Chapter 18 Axel/Darla
Axel/Darla
We parked right at the foot of the stairs, front tires kissing the sacred curb.
I could see the ushers twitch, a wave of panic hitting their comb-overs as they realized the “biker problem” from the evening news was now a live event.
The choir was still singing inside, voices floating out through the open sanctuary doors, but the real show was about to start on the lawn.
Vin swung off his Road Glide and stretched his back like he owned the whole damn block.
He scanned the crowd, zeroing in on the highest-value targets: the pearl-wearing matriarchs, the dads in golf shirts trying to corral their sons.
He flipped open a manila envelope and fanned out a stack of flyers, the black-and-white pages barely able to contain the grainy warehouse photos, the manifests, the blurry faces behind the bars.
Above it all, the headline: “THE TRUE WORK OF FABLE CHRISTIAN—SEE IT FOR YOURSELF.”
The congregation was a perfect spectrum of panic.
Some tried to ignore us, gripping their Bibles like shields, but most couldn’t look away.
I watched as the flyers hit the hands of a group of church deacons—they scanned the images, eyes going wide at the sight of unmarked crates, then flicked up in unison, straight at the church doors.
A few guys in security polos, ex-jocks gone soft, started herding women and kids behind the columns.
It was almost touching, until you remembered half these assholes were in on the scam.
Vin caught my eye and jerked his head, like, “Your move, kid.” I got it. This was my op, my beef, but I wasn’t feeling the victory yet. Not until I saw her.
Darla.
She was framed perfectly in the front pew, visible through the huge open doors, light slashing across her face in stripes through the stained glass.
Her hair was pinned up, too many bobby pins for fashion and not enough for security.
She wore a blue dress that probably met every inch of the church’s modesty code, but the fabric hugged her hips in a way that was pure rebellion.
She gripped her hymnal so tight the tendons stood out on the backs of her hands.
Around her neck was the chain, my old silver ring threaded next to her cross, hidden but not invisible.
I felt the hit like a sucker punch. All my tough-guy posturing, the bravado and the beer, and there she was—scared, angry, beautiful, and impossibly brave.
I raised my hand in a casual wave, not sure she’d see me, but she did.
Her face flickered through a hundred emotions in a second: shock, terror, then a fierce kind of pride that made my whole body lock up.
She dipped her chin, once. That was all I needed.
The choir finished their song, a reedy “Onward Christian Soldiers” that would have been funny if not for the sheer number of actual soldiers outside the building. And then, as if the drama had been waiting for him, Reverend Maple appeared at the doors.
He didn’t walk. He glided, every step choreographed like a politician on a debate stage. His suit was tailored, red tie brighter than a blood drop, every hair in place. He paused at the top of the steps, one hand raised, a smile already loaded for the news crews.
“Brothers and sisters!” he called out, voice booming like he’d been practicing in the mirror. “Welcome, friends and guests! What a blessing to have such… lively interest in today’s service.”
He steepled his fingers, a move I’d seen a hundred times in his office when he was about to tear someone down without raising his voice.
He scanned the crowd—didn’t acknowledge us by name, not yet.
That was the trick, to act as if the wolves on your porch were nothing but stray puppies.
He waited, letting the silence stretch, watching the flyers pass hand-to-hand.
Vin laughed, a deep-chested rumble that drew every head. “Nice tie, preacher. You dress up for us?”
Maple kept smiling, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “I dress for the Lord, son. But you’re welcome to take notes.”
Canon, always the poet, added, “You gonna read them their rights, or just their last rites?”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, the tension snapping between curiosity and outright fear.
Some of the old men on the council tried to shield the women, but it was like throwing up an umbrella in a tornado.
I saw the principal of the church school—Mrs. O’Hara—pull a flyer from a kid’s hand, then nearly drop it when she saw the photos.
She looked up at Reverend Maple, her eyes huge and pleading.
He gave her a slow, reassuring nod, then finally addressed us for real.
“We are a house of God,” he intoned, each syllable ironclad.
“We do not tolerate slander, nor violence, nor the peddling of falsehoods. I invite our guests—” He gave a perfect politician’s pause.
“—to bring their accusations inside, where we can answer as Christians.”
Vin stepped forward, but I grabbed his arm. “That’s what he wants. We do it out here, in the sun.” I looked up at the cross, towering over us all. “Let him sweat.”
I turned back to the crowd, raising my voice for the first time. “This isn’t about faith, or family. It’s about the kids they’re locking in trailers behind that warehouse. It’s about the meth cooking under your noses. These flyers are real. The evidence is real.”
A woman up front, pearl necklace clutched so hard her knuckles were white, called out, “You’re liars! My son works for the church—he’d never—”
“He doesn’t even know,” I shot back, and her face crumbled. “That’s the genius of it. The Reverend’s got everyone so brainwashed, nobody asks what’s really going on. But I did. And I found out.”
Maple’s smile was gone now, replaced with a look of paternal disappointment.
He stepped forward, hands raised in benediction.
“My dear friends, I have served this community for twenty years. I have held your children, buried your parents, wept with you through every trial. Does anyone here believe, for a second, that I would let such evil take root in this church?”
He looked around, fishing for witnesses. “Have I not preached love? Have I not lived in service?”
He was good. Even I felt the tug of his words, and I hated his guts. Several people nodded, some even looked ashamed for listening to us at all. The fear was still there, but now it was mixed with the urge to defend their shepherd.
But Vin was better. He strode up the steps, two at a time, and planted himself in front of Maple. They were the same height, but Vin outweighed him by a hundred pounds of muscle and tattoos.
“You’re a fucking snake,” he said, voice low enough for only the front rows to hear but packed with enough venom to kill a horse. “And the only reason you’re still talking is that we want it in the open.”
He turned to the crowd, holding a flyer up like it was a holy text. “Don’t take my word for it. Go to the warehouse. Look in the trailers. Ask the Reverend why the kids in these pictures haven’t been seen since their families joined the church.”
Maple tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “If you think I’m afraid of a few malcontents—”
“Not afraid,” I cut in. “Just pissed you got caught.”
He leveled a look at me, a razor-sharp appraisal. “Ah, the infamous Axel. My daughter’s savior.”
I grinned. “That’s the plan.”
That got a reaction. Not just from him, but from Darla, whose face flashed panic at the exchange. She clutched the hymnal to her chest, the knuckles whitening even further, and I saw her lips form a silent “please.” Whether it was a plea for me to stop or for him to back off, I couldn’t say.
Maple locked eyes with me, all traces of warmth gone. “You’ve been deceived, son. My daughter is a child, easily led astray by sweet words and false promises. You’ve dragged her into something she can’t possibly understand.”
I saw Darla’s jaw tighten at that. She wasn’t a child, and he knew it.
Vin didn’t wait for another round of bullshit. He grabbed the church microphone from the outdoor pulpit and handed it to me. I took it, feeling the old stage fright spark in my chest. I hated speaking in public, but if this was my only shot, I’d make it count.
I scanned the faces—neighbors, old coaches, girls I’d fucked behind the McDonald’s dumpster, teachers who’d tried to get me into trade school. Every one of them was looking for a reason to believe it wasn’t true. I gave it to them straight.
“I grew up like you. I believed in what they told me. But sometimes faith isn’t enough.
Sometimes you gotta look at the evidence and make your own decision.
” I held up the stack of papers, waving them for the cameras.
“Go to the address on these flyers. See for yourself. And if you find nothing, I’ll eat my colors right here in front of God and everybody. ”
That set off another round of murmurs, louder now, edges of the crowd shifting as people started to doubt. I saw a few cell phones come out, snapping photos of the evidence, some even dialing numbers—maybe the warehouse, maybe the police.
Maple saw it too. For the first time, I saw a crack in his mask. His fingers clutched at his suit sleeves, hands steepling and un-steepling as he tried to recapture the narrative.
“Enough,” he said, soft but deadly. “This ends now.”
He signaled to someone behind the doors, and I saw the church’s private security—Bart and Sarge, with two other guys I didn’t recognize—emerge in tactical formation, hands hidden in jackets, faces set to “violence imminent.” The crowd drew back, sensing the change.
Vin squared up, grinning. “Now it’s a party.”
I saw Darla, front row, mouth open, eyes tracking her father, then me, then the bruisers moving in from the sides. She looked like she wanted to run, or maybe scream, but she was frozen. I could see the outline of the ring under her dress, rising and falling with every panicked breath.