Page 4 of Strider's Misstep

The sounds of the shot are still echoing as Tequila shouts, “What the fuck, Prez? We could have got decent intel out of him.”

I raise my eyes and give him my best prez stare, the one that makes most men cower and shake in their boots. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have that effect on my enforcer. And Buzz, my sergeant-at-arms, is looking equally unimpressed.

Shotgun regards me sadly and shakes his head. “Teq, call for Butch and Pete to come clean up this mess.”

“Fuckin’ prospects are going to get fed up with cleaning up after Prez soon,” Buzz mumbles.

Lurching forward, I put my hand around his neck, forcing him back to the wall. “You got something you want to say to me?”

Emitting a heavy sigh, Shotgun steps between us, his hands resting on mine, loosening them to stop me from choking my sergeant-at-arms, who, loyal to the fucking bone, is doing nothing to defend himself. “Let’s get out of here. We could all do with some wind therapy and definitely some fresh air.” He glances at the body and wrinkles his nose.

I’m wound up, irate, angry with the world, with them, and especially with myself. What I just did was wrong. How are we ever going to find out who’s dipping into our product if I fly off the handle and shoot any potential witnesses dead? I seem to have lost all the patience I ever had. Recently, when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognise myself. Maybe the VP’s right. A long ride might help clear my head. Trouble is, I’m not sure there are enough miles in the entire United States to achieve that result.

Letting Buzz go, ignoring him coughing and gasping in an effort to restore the air intake through his throat, I stomp toward the stairs and up out of the basement. At this time of day, the nightclub we run is empty of patrons, though there are a couple of cleaners getting things sorted out. Their proximity to my loss of control only moments ago makes me thank fuck that we’ve got a well-soundproofed location hidden away.

I leave via the rear entrance which leads to the parking lot where we left our bikes. Going to mine, I straddle it. Turning the key and pressing the start button, I’m tempted to just hit the road without waiting for anyone else. But even after my assault, Buzz would kill me if I tried to ride out alone, and Tequila would probably help him. The Wretched Soulz have too many enemies for a prez to be on his own on the road, so this time, from somewhere, I manage to tamp down my impatience.

Or at least until my men emerge from the basement. Once they’re in my sight, I kick down into gear and rev the engine, releasing the clutch. As the bike leaps forward, the view in my mirror sends a brief grin to my face when I see my three officers running to their bikes, throwing their legs over their machines, and starting their Harleys in unison.

Making no real effort to outrun them, they catch up with me before I join the freeway. Shotgun pulls up alongside me as I hit a red light.

“Where we going?” he asks, his voice loud enough to be heard over the even-while-idling-thundering Harley engine.

“Fuck knows,” I yell back.

He shoots me a wide grin and slips back to ride alongside Buzz as the green glow gives us permission to proceed.

I hadn’t lied. I’ve no fucking idea where I’m heading, but as the road opens up and I twist the throttle, the tension leaves my head and chest. Seemingly following some internal GPS, I take the route that finds me on Ranch Road 470 and drive through Bandera, which would, ironically, take me to the unlikely named Utopia were we to go that far. Doubtful it would fulfil its promise of bringing anything special into my life, I pull off at a spot where we can park up the bikes, only then realising we’ve been riding for almost two hours, and pleased I’d started off with a fully topped off tank.

Killing my engine, I slide my hand into my cut, take out a pack of cigarettes and light one.

Silence descends as the thundering of the bikes drawing up alongside me comes to a stop, to be replaced by the ticking of cooling engines.

Breathing out the long inhale of nicotine, I put my bike on its stand and get off, stretching with my hands on my hips, bending my back and rolling my shoulders, then shaking my head to get the kinks out of my neck. I release the tie holding my long hair and shrug it down my back.

“You done?” Shotgun comes up beside me.

As normal, a good ride has blown the cobwebs away. For a while, I’d been able to concentrate on nothing but the pavement beneath me and the clarity of air whooshing past me. It’s as if the weight of my direst thoughts has been left back in the city. I smile as I grin back. “For now.”

Buzz has manoeuvred so he’s standing in front of me, his face turned toward the low hills that surround us, his hand shading his eyes from the sun. After he takes his bandanna and wipes sweat from his brow, he turns around and nods toward some rocks. “Seems like a good place to sit and have a talk.”

The eagerness of my companions to show their agreement by immediately walking over and making themselves as comfortable as possible on their impromptu, unyielding seats has me narrowing my eyes.

What have we got to fuckin’ talk about?We discuss anything necessary in church. Sure, right now it’s just me and my top team, but I can think of no pressing business that can’t be discussed in front of all the other members. Suspecting they’re going to berate me for my display of temper, and unwilling to admit that they’d be right to do so, I stay where I am.

“Hey, come join us,” Tequila calls out, indicating a rock in front of him.

“Rather get back on the road,” I object.

Buzz fixes me with a stare. “Take a load off. It’s a nice day.”

“Yeah, when was the last time you just sat and relaxed?” Shotgun leans back on his elbows, stretches out his long legs and, closing his eyes, raises his face to the sun.

I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself any downtime at all. Even sleep evades me most nights. Letting my mind drift means inviting the demons to speak up in my head. “There’s time enough to relax when you’re fuckin’ dead.” To make my point, I walk close enough to kick Shotgun’s feet.

As if it’s a signal, three men move at once, their calm state instantly gone. Instead of stress-free faces, their expressions are set. And, in their hands, guns have appeared.

I might have been an asshole over the last few months, but I’ve not done anything to damage the club. I can’t consider for one moment that it’s my patch or my life that they want. With a sigh and a shrug, holding my lit cigarette between two fingers and taking a last drag before stubbing it out beneath my boot, I take the hard seat they left for me.

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