Chapter Two #2
The statue connected with his temple with a sickening crack. His eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the floor. I landed beside him, breathing hard, adrenaline still surging through my system. One of the wheels had broken off the motorcycle statue, skittering across the floor.
I winced.
I hadn't meant to break it.
I poked the man cautiously. Out cold, but breathing. Blood trickled from the gash on his temple where the statue had connected.
Now what?
I couldn't leave him here. What if he woke up before the bikers returned? I couldn't let him escape after what he'd tried to do. Not after I'd committed to this spectacularly bad decision.
I looked at the computer. The device was still plugged in, still blinking. I yanked it out and shoved it in my pocket.
Evidence.
The next problem was moving him. He had to weigh at least twice what I did. But I'd moved heavier things when necessary.
I grabbed him under the arms and began the laborious process of dragging him from the office. Each pull sent pain shooting through my undernourished muscles. Down the hallway, through the kitchen and out the back door to the yard.
Sweat soaked through my hoodie by the time I reached the picnic table—the same one where the red-haired cook left food for me.
Fitting, somehow.
I needed something to secure him. Rope, tape, anything. I remembered seeing a garage or workshop attached to the main building. I might find something useful there.
I left the man sprawled in the dirt and slipped into the workshop through a side door. The space smelled of oil and metal and rubber. Tools hung in neat rows on pegboards. Parts of motorcycles in various stages of repair filled workbenches. A coil of sturdy rope hung on a hook near the door.
Perfect.
By the time I returned, the man had started to groan, shifting slightly.
I worked quickly, binding his wrists behind him, and then securing him to one of the heavy picnic table legs.
I used more rope than necessary, wrapping it multiple times in complex knots I'd learned from a sailor who'd once shared a homeless camp with me.
"No getting out of that," I muttered as I finished the last knot.
The man's eyes fluttered. I stepped back, statue still clutched in my hand in case he tried anything.
He blinked, confusion giving way to anger as he realized his situation. He tested the bonds, then glared at me. "You little shit," he snarled. "Do you have any idea who I'm working for? You're dead."
I'd heard better threats from hungrier men. "Shut up," I said, my voice rusty from disuse.
"Untie me now and maybe I'll just break your arms instead of your neck."
I almost laughed. Thieves were all the same—threats and bluster when caught. I'd seen plenty in my years on the street. Always taking what wasn't theirs, leaving misery in their wake. If they put half the effort into honest work that they did into stealing, they'd be rich.
"No," I said simply.
"Listen, kid, you don't want to get involved in this. This is between me and the Soldiers of Fortune. Let me go, walk away, and you'll never see me again."
I picked up the broken wheel from the statue that I'd carefully retrieved from the office. "You broke their statue," I said, holding it up. "And tried to steal from their computer."
"That's not—" He cut himself off, clearly realizing explaining his actual crime wouldn't help his case.
I stepped closer, making sure he could see my eyes. Most humans found something unsettling about them—too golden, too reflective, too unlike their own. "I don't like thieves."
He swallowed hard, looking away. "What are you going to do with me?"
I glanced toward the gate. "Nothing. They will."
Fear flashed across his face. "You can't leave me for them. You don't understand what they'll do."
I shrugged. "Should've thought of that before you broke in."
I checked the ropes one last time, making sure they were secure. The man continued to threaten and plead alternately, but I tuned him out. The distant rumble of motorcycle engines told me the club members would be returning soon.
My work here was done. I moved back toward the bushes, the broken motorcycle statue still clutched in my hand. I'd place it on the picnic table later as an offering—payment for breaking it. Maybe they'd forgive the damage when they saw what I'd caught for them.
I huddled back in my hiding spot, heart hammering against my ribs as the sound of approaching motorcycles grew louder. The engines' roar hit me like a physical blow—loud noises had always been my enemy, overloading my sensitive hearing and setting my nerves on edge.
I pressed my hands against my ears, trying to block out the worst of it as the bikers rolled through the gate and into the yard. They hadn't noticed the gift I'd left them yet. The thief remained tied to the picnic table, now gagged with a strip of his own shirt to silence his constant threats.
I'd added that touch just before retreating to the bushes.
The red-haired cook—Rooster—was among the last to park his bike. He removed his helmet, running a hand through his flaming hair before glancing toward my usual spot. Looking for me again. Something warm and uncomfortable stirred in my chest.
Then the shouting started.
"What the hell?"
"Butch! We've got a situation!"
"Someone get over here!"
The yard erupted into chaos as they discovered the bound man. Seven large, leather-clad bikers converged on the picnic table, voices overlapping in a painful assault on my ears. I cringed deeper into the foliage, fighting the urge to run.
I needed to see this through.
The bearded leader—Butch, they'd called him—barked orders I couldn't quite make out over the commotion. Two men hauled the thief to his feet while still attached to the table leg. Another removed the gag.
The thief started talking immediately, words tumbling out in a desperate stream. I couldn't hear everything, but caught snippets: "...just following orders..." and "...didn't get anything..." and "...wasn't my idea..."
Rooster stood slightly apart from the others, his head tilted as if sensing something. He turned slowly, scanning the edge of the yard, his gaze eventually settling near—but not directly on—my hiding spot.
I had a choice to make. I could stay hidden, let them deal with the thief however they wanted, and return to my regular pattern of accepting food left at night. Safe. Anonymous. Or I could make myself known, explain what had happened, maybe earn something more than scraps.
Dangerous. Exposed. But possibly worth it.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I moved just enough to make the bushes rustle deliberately. Rooster's eyes snapped to the movement, narrowing slightly. I raised one hand just high enough to be visible above the greenery, then beckoned him closer before withdrawing it again.
His eyebrows shot up. He glanced back at the others, still focused on the thief, then walked casually toward my hiding spot as if just checking the perimeter.
When he was close enough, I whispered, "Computer."
He startled, clearly not expecting me to speak. "What?"
"He was at the computer." I pointed toward the clubhouse.
Rooster looked from me to the building, then back again. "You saw what he was doing?"
I nodded.
"Can you show me?"
I weighed my options. Going inside meant being trapped, cornered. But staying outside meant others might notice our conversation. I pointed to the side door—not the main entrance where everyone was gathered.
"Okay," he said, seeming to understand my caution. "I'll meet you there."
I circled wide around the yard, keeping to the shadows while Rooster approached the others. He spoke briefly to Butch, who nodded, before heading toward the side door.
I reached it first, slipping inside and immediately locating all possible exits in the room. Always know your escape routes—first rule of survival.
Rooster entered a moment later, moving slowly as if trying not to startle a wild animal. Smart man. "I'm Rooster," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle for such a large person.
I nodded. I knew.
"You've been the one taking the food I leave out."
Another nod.
"And you stopped that guy from... what? Stealing data?"
I pulled the small USB device from my pocket and held it out. Rooster took it, examining the blinking light with a frown.
"Can you show me where he was?"
I gestured for him to follow but maintained distance between us as I led him through the clubhouse to the office.
Every few steps, I glanced back, making sure he wasn't too close and that no one else had joined us.
The whole time, I kept track of windows, doorways, alternate paths—anything that could become an escape route if needed.
In the office, I pointed to the computer, then mimed typing. I pointed to the USB port, then to the device in his hand.
"He was downloading files?" Rooster asked.
I shrugged. Maybe. I hadn't exactly understood what the man was doing, just that it involved the computer and that suspicious device.
I set the silver motorcycle statue on the desk and pointed to the broken wheel.
"You broke it?" His tone wasn't accusatory, just curious.
I nodded, then mimed hitting the thief with it.
His eyes widened slightly. "You knocked him out with this? Then tied him up outside?"
I nodded again, then reached into my pocket. I pulled out my meager treasures—three quarters, two dimes, a nickel, and a half-eaten cherry lollipop I'd been saving for a special occasion. I arranged them carefully beside the broken statue.
"What's this?" Rooster asked.
I pointed to the broken wheel, then to my small pile of possessions. Payment for damages.
Understanding dawned on his face, followed by something that looked strangely like sadness. "Kid, you don't need to pay for anything. You did us a favor."
I frowned, not quite believing him. Nothing was ever free. There was always a cost.
"What's your name?" he asked.
I hesitated, then spotted a notepad on the desk. I picked up a pen and carefully wrote "Liam" in crude, blocky letters. My education had been limited to what I could teach myself from discarded books and occasional visits to public libraries when I could slip past security.
"Liam," he read. "I'm Daniel, but everyone calls me Rooster."
The door opened behind us, and the bearded leader stepped in. I immediately shifted position, putting the desk between us and moving closer to the window.
"This him?" the man asked Rooster.
Rooster nodded. "Butch, this is Liam. Liam, this is our club president, Butch."
I gave a slight nod, but remained poised for quick movement.
Butch studied me with piercing eyes that seemed to see more than I wanted to show. "Thank you for catching our intruder. We've been trying to figure out who's been accessing our systems."
I shrugged. Wasn't my business. I just didn't like thieves.
"You've been taking the food Rooster leaves out," Butch continued. "How long have you been watching our place?"
I held up three fingers.
"Months?" When I nodded, he exchanged a look with Rooster that I couldn't interpret. "Where are you staying?"
I didn't answer. Some information was too dangerous to share.
"We can help you," Butch said. "If you need a place—"
The door opened again, and a massive man filled the doorframe—the largest of the bikers by far. His presence seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room.
My body went into automatic assessment: too big to fight, too strong to resist, blocking the main exit. Window behind me. Two large men between me and the door. Odds of escaping unharmed if they decided to keep me here: minimal.
I edged toward the wall, eyes darting between all three men.
"This the kid?" the new arrival rumbled.
That was enough. I'd pushed my luck too far already.
In one fluid motion, I vaulted onto the desk, leaped to the floor on the opposite side, and darted past Rooster. He reached for me, but I was already gone, slipping through the gap between him and the doorframe.
I sprinted down the hallway, ignoring the shouts behind me. Through the kitchen, out the back door, across the yard in a blur of movement. I heard heavy footsteps in pursuit, but no one could match my speed, not even on their best day.
I disappeared into the gathering darkness at the edge of the property, the plants parting to make a path only I could see, then closing behind me to cover my tracks.
They'd been kind. They might even have meant their offer of help. But kindness could be revoked, help could become a trap, and I'd survived this long by trusting no one completely.
Still, as I melted into the shadows, I found myself wondering what might have happened if I'd stayed.