Hatch
Three months ago (ish)…
IGLANCED AROUND my shop and grinned. Razor was finally mobile enough to hang with us back at the shop. He’d been beat to shit in a blitz attack by the Spiders, right before they’d grabbed Booker’s kid, Cash, and taken him back to one of their warehouses. Cash had been able to talk his way out, but Razor hadn’t fared so well and was finally on the mend (due to his gifted physical therapist, Waverly Anderson, whom he’d fallen in love with). Now, however, he was watching us wrench on a few of the cars from a stool with his leg elevated. Flea had RatHound’s first CD blasting on the sound system, and spirits were high, as it was nearly quittin’ time for the guys on shift.
“Why is this ’62 Sportster still here?” I asked, pulling a beer from the shop fridge.
“We’re waiting for Grip to get back from Daryl’s with the correct exhaust clamps. The vintage ones that came in were for a ’78 panhead, so we’re going with the repro ones instead,” Flea said.
“Did you ask the client if that’s okay?” I asked.
Flea nodded. “Tim said he was cool with us using non-vintage clips if it meant having the bike ready for Sturgis. I told him we’d re-order the correct clips and replace them at no extra charge whenever it was convenient for him.”
“Alright, sounds good,” I said, before adding, “Hey, how long did you say Grip’s been gone?”
“Almost an hour and a half,” Razor replied.
I frowned. “Motorworks is only twenty minutes away. How long does it take to pick up a box of clips?”
Brian shrugged. “It was around four-twenty when he left, maybe he hit the shop for a little sticky icky.”
“We have our own stash here,” Flea pointed out.
“Hold on.” I felt my phone buzz, and pulled it out of my pocket. “It’s a video call from an unknown number. Maybe it’s Grip.”
“Hatch, so nice to see your face.”
I clenched my jaw. Fucking Warlock.
“Warlock,” I said. “What do you want?”
“Well, you know what I want, Hatch. However, you seem unwilling to hand it over to me peacefully so I thought we could try another approach,” Warlock said.
I walked the phone over to my guys and they gathered around it.
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” I asked.
“Well, as you so eloquently put it to me when we last spoke, you’re a businessman, and these are business matters. You said you’d rather negotiate than see blood spilled on the streets of Portland, and so here I am. Ready to negotiate.”
I couldn’t tell where Warlock was calling from, only that he was outside.
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “And I’m sure Sundance will be happy to hear it as well.”
Warlock smiled wide. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve already spoken with Sundance. He’s well aware of my proposed terms and seemedexcitedabout what I had to say.”
“What’s on your mind?” I asked.
“I’m so glad you asked, old friend. Because what’s on my mind is what’s on your mind. For example, I’d love to know just how far the president of a non-one-percenter club would go to save one of his own lost sheep.” Warlock panned the camera to show Grip, his wrists bound, and duct tape wrapped around mouth and neck. His eyes were darting back and forth, and he looked terrified. He’d clearly been beaten and was being held up by two Spiders. One on each side.
“Where are you?” I growled.
“Oh, man. I really wish you were here with us now. I’m sure your boy, Grip, does too, you know what I mean?”
“You lay one more finger on him and I’ll gut you like a fish,” I snarled.
“You, see! That’s what I’m talking about, my man. You act like you’re above committing acts of violence, but you’re just like me, Hatch. A man who’s willing to kill for what’s his.”
“Where are you?” I demanded.
