Vulnerable (Barons of Sodom) (15 page)

And where the fuck was Athena? Tuck fought off a wave of
dread in his stomach: perhaps she'd figured everything out the night before.
Had that been the warning he'd ignored, while entwined in Bridie's embrace? The
plan she'd spoken of, did it have anything to do with Cannon and the new
regime? Maybe she'd already fled. She could easily have taken the Evo and
ridden off into the sunset alone. In fact, he wouldn't put such an independent
gesture past his best friend.

First things first: the bike with the sliced brake-line. He
needed a new machine, stat. Tripping with anxiety, Tuck made for the garage.
Last night this place had been the source of all his confusion and joy. She'd
looked so beautiful in the light. She'd felt so good in his hands. Underneath
him...

Focus, LaRouche.

Athena's garage was as clean and organized as it had been
the night prior, though everything looked different now. The bikes seemed
menacing. The lieutenant made a rapid inventory: here were dismantled engines
in various states of disrepair. Here were bikes other Barons had brought in for
weekly tune-ups—off the bat, he saw a '74 he recognized from Diggler's
collection, and a big old-school Harley (with a sidecar!) that Tiny didn't ride
but liked to haul from camp to camp. Neither of these options had anything
wrong with them, but Tuck knew every engine in the armada like the back of his
own hand; few were as fast as his own Harley. Because the Barons were such a
ragtag club, there was a sharp distinction among the teams' bikes. They rode
like free men, which he'd always seen as a unique feature of the MC—that is,
until now.

Then he saw it: God's favorite bike, hanging from a beam in
the rafters. This was an almost mythical being—a faithful replica of George
Romero's racer, the one he used to win the 1970 Daytona. The Triumph Trident.
This sucker capped a top land speed of 162 mph. God had even named it Goliath,
somewhat ironically. With its baby blue and white finish, front and rear
suspension, light, manipulative body...no one had dared ride the thing since
the man upstairs acquired it on the team's move to Waco. But then, Tuck
LaRouche wasn't exactly “no one.”

The lieutenant kicked a bucket with the heel of his boot. He
hopped up, so his eyes were level with the front wheel. How to get the bitch
off the ceiling was the next question...

“Watch your head, dipshit,” called a voice. His favorite
voice, in fact: it was Athena's cranky, weary, holier-than-thou tone. She was
lurking in a corner, fingers straddling a lever with a red knob. Before Tuck
could articulate any kind of apology or explanation, the big bike was swooping
toward him, snaking down to ground level with a series of mechanical clanks. He
rocked to and fro on his bucket before toppling backward in space. The biker
grabbed for a hold, but ended up flat on his ass against the concrete.

“Guess I deserved that.”

“Yeah. Guess you did.”

The sounds of the race were mounting outside—Tuck could hear
Spivey tripping over his words as he attempted to explain something about the
course. Any moment now, someone would fire a pistol in the air. Soon after
that, Bridie would become the property of some no-good, drug-dealing dickwad.
He couldn't let that happen. For all the uncertainty Tuck had known in the past
few days, this prospect came to him like a surefire bolt of lightning: he
couldn't let his baby slip away. He wouldn't.

“Do you even know how to handle a bike like this?” Athena
asked. She was making a quick survey of the Triumph, running capable fingers
around its coils. “She's a lot hotter than your Harley. And you might not be
used to the size.”

“I've ridden racing bikes before.”

“Right. Cause you've ridden everything before, huh?”

“Athena. Do we have to do this now?” The crowd sounds were
reaching a fever pitch. But Athena held his gaze. She paused in her work.

“I know you, Tuck. I know you want to play the hero. I know
you want the woman who's beautiful and mysterious and new, like some kind of
Lifetime movie crap. But can I just say it? We've been in deep shit before, and
you've never had to prove yourself to me. Not once. We just—look out for each other.
Like partners. Like equals. And you know me better. I know
you
better. I
know everything about you. And I think I could make you happy.” His best friend
finished her speech quickly, shifting her eyes to the filthy ground. It must
have been hard for her to say those things, Tuck thought. Athena was the
strongest woman he'd ever met. Begging wasn't in her DNA.

He moved towards the little woman, towards her fountain of
dark curls. Tuck took the back of his best friend's head in his rough fingers.
Athena was surprisingly soft to the touch—he'd been expecting a hardness in her
skin, some evidence of the years of toil that she'd already committed to the
MC. But A was still a woman, beneath the grubby overalls, beneath everything.
Her blood was red. Her breath was sweet. He bent low, towards her waiting
mouth.
Maybe,
Tuck thought,
Just maybe...

When their lips touched, he waited to feel something. Some
flicker of the content of his dreams or daydreams, some echo of the electricity
he'd experienced with Bridie on the bike, or Bridie on the bed. But there was
nothing. It was a little hard to admit—for Athena Sark's lips were soft and
full and lovely, her face was beautiful, her mind was quick...but he didn't
love her. And there was that word again: love. He'd never thought of conquests
this way before. He was a goddamn biker of the Barons of Sodom, and he didn't
bandy ‘love’ about lightly. He was the goddamn lieutenant of these fallen men!
And yet...

Someone outside had pulled up a transistor radio, and a
motley chorus of bikers were now at work butchering a familiar song:
My
Maserati goes 185/I lost my license, so now I don't drive...

Hadn't she said it was her favorite song? “Life's Been
Good”?

Pulling away from his embrace, Athena's expression had
changed. Her open lust was gone, replaced by an acceptance. Whatever it was
their kiss didn't contain, she must have felt it, too. Instead, she reached up
and placed a warm hand on Tuck's face.

“Okay, Fuckface,” she said. “Go get ‘em.”

* * *

“Are all of the Barons in?” Cannon was saying. After his
demonstration earlier, the cop didn't require a microphone to speak above the
fray. Barons just fell silent around him, like well-behaved school children.
Tuck made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. Meanwhile, the Texas
summer sun had begun its daily mission to bake everything under its
jurisdiction. The air smelled like hot B.O.

Bridie had been tied to a tree back in the clearing. Tuck
could see her in his mirror if he strained his eyes. Her dress was torn. Her
pretty head still drooped from the hit she'd suffered earlier. Zuzu, in an
unusual departure from the Big House, was sitting in a lawn chair “guarding”
the prisoner, her silk kimono already damp with sweat in the heat. The older
woman was cooling herself idly with an ostrich feather fan.

“Let's all take our marks, then. Is everyone on their
marks?”

Here were the diminished Barons. The traitors, cowards, and fools.
Though Tuck had never imagined that he would miss Yak's loud mouth, the thought
of his body lying untended on the clearing ground made him sick. Never again,
Tuck told himself. Come what may in this race, I will not be a part of the new
regime.

With Athena's help, they'd masked the chief's Triumph below
a very hasty coat of black spray paint. The paint job wouldn't hold up under
scrutiny, but everyone was so preoccupied with their own rides that few were
scouting their competitors. Plus, the man upstairs had taken up a post at the
end of the race, so he wouldn't see his poorly-concealed bike contending for
the prize until it was too late. They'd figure out what to do about all that
later. This was as far as the plan went.

“On your mark...”

Athena, behind him, squeezed his hand tightly.

“Get set...”

Tuck shot a quick glance back at Bridie, who'd kept her
frightened, listing eyes clamped firmly on his figure. He might have imagined
it, but for a second it looked to Tuck as if she'd nodded. As if she believed
in him. He thought of her pert little ass bent over a stove, in some house they
had together, in some future. He thought of their bodies, forever clamped
together as they rode across the open world...

My Maserati goes 185...

“GO, you motherfuckers! GO!”

DET. RAMIREZ:
So wait, let me get this straight—Zuzu?

BRIDIE:
Yes, Zuzu. The chief's main consort.

DET. RAMIREZ:
Do you have a real name to give me?

BRIDIE:
What am I, a phone book?

DET. RAMIREZ:
Ok. While she was guarding you by the
tree,
Zuzu
...informed you of a conversation the night prior in which Gil
Cannon implicated the whole Waco police force in a secret drug-trading
conspiracy?!

BRIDIE:
Ya-huh.

DET. RAMIREZ:
And did you have any special reason to
trust this woman? I mean, after all of this lying at the MC? All of this abuse?

BRIDIE:
Zuzu was in the same boat as me—she'd just gotten
used to her captivity is all. Stockholm Syndrome, like you said.

DET. RAMIREZ:
Jesus Christ. I mean, we're going to
need names. Evidence. One woman's explanation isn't—

BRIDIE:
What about tapes? Would tapes do?

DET. RAMIREZ:
Ha! But why would there be tapes? The
chief, was he a fan of Nixon or something?

BRIDIE:
Not so much. But he was a senile
motherfucker, with a savvy concubine.

(Scribbling on the piece of paper
)

BRIDIE:
Now, Z has never been a fan of the police.
Which I'm sure you can appreciate, after listening to someone like Cannon
ramble on about the “crooked cops of Waco...” But this should still be her
address. Tell her exactly who you are—and that
I
sent you—and she'll
give you what you want.

DET. RAMIREZ:
Oh, my God. But Bridie—Ms. Calyer—why
now? Can I just ask, if you've had this information for years, why give it up
now?

BRIDIE:
If we don't believe in people, what do we
have, detective? I think you're a good egg. You don't think so?

(Pause)

BRIDIE:
Just you promise me this, alright? You use
that information. Bust open the scandal. I want all the dick bastards of Waco
PD lined up and fired at. Those men are responsible for my aunt's death, not to
mention her clients, the source of her disease. But can you leave the MC to its
own devices? They've always had their internal way of dealing with matters of
treason.

DET. RAMIREZ:
You know we can't do that. If these
tapes implicate the Barons in any kind of conspiracy, the law will hunt them
down. It's always been that way.

BRIDIE:
Ha. I suppose so. I guess we'll never quite
be friends, then. Eh, lieutenant?

(Sounds of laughter)

The Triumph felt like no engine he'd ever known. It handled
corners so smoothly. It leapt into the high gears like it was dying for a fix.
In the first lap, Tuck made dust of the other Barons. He yelped at their frowns
in the rearview mirror, feeling like the ultimate badass.

“Suck my dust, Spivey!” he called to the wind in his face—but
his bike was already contending with the sound barrier. His own words whipped
backward, bouncing against his helmet and ricocheting off into space. He felt
free. So, so, free.

But this didn't last long. To his left, a hefty Harley was
gaining. It was Bo Diddly, his face a mask of a sneer. Bo's biceps seemed to bulge
out of his cut-off vest; Tuck could sense the strain of his opponent. A curve
had appeared on the road ahead.

Time for an expert maneuver. It had been a while since he'd
tried anything especially suave on a bike—had been a while, in fact, since he'd
ridden completely sober—but now was as good a time as any. He feinted the
Triumph towards the right—just enough so that Bo, in his infinite wisdom,
swerved prematurely. The smaller bike corrected on the curve, Tuck leaned hard.
So hard that he made a 45-degree angle with the road. But the space of track up
ahead was flat and long. He egged the nubile engine higher and higher still.
Breaking 100. 103. 105...

And again, he had no competitors. The road was yawning for
him, eating him up whole. He dared to let his mind wander for a moment, to a
few quick flashes from his night of bliss. How he had parted little Bridie
Calyer's pussy with the round, hard plunge of his cock. How she'd arched her
back upward and toward him, allowed him to pull her forward, so their joints
were flush against one another. How her swollen breasts had appeared, spread
wide below his palms, glistening with the sweat of their union, her nipples
erect...

107. 110...

Or taking her from behind. How she'd been so sweetly
tentative at first! The little furrow above her brow, when he'd been so sure
that this was a woman who wasn't afraid of anything. The surge of joy cresting
her face when he broke into her, pressed himself against the curves of her ass.
How he'd slipped in and out and in and out, how he'd reached for her raven hair
and pulled sharply. How his fingers had danced with the swallowing heat of her
pussy...

115. And still, no one behind him...

He'd taken her on a motorcycle. He'd pushed his fingers
up and inside of her. She'd bent low later, craned to press her full lips
around his cock. She'd gulped him down so greedily. He'd felt so safe in her
mouth.

120! Let the bitches eat cake!
But just as Tuck's throbbing erection reached fullness, just as the flat
expanse of road surface began to run out, Tuck heard the rumblings of a
different kind of engine behind him. A car. A cop's Buick. It took a moment to
register the sound of the roaring sirens, the swish of the red and blue lights
swiveling. Tuck abruptly faltered on his Triumph. He barely topped 100, now.

“This is the police. Pull over,” trilled a baritone on the
loudspeaker. For a split second, Tuck made for the shoulder—but then he
remembered. This was fucking Waco. There wasn't a single cop he could trust
within city limits. The lieutenant accelerated again. He twisted the gas as far
as it would go just as the next pin-curve reared its ugly head.

“
Pull over, you sack of shit, or I'll smear your blood
all over the highway
.” Of course.
Cannon.
Tuck shot a quick glance
at his mirror. Sure enough, the so-called officer's stinking grin (below those
idiotic Ray Bans) was in full view. There were no other Barons behind him—none
that Tuck could see, at least. It wasn't unfathomable that they'd all been
driven off the road. That all his ex-friends or comrades now lay slain in cold blood,
just like Yak.

Though there was no way the crooked cop could hear him over
the sound of the road, Tuck screamed a retort to the wind: “You'll take her
over my dead body, you snaky fuck!” He yanked a hand up and flipped his
opponent the bird. In response, the car picked up its speed. The turn was upon
them.

Tuck took a deep breath. Then he leaned far into the
whipping wind—so far he was pressed flat along the bike's body. He eased up on
the gas as the road curled in front of him. The deceleration was just enough
that the bike fell to an acute angle with the road. This time the angle was so
harsh that if the Rider had wanted to reach out and graze the ground below he
could have done it without strain.

Yet he pulled out of the second curve, successful. Behind
him, the bigger engine had tripped against the harsh curve. Tuck gave the
motorcycle everything. He bent his powerful body low over the bike. Its rider
near parallel with the ground below, the Triumph broke 120, 130...140. The
world whipped by like a movie on fast-forward.

And in the dim distance, there it was: the finish line. A
hunched figure was standing on the shoulder, brandishing something tall in the
air—a flag, perhaps? Tuck cleared his mind of all thoughts. Along the flat
terrain, most of the Barons had begun to close in on his lead. He heard the
frenzied purr of other engines at his heels and urged his bike forward. There
were seconds to spare. He hit 145.

Then came the cop sirens. Cannon was zooming along the
shoulder, and all too soon he was keeping pace with the lead motorcycle. The
finish line was seconds away.

Tuck cut his eyes again towards the horizon and realized
with a sinking dread that God wasn't toting a flag—he was brandishing a
shotgun, which was now trained on the advancing duo. For a second, the Rider
wondered if Officer Cannon and his surreal drug-running proposal had just been
a cruel hoax, some kind of test for the Barons' morale. Maybe God—his mentor
and protector all these long years—had finally woken from his stupor and was
going to take back the MC and restore the Barons of Sodom to its Glory Days, to
New Orleans! But it only took the flashing image of Yak's body on the ground to
realize the truth. God had flipped. The barrel of his gun was trained right
between the eyes of his soon-to-be-former lieutenant. And the rules were now
clear: kill, or be killed.

In a desperate move, Tuck turned his body slightly so the
speeding bike turned hard and fast in God's direction. Surprised for one
crucial beat, the man upstairs shifted his weapon on his shoulder. Across the
closing distance, it looked to Tuck like he was preparing to fire. The rider
didn't swerve.

God's eyes registered a beat of shock as Tuck plowed straight
into his body. The shotgun—unfired—went sailing into the air. The Triumph
tripped briefly over the bony remains of its former owner, but the bumps were
enough to send Tuck into a tailspin. A hundred meters off the finish line, the
Rider desperately tried to control his engine as it looped across the open
road. He released the gas, and tried to break. He bent his head low, in
preparation for the inevitable crash.

The bike had slowed to 70, 60, 55 before its Rider lost full
control. Snagging on a pothole, Tuck went sailing into the air over his
handlebars. He saw a brief flicker of the world from above: a bloody mass of
human flesh, a dazzle of men on motorcycles, a Buick with spinning
sirens...then, nothing. Darkness.