“I’m fine. But if you think I believe you drove all the way here to fucking bring us donuts, you’re out of your goddamn mind.”
“Oh, these donuts aren’t just from me. They’re from Violet, too. Her and I had a little chat.”
“Did that thoughtful lass send that whiskey, too?” Mack says. “Because after all the shit that’s gone down tonight, I’m feeling a wee bit thirsty.”
“The whiskey isn’t for you, Mack. It’s for the sheriffs.”
“Fuck them, BD. Those khaki-wearing motherfuckers don’t deserve it.”
Bowen Dale winks. “Yes, they do. Just trust me.”
“What the fuck are you getting at?” I say.
“All will be revealed in good time,” he says, then he turns and leaves the holding cell area.
Through the small window in the door to the holding area, I watch him converse with the deputies. There’s a lot of laughing, back-clapping, and BD looks to be turning on the charm with them. Then, after a little nudging and cajoling, BD and the sheriffs all take a nip of the whiskey and BD looks to wave goodbye. I’ve had enough, and I turn back to my brothers, who are finishing the last of their donuts.
“That old man is fucking useless. He’s left already. We need to figure out a way to get out of here and get back to the truck before shit goes even more wrong.”
“And how the fuck do you suggest we do that?” Mack says. “You want me to tunnel the fuck out of here like it’s the fucking Shawshank Redemption? I’m not a fucking gopher, goddamnit.”
The door to the holding cell area opens again, and BD walks in, whistling and twirling a set of keys.
“Time to go, boys,” he says.
“What, and just waltz out there with all the fucking sheriffs around? Are you fucking nuts, old man?” Mack says.
“No. And they won’t be a problem.”
BD walks to our cell, slips the key in the lock, and opens it.
“Are you serious right now? Or are you just trying to get us all killed?” Blaze says.
“Oh, I’m serious. There’s a reason I didn’t want to give you any of this whiskey; I’ve laced it with benzodiazepine. They’re a fun class of psychoactive drugs that includes roofies, and they have the lovely side effect of anterograde amnesia. They won’t remember a damn thing after they’ve been dosed. Their last memory will be of me walking out the door after sharing a couple shots with them and, when they snap out of it, we’ll all be long gone.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Then how the fuck aren’t you doped up right now?”
He laughs. “I have a high tolerance for this shit. Thanks to an active social life and an openness to experimentation. Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”
We start out, and it’s eerie as hell walking through the sheriff's building, seeing every one of the officers conscious, but doped up and practically unresponsive. We’re nearly to the door when I get an idea and double back, taking just a minute to break into Sheriff Cartwright’s office to steal myself a prize to remember tonight by: that expensive bottle of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon that Violet first used to buy our freedom.
Once outside, Bowen Dale points toward a dark van sitting at the edge of the parking lot.
“The keys are in the ignition. Your bikes are in lockup at a yard on the other side of town. I’ll be heading there shortly to retrieve them for you, and I’ll have them waiting for you out back behind the Timberline Tavern.”
“Thanks, old man,” I say, extending my hand.
He shakes it. “Word of advice, kid: don’t go into those mountains. Violet filled me in on what’s going on while she and I were bartering for your freedom. I know about your plan. And I also know that, now that you’ve been picked up, the Death’s Disciples will be on high alert. And likely Switchblade is already moving Kendra to a different location. You will need to figure something else out. Though, for a few more of those guns, I could help you with that.”
“I still can’t believe Violet bought our freedom,” I say as I eye the black van that’ll carry us out of here. Things are still a mess, but they’re a whole hell of a lot better than they were before.
Maybe we should just get the hell out of this town. Head back to Max Paisley’s, strip every gun from the truck, and steal one of those sweet rides he keeps. We can be out of this town before anyone knows it.
It’s only a half-thought, but it’s tempting.
And this mission with Kendra is shot, anyway. With the Death’s Disciples moving Kendra to god knows where, there’s no chance to rescue her.
I need to get back to focusing on the business of the club. Salvage the one thing I can: our gun deal.
“She did. She wasn’t happy about it, and she wanted me to tell you that, once your business is done — and I’m supposed to fucking lean into that word ‘business,’ she was very specific about that — she doesn’t want to see you again.”
It hurts to hear that. Hurts deep, right to the heart, but I don’t have time to process that pain. I’ve got more important things to focus on than moping in the parking lot of the sheriff’s office.
“How much did it cost?” I say. It’s more idle conversation than anything else. Words spoken as I open the door to the van and prepare to hop inside.
“Her bar.”
I stop. Foot half raised, resting on the step into the driver’s seat, hand gripped tight to the door handle for support.
“What? You took her fucking bar?” The urge to throttle this old bastard rise in me so strong it takes all
