Page 40 of Heresy
He pullsout of the garage, not with the explosive violence of our first ride, but with a smooth, controlled surge of power that is somehow more intimidating. The bike glides onto the worn cobblestone streets of Red Hook, the thrum of the engine a deep, steady vibration that resonates through my entire body, a physical extension of the man I’m forced to hold.
The wind is a physical presence, but it’s not the punishing assault I remember. It’s a cool, insistent rush that whips myhair back and stings my eyes, forcing tears to stream down my temples. For a terrifying, intoxicating moment, it feels like freedom. The city is a blur of motion, the sun is warm on my skin, and the salt-and-diesel perfume of the waterfront fills my lungs. I am moving. After days of being a stationary object, the sensation of speed is a dizzying, seductive lie.
But I am not free. I am chained to my captor, my hands clutching his leather-clad waist for survival, my cheek pressed against the hard plane of his back.
He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. The tour is the sermon.
He rides with a smooth, terrifying competence, weaving through the wide, empty streets of his kingdom. My photographer's eye, a part of me that refuses to die, drinks in the scenery. I see the brutal beauty of this place—the crumbling brick facades of 19th-century warehouses, the skeletal remains of forgotten piers reaching into the bay like arthritic fingers, the way the late afternoon sun turns rust into copper fire. It’s a landscape of magnificent decay, a ruin I would have killed to photograph in my old life.
He slows the bike as we pass a sprawling warehouse, its doors freshly painted with a gaudy, unfamiliar logo. I see two men in colors I don't recognize standing guard out front.The Sin Santos' territory.He doesn't look at it, but I feel the tension in his shoulders increase. It's a silent threat assessment, a king surveying his enemy's border.
He guides the bike down a narrow, graffiti-scarred alley and pauses at the end, idling before a nondescript steel door at the back of a closed Irish pub. He killed someone here once. Or made a deal. Or lost a brother. I don't know the story, but the air is thick with the ghosts of it, and he is forcing me to bear witness.
Finally, he turns back toward the water, the bike thrumming beneath us. He brings us to the very pier where he found me, stopping at the end, the engine a low, menacing rumble. Hekills the motor, and the sudden, ringing silence is deafening. We sit there, surrounded by the sound of water lapping against the pilings and the cry of gulls. In the distance, the Statue of Liberty is a small, green ghost.
He doesn't have to say a word. I understand now. This wasn't a joyride. He wasn't showing me places; he was showing me the borders of his world. The enemies he fights, the deals he makes, the place where he captures his prisoners. He was showing me the walls of a cage that is so much bigger than my concrete cell. A cage that encompasses this entire, broken, beautiful slice of the city. His territory. His board. And I am just a pawn he has chosen to move across it.
The silenceon the pier stretches, thick and heavy. We sit there, surrounded by the ghosts of my capture. Just when I think the silence might break me, he starts the engine again. The low, menacing thrum is the only answer to the unspoken questions hanging in the air. He turns the bike away from the water and guides it down a series of narrow, forgotten streets, the buildings closing in around us.
He stops in a dark, garbage-strewn alley behind a massive, six-story brick warehouse that looks like it's been abandoned for a century. He kills the engine and swings his leg off the bike. "Get off," he commands, his voice a low rumble.
My legs are stiff as I slide off the seat. He leads me to a rusted, groaning freight elevator at the back of the building. The ride up is a slow, clanking ascent in near total darkness, the air thick with the smell of rust and decay. My heart hammers against my ribs. There is nowhere to run.
The elevator shudders to a halt, and he shoves the heavy doors open. We step out onto the roof.
The view is staggering. We are high above Red Hook, the entire harbor spread out before us like a map of jewels on black velvet. The lights of the distant Manhattan skyline glitter, the Statue of Liberty is a tiny, glowing beacon, and the dark water of the bay churns below. The wind is stronger up here, a clean, cold thing that whips at my hair and the collar of his jacket. It’s isolated, beautiful, and the most terrifying place I’ve ever been.
He doesn't look at me. He walks to the edge of the rooftop, a dark silhouette against the glittering city, and stares out at the water. I stay by the elevator, my body coiled, ready for anything.
"Cain is smart," he says, his voice almost carried away by the wind. It’s the first time he's spoken to me about anything real. "He knows this city. He knows our weaknesses. He's using the Santos like a blunt instrument, but the strategy... the strategy is his. He's bleeding us slowly, forcing us to make a mistake."
He turns his head slightly, not looking at me, but acknowledging my presence. "You see decay. You see broken things. It's what you hunt with that camera of yours."
His voice is not accusatory. It's a flat, analytical statement.
"This," he gestures out at the sprawling, chaotic, beautiful and broken city, at his kingdom. "This is broken. It's rotting from the inside out with a war I didn't start but have to finish."
He finally turns to face me, and in the dim glow from the city lights, I see a flicker of raw, weary exhaustion. The torment of a king who is tired of his crown.
"So tell me, photographer," he says, his voice a low, dangerous challenge. "You're the expert on ruins. How would you fix this?"
The question hangs in the cold night air. It's a test. A trap. A genuine question. I meet his gaze, my voice as steady and cold as the wind whipping around us.
"You don't," I say. "You don't fix it. A thing that's rotting from the inside can't be repaired. You have to burn it down and build something new from the ashes."
A long, heavy silence stretches between us. His eyes search my face, and for the first time, I don't see a captor looking at his prisoner. I see a player looking at an opponent who has just made an unexpected, dangerous move on the board. The war is no longer just his. He just invited me to play.
Without another word, he turns and walks back to the groaning freight elevator. The unspoken command is clear. I follow.
The ride down is a clanking, metallic descent into a silence thick with new, unspoken things. He leads me back to the bike, and the ride back to the clubhouse is different from the tour. The ease is gone, replaced by a tense, focused energy. He pushes the bike harder, the engine a more aggressive growl, the lines he takes through the empty streets sharper.
We're only a few blocks from the clubhouse when we stop at a red light. The sudden stillness is jarring after the speed. A low, insistent vibration starts. It's not the bike. I feel it through his leather cut, a harsh buzz coming from a pocket over his heart.
With a barely audible curse, his uninjured hand releases the handlebar and pulls out a cheap burner phone. He flips it open, the screen casting a faint, blueish glow on his face, illuminating the hard lines of his jaw.
I can't see the screen, but I see his reaction. The muscles in his jaw clench so hard a nerve jumps. His eyes narrow to slits. The weary strategist from the rooftop vanishes, replaced by the cold, lethal king. He has just received a piece of news that has shattered the night's strange truce.
The light turns green.
