Page 17 of Fire Meets Fire

Harold’s made it clear his view is I should never go back there, and while that’s the sensible option, it’s the challenge that I can’t get out of my head. I’d never be able to live a normal life with a nine-to-five job. I crave excitement and danger. My brain survives on calculating odds and deciding on courses of action.

Do I trust them to give me the money should I find another way onto their premises? Like fuck I don’t. They’re outlaws.

Harold might not be talking to me, but I often catch him looking my way, unable to hide his suspicion. I’m sure it’s to prevent me succumbing to temptation and returning to their lair. I have reassured him that the lack of parts isn’t holding up the rebuild. Currently that’s true. I’m spending time smoothing dents out of the tank and fender.

Of course both of us expected another visit from the MC, but as the days go by, quickly adding up to a week, there’s been no sign of them. Up to now, I’ve been sleeping with one eye open, but while not completely letting my guard down, I’ve started to relax. Maybe the extortionate price Harold had paid had satisfied them. What I’d taken in total couldn’t have added up to more than fifty, maybe at a push, one hundred dollars.

Of course the guilt that he had to pay anything hangs heavy on me. Harold asks nothing from me other than I restore his son’s bike, feeding and housing me for free. It was never my intention to cause him extra expense. Somehow, sometime, I vow to repay him. But as to where or when, well, that’s all in the air for now. While it’s in my nature to fight, I can’t do anything until I’ve identified my enemy, nor without any tools, and especially not with an affliction that can cause me to lose consciousness at the drop of a hat. For now, all I can do is regroup.

But staying still is boring. I’m a risk taker. I’ve had to be. There is many a special forces officer who owes his life to my skills in putting my helicopter into places it shouldn’t really go,skimming the mountain sides with barely an inch of clearance, making my team draw in a collective breath as though by doing so the rotor span would be narrower. You don’t get to fly as a Night Stalker without being prepared to put your life on the line. Every flight behind enemy lines has the chance of ending in disaster. I live for the adrenaline buzz. And while I might no longer be able to fly, I need to find that somewhere else. If not, what have I got left?

That’s partly why I don’t bemoan the situation that keeps me away from my home and on the road. Keeping my head down and off the grid is a challenge in and of itself, making sure I stay one step ahead—and alive.

Here, working for Harold, sometimes feels too safe, and my desire to pit my wits against the Devil, combined with the sense of injustice that Harold got ripped off, makes my mind toy with the idea of getting back into the MC’s yard, and thinking of ways to beat their presumably by now upgraded security.

If I fail and I’m caught, they can preen and congratulate themselves. Whatever they do to me, someone else has already done worse. If I succeed, well, as long as they live up to the bargain they made, Harold won’t be out of pocket.

I’m bored. I’m not used to long spells of inactivity, so it’s not really surprising how I keep thinking of what I would have done were I the MC and wanted to keep out people like me. Then, I put my mind to wondering what loopholes there might still be.

The Devil may well find work for idle hands, and that might be what’s driving me. But the very next night, I’m not surprised to find myself jogging that five-mile stretch of road that leads back to the Wretched Soulz.

When I get close, I get off the road, making my way across the rough ground to the rear. The light from the moon is enough to show me where the new cameras have been set up. Where I got in before has indeed been closed off with higher fencing, morerazor wire, and, looking closer, a pressure point sensor to see if anyone gets too close to the pole. These boys are clever and not to be underestimated, but not as smart as myself.

For one thing, checking the angles of the cameras, they’ve left me an option to explore, which, obviously, I take advantage of. It’s actually child’s play to get in.

Once inside, I use my previous knowledge to turn off the alarms. This time I’m not going for discreet. It’s a case of go big or go home. This time, I’ve decided to make a lasting impression. A fucking great calling card that tells them Helo was here. I haven’t quite decided what yet, but the ideas will come.

Picking locks is nothing new to me, I can do them in my sleep. Within a minute, I’m in the shop itself and choosing my target. Allowing the beam of my flashlight to rest on each of the bikes that are in the process of customisation, I finally settle on one that looks almost finished. It’s a glorious Road King which has obviously come in for a custom paint job, and wow, I’ll take off my hat to the artist. The work’s about as good as any I’ve ever seen.

This is the one.

Quickly finding the right key hanging up on the board, and after disabling the bike’s alarm and lock, I carefully kick up the stand, then wheel it outside into their front parking lot.Now that’s going to make an impression.

My hands twitch to turn the key in the ignition and take off down the road. The only thing that comes close to flying a helicopter is riding a motorcycle. You’re at one with the elements with only your skill keeping you alive. Though I may be impulsive, and a rule breaker at times, I’m not stupid, so that key stays unturned. I do swallow hard at the reminder of what I’ve had taken away from me.Once I wouldn’t have hesitated to take it out for a ride.

Concentrating instead on the only other option to bring me pleasure, I anticipate the livid expressions of the bikers when they see I evaded the security they presumably thought was tighter than a gnat’s ass. Glancing at the lightening sky and the dawn just breaking over the horizon, I bring my legs under me and settle down for the wait.

My intention was never to steal a bike, just to demonstrate how easy it was to liberate. Like taking candy from a baby. And while I can’t ride it away, I don’t want anyone else coming along and taking advantage, so I’m going to stay on guard. Propping myself up against a wall, I get comfortable while musing I’ve spent many a night in far worse places than this, and at least the night air isn’t full of the sound of shots or screams.

Of course, that was the wrong thing to think about.Don’t go there.

Taking deep breaths, I make a conscious effort to keep my mind from revisiting the past, focusing instead on the magnificent view of the sun rising, the rays gradually strengthening and lighting everything in their path. I smell the air, tinged with oil, rubber and gas from the shop behind.

I’m here. I’m in the US. I’m in Arizona.

I breathe in, then breathe out, rinse and repeat. Gradually my demons fade back to where they should stay, in the past. They’re helped on their way when my ears pick up the sound of a motorcycle engine, at first faint, then gradually getting louder.

Game on.

My lips curve into a half-smile, and although I remain sitting, I roll my shoulders as I prepare myself.

At first just a speck in the distance, the bike draws nearer and nearer. The Sportster seems to speed up as it approaches the shop then squeals to a halt. Looking like it’s only at the last moment the rider remembers to kick the stand down, he throws himself off, a gun appearing in his hand.

“What the fuck?” he asks, at first spying the bike but not myself. He’s a prospect, I notice, as his back is turned toward me. I watch as his mouth drops open and his upper lip curls back.

Holding his gun in both hands, he starts to cautiously approach the shop. As he inches toward the open doors, I decide to save him the bother and reveal myself.

“Hey,” I call out, deliberately keeping my voice feminine and low.

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