Savior Ch 31

Rand

"He fucking hit her?" I growled as Brock and I rode along in the club support truck with my motorcycles in back.

I'd seen Hanna when she arrived, the distinctive sound of her car drawing my attention, but I was in the middle of the tech inspections to make sure nobody was running a ringer. Bryan, and three guys from his shop did the actual inspections, to remove any questions that might arise from having the Riders doing the inspections, but myself and three other mechanically inclined members of the Riders kept the notes to speed the process.

"Yeah, right there in front of God and everyone," Brock grumbled in return.

"That fucker. I should have killed him when I had the chance."

"Get in line, brother. You had your chance and didn't do it. Let someone else have a turn."

"Why didn't Doug throw his ass out?"

"He was going to, but Alex threatened to go to war if we did. That asshole is their guy."

"Are you shitting me? He's slow as hell!"

"Good! We'll take the easy win."

"Jesus, how stupid are they?"

"I have a feeling that Carl has been blowing smoke up their collective asses."

I shook my head. "Once again, how stupid are they?"

Brock chuckled. "Very... apparently."

"Keep an eye on her for me?"

"Like she was my own," Brock assured me.

Brock and I were bringing up the rear, in case anyone got lost on the way to the track, or one of the highly tuned motorcycles expired, but we arrived with no issues, and I parked the truck on the left side of the road at the large rock just past the finish line. That was the traditional parking place for the truck. It made a good reference point that no persons or vehicles were allowed past, to give the returning riders plenty of room to stop without worrying about hitting anyone or anything after they blew through the timer.

The entire area between the finishing and start line, along with the large overlook, was available for our use since we blocked off the roads. It was a crowded, bustling area, but we weren't piled on top of each other, with all the vehicles parked on the left, leaving the right lane open for travel.

Using the powered ramp, Brock helped me unload my Moto and Harley from the back of the truck. With its custom frame, and no frill such as a battery or starter, my bike was light and easy to handle, but we recovered downed bikes using the truck, if they'd roll, and some of those big 1,000cc monsters were heavy as shit... not to mention my Harley tonight, hence the powered ramp. If the bike was smashed all to hell, as Stu's had been, that would require a trip to the yard for the ramp truck. Fortunately we'd never had to use the ramp truck, and I hoped we never did.

Bikes unloaded, Brock and I made our way to the gathering crowd. We were about to be assigned our grid positions. As I coasted to a stop off to the side, Doug knelt in front of Garrett.

"Who is this fine-looking young man?" he asked as he crouched.

Garrett tucked into Hanna's leg, saying nothing, but his eyes were bright. My jaws tightened with anger. To have wife and son like Hanna and Garrett, only to abuse them, proved to me that Carl-fucking-Ellerbe was a total-fucking-moron.

"Tell him your name," Hanna encouraged.

"Garrett."

"Garrett?" Doug exclaimed glancing up at me. "I've heard a lot about you! Put'er there partner," he said extending his hand. Garrett took the hand, shook it, then buried his face in Hanna's side. "Hey, I need a little help. Think you can help me out?"

Garrett nodded against Hanna's side, his hands gripping her blouse.

"We're not here for a fucking party!" Carl growled as he put his hand on Garrett's shoulder.

Doug stood up and glared at Carl. "What happened to your face, Carl? And I noticed your bike was a little dinged up, too. Run into something you couldn't handle?"

He then smiled down at Garrett who was staring back at him wide-eyed. "How'd you like to draw the staring numbers?" Garrett nodded again.

"Stop fucking around," Carl sneered. "He's not going anywhere."

"Stop being such an asshole," a rider next to Carl growled. "Let the kid have a little fun."

A chorus of 'Let the kid draw,' and 'Let him have some fun,' mixed with more than a few 'Yeahs' passed through the crowd. Doug held out his hand to Garrett, and when Hanna nudged him, Garrett slowly extended his hand. Doug took it and led Garret to a folding table that held our timing laptops before he picked him up and stood him on the table.

"This is for the under 600s," Doug called as he held the black felt bag that contained small plastic poker chips with a number on them. "Okay, Garrett, reach in there and pull one of the numbers out." Garrett carefully did as he was told. "What's the number?" Garret said something but I couldn't hear it, and apparently neither could anyone else. "Yell it out there!" Doug encouraged.

"Six!" Garrett yelled as loud as he could, causing everyone to laugh or smile.

A man raised his hand.

"Twelve!" Garrett called, and another man began to move as Palmer recorded the starting order in the computer. At the start line, a brother would be waiting when the racing started. He'd check the wafer the rider had to confirm position, stage him, and once the hold timer elapsed, send him on his way.

I smiled as Garrett started getting into it, reaching into the bag, pulling out a number, and then calling it out loudly as he held the wafer up. Once he drew the last number, all the wafers, plus a handful more, went back into the bag, and the process started over for the 600 to 750 class. The starting order for the second race set, the wafers, less a few, were returned to the bag and then drawn again.

After the over 750 class riders were assigned their starting position, I pulled my black wafer out of my pocket and held it in my hand. I had number one.

Garrett rummaged in the bag. "One!"

"Shit," I muttered to myself as I raised my hand to acknowledged I'd heard. I hated going first. Six other numbers were quickly drawn, and then we were done.

Doug hefted Garrett off the table so he could run to Hanna. "Neil, kill the lights."

There was a brief pause then the overlook plunged into darkness.

"Everyone listen up! First, we've turned the lights off to give our riders eyes some time to adjust to the darkness. Please, only small flashlights from this point forward until all the races are over."

In the distance, a light began to flash as Dean waved his flashlight.

"Second, see that light over there? That's the starting line. Racers and crew only beyond this point, for your own safety." A second light began to flash in the opposite direction, this one much farther away. Doug gestured. "If you'll look behind you, that's the finish line. Please, again for your own safety, nobody is allowed beyond the last vehicle. If either of these rules ae violated, you will get one, and only one, warning. After that, you'll be asked to leave."

A large board lit up beside Doug. If it were daylight a person wouldn't be able to read the numbers, but in the darkness, the number glowed brightly.

"Third, this is the timing board. At the top it lists the rider number and a timer. Below it lists the five intervals along with the over under compared to the leader." A second, smaller board lit up. "This is the leader board. It lists the top three finishing times and the rider's number," Doug continued as he motioned to the second screen. "We time to the thousandth of a second... minutes, seconds, and thousands," he said as he moved his hand along. "Any questions?" There were none. "Then... ladies and gentlemen... let's go racing!" he cried dramatically.

I wanted to talk to Hanna, but Carl was hovering and I didn't want to create a scene. I also had a pair of riders in the under 600 class... Wade on his Kawasaki Ninja 400 and Stacey on her Honda 500R. Even though Wade was slightly down on power compared to the larger bikes, he was always in the hunt for a podium finish because he knew the track so well, and over the last several years we'd refined his Ninja until it was perfectly set up for the Green Hell.

Stacey was competing for her second time. Jacob's wife, she wasn't officially part of the club, but I crewed for her anyway. Last year she'd finished well down in the pack, but she had the skills and just needed seasoning to be truly fast. She'd been working relentlessly, riding the hell hard since her last race, and after I helped her dial in her Honda, she was damned fast and a real contender this year.

Of my two racers, Stacey was up first, fifth out of the gates, and I found her near the starting line. "You ready for this?" She nodded. I pulled my mic down in front of my mouth. "Com check?"

"Loud and clear," she answered in my ear.

"Just run your race," I murmured as the first rider wailed away and the second rider crept forward to the starting position. "Remember what we talked about. Don't push it. Stay inside your limit. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast, right?" She nodded again, blipping the throttle on her bike. "You got this, sister." She nodded again and I slapped her on the shoulder. "Go kick some male ass."

I faded back. I needed to be where I could see the timer board, but as she was so new to racing, I wanted to give her the last-minute pep talk in person. She rolled to the line and I watched until the light went green. A second later, her bike screamed, and she was away.

There was nothing I could do to help her now. I thumbed my mic to the second channel. "Wade? Com check."

"Five by five."

It was going to get tricky as Stacey finished her run because Wade would be going out with only one rider between them, and I was going to have to be careful to be sure I was on the right channel to talk to the rider I wanted.

"Plus point zero two," I said, letting Stacey know was 0.02 seconds behind the leader as she crossed Porter.

"Copy," she panted.

I could tell by her breathing she was working hard... probably too hard. "Smooth is fast," I reminded her.

"Copy."

There were five intermediate timers set up on the track. The first was at Porter, where the riders crossed Porter creek following a hard right that led into a long stretch with a series of left and rights that could throw off a rider's rhythm with ease. Next came Knife, a fast right with a nasty bump in the middle that had put more than one rider off the line when the bike unloaded over the bump. Up next was Kink, where the riders had to make a sharp, near one-eighty, turn. Taken in first gear, this was the slowest corner on the track and where most races were won or lost. After Kink there was a long run on a relative straight before a series of turns made the track look like a boot heel, hence the marker's name... Boot. After Boot was Finger, the second slowest turn, another near one-eighty, but this time to the left, a second gear corner that had caught out many riders because of the sudden tightening of the radius in the middle of the turn. The final timing mark was Wiggles, a series of high-speed turns near the finish that a good rider could take flat out, but if you were behind at Wiggles, very few could make up any time in the final mile to the finish line.

"Plus point zero one five," I said as her time flashed up on the board at Knife.

"I nearly shit myself. I fucking hate that bump."

I forced myself to not laugh out loud, not wanting the mic to pick it up. Stacey wasn't the only newish rider to nearly shit herself at Knife.

"Remember, stay inside at Kink. You can't straighten it, so stay tight."

"Copy."

"Fuck!" she yelled a long moment later, and my heart skipped a few beats.

"Stace? You okay?"

"Yeah. I had wheel spin coming out of the corner. I nearly dumped it."

"But you didn't! Focus!"

"Time?"

"Don't worry about the time."

"That bad?"

I smiled. She was in a long straight run, so I didn't mind talking to her a little "Plus point zero, zero eight."

"If I hadn't fucked up coming out of the turn..."

"Forget it. Focus."

I glanced at the board. Less than a minute until Wade was off.

"Plus point zero one four."

"Dammit," she grunted.

I flicked the switch on my mic. "Stacey is kicking ass. Watch Kink. It may be a little greasy."

"Copy."

I smiled as Stacey's last time flashed on the board. "Plus point zero one one. Bring it home hard sister! You're on the podium."

"Copy."

Still smiling, I flicked my mic back to Wade. I didn't know if her time would hold, probably not as there still some fast riders waiting to race, but she would likely finish in the top five. That was nothing to be ashamed of, and a big improvement over her first race.

I watched as Wade rolled up to the start line in the distance, redlined his bike when the light went green, and then fired out of the gate. As I'd told Hanna, the Green Hell wasn't about straight-line speed, it was about cornering, and even on his slightly smaller bike, Wade was hauling ass.

"Minus point zero one four," I said as he left Kink.

"Shit!" Wade barked. "Shit! I've got a problem!"

"What?"

"I've lost fourth gear! Fuck!"

"Can you make it back?"

"Give me a minute. Shit. I've lost second and fourth. Yeah, I think I can make it back. Dammit!"

I waved Brock, the pit marshal, over. He took Hanna by the arm and steered her and Garrett toward me. I pushed the mic away from my lips so it wouldn't pick up my voice. "Have them hold the next rider. Wade blew his transmission. He's trying to make it back, but we don't want anyone crawling up his ass."

Brock nodded and brought his walkie to his mouth. "Starting line! Hold! Hold! Hold! Damaged bike on the course. Damaged bike on the course. Hold! Hold! Hold!"

"Hold, acknowledged."

I pulled the mic back down. "You still okay? We're holding the next rider, so try to nurse it back if you can. You're not leaking are you?"

"The gearbox is completely trashed. I'm stuck in third, and it sounds like it's full of marbles, but I think it'll make it... and no, I don't think I'm leaking."

"Good. Try to bring it home, brother."

"Copy."

I pushed the mic back. "Where's Carl?"

She shrugged. "With his club, I think."

"How're you doing?"

"Okay. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming for me."

I snorted. "The asshole lied to me. Did you used to live at some place called Green Leaf Apartments?"

"Greenwood? Yeah. When we first got married."

"Where are you now?"

"I don't know the name of the place, but it's a dump behind the True Value distribution center. Apartment eighteen."

"When this is over, I'll come for you and Garrett. Just hang tight for another day, maybe two. I glanced around. "Go now, before Carl notices you talking to me. Just a day or two, then I'll be here."

She nodded, smiled, and allowed Brock to lead her and Garrett away.

I found Stacey wrapped in Jacob's arms with her legs around his waist as she kissed him lustily. I could tell she was rightly jubilant... so much so I wasn't sure she wasn't going to fuck him right there. I heard the scream of another bike, which meant that Wade managed to get back.

"That sounds bad," I deadpanned as he pushed his bike along, the sound of broken gears grinding softly.

"You think?"

I snickered. "I'll help you load it in the truck after the race. I'll ride my Harley back."

"Why? I thought I'd ride it back."

I snickered again. "Tough break."

"Next year."

I nodded in agreement.

Stacey finished fourth out of nineteen riders, missing a podium finish by less than two-tenths of a second. I knew as well as anyone that the better the rider was, the harder it was to improve, but I expected Stacey to podium in the fall.

I wandered through the pits to check on Vince as the races paused before the 600cc class bikes began to run. I wanted to talk to Hanna, but she was with the Orcas, and Carl was holding her firmly by the arm. Brock was nowhere near, but Palmer was hovering nearby, clearly keeping an eye on Hanna in Brock's absence. He caught my eye and nodded. I nodded in return. The club had really coalesced around Hanna since we made our stand at O'Neill Recycling and was treating her as one of our own.

I found Vince propped comfortably on his Suzuki, his helmet resting on the seat behind him. "How are you feeling?" I asked as I coasted to a stop beside him.

"Ready to race."

"Kink is greasy. Stacey had wheel spin coming out of it."

"On a 500? Jesus," he snickered. "She must have really been cranking it or it's slick as shit."

I grinned. "Maybe both. Did you see? She finished two tenths back in fourth."

He nodded. "Big improvement over last year."

"Yeah."

"600 riders, to the starting grid." Doug's voice boomed over the megaphone. "600 riders to the starting grid."

"That's me," Vince said but he didn't move.

"Where do you start?"

"Eighteenth."

I nodded. He had some time to kill yet. The 600 class was the most popular, followed by the over 750, then the under 600.

I stood talking to him for forty minutes or so until he donned his helmet. He'd been lucky, and only the fuel tank on his bike had been holed when the Orca's shot up the BRMC bikes, where the other brothers were replacing engines. Fortunately, he was the only racer who'd been at the debacle at Momma's, and we'd been able to obtain a replacement tank fairly quickly, though it hadn't yet been painted to match his bike.

"Vince, you copy?" I asked as he started his engine.

"Lima Charlie."

I grinned. Lima Charlie was the NATO phonetic alphabet for L and C, or loud and clear. Every rider had their own way of speaking. A fleeting moment of sadness washed over me. Stu used to say 'Good to go,' and I realized again I'd never hear his voice over the radio again.

"Two ahead of you. Ten minutes," I said, pushing the dark thought away.

"See you at the finish," he said as he moved away.

"You got this. Nobody is even close to your best time," I said, as he rolled to the starting line and waited for the green light.

I was well away from the starting line, but I could still see the starting light, and I watched as the timer counted down to the green light. At one second Vince redlined the bike and dumped the clutch, crossing the timing light 0.09 seconds after the light went green. I grinned and shook my head as I turned my attention to the main timing board. It didn't matter how fast Vince's reactions were because the clock didn't start until the rider broke the timing beam, but nobody had a faster launch than he did. I knew he pushed the light as a challenge to himself... and to intimidate the other riders, but some day he was going to red light the start and get himself disqualified.

I watched the running board, writing down the number on my clipboard as it paused for ten seconds, displaying the time at each timer before switching to the interval display. Unlike Wade and Stacey, and Stu if here were still alive, Vince didn't want me reporting the times unless he asked for them. I smiled to myself. Vince was kicking ass out there. Though he was slower than his best time, he was steadily pulling away from the other riders.

Hurray for home track advantage! Unless he crashes, he can't lose.

"Time!" he called as his time at Finger popped up on the display.

"Don't push it. You're almost a full second over the current leader."

"Sierra Hotel." I grinned. S H, Vince's way of saying shit hot. He was pleased with his performance.

I was waiting for him as Vince rolled to a stop beside the Dodge. "How's the track?"

"Not bad. The line is getting tacky. You think my time is going to hold?"

"Without a doubt."