Page 8 of Biker's Collar: Property of Scrap

“Tell me one of you brought the key.”

“Yeah,” Deacon says. “I did.”

He shoots the door handle three times until the metal flies off. Some fucking warning would have been nice. I don’t bother covering my ears, but I can’t really hear too well for a few seconds. Fucking idiot. Abraham Dorn is red in the face and he covers his ears. He’s quiet now that Deacon fired his gun. Sobered him up just enough to recognize that the sound of gunshots symbols his mortality. He looks over at me, but I don’t make eye contact with him.

I’m still wrapping my head around why the fuck my brother would drop me into this situation without any warning. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Once. Might be Ethan. Then three more times. Okay, that’s Wyatt. I have to ignore him, because Deacon gestures for me to enter the warehouse.

“All clear.”

I shove my knee into Dorn’s back and shove him into the warehouse behind Deacon.

“Where are we going, buddy?” Deacon asks our prisoner. “This door, or that one?”

We’re in the large, empty part of the warehouse where they must unload trucks. There’s a door on the west end of the warehouse, then a ledge that leads to a door on the right on the opposite end.

“That one.”

“You sure? Because lying won’t make you live longer.”

The guy is too high to even look worried. But his body can’t hide his natural reaction to the threat despite the drugs. His shoulders tense up and he can’t help but look from me to Deacon nervously. He’s not even conscious of it, but I am. Spend a lot of my time studying body language hoping it will help me at the poker tables. I feel an odd sense of pent up pressure that remains in desperate need of relief from the unfinished game earlier.

“I’m sure,” our prisoner reassures Deacon. I prod him again and we walk along the ledge towards the far door. I don’t hear anything that sounds like women held captive. No guards? This seems like it would be the type of place to have guards. Nobody with me seems worried. Not like we could trust Abraham Dorn to rat on his brothers.

“Were you out there in the desert?” Deacon asks as we approach the door.

“Don’t know,” Abraham says. His voice is slurred. That piece of shit can handle a hell of a lot of meth. Deacon and I make brief eye contact because we both thought he would be a lot further along right now.

“You must know. You and your club members shot several of ours in the desert. I know you don’t give a fuck about anything, not even yourself,” Deacon says. “But if you tell the truth… maybe I’ll spare your life.”

Deacon is lying, but I don’t care enough to stop him. The faster we get this shit over with so I can demand an explanation from my brother… the better.

“I wasn’t out there. I might have an idea what happened but… I don’t give away valuable information about my brothers for free.”

If his brotherhood had any significance at all, nothing could make him break those vows of loyalty. But these motherfuckers are weird. Strangely fixated on race beyond what is necessary.

The last time I was anywhere near a black woman, she robbed my ass blind. But that doesn’t make all black women thieves. Just like all white people aren’t methed up idiots like Abraham. I push him bitterly towards the other side of the warehouse door. Deacon points to the keypad. No guards because they seem to have tighter security.

“What happens if I shoot this off?” he asks Abraham. I doubt this motherfucker has the rank to answer that question. The door reminds me of the type Ryder Sinclair can break into without much effort at all.

“Won’t work.”

“Thought so,” Deacon says, giving the guy a disapproving look. “You don’t have the passcode.”

“Not my thing.”

“Try 1488,” I mutter.

“What the fuck?” Deacon asks.

“It’s a prison Nazi thing. Trust me.”

“How the fuck do you know that?”

“Just try it.”

Deacon tries the code. The light flashes green. Holy fuck, I’m right. Paying attention to Ryder’s crazy fucking prison stories finally paid off. Deacon gives me a suspicious look.

“You’re a fucking freak.”

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