“I really can’t say when.”
Or if, I think to myself, knowing there’s a chance that Stormy will never wake up.
When I return to the club, there’s a buzz about it. Has something happened to Road?
“Swift?” My name is called almost immediately.
“Prez.” I approach him cautiously, fear rolling in my gut.
“Something’s come up. San Diego has a problem. Nasty shit. A porn ring involving kids.”
Glaring, I spit out, “We going to help?” Porn and kids are two words which should never go together. Shit like that needs to be stopped.
“Yeah. You and Bolt head down there, okay? Honor and Duty will be working the back end.”
There’s nothing I want more than to break up that type of shit. “What about Stormy?”
“Tell the doc you’ve got to go out of town. Give him my number for emergencies. Tell him I’m your big brother or something and get him to keep me in the loop if Stormy wakes up.”
“Want me to feel out Lost about Stormy?” I refer back to the decision in church.
Prez presses his finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. “Not outright. If they’ve nothing to hide, or even if they want to pull the wool over our eyes, they’ll be the ones to mention him. They’ll be fuckin’ cocky as hell if they think they’ve solved our problem. Just see how it goes, okay? Listen and learn.” His look shoots a warning at me. “Whatever you gleam, report it back. Don’t go acting on your own initiative. Can’t see it putting us in Drummer’s good books if you use thumb screws on one of the San Diego members.”
I stab at him with my finger. “You spoil all my fun, Prez.”
“We’re flying commercial.” Bolt strides up. “We’ve got tickets booked. Red-eye flight.”
Of course we are. Preacher’s taken the plane. Just my luck.
As I listen to Bolt giving me the details, I get my head in gear for our visit to San Diego. At least it’s a change from sitting by a near-dead man’s side, and a chance to find out if his condition has anything to do with our Californian brothers.
7
Seven years ago
Stormy…
Friday only gives me two days. Checking Google, I see I’ll have a five-hundred-mile journey to reach Utah, and luckily, being summer, good weather is expected most of the way.
I’d been so focused on achieving my dream lifetime career that now it’s been cut short, and in such an ignominious way, my head’s still trying to catch up with what is my new reality. Disgraced, shamed, a man for whom the world has no place. Maybe a long ride, wind therapy and seeing the pavement disappearing beneath my wheels might go some way to getting shit in my head straighter. Give me some time to work out whether I’ll be able to move forward, and what direction my life could take. Up until now, I’ve found it impossible to think of a future that holds anything worthwhile. Up until now, I’ve spent most of the time drunk, I remind myself.
I drive to Tailor’s house and after speaking to his girlfriend, leave my car in the parking lot, and get my bike out of his storage. There’s nothing to keep me here, so I decide I might as well get on the road and take my time with the journey. Decision made, I stop only to top off my oil and gas, and then take one last look back at San Diego. Snorting to myself when I realise I’ve no goodbyes to say. I’ve no ties, no loving family and not even friends to wish me good luck. The ones I have are back overseas. I feel empty, lost. Could Utah have something to fill this hole inside me?
I doubt it. Nevertheless, I press start, kick down into first and head out of the city.
I’d like to say that a burden is gradually lifted from me as I put miles between myself and the naval base, but I’d be lying. Each mile that passes makes me more homesick, and resentful of all that I lost.
Should I have spoken up? Put blame where it was warranted? No, that wouldn’t have saved me. I disobeyed a direct order, nothing to absolve me from that. Sifting through maybes and what-ifs isn’t going to do anything to alter the position I’m in now. I’m like a piece of driftwood, with no direction to head in, and no idea where I’m going to end up. Except almost certainly washed up.
After about four hours of riding, I stop, dismount the bike and stretch. It’s been more than a minute since I rode so long in one go, so my ass is definitely feeling it.
After booking into a cheap motel, I find somewhere to eat, shoving food into my mouth mechanically, with no more pleasure than when I topped off my tank. Like my bike, it’s just fuel for the journey ahead.
I sleep, well, no I don’t. I lie on the bed trying to stop my overactive brain from thinking about what my ex-teammates are doing. Eventually, with the thought that I’ve never felt so lonely in my life rattling around my brain, I force myself to switch off and finally sleep.
Waking early, I get on with the final stage of my journey. When I near the city I’m headed to, I pull off, checking the directions.
Eventually I find the address. It’s a steel and glass three-storey building on the outskirts of an industrial estate with nothing to tell me about the kind of business they’re about. Apart from a street number, there’s no name on the door. Curious, I bring my bike to a halt and park up in a visitor bay. Putting my aviators away, I swing my leg over the seat and take the key from the engine, studying the building in front of me for a moment. There’s nothing about the exterior which gives away what goes on inside.
Some secret organisation?
I snort.
Oh well, I haven’t ridden more than six hours just to turn back without finding out. Best go inside and see what this is about.
The doors are the revolving type, so I step inside and they automatically begin to move, depositing me in a reception area with a man seated behind a desk. He comes as a surprise. Not that I’m sexist and think a woman should be sitting there, but it’s the fact that though he’s smartly dressed, he can’t quite hide the tats which go up to his neck and cover his hands. He’s got a beard, his hair hits his shoulders, and he’s well built. My first thought is that he’s an ex-serviceman who’s been given a pity role.
If they take on vets, that might explain why I’m here. But if that’s the case, then I hope there’s something better planned for me. With my moods, a good receptionist is something I’ll never be and not what anybody would want.
Although I’ve clocked he knows I’ve arrived, he continues to tap at his computer for a few seconds before looking up, a quizzical expression on his face.
“I’m here to see Philip Hound.”
A raise of his chin confirms I’m in the right place. “And you are?”
“Finn Palmer.”
He consults his screen, then stands. “I need to pat you down.”
I grit my teeth, wondering why he’d assume I’m armed. I hold out my arms and am subjected to a thorough pat down, not amateurish at all. Ex-military police? Quite possible. He easily finds my knife in my boot. Then, to my disgust, he confiscates my phone.
“I might need that.” I hold out my hand to take it back.
His face is set and determined. “If you want to meet Pip, then your phone stays here. You can get it when you go. Or, you can take your phone and leave now.” His manner suggests whichever I decide wouldn’t bother him.