Chapter 5 — Diesel
I don't sleep.
I spend the night in my room at the clubhouse staring at the ceiling and replaying the kiss, the way her mouth felt under mine, the way she gripped my shoulders and kissed me back like she meant it.
The way she looked at me after with swollen lips and said you can't watch me the same way after this.
She was right. I can't.
I kissed Victor Crane's daughter while Marrow was positioning in Bloomfield and I kissed her like I wanted her, like the strategic considerations mattered less than the fact that she was standing there telling me she's tired of calculating and I understood that in ways I didn't want to examine.
By five-thirty I give up on sleep.
I pull on jeans and a shirt and head downstairs where the clubhouse is quiet except for the creak of old wood settling and the first grey light coming through the windows.
The coffee pot is where I left it and I make a full batch because I'm going to need it, stand at the counter drinking it black while the cicadas start their noise outside.
My phone rings at six-seventeen.
Unknown number. I answer it because unknown numbers this early usually mean something's wrong.
"Diesel?" The voice is strained, older, unfamiliar. "This is Tom Hendricks, Ray's neighbor. You need to get to County General right now. Ray's been hurt bad."
The coffee cup stops halfway to my mouth and everything in me goes still. "How bad."
"Real bad. Ambulance took him maybe thirty minutes ago.
There was blood all over his driveway, all over the side of his truck.
They wouldn't tell me what happened but I heard one of the EMTs say assault, say head trauma, and Ray wasn't moving when they loaded him.
Wasn't making any sound. I only got your number because it was in his phone under emergency contact. "
The rage that floods through me is immediate and cold, so focused it narrows my vision to a single sharp point. Ray. Beaten. Head trauma. Not moving.
This is Crane's response to the photos.
This is the message.
"I'm on my way," I say, and my voice comes out flat and hard.
I end the call and head for the door and Clint's coming down the stairs already dressed, already moving like he heard the phone and read the tone.
"What happened?" he asks.
"Ray's at County General. Beaten. Head trauma. Not conscious."
His jaw tightens and I can see him processing, see him making the same connections I'm making. "Marrow."
"Yeah."
"You going to the hospital?"
"After."
"After what?"
"After I find whoever did this and put them down."
I'm already moving toward my bike when Clint's voice cuts across the yard, sharp and commanding. "Diesel. Stop."
I don't stop. I swing my leg over the bike and reach for the ignition.
"We don't know who did it yet," Clint says, and he's walking toward me now, deliberately, the way you approach something dangerous. "We don't know if it was Dutch or someone else or how many of them there were. You go off alone right now and you're going to get yourself killed."
"I know who did it. Dutch. Marrow enforcer. Same guy who put Perry in the hospital last year, same guy who's been Crane's muscle since before we started watching them. And I'm going to find him and I'm going to break every bone in his fucking body for putting his hands on Ray."
"Not alone you're not."
I start the bike and the engine roars to life, vibration running through me, and I'm about to pull out when Tate comes through the front door of the clubhouse moving fast, phone still in his hand.
"Don't," he says, and his voice is hard. "Don't do it, Diesel."
"Get out of my way."
"No." He positions himself between me and the exit, and behind him Holt's coming out of the clubhouse now too, and Knox is crossing the yard, and I can see what's happening. They're going to stop me. Physically if necessary.
"Ray's at County General in critical condition," I say, and my voice is getting louder, the control starting to crack.
"Dutch beat him, probably with a pipe or a bat based on what Tom said about the blood, and he did it because I made Sienna visible.
Because the photos worked. Because Crane saw his daughter with a Vigil brother and decided to send a message.
And that message is Ray in the hospital with head trauma.
So I'm going to find Dutch and I'm going to kill him, and you can either get out of my way or you can try to stop me, but either way I'm leaving. "
"You're not thinking straight," Tate says.
"I'm thinking perfectly fucking straight. Dutch hurt Ray. I hurt Dutch. That's how this works."
"Not alone. Not like this. Not when you're so pissed off you can barely see."
I kill the engine and I'm off the bike before I've consciously decided to move, and I'm in Tate's face close enough to see his pupils contract.
"Don't tell me I can't see. I can see fine.
I can see Ray in a hospital bed because I made a strategic decision that worked exactly like it was supposed to.
I can see Dutch walking around thinking he sent his message and got away with it.
I can see Crane sitting in his clubhouse waiting for us to react.
And I'm going to give him exactly what he's waiting for. "
"Yeah, and you're going to do it with backup or you're not going to do it at all." Tate doesn't step back, doesn't flinch. "You go alone, you die. You die, Ray doesn't get justice and Vigil's down a brother and Crane wins. You want that?"
"I want Dutch dead."
"You'll get that. But you'll get it smart or you won't get it at all."
I shove him, hard, both hands to his chest, and he staggers back a step but doesn't go down. The rage is demanding release, demanding action, and he's standing between me and that action, and I can feel my hands curling into fists.
"Don't," Clint says, voice sharp. "Don't do it, Diesel. You swing on Tate, you're swinging on your brother, and that's a line."
I'm breathing hard, fists clenched, staring at Tate who's standing there solid and calm like he's been here before, like he knows exactly how close I am to crossing that line and he's prepared to let me if that's what it takes to stop me from doing something stupider.
"He beat Ray," I say, and my voice comes out raw. "Put him in the hospital. Because of me. Because I made her visible."
"I know." Tate's voice is quieter now but no less firm.
"And we're going to handle it. But we're going to handle it right.
We're going to find out where Dutch is, we're going to coordinate, and we're going to take him down with enough brothers that he doesn't have a chance.
You get your shot at him. But you get it smart. "
"I don't want to be smart. I want him bleeding."
"You'll get that too. But not like this. Not alone. Not when you're about three seconds away from getting yourself killed because you're not thinking tactically, you're thinking emotionally."
He's right and I hate that he's right. Going after Dutch alone while I'm this pissed off is suicide. But the rage doesn't care about tactical reality. The rage just wants violence, wants revenge, wants Dutch on the ground not breathing.
"Go to the hospital," Clint says. "See Ray. Be there when he wakes up. We'll coordinate here. By the time you're back, we'll have a location on Dutch and a plan to take him. You'll get your chance. But you get it with backup."
I want to argue. Want to tell them all to fuck off and go after Dutch myself and deal with whatever happens after.
But Ray's at County General and being there when he wakes up matters more than immediate revenge.
And they're right. Going alone gets me killed and that doesn't help Ray and it doesn't help Vigil.
"Fine," I say, and the word tastes like ash. "But when we move, I'm the one who takes him. Not Tate, not anyone else. Me."
"Agreed," Clint says.
I head for my truck instead of the bike because I need to not be wearing the cut when I walk into that hospital, need to look like something other than what I am so they'll let me in to see Ray.
The drive to County General takes twenty-three minutes and I spend all of it with my hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles go white, replaying Tom's voice saying there was blood all over his driveway and feeling the guilt settle deeper with every mile.
This is my fault.
I proposed the fake dating. I took her to The Anchor. I made sure the photos spread.
I wanted Crane emotional instead of strategic.
I got what I wanted.
And Ray paid for it.
The hospital parking lot is half-empty this early, mostly night shift staff heading out and day shift arriving.
I park and walk through the automatic doors into the emergency department and the smell hits immediately, antiseptic and floor cleaner and something underneath that's blood and fear and suffering compressed into recycled air.
The woman at the desk looks up when I approach. Forty-something, tired eyes, name tag that says Gloria.
"I'm here for Raymond Torres," I say, and I keep my voice level even though everything in me is screaming. "Came in maybe an hour ago. Assault victim."
She types something, eyes scanning her screen. "Are you family?"
"I'm what he's got."
She studies my face for three seconds, and I can see her making the assessment, deciding whether to bend the rules or make me wait outside.
"Third floor," she says finally. "Surgical ICU. Someone will update you when there's news, but he's still in surgery now so it's going to be a while."
I take the elevator up and the surgical waiting area is exactly what I expected. Uncomfortable chairs bolted to the floor, fluorescent lights that hum, vending machines in the corner, and a TV mounted high on the wall playing morning news with the sound off. I'm the only one here.
I sit and I wait.