Chapter 5
Goliath
“Where’d you disappear to last night?”
Drake comes traipsing around the corner, and I about fall off the bar stool I have my happy ass camped out on. He starts chuckling like a damn hyena when he sees the mess I’ve made of myself. I was minding my own business, drinking my coffee, black like my soul, when his appearance gave me a jolt, and I spilled the nectar of the gods down my white T-shirt.
“Look what you made me do, fucker,” I groan as I try to mop up the mess but only make the stain worse. “This is a new shirt.”
“Oh, quit your cryin’. We’ve got an errand to run,” he barks back as he slaps my shoulder, “so if you need to get yourself pretty again... Grandpa... now’s the time.”
“Where we going?” I ask as I slide off the stool and finish the last dribble of coffee in my mug.
Drake walks behind the bar and pours himself a cup of coffee. “I got a bug in my ass about something Miller said in church last night, so I did a little internet digging before I went to bed.”
“Hold that thought.” I lift a finger to pause his storytelling, then disappear down the hall to head to my room. I change my shirt real quick, then make my way back to the common room. “Continue,” I tell Drake as we walk outside.
Drake lights up a cigarette, then offers me the pack. I decline. I decided to quit that habit not long after I went to prison. It took one phone call from my Granny, telling me that my Gramps had lost his five-year-long battle with lung cancer, and I quit cold turkey.
“Right,” Drake says with an exhale before blowing a smoke ring. “So last night in church, Miller said something about how the cops are probably going to try and blame the club for the shooting, and it got me thinking. What do they know that we don’t?”
I can see the hamster wheels spinning in his eyes. Drake apparently has been a computer whiz since he was a pimply-faced kid. After he got himself into a little hot water with the law, hacking into certain alphabet agencies just because he wanted to see if he could, his folks kicked him out, and he came to live with his uncle, our Prez, Miller. His juvenile record was sealed, and since then, he’s worked his way through the ranks, becoming a full club member and our resident go-to tech wizard.
Things had been calm and easygoing, so I obviously haven’t seen any of his work in the two weeks I’ve been back, but from what I’ve heard from a few other brothers, he’s been a real asset to the club.
Folding my arms, I lean back and park my ass on the seat of my Harley. “What’d you find?”
Drake flicks the butt of his cigarette into the nearby trash can, then mirrors my stance on his bike that’s next to mine. “After I kicked what’s-her-face out of my room—”
“What’s-her-face?” I interrupt with a chuckle. “Do you even remember what color hair she had?”
“She was blonde, I think,” he snickers as he scratches the stubble on his chin. “But anywho, I did my digging and hacked into the police department’s evidence files and found something I want to follow up on before they get a chance to.”
“What’s that?”
“One of the ladies who was at the hospital as an elf got a short video on her phone of the van speeding off. She’s from the hospital’s public relations, so she was filming some stuff for social media. We know the van didn’t have any plates, but it got me digging some more.”
“Sounds like you had a busy night, brother.” I kick one boot out and cross it over the other. Might as well get comfortable while he fills me in on our mission for the day.
“You have no idea,” he bounces his eyebrows a few times, silently letting me know his one blonde bedmate wasn’t his only, before continuing. “Since everything just happened, the police don’t have all their notes and shit uploaded to the system yet, so there wasn’t much else to dig through. I switched over to the city traffic cams, and that’s where I hit paydirt.”
“Let me guess. You found the van.”
“I sure did.”
“Where is it?”
“The van pulled out of a warehouse on the north side of town, not far from the Alabama River. It took some chasing, losing it a few times as it cut in and out of populated areas with and without cameras, but I mapped the route it took to the hospital and back to the warehouse after.”
“That means you want to go check out this warehouse and see what’s there?”
“Yup,” he replies with a sharp nod.
Remembering the original mission we were given last night, I ask, “What about finding those ex-prospect assholes?”
“Those fuckers are a few fries short of a happy meal.” Drake rolls his eyes so hard, I’m surprised they don’t get stuck in the back of his head. “I know where they were living back when they were prospecting, so once we’re done at the warehouse, we’ll swing by and see if we can find them.”
“And you ran this all by Miller or Wash already?” I ask, double-checking that someone in charge knows where we’re going. Yes, plausible deniability is necessary in some situations, but when we’re going into areas where we have no idea what we’ll find, someone needs to know where we’ll be if we don’t come back in a reasonable amount of time.
“Sure did,” he replies as he stands up to his full height. “I’ve also been ordered that we not take our bikes so we don’t draw any unwanted attention to ourselves. Wash gave me the keys to his SUV, which has plates registered to an LLC, as well as the VIN scratched off, so it’s totally untraceable.”
“So if we have to ditch it and run, nothing links it to the club,” I clarify my thoughts out loud.
“Exactly.”
“I need to run back to my room to grab my SIG.” I point my thumb back toward the clubhouse. “I haven’t been carrying in public yet because of my parole.”
Drake smirks and pulls one side of his cut back, and I see the gun he has strapped in an underarm shoulder holster. “Never go anywhere without mine.”
“Be right back.” I hustle inside and head straight for the closet in my room.
After shrugging off my cut, I pull my trusty shoulder holster off the top shelf, then strap it on. I haven’t worn this bad boy in way too long, but putting it on feels so natural it’s like it was just yesterday. I pull my cut back on, then open my nightstand drawer.
Unlocking the small safe built into the drawer bottom with my thumbprint and seven-digit code, I pull out my gun. I slam in a full magazine, slide a bullet into the chamber, set the safety, then clip it into my holster.
Now I’m back.
It’s been a long seven years, four months, and three days since those damn handcuffs were snapped onto my wrists for the first time, but I’m out now and ready to get back to my ass-kicking, hell-raising self. Bring it on.
“You see anything?” I whisper to Drake, who is right beside me.
We’re currently in an old, abandoned paper mill across the street from the warehouse in question. Both buildings are in an industrial park that seems to have seen better days, but there are signs of improvement happening based on a few surrounding buildings being under construction. There is a ‘For Sale’ sign on the front of the mill, so we’re using that to our advantage during this stakeout. Hopefully, if anyone drives by or sees us moving around in here, they’ll think we’re potential buyers or contractors.
The SUV is parked behind the building, out of sight under a covered loading dock, and Drake and I are looking at the warehouse out of a row of half-broken windows, trying to see any activity. And just like whoever is inside knew we wanted to see what they’re hiding, the gate at the end of the driveway starts to roll open, giving us a clear view of everything beyond.
“Jackpot.” Drake pulls his phone out of the inside pocket of his cut and starts snapping pictures. “And there’s the van.”
Just inside the gate is a small parking lot. To the left, the white van with the Jensen Medical Supplies decals still on it sits parked at the end of a row next to three other vehicles—one silver pickup truck, one dark blue utility van, and one black four-door car. All look to have seen better days, dented and rusted, showing that their owners have no care for what they drive.
That’s the total opposite of anyone in the Hell’s Jokers MC. We all have pride in what we own. We take care of our vehicles, both the two- and four-wheel kinds. It grinds my gears when I see people who have no pride of ownership. When you come from very little like I did, watching my grandparents pinch pennies just to put food on the table and keep the lights on, you learn to appreciate and care for the finer things because you never know when they’ll be taken away.
Drake nudges my elbow, snapping me out of my anger daydream, and I snap back to reality.
Straight ahead are three tall bay garage doors, and two of them are rolling up, showing us the activity inside. Four men, all wearing very nice clothes, come walking out into the parking lot and head for the different vehicles. People who wear fancy suits and ties aren’t the types who hang around these parts, driving beat-up vehicles in that condition.
Something isn’t right here.
“Who are these fuckers?” I question out loud. “Do you recognize any of them?”
“They’re definitely not dressed like they should be driving those vehicles,” Drake answers. “I don’t—”
He stops talking as we watch four gleaming, black luxury sedans drive out of the open bay doors, two following the other two. Then, the four vehicles that were previously in the lot drive inside, and the doors roll down behind them. A minute later, those same four men appear outside again and each slide into the passenger seats of the shiny cars. Those sedans then glide out of the parking lot like they’re being driven in a rehearsed, choreographed fashion. They turn right at the first corner and disappear.
“What the hell was that?”
“I have no fucking clue.” I’m as stumped as he is. “But I think we need to call in some help before we go find out.”
“I’m two steps ahead of you.” I look over to see Drake texting, thumbs flying across his phone screen. “Miller, Cowboy, JD, and a few others are on their way. ETA thirty minutes.”
“Tell them to come in from the south and keep an eye out for the sedans. Maybe they can intercept them to follow and see where they’re going.”
“Good thinkin’, brother.” Drake nods, typing away.
Killing time, I pull my phone out. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see because it’s not like many people outside the club have my number yet, but I check it anyway. Well, would you look at that? I have one missed call from my Granny, but calling her back will have to wait.
Scrolling through social media, using a dummy account with a picture of a dog and a made-up name so no one knows it’s me, I wait for the brothers to arrive.
I come across an article about the shooting, posted by one of the local news stations, and there she is. The image for the post is a screengrab from a video that must’ve been taken shortly after I took off.
Alex.
My imagination in the shower really didn’t do her enough justice. She’s so fucking beautiful. What I wouldn’t give for another taste.
If I hadn’t been so up close and personal with her, had the image been of some random woman, I probably would have scrolled right past the post, not giving it another thought. But I was. I was all up in her bubble, literally and figuratively, for the hottest few minutes of my life. Had we not been shot at and chased, I never would’ve let her out of my sight. Too bad luck was not on my side that day, and I had no choice but to run.
Just as I click on the post, both mine and Drake’s phones start to ring.
“Something’s wrong.” Thank you, Captain Obvious.
“Yeah,” we both answer our phones at the same time.
“Brother,” it’s Wash, “you need to get the fuck out of there. Cops are on the way.”
“Fuck.” I turn to Drake, and I watch his face shut down.
“Follow Drake’s lead and we’ll see you back at the clubhouse.” Wash hangs up, and the call goes dead.
“What’s the plan?” I ask as I follow Drake deeper into the mill. He started walking, still on the phone with who I’m guessing is Miller, so I stick close behind.
Drake finally ends his call. He unholsters his gun, shrugs off his cut, and hands them to me, along with his phone.
On instinct, I grab everything, shoving his phone in my pocket, tucking the gun in the back of the waistband of my jeans, and holding tight to the leather. He fishes the SUV keys out of his pocket and hands them to me too.
“What the fuck is going on, man? What are you doing?” I stand there, holding the keys like they’re some magical object, so fucking confused.
“That was Miller.” I was right. “You stay inside. Do not, under any circumstances, let anyone see you. Prez’s orders.”
“Drake, quit with the fucking riddles,” I snap. I’m squeezing my fists so tight, holding myself back from shaking the answers out of him; I barely register the keys biting into my palm. “Why do I have to stay inside?”
“Goliath.” I watch as Drake transforms from the previously kind of silly, upbeat, fun brother into a whole new man. His shoulders pull back, I fucking swear he grows three inches, and a mask of indifference falls over his face. He rests his hands on my shoulders and looks me straight in the eyes. “Someone called the cops and reported a B-and-E. Apparently, this building is now owned by the city, so they’re sending their finest. You can’t be caught here, but I can.”
I think I’m starting to see where this is going, and I don’t like it one fucking bit.
“No—”
“Prez’s orders.” I try to argue, but he cuts me off just as the sound of approaching sirens starts to ring. “You need to find somewhere in here to hide. I’ll go outside and cause a distraction. I’ll put up a fight, so they have no choice but to arrest me. Once I’m loaded up and taken away, and the coast is clear, someone will text, and that’ll be your sign to hustle your ass to the SUV and get the fuck back to the clubhouse. There are brothers waiting about a mile down the road. They’ll see you and follow to make sure no one is following you.”
Even though there was very little time to plan this getaway situation, Miller and Wash made their orders, relayed our directions, and we have no choice but to follow them. If the club officers tell you to be the scapegoat and get arrested, you don’t question your orders; you just do it. It doesn’t mean I have to like that Drake is putting himself in the crosshairs for me, but I have no say in this matter anymore.
“I owe you, brother.” I pull Drake in for a bro-back-slapping hug just as tires screech to a halt outside and the sirens go silent, then head for the shadows.
Along the back wall, I find a row of half a dozen dumpsters. They smell something awful, but I think climbing in one of these is going to be my best bet of staying out of sight. I climb in the one farthest to the left so I can still see out the windows and crouch as low as I can. I keep my hands to myself, not wanting to get any dirtier and smellier than I already know I am, and stay silent.
My heart pounds as I watch the police approach Drake, who is out there screaming and hollering at the cops, acting like a drunk idiot. They don’t deal with his seemingly crazy self for long before they tackle and arrest him. They are not being gentle with him whatsoever. If it weren’t for my damn record and the threat of life in prison, I would be out there instead of him.
This isn’t fucking fair.
It doesn't take the cops long to put Drake in the back of the cruiser, and they’re gone. And now I wait.
I check the time on my phone every few minutes, waiting for my all-clear text.
Five minutes.
Nothing.
Ten minutes.
While I wait, I listen for any noises, but I hear none.
Fifteen minutes.
I think about Alex and wonder how the hell she got the skills she has. Someone trained her to fight. I bet she could even kick my ass—not that I would fight her back. My Granny raised me better than that.
Twenty minutes.
My phone screen lights up.
M: Skies are blue.
It’s Miller. It’s my sign to get the fuck out of this place.
Poking my head up out of the dumpster, I take one last cautious look around and see nothing. I hold Drake’s cut in one hand, using the other to leverage my weight, and jump out. I pat my pockets to make sure everything is where it was when I jumped in, then head for the door.
I’m in the SUV, buckled in, and out of the lot in two minutes. Seeing my escort at the end of the block, I nod as I drive by. My tails pull behind me, and off we go.
As if the happenings of the last couple days haven’t been crazy enough, now we have a brother back behind bars. Such is the life of a motorcycle club, I guess. It’s what we signed up for.
This is our life.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But I will say one thing... these are the days I’m thankful for the sometimes-dirty lawyers we have on standby and our not-so-clean deep pockets to pay them. We’re going to need help.