, the turtle patch stupid and menacing all at once.
The guy in the middle—Saint, if I had to bet—had the kind of presence that screamed “enforcer” even if you couldn’t read his résumé in the scars on his face.
“Evening, princess,” the big one called, eyes on Melissa.
She flinched, just for a second. I put my body between hers and the line of Leatherbacks, hand dropping to my Glock before my brain caught up. I had enough time to size the odds, register the one on the left was already drawing, and then the fight was on.
I got the gun half out before something cracked into my ribs—boot, steel toe, didn’t matter—and another fist caved my left eye shut with a white-hot detonation of pain.
My legs buckled. I kept my hand on the gun, but someone grabbed my wrist, wrenched it back, and popped my fingers so cleanly I almost admired the technique.
Somewhere in the blur, I heard Melissa scream.
The sound was so raw it made the world blink for a second.
I caught a flash of her hair, then lost it as someone drove their knee into the base of my skull.
My vision strobed in and out—parking lot, fog, the boots of my enemy, then darkness, then fog again.
Melissa’s voice was high and wild, screaming my name like it was the only thing that might bring me back from the dead.
The Leatherbacks didn’t fuck around. They kept it surgical with boots to the ribs, elbows to the face, a textbook stomp on my hand so I’d drop the Glock. I did, and it skittered into a puddle. I tried to roll for it, but the tank dropped all his weight on my lower back and rode me into the gravel.
“You really thought you could keep her?” someone above me said, voice thick with mockery.
Blood filled my mouth. I spat it at his boots.
He laughed. “Fuck, you got spirit.”
They let me up just long enough to get a good look at what was coming next.
Saint—he was definitely Saint—pulled Melissa by the hair, hard, until she was on her knees in the slush.
She punched and clawed, but he barely reacted, just twisted her arms up behind her until something in her shoulder made a sick little pop.
She bit his hand. He laughed, then backhanded her so hard she went flat.
I tried to move, but the two soldiers on my back had me pinned.
One yanked my head up by the hair and forced me to watch as they dragged Melissa across the lot.
She kicked, screamed, and actually caught one in the nuts, which earned her a punch to the stomach and a fistful of ponytail for her trouble.
“Augie!” she yelled. “Don’t let them—”
Her voice cut off when Saint wrapped a hand around her jaw and squeezed until her eyes rolled. They frog-marched her to the black van at the edge of the lot, the sliding door already open and waiting like a mouth.
I lost my mind. I bucked and thrashed until I felt something in my side tear, tried to dig my fingers into the gravel for traction, but all I did was bloody my hands and give the soldiers an excuse to stomp on my kidneys.
My lungs emptied; the world spun. But through all of it, I kept my eyes open, watched them shove Melissa into the van, watched her bite and kick until the inside went wild with noise.
Someone yelled, “Fuck, she’s got a knife! ” Then another shout, and a dull thud.
The van door slammed. The engine revved, gears screeching. For a second, I saw her face in the window—blood on her lip, hair wild, screaming my name. Then the van tore out of the lot, tires screaming, almost clipping my head as it fishtailed onto the main road and disappeared into the fog.
The world narrowed to a pinpoint. All I could see was the taillights fading, red as a warning, and the blood pooling around my mouth. I tried to crawl, just to prove I wasn’t finished, but my body said no, and the night rolled up and swallowed me.
Last thing I remember was the promise I spat into the gravel, I’m coming for you. No matter what it takes.
I came to with my mouth tasting like blood and bleach, the world buzzing in static chunks.
First thing I saw was the patch on the wall—Bloody Scythes, hand-painted, red flaking off the letters like a scab.
Next was Damron St. James, parked at the end of the bed, arms crossed, eyes black with sleeplessness.
“Welcome back,” he said. He didn’t bother with concern. Just the facts.
I tried to sit up and got halfway before the bandages across my ribs caught fire.
My hands looked like someone had run them through a cheese grater.
My left eye wouldn’t open all the way, but I could still see enough to know I was in the clubhouse’s back med room—the one with the silver crucifix nailed to the ceiling and the stains nobody had ever cleaned off the tile.
“What’s the damage?” I croaked.
Damron didn’t move. “Three cracked ribs. Concussion. Couple stitches in your scalp. You lost a pint, but you’ll live.”
I licked my lips. “Where is she?”
Damron shook his head. “You’re a real piece of work, August. First thing out of your mouth and it’s the girl.”
I grabbed the edge of the mattress, forced myself upright. The pain made my vision kaleido—fuck, swirl—but I locked my jaw and rode it out. “Where is she?”
He held up a hand. “Sit the fuck down, unless you want to open those stitches and bleed out for real.”
I ignored him, swung my legs over the side. The world dipped and swayed. I braced on the bed, steadied my hands against the tremor. “Talk.”
He let out a long breath, then relented. “Our eyes spotted her at a dump in Dulce. Motel off 64, north side. Leatherbacks got her locked down tight. At least two patched, maybe more. They’re moving her to Durango after nightfall. Then—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
I gritted my teeth. “Give me a ride.”
He laughed, short and hard. “You can’t walk, Augustine.”
I got to my feet anyway, nearly eating shit as my knee buckled. Damron caught me, his grip a vice. “You gonna walk in there like this? You think they’ll be scared of a dead man?”
“Not scared,” I said. “Surprised.”
He looked me up and down, then let go. “You’re lucky I don’t hogtie you to the bed.”
“Never worked before,” I said, and started shuffling for the door. Every step was a jail sentence. My vision kept tunneling, and I could feel my heart whamming around like it wanted out. But I kept going, because that’s what you do when every other option is a worse flavor of failure.
We hit the hallway, the noise level rising as we neared the main room.
It was chaos in slow motion—guys loading magazines, cleaning knives, the smell of gun oil and bad coffee.
Everyone looked at me as I walked through, some with respect, most with a silent “You’re fucking nuts. ” I wore it like a badge.
Seneca was at the table, field-stripping a shotgun. He gave me a nod, then handed me a bottle of pills. “For the pain. Take two, not the whole bottle.”
I dry-swallowed four. He grinned.
We made it to Damron’s office, a bunker of bourbon and smoke and maps pinned to the wall. He closed the door behind us, and for a second, it was just the two of us and the weight of all our bad decisions.
“You know what happens if you go after her,” Damron said. “Cutler’s not going to let it slide.”
I leveled my gaze at him. “He was never going to let it slide. You know that.”
He nodded, poured two fingers of whiskey into a plastic cup, and handed it to me. “Then what’s your plan?”
I stared at the map on the wall—Dulce circled in red, routes marked in green and black. “Go in, get her out, burn the rest if I have to.”
He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “I always did like your optimism.”
I finished the whiskey. It didn’t even burn.
Damron leaned in, voice low. “If you die, I have to take over this shitshow. You want that on your conscience?”
“If I don’t try, she dies for sure.”
He looked away, then back. “She means that much to you?”
I took a long second to answer. “She’s worth it.”
He laughed, but it sounded like a eulogy. “Fine. But we do it smart, not like a suicide run. Seneca’s setting up a perimeter. We’ll hit them at the handoff, not the motel.”
I nodded. “Good.”
He put a hand on my shoulder, squeezed hard. “Don’t get soft on me.”
“I’m already soft,” I said, deadpan. “Check my skull.”
He actually smiled. “Fuck you, August.”
“Love you too, boss.”
He left me alone in the office, and for a while I just stood there, listening to the hum of the building and the muffled voices outside. I let myself feel the pain, catalog it, make it mine. Then I went back to the med room, found my cut, and slipped it over the bandages. It still smelled like her.
I sat on the edge of the bed, hands shaking, and started cleaning my Glock with methodical, slow movements. My fingers stuck to the oil and powder residue, but I kept at it, every click and slide a promise.
Tomorrow, we’d ride. Tomorrow, I’d get her back.
I slid the magazine home, the sound sharp and final.
“I’m coming for you,” I whispered, and meant it.