Zephyr Chapter 9
I was still on a high from Everlyn saying yes to me when Everlyn and Allegra visited the compound. After our make-out session, my woman and I behaved. Not to say we didn’t kiss, but that was as far as I allowed us to go.
The day and evening had been fabulous. We ate, drank some, and played games. We taught the two of them some of our games. I hated to let Everlyn leave at the end of the evening.
Fenrir, Plunderer, and I insisted on riding along to escort them home. The home we pulled up to was a large one in perfect repair. The smaller one behind it was no less idyllic. The yard was immaculate, even in the dark. Riding away to go home to my lonely bed had been crushing for me.
I didn’t get to see her yesterday, on Sunday, because she had work that couldn’t wait, but we talked for three hours before bed last night.
Tonight, I’d call her if I made it back in time.
I was making the fake ID drop-off today down in Port St. Joe, Florida.
It was a hundred and eighty miles one way, so just over three hours riding if there were no delays.
We planned to leave early and be back by evening.
I accompanied Icelander, Spoiler, and Norse.
There was no need for more people. The idea was to remain inconspicuous.
Our contact for the handoff would meet us at a pre-arranged location.
It was a bar known for being a biker hangout.
No one there talked to the cops. The owner didn’t care which clubs stopped in his place, as long as there was no fighting.
His bar was to be treated as neutral, like Switzerland.
There was even a plaque on the wall that made me chuckle every time I saw it.
It read, You’re in Switzerland. Act like it, assholes.
The weather held for us, making the ride wonderful. We made sure to stay within the speed limits and obey all traffic laws. Even though the fake identifications were in a hidden compartment on Icelander’s bike, it was better to be safe.
The customer Icelander had made the IDs for was one we’d worked with for three years.
While we didn’t ask questions about who got them after the handoff, we knew in this case.
And the recipients weren’t criminals, but worthwhile citizens.
These would go toward helping victims of abusive relationships and other dangerous situations escape and start over fresh.
It was referred to as an underground railroad with a modern twist.
Whenever I thought of innocent people being abused, especially children and women, my mind always went back to the night Aksel changed all our lives.
If I could go back in time, I would’ve done things differently.
I would’ve stood up to him, even if it meant my death.
Maybe if I had, others would’ve been emboldened to do the same, and we would’ve outnumbered him and his followers.
We might have prevented the atrocities that followed.
I pushed that train of thought away. Now wasn’t the time.
I needed to be alert. I was here to protect the delivery and my club, and to get us home.
It was true. This delivery wasn’t as highly targeted as a gun run or handing off counterfeit money would be, but it wasn’t without risk.
The likeliest was just other MCs looking to make an example of another group of bikers.
To reduce the likelihood of that happening and to make us less memorable, we wore plain leather cuts without markings. We hated being without our Grave Prowlers’ colors. Mine made me feel protected.
When we reached the city limits of Port St. Joe, we left US Highway 98 and navigated through main streets, then secondary ones, winding our way through neighborhoods. Finally, we reached our destination, the Tipsy Shark bar. It was tucked back behind other buildings containing businesses and homes.
Despite being so early, the parking lot was rather full. It was a well-liked watering hole for bikers. Finding barely enough space to park all four of our bikes together, we backed them in and lined them up. You never parked, so you had to back up to get out. That wouldn’t allow for a fast getaway.
Icelander fiddled with his bike while we stood surrounding it, heckling him for taking so long. It was to hide what he was doing. When he had the IDs tucked inside his cut, we walked as a unit up to the front door and inside.
The dimly lit bar wasn’t as abrupt a change in lighting because we didn’t remove our sunglasses. We used them to scan our environment, automatically pinpointing who our biggest threats were, and visually checking out the other exit. Only after we finished doing that did the sunglasses come off.
Every pair of eyes shifted to take us in. Some gave only a cursory glance, while others sat there staring. The cursory ones were the ones we paid the most attention to. The bartender, a muscular guy in his forties, never smiled as he called out to us.
“Have a seat anywhere.”
Nodding to show we heard him, we went to the table where we could see the entire bar and the exits.
As we made our way there, we spoke in low tones no one else could hear.
But if they did, they wouldn’t understand since we were speaking Old Norse.
We named our targets to each other in case things went sideways.
All four of us were armed with more than a single handgun and several extra magazines, plus our blades, in whatever form they took.
We sat and switched to speaking in English. It was a pre-arranged topic we’d agreed upon before leaving Asgard.
“Aren’t you glad you listened to me? I told you a ride is what we all needed. Work and shit have been crazy lately,” Norse said, sounding proud.
“Yeah, yeah, you were right, for once. No need to rub it in,” Spoiler remarked, grinning.
“We’ll never hear the end of it,” I muttered.
“For sure,” Icelander added.
Norse played his part by protesting and cajoling us into admitting he was the king of good ideas.
It was during this that a tired waitress approached our table.
She was a fake blonde with even faker tits, wearing a short skirt and a skimpy top.
Based on her looks, I’d say she was in her late thirties or early forties, but her actual age was more like late twenties or early thirties. Life wasn’t nice to her.
“Hi, my name is Brenda. Welcome to the Tipsy Shark. What can I get you?” Her voice was trying to sound upbeat, but her expression didn’t support it.
“Hello, Brenda. Can we get four bottles of Michelob?” Spoiler asked as she gave Brenda an encouraging smile.
“Four Michelobs coming right up. If you need anything else, just holler.”
She walked away, attempting to put more swing into her hips, not that it was needed with us. We’d tip her the same no matter what she did, short of pouring our beer into our laps.
“Gotta love being the focus of attention,” Spoiler muttered.
“We always are. Let’s talk about something interesting. You seeing Everlyn tonight when we get back?” Norse asked.
“As long as we get back in time, yep. I plan to take her out to dinner, if she feels up to it.”
“Have you told her that?” Spoiler asked.
“Uh, no, I was waiting until I saw her,” I replied.
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “For the love of Odin, I guess I need to teach you how to communicate and make dates with women. Lesson one: never, if asked if she looks alright, say she looks fine or okay. She’ll take it to mean she looks like hell and change a million times, or verbally fight with you and refuse to go.
“Lesson two: we don’t want to be seen as available without options, even if exclusively dating the guy.
Don’t spring dates on us without notice.
Always plan ahead and ask for our opinion on places to go.
Geez, I’ve got to warn Slayer that we’ll have to do this for all of you to get you settled down. ”
Before I could question her further, and Icelander and Norse verbalized their protests, Brenda was back with our beers and a basket of pretzels. We thanked her. We took sips of our drinks and tossed pretzels into our mouths.
It was minutes later, while we washed down the salty snack, that a man, seated not far from us, got up and came to the table, holding his beer. He was dressed like a biker. We met his stare.
“Hey, mind if I join you? I hate sitting alone. I feel like a rabbit about to be devoured.”
He was our contact. Not that we’d ever seen this guy before, but he’d used the code word, rabbit. We pretended to consider his request, then nodded.
“Sure, have a seat. We won’t be here long, but while we are, you can hang with us,” Icelander said. The guy sat.
“Thanks. I’m John,” he said, holding out his hand in the middle of the table.
I shook it first. “I’m Zephyr.”
“I’m Icelander.”
“Spoiler.”
“They call me Norse.”
“Nice to meet you. Love the road names. I’m not part of a formal club, so I have boring old John,” he chuckled.
“Nothing wrong with that. Are you out riding for enjoyment or are you headed somewhere?” Norse asked.
We had to keep up the illusion that we were strangers just being friendly.
There were still people watching us. Icelander wouldn’t be able to make the handoff until they grew disinterested and looked away.
The back-and-forth chatter continued for ten minutes or so before it was clear to make the move.
Icelander pulled the pretzel bowl in front of him.
Brenda had returned with a refill and offered us another beer, which we declined.
Norse protested the basket move, and I tagged onto his outrage. Then, as one, we rose and leaned over the table toward Icelander and John. We made sure our tone carried and was teasing as we protested his hogging all the pretzels.
With our bodies blocking the view, Icelander slid the bundle from his cut and over to John, who swiftly slid it into his inner cut pocket. Once the handoff was complete, Norse and I sat down with the basket back in the middle of the table.