5. Falcon
Falcon
Imake it almost three hours before I fuck up again, which has to be some kind of record.
Church ends and Vulture catches my arm before I make it to the door. "Take Rook. Garcia's account is three weeks late again."
It’s not a request. I nod and go find Rook, and twenty minutes later we're parked outside a tire shop on the south side that's been paying the club a cut of its receipts for longer than I've been VP, in exchange for the club making sure nobody else's problems become Garcia's problems. It used to be protection money in the old sense, before the neighborhood got safe enough that nobody remembers why the arrangement started.
Now it's just an arrangement, and arrangements have terms.
Garcia meets us in the back office, already sweating before either of us says a word. He knows why we're here. Everybody always knows why we're here.
"Two weeks," he says. "I swear to God, two weeks and I'm current."
"You said that last month," Rook says, not unkindly. He's not a cruel man. That's not the point of him being here. The point is that he's big enough that cruelty doesn't need to be demonstrated to be understood.
"The shop's slow. Everybody's slow right now, it's not…"
"Not our problem," I say. "The number doesn't care whose fault it is."
He looks at me like he's hoping I'll be the reasonable one, because I usually am, and today that costs him, because today I don't have the patience for reasonable. I put my hand flat on his desk and lean into it until he stops talking.
"Two weeks," I tell him. "If it's not here in two weeks, Rook comes back without me, and Rook doesn't negotiate as nicely."
Rook doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to, Garcia's eyes go to him once and that's the whole message delivered.
We're back on the bikes inside ten minutes. There’s no blood, no broken glass, and nothing that would look like anything to a passerby except two men in cuts having a conversation with a business owner.
That's most of what this looks like, most of the time.
The men who think a motorcycle club runs entirely on gunfights and rescue missions have never sat in the back of a tire shop watching a grown man's hands shake.
I don't feel good about it. I don't feel bad about it either, and that's the part I don't examine too closely most days, because examining it too closely is how a man starts wondering what he actually is under the cut.
After that, I do exactly what I'm supposed to.
I sit with Condor while he pulls camera footage from every road around the south side, check the revised patrol schedule with Ice Pick, spend twenty minutes with Sterling going through the feeder-company records instead of finding an excuse to disappear.
For a while I feel almost normal. Useful, at least.
Then the walls start closing in. It happens slow enough that I don't clock it right away. A tightness across my shoulders. The noise in the common room starting to grate. Every conversation around me turning into one more thing I've got to work at not hearing.
Cara's voice from the porch keeps coming back.
I hated you for not finding me. She hadn't said it to hurt me, which somehow makes it worse.
I understand why she blamed me. If I'd spent five years waiting for somebody to walk through a door and save me, I'd have hated them too.
Knowing that doesn't stop the guilt from digging in deeper.
By three I've read the same paragraph in Sterling's report four times and none of it's staying in my head. I shove the file closed.
Zip looks up from the other side of the table as I reach for my keys. “Where are you going?”
“Out,” I reply, shoving the keys into my pocket.
He taps the schedule lying in front of him. “You’ve got the supply meet at four.”
“I know,” I snap.
Zip raises one eyebrow. “Do you?”
I stop halfway to the door and glare at him. “We’ve already had this conversation.”
“Apparently, we need to have another one.” He folds his arms and settles back in his chair.
“I’m going for a ride,” I tell him. “I’ll be back.”
Zip checks the clock on the wall. “You’ve got forty minutes.”
“Then why are you still talking?” I demand.
He points to the radio sitting on the table. “Take your radio.”
“I’ve got my phone,” I argue.
“Radio,” Zip repeats, his expression making it clear he isn’t backing down.
He waits me out. For a second, I consider arguing simply because I’m pissed off enough to enjoy it. Instead, I snatch the radio from the table and clip it to my belt.
“Happy?” I ask.
“Ecstatic,” Zip replies dryly.
I turn toward the door. “Try not to miss me.”
He picks up the paperwork again. “I’m pretty sure I’ll survive.”
I'm out the door before he can say anything else, and the second the engine turns over beneath me, something in my chest loosens.
That's the whole problem with the bike. It's the one place I can outrun myself.
The wind doesn't ask questions. The road doesn't look at me with concern and tell me to deal with my shit. It just lets me go.
I take the road west, meaning to make one loop and come back. Twenty minutes, thirty at most. The first turn leads to another, then another, and by the time I check my watch it's three forty-seven. I turn the bike around.
The radio at my belt crackles. "Falcon." Zip.
I reach for it, catch static, then nothing.
I try again and get the same. Reception's shit out here.
I pull my phone from inside my cut at the next stop and find no signal at all, and for one stupid second I consider riding another mile before I turn back properly.
Then Ice Pick's voice from the hallway this morning comes back to me. Sooner or later, somebody gets hurt while you're figuring out when you feel like being Falcon again.
I turn around immediately. The ride back takes longer than it should, not because of traffic, the roads are quiet, but because every mile gives me more time to understand something's wrong. By the time my phone finds signal again there are six missed calls. Three from Zip, two from Vulture, one from Rook. Cold drops straight into my stomach. I hit Zip’s number while I’m still moving.
He answers before the first ring finishes. “Where the fuck are you?”
“I’m ten minutes out,” I tell him. “What happened?”
“You were supposed to be at the south warehouse,” Zip snaps.
“I know,” I bite out.
His voice hardens. “Do you?”
“Zip.” I tighten my grip on the handlebars. “What happened?”
His breathing is heavy in my ear. It isn’t panic. It’s adrenaline.
“We had company,” he says.
Everything inside me sharpens. “Who?”
“We don’t know yet,” Zip replies. “A black SUV rolled up while the prospects were loading. Two guys got out and started asking questions.”
“What kind of questions?” I demand.
“They wanted to know who runs the route, how often we move supplies, and whether we’re storing anything off-compound.” His words come quickly now.
My stomach tightens. “Is anybody hurt?”
Zip pauses a beat too long.
“Zip,” I warn.
“Digger took a hit,” he admits.
My hand tightens around the throttle. “How bad?”
“He’s conscious,” Zip assures me. “Knox is checking him now.”
“What the fuck happened out there?” I ask.
“What happened is you fucking weren’t here,” Zip fires back.
I don’t argue because he’s right. I’m already furious enough with myself, and fighting with him would only be another way to hide from it.
“I’m coming in,” I tell him before ending the call.
The gates are already sliding open when I reach the compound.
I ride straight to the garage where half the club's standing.
Digger's on a workbench with blood running down the side of his face while Knox shines a light in one of his pupils.
Rook's cut hangs half open, his knuckles split.
Harrier's got a shotgun resting against the wall, which means somebody had the sense to stop him taking it outside.
Carrot's crouched by the truck bumper looking at the bullet damage like he's trying to memorize it, his jaw is tight because I’d says he’s pissed he wasn't.
Zip stops pacing the second he sees me. Nobody says anything, and the silence tells me everything I need to know.
I kill the bike and get off. "How is he?"
Knox doesn't look up. "Mild concussion probably. Cut needs stitches."
Digger tries to grin. "I'm good."
"You're not good. You're twenty-three and apparently your skull's been protecting a completely unused brain."
A few of the men laugh quietly. Digger winces at the movement and Knox tells him to stop pulling faces, it tugs the cut. Carrot doesn't laugh. He's still staring at the bumper.
"Should've been on that run," he mutters, mostly to himself.
"No," I tell him, sharper than I mean to. "You shouldn't."
He looks up at that, surprised I heard him, and doesn't argue. Good instinct. He'll need it.
I walk closer. "What happened."
Rook answers. "Supply time got bumped up. Warehouse manager had a delivery coming in at four thirty, Sterling messaged the group."
I pull out my phone and turn it on with a feeling I already know what’s going to be there. There's the message I never saw, because I was somewhere with no signal.
Sterling:
SUPPLY MEET MOVED TO 3:30. Falcon confirm.
Underneath it is another message.
Sterling:
Zip covering.
I close my eyes for a second. "What happened when you got there."
"Everything was normal for about ten minutes," Zip says. "Then the SUV rolled in. Two men got out, said they were looking for an address. Nobody bought it."
Rook picks it up. "Digger was loading the truck. One of them walked toward the warehouse instead of leaving."
"He shoved me," Digger says, before anyone else can finish the story for him. "Asked whether I always take orders from criminals. I told him only the charming ones."
Harrier snorts.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter.
"He swung," Rook says. "Second guy pulled a piece; I took him down before he could use it. First guy cracked Digger with something and ran for the SUV."