Rand
I jerked with a start and I shook my head, trying to ward off the encroaching tendrils of sleep. When I'd arrived home from Doonz last night, and found Hanna had left, I'd called her immediately. I could understand why she felt she had to go to Carl, but I also knew he was playing a head game, and Hanna and Garrett were his pieces.
I could tell Patrick felt miserable. He'd been placed in a no-win situation. I certainly understood him telling Hanna, but he should have called me before he let her leave. He'd said he hadn't called me because Hanna wasn't our prisoner and it was her decision to go or stay, not ours, and if we tried to force her to stay, we were no better than her asshole soon to be ex-husband. I understood that too, but just as he'd tried to convince her to stay, I'd have done the same. Me being there likely wouldn't have made any difference since she gave me the total brushoff when I called her, but I wanted the chance, and I was still slightly annoyed with Patrick for not giving it to me.
After our confrontation, Patrick and I had retreated to our own houses to give us some space before one of us said something we'd later regret. I knew he believed he'd done the right thing—and I wasn't entirely convinced he hadn't—but I'd been fuming, and I didn't want to lash out at him in frustration. I was starting to calm down, and was debating going to his house and sharing a beer with him to silently show him I understood his reasoning, when Hanna had called me.
I couldn't be certain, but I suspected Carl was hovering, and she was saying the things she did for his benefit. I hadn't had to pretend to be upset. I was upset, but not with her, the anger of Carl using their son to manipulate her pissing me off anew. If she really wanted to go back to him, and wanted me out of her life, she was going to have to tell me face to face when we were alone.
As soon as I hung up, I'd gone to Patrick, told him about the call, and explained was I leaving for Eugene. He cautioned me again, reminding me that Hanna had clearly asked me to stay away when she was able to speak freely. That had given me pause, but after a moment, I decided I didn't care. The only reason she wanted me to stay away was because she was afraid I'd make matters worse with my presence. She was probably right, but that only meant I had to be careful to not be seen until I was ready to make my move.
I'd arrived in Eugene about eleven, and I'd spent a few hours hitting bars and spreading cash around until I'd finally found a woman who knew the location of the Orcas clubhouse. I owed her a tumble in addition to the drinks I'd lubricated her with as the price for the information. It was a debt I'd repay someday. Maybe.
Right now I was focused on finding Carl. I'd staked out the Orcas' clubhouse last night, parking my bike out of sight behind the pawnshop across the street. Sitting in the shadow of the building on a concrete block I'd found behind a dumpster, I had a good view of the clubhouse entrance. The Orcas' clubhouse was a big ugly thing that appeared to have been converted from a failed grocery store or something similar. The large windows on the front were painted black with the Orcas' symbol, a leaping killer whale over the outline of Oregon, emblazoned in the center, and a stylized Harley Hardtail to either side.
I'd been sitting with my back against the wall for the last six hours. The clubhouse appeared to be open around the clock, with members coming and going, but about three a.m. things slowed way down and my battle against sleep began. I debated allowing myself to sleep during the lull, depending on the rumble of a Harley to wake me up, but decided against it. I'd been afraid I wouldn't hear Carl if he arrived, but now I was regretting that decision.
I was going to have to move soon. The Pawnshop was scheduled to open at ten, two hours from now, and I no longer had the cover of darkness to hide me. If the clubhouse started getting busy, staking the place out in easy view of the door was only going to get my ass kicked... or worse.
I took a deep breath and stood, walking off the sleep and the stiffness that was seeping into my bones. I started hanging farther back along the wall, breaking up my shape by standing beside the air-conditioner, leaving my spot when I heard the rumble of a motorcycle.
It was nearly ten and, though the temperature was nice, it looked like rain. I could probably hang out inside the pawn shop for an hour, pretending to shop, before the owner became suspicious, but I was rapidly running out of options. I was walking circles behind the building when I heard the rumble of an approaching motorcycle. I quickly walked back to the front corner of the business, staying close to the wall to mask my presence, when Carl flashed by and turned into the clubhouse parking lot.
The nagging sleep I'd been fighting disappeared in an instant as I watched Carl dismount. The urge to run across the street and beat the man until he gave up Hanna's location was almost more than I could withstand, but I knew taking on Carl in his own front yard with five other bikes already there would be suicidal. I'd do Hanna no good if I were dead.
As I continued to watch, several other bikes dribbled in. Alex arrived next, followed soon after by the President of the Eugene chapter. Minutes later, a few more Orcas arrived, men I couldn't recall seeing before, and entered the clubhouse.
A newish Toyota Landcruiser turned into the drive and drove around the building. I couldn't leave, not since I now had eyes on Carl, but if I continued to stand here I was probably going to get a visit from the cops. I walked around to the front of the building and waited by the front door, using the windows of the pawnshop as mirrors to watch the building across the street. Promptly at ten, the man I'd seen in the Toyota approached the door and unlocked it.
"Can I help you?" he said as he opened the door for me. He was an older man with steel gray hair, a noticeable beer gut, and a monstrous walrus mustache.
"Yeah. I was looking to maybe buy a pistol." Since the name of the place was Eugene Pistol and Pawn, I guessed that would get me inside.
"Anything you have in mind?" he asked as I followed him into the store.
"No, not really. Browsing more than anything... unless you have something special." I paused at the counter. I really didn't give a shit what he had, and I wasn't in the market for a new gun, but I needed an excuse to stay.
"Here's what I've got," the man said, waving his hand over the display case.
I pretended to study the selection before I pointed at the stainless Berretta Bobcat. "Let me see that Beretta. My girlfriend might like something that small."
He pulled small pistol out of the case and placed it on the pad on top of the display. "That's a dandy little gun for a woman," he said, beginning his pitch as I inspected the weapon. "They don't make them anymore, so they're getting hard to find, especially in that finish."
I checked the weapon over. It was a clean piece, and I wondered if Hanna would carry it if I bought it for her. We talked about the weapon a little as I stalled for time.
"Let me go make a phone call," I finally said as he tucked the gun away. "No point in buying it if she won't carry it. I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Take your time."
I strolled out of the store. I wasn't calling anyone, but I was using the excuse of talking to my girlfriend to stall for more time. I'd stand around outside with my phone to my ear for a few minutes, and if Carl was still inside the clubhouse, I'd return to the store, pretend she wanted something else, and start the process all over again.
I was slowly walking back and forth in front of the store, keeping my head down and my phone to my ear, furtively watching the clubhouse when Carl appeared. He was clearly upset about something, his head hanging low as he stopped at his bike and jerked his helmet on. Whatever the meeting had been about, Carl wasn't happy with the outcome.
The moment I recognized him, I started walking to where my bike was parked, my phone still at my ear, until I was out of sight. I dropped the phone into my pocket and trotted along the building to the parking lot. I was jerking my helmet on when I heard a Harley bark to life. I quickly fastened my own helmet and started my bike. I kicked it into gear and arrived at the front edge of the pawnshop just in time to see Carl make a left at the corner.
I followed, trying to keep several cars between us when possible. Tailing someone on a Harley isn't the least conspicuous way to do it, but my only other option was to use the yard truck. While a Ford pickup would be less noticeable than my bike, the O'Neill Recycling wraps on the doors destroyed any stealth the truck might otherwise have.
Despite my best efforts to not be seen, it was obvious when Carl spotted me. At the last possible moment, he made a sudden left and opened the tap on the bike, his Harley bellowing away. I banged my bike down two gears and whacked open the throttle before braking hard, timing a passing car, and then squirting across traffic in front of other another approaching car as the driver stood on her brakes and announced her annoyance with a long blare of her horn.
Carl was well ahead, but as I roared after him, I began to reel him in. If I were on my race bike, I'd have caught him almost immediately, but our Harleys were more evenly matched. What we were doing was incredibly dangerous, weaving in and out of cars while traveling at more than twice the speed of the traffic, but I had him, and I wasn't letting him go.
My bike wasn't any faster in a straight line than his, maybe even slightly slower because it was heavier, but every time he made a turn, I closed the gap, willing to go in deeper and harder on the brakes and leaning my bike harder over to carry more speed through the corner. Less than five minutes after Carl made his first attempt to escape, I was riding his ass. There was no way for me to force him to stop, so I hung on his rear wheel like a bulldog, ducking out like I was going to pass to try to push him into making a mistake.
When I realized Carl was trying to work his way back to the clubhouse where he could call on reinforcements, I began herding him away. Because I could brake harder than he could, when he wanted to make a turn I didn't want him to make, I ducked inside of him to prevent it. It wasn't a perfect system, and sometimes I couldn't prevent his turn, or he would feint right or left until I committed before going the opposite direction, but I succeeded more often than I failed. If he tried to force the turn, I struck out with my booted foot, kicking his bike to send him wobbling, the deep front fender of this Softail Deluxe an easy target. Carl was the sheep and I was dog, and I driving him where I wanted him to go.
As I slowly forced him more and more out of town, Carl became increasingly desperate. After a particularly nasty clash when he tried to force a right turn, a move that nearly crashed us both, he surged away, trying to make another run for it. I was tired of the chase, but I had no option other than to play it out. Despite what someone might see on television or in the movies, shooting from a motorcycle was probably more dangerous for the shooter than the target.
It surprised me when Carl braked hard in the middle of a block. He'd tried to cause me to rear-end him before, and because I could out brake him I was able to avoid a collision, but when he turned into an empty, weed choked parking lot, I knew immediately we were in the final moves of the game.
Carl roared across the lot, trying to open some space, before braking as hard as possible and turning his bike ninety-degrees. He reached behind him, going for something under his cut the moment the bike stopped, but he was too slow, far too slow. Before he could withdraw what I assumed would be a weapon, I was braking hard before slamming the front tire of my bike into the side of his motorcycle with enough force to pitch his bike onto its side.
As Carl tried to kick his bike off him, I killed my own bike, kicked the stand down, and dismounted in less than three seconds. As he freed himself from his bike, and tried to scramble to his feet while drawing his weapon, I kicked him in the side to knock him down again. He rolled to face me, his hand still at his back, but froze when he saw me standing over him with my pistol pointed at his head.
"If you're smart, you'll slowly pull that hand back. If I even think I see something in it, you're a fucking dead man."
He slowly withdrew his hand and showed it to me, his fear clear on his face. I hadn't rammed him hard enough to do any serious damage to him or his machine, mainly because I didn't want to crash myself, but knew he was in mortal danger.
"Where is she, you fuck?" I growled, the weapon never wavering.
"If I tell you, you'll kill me!" he cried, still lying on the ground.
"If you don't tell me, I'll kill you. When you stop showing up, she'll figure it out."
