“I could stay here all day,” I said.
“You should,” he said. “Never know when you won’t get another chance.”
That’s when I saw them. Four shadows, moving through the play structure like they owned the place. Three in cheap windbreakers, one with a limp and a haircut straight out of a Marine recruitment poster. Even from fifty yards, I recognized the limp. Silas “Sarge” Burrows. My father’s personal bulldog, always the first to volunteer when something ugly needed doing.
They fanned out, slow and casual, making a show of not looking at us. I tensed, but Axel just set his elbows on his knees and stared straight ahead.
“You know them?” he asked, low and quiet.
I nodded. “They work for my dad.”
“Thought so.”
The four of them circled the bench, not close enough for a mugging but close enough that you could smell the plastic cologne and the tobacco sweat. Sarge took point, his arms folded over his chest, boots planted wide.
“Morning, Princess,” he said, voice like broken glass. “Your daddy sends his regards.”
I wanted to say something smart, but my throat went dry.
Axel stood, slow and deliberate. I saw the change come over him, the way his shoulders squared and his hands relaxed at his sides, open and loose. It was the way animals acted when the killing started—not angry, just resigned.
“You want something?” he asked. “Or you just here to do a meet and greet?”
Sarge grinned. “We’re here to collect a debt.”
Axel laughed. “Don’t owe you shit, Sarge.”
“Oh, but you do.” Sarge turned to me, his smile going wolfy. “Unless Darla wants to come quietly?”
Axel stepped between us, blocking the view. “Get the fuck out of here.”
For a second, nobody moved. Then the biggest of the goons—a slab of human beef with a shaved head and hands like Christmas hams—lunged.
Axel barely had time to turn and yell, “Run!” before the fist hit him square in the jaw.
I hesitated, because that’s what cowards do. I stood there, paralyzed, as Axel went down on one knee and spat blood into the grass. The second guy—a weasel-faced creep I recognized from Sunday school security—grabbed Axel’s arm and twisted. The third hung back, scanning the playground for witnesses.
Sarge just watched, hands in his pockets, as if this were Sunday brunch.
“Axel!” I screamed.
He looked at me with one eye already swelling shut. “Get out of here, Darla. Now.”
The big guy hauled back for another swing, but Axel drove his skull into the man’s crotch with a headbutt so vicious I heard the impact from where I stood. The man folded, retching. Axel staggered upright and caught the weasel in the temple with an elbow. The crack was wet, like a snapping carrot.
But then all four of them were on him, fists flying. I tried to run at them, tried to scream, but Sarge grabbed me by the wrist. I yanked free, my jacket tearing at the seam, and bolted for the street.
Behind me, I heard the sounds of boots on flesh—dull, rhythmic, brutal. I turned just once and saw Axel on the ground, three men stomping him into the dirt while Sarge stalked over, arms folded, watching like a coach at practice.
I kept running. My lungs burned, my eyes stung, and the only thing I could taste was the metallic echo of Axel’s blood. By the time I hit the curb and the world came back into focus, I realized I’d left him behind.
I wanted to go back, but the fear was a living thing inside me, howling and wild. So I did what good girls do. I ran, and prayed he’d still be breathing when I found help.
Running is supposed to make you feel free. All it did was make me sick, lungs burning like I’d swallowed bleach. My jeans and jacket were streaked with mud and what I hoped was only mud. I sprinted through the brittle grass, past the playground, past the chain-link that marked the boundary between Sutter Park and the crumbling row of strip malls beyond. Somewhere behind me, I could still hear the dull slap of fists and the grunt of a man trying not to die.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw Axel’s face, caved in and bleeding, and the way Sarge smiled when he said “Princess.” I wanted to puke, but I didn’t have time. There were no people in the park, not even a cop car passing slow. I hit the sidewalk and ran along Main, scanning for anyone who looked old enough to dial 911 or mean enough to make someone think twice.
My heart was a wild, galloping thing, rattling my ribs with every stride. I almost ran straight into the glass door of the Speedway before I saw the three bikers hunched around the propane tanks, chain-smoking and swigging Monster out of a bottle in turns. Two had the Bastards’ colors, the third wore a denim jacket but had the same look—scabbed knuckles, eyes always moving.
