“You got it, man.”
“And don’t sugarcoat it,” he said. “I’m not looking to join my father any time soon.”
Maybe he is finally getting it.
I smiled as I sipped on my beer. But with every passing second, I couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever had driven by had done so to get a sense of where we were. While our bikes were not necessarily distinguishable by someone driving by and making a quick pass, they were definitely distinct from the Fallen Saints. Their black color and the bloody scythe, though not necessarily visible in the darkness of night, were pretty distinguishable to an attentive eye.
“We should get going,” I said.
“Already?” Lane said.
“You didn’t hear the bikes outside sound like they were approaching and then drive off?”
Lane bit his lip, as sure a sign as any that he had gotten so far in his own head that he had not heard anything.
“Maybe I’m paranoid, but if you’re right about there being a spy, the worst place for us to be would be right here. They could do whatever they wanted at the clubhouse, and they would know we’ve been drinking.”
“Fair enough,” Lane said. “Jess! We’ll be back later. Thanks as always for the drinks.”
Lane threw down a twenty, more than enough to cover both drinks and tip, as we headed outside, our heads on a swivel and our hands by our hips, ready to draw our guns if needed. Our bikes were untouched, and, thankfully, the outside area seemed devoid of any Saints.
“I have an idea,” Lane said. “Follow me.”
He was the club President, of course, I was going to follow him.
“I’m not entirely convinced you have the right idea about those bikes driving by,” Lane said. “But this is as good a chance as any to prove your point.”
Lane turned on his bike, and I mine, the two engines of the choppers roaring to life. In most situations, the sound of a motorcycle gearing up and screaming to life could pierce just about anything. In this town, and most especially in this little patch of land that housed Brewskis, it was as much common background noise as birds chirping, cars accelerating on a nearby road, or bells dinging as business doors opened.
Lane turned left as if heading back toward the Black Reapers clubhouse. But barely a tenth of a mile in, he swerved right, going off-road and behind a building that was under construction. The project had only had its skeleton completed, with no filling yet, but at this late hour in the night, the night sky would serve as a better cover than almost any other materials in the building.
“And now,” Lane said as he cut off his chopper and walked to the side of the building closest to the street. “We wait.”
Just like the old days,I thought.Patrol and wait. At least here, the enemy doesn’t know where we are.
Back in Iraq, when we walked the streets, we had to make our faces known. It created something of an awful situation for us, where not only did the enemy see us at all times, they knew our patterns. Sometimes, the politics of appearance made the practice of war an incredibly dangerous game, even more so than war already was.
But here, Lane and I had the enormous advantage of remaining in the darkness and not having to play by some government official’s decree. For once, thinking about the similarity to Iraq did not evoke a strongly negative, horrifying image.
The two of us sat on the dirt ground, looking out in both directions. I looked toward our side of town, Lane toward the Fallen Saints’. A vehicle here and there passed, but none of them were motorcycles. A part of me had my suspicions that the Fallen Saints, if they had wanted to strike, would not use motorcycles. They could have been heard from a mile away.
But, then again, when the Fallen Saints had killed Lane’s first love, they hadn’t exactly bothered to roll up in Teslas. They’d brought the full, obnoxious force of their motorcycles. Subtlety did not seem to be the name of their game.
Really, intelligence did not seem to be the name of their game, but war was never chess when guns were fired.
“I’ll take the blame on this one,” I said after what felt like half an hour had passed. “My paranoia may have gotten the best of me.”
“Your paranoia?” Lane said with a bemused smile. “You’re talking to the guy that just levied the biggest accusation in the history of the Black Reapers, and you’re apologizing for paranoia?”
If you knew my thoughts, yeah, you’d understand.
“Yeah, man,” I sheepishly admitted.
“Damn, Patriot,” Lane said with a smile, still letting a chuckle emit every few seconds. “Damnit, you’re a good friend. I don’t think you’re wrong to think someone might have come.”
But just because Lane had let me off the hook didn’t mean I had acted in a manner that hurt us. Tonight, the hurt was minimal—we had only delayed ourselves from a return home, perhaps from a decent night’s sleep. At worst, people at the headquarters might wonder if we were getting plastered at Brewskis on a weeknight.
That didn’t mean it didn’t foretell of some reckless behavior down the road, though, if we weren’t careful. That didn’t mean people wouldn’t die if I didn’t do shit right.
