Smolder: Trojans MC (65 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

He wasn’t dead and he wasn’t quite ready to beg for death yet, but Falcon Marks didn’t feel great. He had been thrown to the figurative wolves that were his brothers and their groupies and they had rendered him asunder. He didn’t really remember what happened after the boss kicked him out of the office. He remembered grasping hands reaching out and pulling at him, pulling him in a million different directions. There were hands on his clothes and his hair and his skin. They had pushed him onto the floor and then the kicking started and Falcon didn't remember much else.

He had been pulled out of the scrum at one point and thrown down into the dungeons below the Screaming Eagles’ clubhouse. He was in a literal dungeon. He was sitting on a cement floor and in front of him were iron bars no more than four inches apart. The bars went down into the ground and were encased in cement. Falcon knew this because he had helped construct the very cage he was sitting in. There were no windows. Just three cement walls and the last wall was made of bars.

There was no clock, nothing to do or look at. Just the cold, hard cement beneath him. There was no one else in any of the cells. Falcon was all alone. He had no idea how much time had passed. Time seemed to stop in the cell or, perhaps, it was moving very quickly; he had no way to know.

His face was covered in bruises, his left eye was swollen shut, his upper lip had split, and his nose was broken. He was pretty sure he had cracked a couple of rib and there were bruises covering his body; they went up and down his legs and arms and all across his torso. His body was nothing more than a mass of throbbing, unending pain. Everything hurt. Moving at all hurt. Sitting hurt, standing hurt, laying down hurt. It hurt too much to sleep. He could occasionally doze off, but then some pain would waken him and he would rise, groggy, confused, and alone.

Where was Grace? It had been long enough. She hadn’t seen Falcon on the road. She hadn’t seen the shipment so she had to know that something was wrong. But she still wasn’t here. There had been a shootout along the route and she hadn’t called him to warn him about it. She had hung him out to dry. She had used him and then when things went sideways, she had left him.

He had no one to help him. He had betrayed the gang and the cops clearly didn’t care. He never should have worked with them. Never. He should have gone to jail when she first caught him; it would have been better than this. The cops had used him and fucked him over and what was truly terrible was that he had helped them. He had been complicit in his own destruction.

Would it have been so bad for Sophie to have a biker for a father? Even one who was in jail? They could have written to each other, long letters where they told each other everything. She could have been there the day he got out. Now he would never see her again. He had been a good dad so far, he had provided for her, cared for her, spent time with her. He hadn’t been doing so bad.

Then Grace showed up with her anti-biker crusade. She had recruited Falcon and offered him no help or guidance. She had just ordered him and he had followed. Maybe the boss had been right. Maybe Falcon was just a piece of shit, a terrible father, and a terrible man.

Grace hadn’t even bothered to see him last night. The night before the big raid, the night before the defining act of his life, and Grace couldn’t be bothered to see him. She hadn’t cared about him. She was just another uptight cop who needed to get her rocks off with the bad boy. She just wanted a little thrill, to do something bad and she used Falcon. Why did she act like such a great cop anyway? What cop fucks her informant? She was right: it had been stupid and foolish and it was now going to get Falcon killed.

How many times had she told him it was a bad idea? Well, she had been right about that. Falcon and Grace together were bad, nothing good had come from it. At that moment, it was decided – if Falcon ever saw the outside of this cage, he was never going to see Grace again. She could find some other biker to fuck. He wished her well on her search for a man who could give her three orgasms in one night like he could.

“Hey, traitor,” Marco said.

Falcon opened his bleary eyes and stared at Marco on the other side of the bars. Falcon was slumped against the back wall of his cell. There were no beds or blankets in the cell, just a hole in the ground to be used as a toilet.

“You look like shit,” Marco continued. “The crowd really gave it to you.” He then pulled up a bottle of water and brought it to his lips and took a deep, grateful sip. The water was cold and there was sweat running down the side of the bottle and dripping onto the floor.

“Water,” Falcon said. He could barely open his mouth. His lips were chapped and dry and his mouth felt stuffed with cotton. The water made his thirst suddenly unbearable.

“Oh, you want water?” Marco asked. He held the bottle out and then tipped it over, spilling the cold liquid onto the floor. “You want water? You can lap it up off the floor like the dog you are, you fucking traitor.”

He watched as the water splashed onto the cement and Falcon was sure he could see every drop of the life giving liquid as it slipped over the cracks in the cement and wove its way towards the hole in the ground. He was too weak to even try and get some of it. Instead, Falcon just watched as it made it’s way out of his reach forever.

“This ain’t the UN, bro.” Marco said. “No prisoner’s rights in here. Good news is, you’ll only last a couple of days without water. Maybe longer if you drink your own piss. Good luck, motherfucker.” And then he was gone walking away and up the stairs and past the locked door that led to freedom.

“Grace,” Falcon whispered into his cell. He wanted to cry, he wanted to sob, but he was too weak for even that. He slumped farther down until he was lying on his back. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain as he called out her name. “Grace.” But there was nothing. She wasn’t coming for him. He thought they had a connection, he thought he might have loved her. So where was she now, how had she allowed this to happen?

What was going to happen to him? Were they going to beat him more? Did they have worse tortures that they were at that moment preparing? Were they going to hurt Sophie or Kelly? What would he do if he couldn’t protect them?

Chapter Thirty-Three

I’ve wasted my life
, Falcon thought. He was exhausted and defeated; he had managed to sleep fitfully for a few minutes, hours, days? There was still no way to know how much time had passed. He guessed a day, maybe two. Either way, it had been too long. Too long for him to trapped in this dungeon. No one had come for him; no one was
going
to come for him. Maybe Ernie was right, maybe Falcon would be reduced to begging his boss to kill him. He couldn’t live like this much longer.

He was in so much pain. The swelling and bruising on his face had only grown worse. He still couldn’t open his left eye and he could barely open his right. The mottled black, blue, and yellow bruises that covered his body were ugly and painful. Every part of him hurt at every moment. He had no moments of peace or relaxation, he had been reduced to nothing but an unending throbbing pain. Dried blood clung to his skin, making any sort of movement sharply painful. Falcon had broken down and cried more than once over the last however long it had been. He had sobbed openly and prayed to God, things he hadn’t done in a long time.

He had been granted a bottle of water which he had greedily gulped down some time ago. He hadn’t eaten since he had been put down here. He hadn’t been given any way to clear the hard, dried blood that covered his face and body. His split lip had swollen and if he had anyone to talk to, he was doubtful they would have understood him.

But the waiting was the worst part. He had no concept of time. He had tried counting in his head to remind himself how long a minute was, but then he couldn’t stop counting; there was just a constant stream of numbers pulsing through his brain. It drove him crazy to try and figure out how long an hour actually was. He finally fell asleep and in his dreams he dreamt of numbers passing overhead like clouds.

Where was Sophie right now? Had the Screaming Eagles hurt her? Had Grace managed to get Kelly and Sophie to safety? Was she fine? Had she got up like any other morning? Maybe she had just woken up, eaten breakfast, and gone to school. Did she miss him? Was she worried about him?

He didn’t want Sophie to grow up without a father. He was going to die in this hole and no one was ever going to know what happened to him. She was going to think that her deadbeat biker dad had skipped town one day and never come back. She would grow up hating him and telling everyone that she had never known her father and didn’t care to.

“Oh, little Falcon. You always thought you were so much better than me, but look where you are now. A rat, beaten, bloody, bruised and left in a hole to die.”

He had been hearing his father’s voice for a while now, it probably wasn't a good sign. Falcon hadn’t thought about his father in ten years. He had no idea what had happened to the man, maybe he had died like this. Maybe he had pissed off the wrong people and died cold and alone, just like his son would.

“You thought you were such hot shit when the Screaming Eagles took you in. You remember that fight that we had? We were screaming at each other. You told me they were your family now and that you were done with me, didn’t need me anymore. Now look at you, you disgusting, weak, piece of shit, traitor.”

“Shut up,” Falcon mumbled to the empty room. He was so tired, he could barely keep his eyes open and his head kept drooping to the side. But he couldn't really sleep; he was in too much pain and the cell was too uncomfortable. He could only doze in and out for a few moments, which was somehow worse than no sleep at all. It was a tantalizing glimpse of sleep; it was a drop of water for a man lost in the desert; it wasn’t enough. 

He couldn’t control his thoughts anymore. First it was the out of control counting and now he could not make the voice of his father shut up no matter what he did.

“No one’s coming for you, son,” his father’s gravelly voice said. “You fucked up and now you’re screwed. You’re just like your old man. You’re a fuck up. You’re gonna die in here and nobody’s gonna miss you. But that’s what you get for fucking a cop.”

Why was it his father’s voice he was hearing and why did he remember it so clearly? He wasn’t sure if the man was dead or alive, but he had been a shitty father when he was around, so it made sense that his hallucination was equally as unhelpful.

“Go away,” Falcon murmured, his head slumping to the other side. He needed to sleep and eat and lie down in a bed. He needed a shower and a fistful of painkillers. He didn’t want to suffer anymore. He was looking down the barrel of the rest of his life and what he saw was this: hunger and thirst and pain and the walls of this cell.

“I named you, Falcon. It was my decision. Did you know that? Did I ever tell you why?”

The mirage of his father asked him. Where was he? Falcon turned his head and tried to see where the voice was coming from, but all he could see were the bare, grey cement walls of his cell. There were splotches of blood smeared across the floors and walls, and while he couldn’t remember putting it there he was sure it was his. “Fuck off,” Falcon murmured.

“When your mother told me she was pregnant with you I panicked. I didn’t want to be a father. I didn’t want to be saddled with some kid. I left on a Tuesday morning. I got up and told her I was going to find some work to help support her and the baby, but I was planning on leaving and never coming back. I didn’t even have anywhere to go. I just wanted to be in a place where I wouldn’t have to pay for diapers and watch some kid. I was on my bike driving down the street when this bird zoomed right past me; it was so close its wing clipped my helmet. I thought I was going to have a heart attack right there on the bike. But then it flew away and I figured it was some weird fluke and kept going. But then it came back. Two more times it flew right past my head; it was like it wanted to tell me something. It was like something out of a fairy tale, a bird who was bringing me a message.

I pulled over onto the side of the road and took off my helmet and looked around wondering what the fuck was up with that bird-”

“I hear something,” Falcon whispered. “I can hear wings.” It sounded like the ruffling of a thousand feathers. It felt like they were all around him, cushioning him and gently caressing him with their wings.

“So I’m pulled over on the side of the road and then, I shit you not, this fucking falcon lands on this branch about two feet from my head. I could see every inch of it. It had these beady little eyes, and sharp claws and it kept tilting its head like it was looking at me, like it was trying to figure me out.”

“Do you hear it?” Falcon whispered. His head was pounding; his mouth was dry. He needed to move, but he wasn’t sure if he could. He pushed himself forward and hand over hand he pulled himself across the floor towards the bars. Inch by painful inch he moved, leaving the sound of his father’s voice behind.

“So, I’m feeling like a madman looking at this bird like I expect it talk to me-”

“Be quiet,” Falcon said. “I’m trying to listen.”

The sound of the feathers was getting louder and he couldn’t figure out if it was just his concussed brain playing tricks on him. He knew his father wasn’t there, but the birds sounded different. They sounded so close and so real like he could reach out and touch them.

Falcon turned his head and looked up as he heard pounding footfalls above him. Someone was running. No, lots of people were running. Using all of his remaining strength he pulled himself up until he was standing, more like leaning, against the bars. Using his good eye, he looked around the dungeon, but he didn't see anything or anyone. But the footfalls above him were getting louder and heavier. People above him were running away from something or towards something. Still trapped in the basement Falcon had no idea what was going on.

Was he in trouble? Was something going on? He was trapped, it wasn’t just the bars that imprisoned him, but his injured and bloody body was a prison as well. Even if escape did present itself he wasn’t sure if he could walk let alone run. Through his bloodshot eye he stared down the hallway waiting to see what would happen. He could still hear the birds.

Maybe they were angels coming to rescue him. Not that Falcon was expecting a ticket to heaven, but what else could that noise be?