Creed will land at the airport in less than an hour. Bane and Army will drop me off, and I’ll load onto the Santoro private jet. Then…
I’m actually not sure what.
Creed said he wouldn’t let me go again, and I agreed, but what does that mean?
What would happen with my schooling? I’m here on a scholarship; I can’t afford school without it and don’t want to ask Antonio. And the cost of my schooling isn’t the only issue; if I’m not attending school, I have to leave the States.
Creed can’t expect me to forgo my goals and plans, right?
Will he make San Diego his primary place of residence?
Will I move into the penthouse?
My mind whirls with questions as I stare at the truck’s roof as Army drives. I don’t know where we’re going because I’m still lying in the back seat. I’m relying on them, trusting them.
Now that my adrenaline has leveled off and the imminent threat is removed, my mind races.
These men are criminals. Bikers. Part of a motorcycle club. They aren’t greasy or dirty, but they aren’t refined or polished members of regular society, either.
This line of thinking makes me recall Manuel Morales’s visits to my home community, where my grandparents always dragged us to whatever event he was featured at, flashing his big smile and touting all the benefits of his donation. He’s the spitting image of refined and polished. Yet, he’s a rival of Creed’s, who has been doing something to ‘hit at him,’ and he’s here in the city with my father. Anyone with connections with my father can’t be good, I’m sure of it.
The clothes and polished smiles don’t make the person. Nor does a rugged, rough-looking man mean they’re cruel or evil.
“You’re going to start a fire with all that thinking, sugar.”
My eyes swivel to Bane, who leans between the seats, looking at me.
He had put on what they call a ‘cut’—a leather vest. I noticed the patches on his and Army’s; they have Havoc Guardians on the back above a logo of a skull with a halo over top and what looks like a trident spearing through it. Below that, it says San Francisco. The swarm of bikers had the same name and logo, but San Diego was on theirs. Bane’s front has a patch that says VP, and Army’s says Road Captain. Their club, or organization, or however they refer to themselves, definitely has some structure and hierarchy.
“Can I sit up?” I ask.
Army glances at me in the rearview mirror. “I’d rather not take the chance of any CCTVs catching you.”
“But they can see your faces.”
“We have blocks and protection in the system,” he states, “so our images are immediately deleted.”
Okay… However, that is possible.
“Just relax,” Bane says.
“We aren’t exactly maneuverable with this rig, so we can’t outrun the bad guys if they locate us,” Army adds.
“Fucking hate cages,” Bane mutters, turning back around to face forward.
“Aw, come on, big guy, they have their uses.” Army brakes, and I brace my hand against the seat so I won’t roll off.
I assume ‘cages’ means vehicles and that riding in them, pulling a trailer with their bikes, isn’t their normal mode of transport.
“Why did you help me?”
I catch them exchanging a look, and then Bane says, “Our MC owed the Santoro family a favor, and Massimo called our Prez to collect.”
Does that mean I’m indebted to the mafia because they burned one of their favors to help me? And if my father is here for me, and it’s related to the cartel, then why would the Santoros or the MC get involved?
“What if you helping me puts a target on your back?” My heart pounds as I think about others, even if they’re criminals, being at risk because of me.
Bane swivels back to me. “There’s usually targets all over us, sugar.” He frowns as he scans my face. “What’s got you so pale?”
I need to be truthful. I don’t know the etiquette of this world or if I’m risking turning these seeming allies into foes, but my conscience won’t quit.
“One of the men today was my father. He was the one with the gun.”
“That’s fucking cold,” Army mutters, his hand gripping the steering wheel.
“He’s… I’m estranged from him; he’s not a part of my life, and I don’t know why exactly he’s here because he actually shouldn’t be able to cross the border.”
“Hey.” Bane reaches back and closes his hand over my clenched one. “Breathe.”
I close my eyes, trying to calm my raging anxiety, then open them again. “He’s a sicario for the Garcia Cartel.” My voice catches. “I could be bringing you into something… I don’t know what this is.”
“I don’t think your cunt of a father would be here on the cartel’s order,” Army reasons.
“Why?”
“This isn’t Garcia territory,” Bane explains. “If they pushed in or sent men here, the controlling cartel would strike back. Unless you’re the cartel boss’s princess daughter, I don’t think the Garcias would overstep like that for one of their henchmen’s daughters. No offense.”
“None taken.” My rigidness eases as my anxiety abates. “But thank you once again.”
Bane smiles and pats my knee. “You’re good people. Always concerned about others, aren’t you?”
Even to a fault.
“We’re happy we could help and get you to safety.”
Criminals with moral compasses?
That’s plausible since there are so many law-abiding citizens with no morals. One doesn’t equate to the other.
“We have to make a stop. You’ll stay in the truck, down out of sight, and keep quiet.” Bane reaches under his seat and pulls something out. He holds it up and pushes a button, and a blade flicks out. He pushes the blade back in before handing it to me. “But this is in case something goes south.”
Swallowing hard, I take the knife.
“We wouldn’t make this stop if it could be helped.” The displeasure is apparent on Bane’s face.
The truck slows and turns. I jostle on the seat as we go over what I envision is a speed bump. The bouncing happens again as the trailer tires go over it. Bane stares straight ahead, as does Army.
When we stop, Bane hops out, and Army hides his mouth into his shoulder and says, “Remember, quiet and out of sight.” Then he’s gone with a slam of his door.
“What the hell are you two doing in a cage? I thought you lived for the open road and wind through your hair,” a voice says outside.
“Hog trouble, and we need to get back to San Fran immediately,” Bane says.
“That club pussy calling you home?”
“Can we do this so we can get on the fucking road, Virgil?” Army snarls.
“Geez, Army, you’re always such a grumpy cunt. Lighten up, will ya.”
I can’t hear what Army says, but the other guy laughs like a hyena.
A shadow appears on the back of the seat, and my breathing halts. If someone walks close to the window, they’ll see me lying here.
“What the fuck you doing?” Bane barks. A shiver ripples through me at the vicious sound of his voice. The shadow falls back, and I hear a grunt, then a howl.
“For fuck’s sakes, Bane, what are you doing?” Virgil shouts.
It sounds like scuffling and more grunting, then Army says cool and calm, “Just lower your weapons, and your boss Virgil here gets to keep all his blood in his body. Don’t lower your weapons, and I’ll slice his carotid open, and he’ll be dead in under ten seconds.”
Jesus Christ.
I’ve been driving around with these two for an hour, and they can promise violence with deadly calm. And it sounds like the situation escalated because they’re trying to stop someone from coming to the truck. To protect me.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper, pushing the button to open the knife.
“That’s fucking better,” Bane snaps. “Now, can we get on with it?”
I can’t hear much after that, and no more shadows indicate someone approaching the truck. When Army and Bane get back in, they don’t even glance in the back until we’ve left and are well away. Only then does Bane turn, and his eyes skate over my face, then flick to the knife in my hand.
“Pushing the button on the side makes the blade suck back in. That way, you don’t stab yourself when you put it in your pocket.” He inclines his chin at me, implying he’s fine with me keeping the knife.
Maybe he sees the fear on my face, knowing I overheard whatever had gone down, and takes pity on me. Probably because he knows I don’t stand a chance at mortally wounding either of them.
But I close the knife, then pocket it, somehow feeling safe.
Bane smiles lightly. “Let’s get you to your man, sugar.”
