The Brotherhood of the Wheel (19 page)

The biker, who Jimmie could now see was with the Blue Jocks, Ale's club, had emptied the MP and was replacing the magazine when the Lodge Master rose and fired at him with his pistol at nearly point-blank range. Without missing a beat, the kid let go of the MP, which slapped against his chest, and revved the bike. He drove a kick into the Black Knight's balls and then swerved the bike to avoid hitting the lunch counter, as he stopped again. The Black Knight made a very satisfying gurgle and fell to his knees, dropping his gun in the process. A swarm of killers moved like a wave of rage to crash against the rider. Jimmie chambered a fresh shell and fired the shotgun again at the front of the mob. Buckshot ripped through the killers and many fell, while others dived for cover, shouting. The rider produced another grenade and lobbed it toward the back of the restaurant. A stray round sparked off the rider's handlebar, ricocheting and howling as it passed.

“Are you kidding me?” Jimmie shouted, and tried to hide behind the wrecked counter by the door. The grenade went off, and there were more screams and cries of pain. Part of the building groaned to stay standing from the shuddering blast, and gray dust and debris rained down. Several twisted and warped HVAC ducts jutted through the ragged remains of the grid ceiling, like a compound fracture puncturing skin.

Jimmie stepped out of the demolished front and saw the Waclaws in their clean little minivan, headlights on. Paul was behind the wheel. He nodded to Jimmie, mouthed the words “Thank you,” and then tore out of the lot, gravel flying, as they got back on U.S.150. The family sped away into the darkness.

More gunfire, almost a conversation of sporadic pops from pistols, responded with burps of automatic fire from the MP. Jimmie figured they had ten minutes, tops, before cops and state troopers responded to this little war. He put the .380 back in his jacket and chambered another shell into the shotgun and carefully peeked inside.

The few surviving killers were hiding behind overturned tables or under the tables in booths. Bodies were everywhere. The rider was scanning the room with the MP9. He nodded toward Jimmie. “You ready to go?” he said through his steel demon face.

“The Lodge Master,” Jimmie shouted back from the cover of the side of the ragged hole where the door to the Compass Point had been not so long ago. “You get him?”

“He scuttled into the kitchen,” Demon Mask said. “No worries, I'll get him.” He pulled out another grenade.

“Hold it! No!” Jimmie shouted, but it was too late. The rider pulled the pin and tossed it into the kitchen through the serving window behind the lunch counter. A plate of gravy fries, an order someone never got the chance to eat, still sat on the windowsill. The grenade flew by and bounced around the kitchen floor and then settled by the stainless-steel base of the grill and the ovens. The rider revved his T5 and shot toward the open hole he'd made in the front. Jimmie was running, diving behind one of the parked cars, as the rider cleared the interior of the Compass Point an instant before the grenade went off.

The whole back of the building erupted into a fireball as the gas lines in the kitchen caught. The roof flew skyward, then tumbled down, devoured by the flames. A second explosion, then a third, and the Compass Point was lost in ravenous fire and thick plumes of black smoke that poured skyward. Jimmie waited by the hole where the door had been, leaning against a filthy sedan, shotgun ready. The rider shut off his bike, climbed off, and stood beside Jimmie, MP9 leveled. No one else came through the hole, only thick smoke, as if the killers' rotted souls were trying to flee into the cold night.

“Thanks,” Jimmie said to the Demon Mask. “I was a goner—that family, too. I wish we could have done this with a little less”—there was a series of small pops, and then a rumble from another explosion in the ruins of the restaurant—“of that,” Jimmie said as hot debris thudded down on several of the nearby cars. “But you saved my skin, regardless.”

“No worries, man,” the rider said. He pulled off his helmet, revealing a mane of bright red hair, and balanced it on the handlebar of his bike. He began to worry at the straps of his face mask. “Uh, who were those guys, anyway?”

Jimmie's face conveyed his shock and some of the horror that hit him at the rider's remark. “You … you didn't know they were Zodiac Lodge? You … just … rode in and started killing people?”

“Yeah,” the rider said, a slight Scottish accent in his voice as he pulled the mask up over his face. “I knew they were bad guys when I heard them threatening you and the tots. Like I said, no worries, man.” The rider was a boy—well, a young man, to be more specific, in his twenties—with bright green eyes, wild, red hair, sideburns, and sharp features: almost pointed ears, nose, and chin. He had a grin on his face that Jimmie suspected seldom went away, even when he was machine-gunning a diner full of people.

Somewhere off in the distance there were sirens, still far off but coming closer and from several directions. Jimmie was weary of that sound. “That,” Jimmie said, as the rider heard the sirens, too, “is a worry …
man
. Come on, let's get the hell out of here.”

“Wait,” the rider said, grabbing Jimmie's arm, “I've been looking all over for you, and I need your help.”

“Looking for me?” Jimmie said.

“Yeah, the redhead said.” I missed you at your house, and Layla said you—”

Jimmie felt something twist in him when he heard his wife's name spoken in this unholy place, by this strange kid who seemed to embody innocence and violence in equal measure. He lost it for a second—all that adrenaline he had been pumping surged back again. He grabbed the boy by the MC cut and slammed him back against the dirty car.

“You went to my house!” he bellowed, slamming the kid again. “You talked to my wife?” Again, smashing him against the car. “You brought this crazy shit to my door?” To his credit, the rider took the abuse for as long as he could. He drove a knee into Jimmie's gut, and the trucker groaned as the air whooshed out of him. Jimmie staggered back and let go of him, then surged forward with a powerful cross to the kid's face, sending the rider flying across the hood of the car. Jimmie leaned over to grab the fallen shotgun. When he popped back up, leveling the 12-gauge, the rider was up on the other side of the car and facing him down with the MP9. The sirens were getting louder, closer. The fire was a storm of smoke and unbearable heat. From behind the Compass Point came the rumble of a car engine. The Lodge Master, still in his hood, pealed out of the parking lot and sped away in the opposite direction the Waclaws had. He was driving an old Pontiac Safari station wagon with fake wooden paneling on the sides.

“Figures,” the redhead said to Jimmie, watching the car's lights vanish over the horizon. “Maybe we should stop trying to fuck each other up and go get his poser ass?”

“His lodge has been destroyed,” Jimmie said. “He messed up. His fellow Lodge Masters will do worse to him than we ever could.” He lowered the shotgun. “We need to get out of here, too.”

The rider lowered his gun.

“Sorry, man. I understand you wanting to keep Layla and the kids safe. My bad. You know it was a hell of a lot more fun wrestling with you when I was a kid.”

Jimmie stopped mid-walk to the rig. He turned around, the lights coming on behind his eyes.

“Hector?” Jimmie asked. “Hector Sinclair?”

Heck laughed and nodded.

“Yeah. Hi, Jimmie. You didn't recognize me, didya? No wonder.”

“I thought you were still in Afghanistan?” Jimmie said, walking toward Heck.

“Haven't been home long,” Heck said. Jimmie offered his hand, and Heck shook it. “Look, you're right. We have got to go. I need to talk to you. Want to catch up down the road? I'll follow you.”

“Hell, yeah,” Jimmie said. “Let's hit it.”

Jimmie's rig rolled out of the gravel lot of the Compass Point, Heck's T5 trailing it down U.S. 150. In his newly repaired rearview mirror, Jimmie saw, far behind them, the swarm of red and blue emergency-vehicle lights converge on the inferno. The Compass Point's road sign flickered for a moment and then went dark forever.

*   *   *

They pulled up at a truck stop near Bardstown at about one in the morning. The place was called the Rooster's Run, and it had a restaurant connected to a convenience store. The Muzak speakers in the ceiling were playing Elvis and Conway Twitty songs quietly under the murmur of conversations. The noise was punctuated by the banter of weary travelers—civilians and truckers who had stopped for gas, Slim Jims, Slush Puppies, a burger, or to grab a hot shower or some shut-eye in the
TRUCKER ONLY
lounges upstairs. Others had stopped just to stretch their legs a bit, shake off the hypnosis of the highway, or to experience some kind of real human interaction, even as mundane as talking to the clerk behind the counter for a spell, before returning to the road.

Jimmie ordered coffee, black, and Heck ordered a plate of pancakes, two servings of bacon, and a carafe of orange juice to go with his large milk and his glass of Mountain Dew. Jimmie watched Heck wolf down his food. His hands no longer shook as he held his coffee mug. Heck seemed to have no lasting effects of the firefight at the Compass Point, other than the munchies. Jimmie recalled Ale and himself being that way once. Though this boy wasn't Ale's biological son, he sure acted a lot like him at that age. Had they really ever been that young? Now Ale was gone, the latest in an ever-expanding roll of good friends, brothers, who had lived and laughed, and raised hell in his green days, and had now passed on into the hall of memory. Jimmie felt the years creep into his bones and his muscles more and more every year—a war of attrition.

“Sorry about the misunderstanding back there,” Heck said, between shoveling food into his mouth. “I thought you knew who I was. You throw a mean hook for a seasoned citizen.”

“I've been throwing it since before you were born,” Jimmie said. “I was still picturing you from that photo your mom shared on Facebook a few years back—all clean cut from basic. I don't think I've seen you in person since you were … nine?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorry I couldn't make Ale's send-off,” Jimmie said, sipping his coffee. “I was on the road, on a job.”

Heck nodded, his cheek wadded full of food. He swallowed and then chased the food with a swig of his milk. “Mom understood,” he said, reaching for the dwindling pile of bacon. “I think her and Layla talked on the phone. Hell, man, I almost missed it myself. It's okay. I'm pretty sure Ale would have called bullshit on the whole thing, anyway.”

They both laughed. The waitress drifted by and poured more coffee for Jimmie.

Heck ordered a half-dozen scrambled eggs with hot sauce and toast. “'Sides,” he said. “From what everyone told me, you did a real good job at the funeral, Jimmie. My mom appreciated that a lot. Thanks.”

“Ale was a hell of a guy,” Jimmie said. “Good man, good friend. Saved my ass more times than I recall in the Gulf and again when we got back home and I rode with the Jocks.”

“You were a Blue Jock?” Heck said. “No shit?”

“Not exactly. They offered to patch me in, but I had a few other things going on. I rode with them on a few of the early hunts—the bail-jumping stuff and the
other
hunts, you know … and another thing that was … well, it was a long time ago. You were still shitting in your diapers at the time, as I recall. I changed a few of them. You're welcome, by the way.”

Heck chuckled and nodded as he scooped up another bite. “I'm sure I can repay the favor in a few years,” he said. He kept looking at his plate of food as he asked the next question. “So, that far back, you must have known my old man, yeah? My real dad?”

Jimmie stiffened, paused before he took a sip of coffee to give him a second to think. “Yeah, I guess I did,” he said over the rim of the mug. “What did Elizabeth and Ale tell you about him?”

“Not a lot. They froze up, like you just did, every time I'd ask. I know Mom met him when she was pretty young,” Heck said. “He had the baddest-ass bike she had ever seen. I know he was a serious dick—abusive, cruel to her, and possessive. I'm pretty sure he did some real bad shit to her and dragged her into worse. He split before Mom knew she was pregnant. Ale came along and picked up all the pieces and raised me like I was his.” Heck looked up from this food. He leaned back in the booth and stretched. He yawned a little. “Just wondered if you could fill in a few of the details. I figured if he rode back then, and you did, too, you must know—”

“Look, Heck,” Jimmie said, “that was a long time ago, and, like I said, nobody knew your father very well, except by … reputation. He was bad news—the worst, actually. And I understand you wanting to know. I know it must eat you up to only have these vague scraps of him, but trust me, you're better off not knowing. Much, much better off, son.”

“I'm not your fucking son, mate,” Heck said, his voice raised and his eyes bright with sudden anger. “And you have no clue what's best for me.” He slipped a silver flask out of his leather jacket and unscrewed it.

“You ain't going to start drinking and then ride that bike, now, are you?” Jimmie said, setting down his mug.

“Nah,” Heck said. “I'm not starting. Been at it for a spell. You don't think I drove into that greasy spoon to save your ass without a little tip first, do you?” He raised the flask and took a long draw on it. Jimmie reached across the table and pulled it away from him. “What the hell, man?” Heck shouted.

Jimmie screwed the cap back on the flask and handed it back to him. “Put that shit away,” he said. “You're going to get yourself or someone else killed doing that. You know that! Ale would've—”

“Yeah, yeah, fucking, yeah!” Heck said, standing. He slid the plates and the glasses off the table and they shattered on the floor. The restaurant was silent. “Ale would've been pissed as hell that his fucking son wasn't a goddamned knight of the fucking round table! Well, fuck your precious Saint Ale. He's fucking dead, man—died a dried-up old man in a hospital bed! He got fed from a bag, and shit and pissed into a bag, too. I saved your fucking ass back there, and I don't need to explain myself to you, to fucking dead Ale, or any-goddamned-one else!”