Sudden Impact (Tom Rollins Thrillers Book 13), page 4
“This is a crazy coincidence,” Tom says once he’s within earshot, startling both men, causing them to spin toward him. “Because I’m sure I saw two guys who looked exactly like you earlier tonight.”
Moustache stares, blinking, but Stubble speaks up. “It’s the barman,” he says.
Moustache grunts and steps back. “He left just ahead of them,” he says. “Looks like maybe he left with them.”
Stubble moves away from the door, stepping closer to Moustache. “You should get out of here,” he says. “Leave now, and we’ll pretend you were never here. We’ll pretend like we don’t know where you work, too.”
Tom shrugs. “I don’t care if you know where I work. Assholes like you are the reason I was hired.”
Stubble chuckles. “You ain’t got any idea what kind of asshole I am.”
“We ain’t a couple of drunk barflies you get paid to bounce,” Moustache says. “You have no idea what you’re trying to involve yourself in. Leave. Now.”
Tom looks both men in the eye, one at a time. “I don’t believe I will.”
Moustache looks at Stubble. Stubble raises his eyebrows. Moustache nods, then takes a step to the left. They’re fanning out. Encircling him. They both reach back. They have knives. Moustache holds a karambit, the wickedly curving blade pointing low, toward the ground. It’s a serious knife. It’s not for amateurs. Stubble has a finger-hole knife, and he holds it out in front of himself, the short, vicious blade pointing toward Tom. From their stances, their grips, both men look like they know how to use them.
Tom is unarmed. His Beretta and KA-BAR are in his room back at the bar, tucked into the bottom of his backpack under his spare clothes and burner phones. He glances around the street. They’re speaking at regular volume, but the houses remain in darkness. No lights have come on. In Laila’s house, though, he sees a twitch of curtain as Laila and Emma peer out.
“Looks like I’m the fool who brought fists to a knife fight,” Tom says. He raises his hands, preparing to defend himself.
“It hasn’t got to be this way,” Moustache says, though he’s still circling, looking for a perfect position from which to strike. “We don’t have to cut you up – but if you don’t walk away, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”
Tom grins. “You’re going to try.”
Stubble attacks first, jabbing the point of his knife toward Tom’s chest. Tom backs up, then bats his arm away and steps to the side, pushing Stubble toward Moustache. Moustache swipes with the karambit, arcing it toward Tom’s midsection. Again, Tom is backed up. Moustache follows through, swinging it upward, missing Tom’s chin by mere centimetres. Out the corner of his eye, Tom sees Stubble coming around, attempting to sneak up on him while he’s distracted. Both men are proficient with their knives, it’s clear. If he isn’t careful, and if he doesn’t deal with them soon, he’s liable to get cut – and bad.
He drops to a crouch and sweeps the ground with his right leg, knocking Moustache’s own legs out from under him. Moustache lands awkwardly on his elbow, only the grass to break his fall. Tom quickly turns as Stubble jabs at his face, the knife narrowly missing his nose. Tom keeps moving, stepping through. Stubble spins toward him again. Tom captures his arm and drives an elbow back into his ribs, knocking the air out of him. Then, he uppercuts the back of his knife arm, causing his hold on it to go limp. The knife dangles from his finger in the hole. Tom doesn’t take the knife from him. Instead, he grabs the handle and wrenches it back in a snapping motion, breaking the man’s finger.
Stubble cries out, snatching his arm back. The knife drops to the ground, lost in the dark. Tom drives a left into Stubble’s solar plexus, then uppercuts him under the chin, rattling the teeth in his head and lifting him an inch off the ground. He comes back down flat on his back.
Moustache is back to his feet. He swipes at Tom from the left, then the right. Tom ducks and weaves. He kicks at Moustache’s left leg, knocking it out from under him, and as Moustache falls forward Tom brings a knee up into his face, busting his nose. As he lands, Tom grabs a handful of the lank hair at the back of his head and drives his boot into the centre of his face, again and again, until Moustache has gone limp and the karambit falls from his hand.
As Tom gathers up the two knives and moves them away from the prone bodies, Laila’s front door opens. She and Emma emerge from inside, looking over what he has done with wide eyes.
“Now we call the police,” Tom says.
6
Wyatt Jefferson is at home in Texas, and he’s not expecting bad news.
He’s not expecting good news, either. In fact, he’s not expecting to hear anything at all, and especially nothing to do with Nathan Wood. Nathan is on a run. He’s doing his job. It’s a run they’ve all done before, many times now, across many different states, and there haven’t been any issues so far. They do their job, then they come home, and life for the Forever Road Dogs goes on.
But before he receives the news that will ruin his day – if not his week – Wyatt is at home. He’s not alone. In the kitchen is his wife, Karen. She’s drinking coffee with his father, Vic Jefferson, the founder of the Forever Road Dogs. Vic is an old man now at sixty-nine, and he doesn’t ride as often as he used to – limited to maybe once a month during the summer – but he still partakes in FRD business, working mostly on the logistical side of things: he keeps track of the business happenings of the other Forever Road Dogs across America, and makes sure they’re all kicking up their dues to the founding Texas chapter in a timely manner.
He retired as president of the club seven years ago, when the arthritis in his knees and wrists first started to take hold. If he’d continued to ride, he wouldn’t be able to walk now. As is, some days the arthritis is worse than others, and on those days his hands are practically useless to him, and his legs will not bend at the knees. It’s been five months since he last had a flareup so bad, back when they were first learning how to sail a boat and Vic threw himself into it with too much energy, exhausted his ailing body. He spent five days in bed before he was able to move around again.
When Vic had to give up his presidency, Wyatt finally stepped into the role he was born for. He’d been serving as vice-president for ten years before that. He was ready. There had never been any plan for a Shakespearean takeover. Wyatt always knew that when the time was right, his father would pass the crown to him. Even if the arthritis had not struck, Vic would only have remained at the head of the table for a few more years. He’d told Wyatt that his time was winding down, and he was ready to take a step back.
Karen kisses Wyatt on the side of his mouth, the kiss lost in the bristles of his beard, as she pours him a coffee. “You slept in,” she says.
Wyatt grunts and takes a sip. It’s hot, and feels good going down. “It was a late night,” he says. He’d been at the clubhouse. It was Donnie Willis’s birthday, and as is the FRD way, they went all out for him. There was alcohol, and lots of it. There were drugs. There were women.
Usually, Wyatt would partake in all three vices. Last night, however, he only had a few beers. There are other things on his mind. Issues that sometimes keep him awake, such as the current business partnership that exerts more pressure than is comfortable upon the FRD. Last night, at least, the party had been a distraction. It meant that when he finally came home, he was able to crawl into bed and just sleep. He didn’t want to let go of that feeling this morning, and happily drifted in and out of consciousness.
“Donnie have a good night?” Vic says.
“You’ll have to ask when you see him,” Wyatt says. “An hour in, and he disappeared.”
Vic chuckles, remembering how the parties were back in his day. “Alone?”
“Not alone, no,” Wyatt says, grinning.
“And how was your night?” Karen says, leaning in a little too close.
Wyatt laughs. “Mine was a couple of beers and then coming home to you,” he says, wrapping an arm around her waist and squeezing her to his side.
“You came back awful late for just a couple of beers,” she says.
“I’m the president,” Wyatt says. “I have to hang around, make sure my face is seen. You know how these boys can be – I stick around all night for Dale but not for Donnie, how’s that gonna look?”
“Mm,” Karen says, then slips out of his arm, but not in an aggressive way. “Do you want anything to eat? Eggs?”
Wyatt sees that his father has had eggs already, and bacon, remnants of them scattered around his plate with smears of ketchup and yolk. Wyatt isn’t hungry. He checks the time. It’s closer to lunch now than breakfast. “No, I’m good. I need to get along to the clubhouse.”
“Are the rest of them gonna be awake yet?” Karen says. “Seeing as how they probably all had more than just a couple of beers.”
“They probably slept there,” Wyatt says. He looks at his father. “You coming in today?”
Vic shakes his head. “Not today. I’m gonna take some painkillers and spend the day in my easy chair with a whisky. I don’t feel like driving. I don’t have it in me.”
When Wyatt was a boy, his father was the biggest man he’d ever seen. When Wyatt was a teenager, Vic remained the biggest man he’d ever seen. It stayed so until Wyatt was thirty-seven and he started to realise his father was becoming an old man when the arthritis struck. He’d already stopped lifting weights every day at that point, and he was getting softer around the middle. After his diagnosis, he stopped lifting entirely. Over time, his muscle has withered away, replaced by fat. He remains a big man, just not the bull that Wyatt grew up with and admired. Vic has become old. He’s lost his strength, his bike, even his club, remaining only as a nostalgic relic to whom the rest of the boys pay their due respects. His glory days are behind him. Without his son and his daughter-in-law, he’d have nothing. His wife, Wyatt’s mother, died when Wyatt was still a boy.
Perhaps most jarring of all for Vic, he’s lost his independence. He doesn’t live by himself. He lives here, with Wyatt and Karen, the garage of their home converted for him with a bed, a refrigerator, a record player, and a television. When not at the clubhouse, he spends most of his days in there listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd, AC/DC, Eagles, and The Doors. Karen checks in on him, pours him a fresh drink or brings him a sandwich.
Wyatt drinks more coffee. “You said you don’t feel up to driving?”
Vic nods.
“Just today, right?”
Vic rolls his eyes. “Right.”
“Other days, you’re fine, right?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t keep rolling your eyes – you know why I’m asking.”
Vic nods. “I know. It’s important. It’s better I rest up now, and make sure I’m good for when we make our move.”
This sounds sensible to Wyatt. “Okay. But if you’re feeling worse, you let me know. We can’t be let down at the last minute.”
“I know, I know,” Vic says, sounding agitated. It’s hard for him to be old. To be weaker. To be ill and a potential liability. “I know my limits. I know what I can do. I know how to sail the goddamn boat. And more than that, I’ve got my pills. I’ve got my injections. I’ll be ready. When the time comes, I’ll be good to go.”
Wyatt lightens the mood. “Make sure you are, old man. Because if you ain’t, I’m leaving you behind.”
Vic snorts, but he’s smirking, too. “Then I’ll come swimming after you.”
“Oh, that right? You’re gonna swim after me?”
“You don’t wanna see it happen, believe me.”
“Oh, no, I think I do. I think maybe I will leave you behind just so I can see it happen.”
“I won’t let him leave you behind, Vic,” Karen says. “Even though I want to see you swim like that, too. Maybe you can show us when we’re down south.”
“If you can drag me away from the beach long enough, I’ll show you whatever you wanna see,” Vic says, a gleam in his eye.
“Don’t flirt with my wife right in front of me,” Wyatt says. “Makes me worry what you might be saying when I’m not here.”
Vic and Karen both laugh. When Karen turns her back to load the dishwasher, Vic addresses his son in a lower tone. “Logan still there when you left last night?”
Wyatt nods. “I told Glen to keep an eye on him. I ain’t heard from Glen so I assume there’s nothing worth passing on.”
“It was just a party,” Vic points out.
“Exactly. No business. I wasn’t so concerned about him last night.”
Wyatt drains the coffee then heads for the front door. Karen follows him. After he’s pulled on his boots and his kutte, he pulls her in for a longer, deeper kiss, out of view of his father.
Wyatt first met Karen in high school. They’d dated on and off a little back then, fooled around some, but they didn’t get together properly until they were both thirty. She and a group of friends were at the FRD clubhouse. They’d been invited along by Brad Smithson, Wyatt’s best friend and his former sergeant-at-arms. Wyatt and Karen remembered each other very well. They got married a few years later. Karen is a loyal wife. She doesn’t badger him for his various infidelities, nor does she hassle him about his timekeeping – sometimes Wyatt can disappear for up to days at a time, always for business, or on a ride with the boys. She didn’t complain when his father was moved in. She understands FRD business, and sometimes she helps out with it. Unofficially, she is a Forever Road Dog.
Of course, under the by-laws written up by Vic himself, she could never be an actual Road Dog. No women.
Wyatt prefers her as his wife, as opposed to an associate and brother.
Karen has kept herself in shape. She works out daily, and looks better than women half her age. Her hair is long and dark, the occasional white hairs kept at bay with dye.
Wyatt’s mind begins to wander. Instead of remembering those early days with his wife, as well as their more recent escapades, his thoughts begin to shift. It’s his own fault. He remembered him. He was such a big part of Wyatt and Karen’s reunion. His thoughts turn to Brad Smithson.
“What’s wrong?” Karen says, looking into his face with concern. “Where’ve you gone?”
Brad was killed a few years ago, his body left to rot at the side of the road under the hot Texas sun. Wyatt has never stopped looking for his killer. He’s heard stories of the man over the years, and has even seen his name mentioned on the news a couple of times. By the time the Forever Road Dogs go to where he’s been, he’s already gone.
“Nothing,” Wyatt says. “Just remembering an old friend is all.”
Karen doesn’t press him. Wyatt pulls on his helmet and leaves the house. His Harley is parked on the driveway. It stands outside the garage where his father lives and sleeps, and next to the truck that they share. Wyatt climbs on and revs it up. It’s loud. There aren’t any neighbours to annoy. Wyatt’s home is secluded, an old ranch house on ten private acres, obscured from the road by a line of trees that offer privacy. He heads for the road now and goes to the clubhouse.
Decades back, the clubhouse used to be a mechanic’s garage. A friend of Vic’s owned it. He’d worked there for a couple of years. When the friend was looking to retire, Vic bought it from him. He gutted the building. Expanded it. Installed a bar, and lounge area, and a meeting room for FRD business. Officially, the building is still a garage. People in town know who the FRD are, and they know better than to roll up looking for an oil change. The FRD work on their own bikes, but it’s been a long, long time since a paying customer last had their vehicle serviced.
The outside of the clubhouse is showing signs of last night’s party, though the prospect is out with a trash bag in hand, clearing up the crushed cans and emptied bottles. He waves as Wyatt rides past him, but Wyatt ignores him. He doesn’t even know his name. Once upon a time, he used to bother learning the names of their prospects. Only one in ten ever graduate to becoming an actual Forever Road Dog. Wyatt stopped caring. If the prospect ever graduates, then Wyatt will learn his name.
Of course, if that day comes for the current prospect, Wyatt doesn’t expect he’ll still be in the area. Maybe he’ll get to know him better via phone and video calls.
The inside of the clubhouse does not have the post-party low energy that Wyatt was expecting. Instead, there is a hum of tension. Glen Hurley, his vice-president, and Kurt Holyfield, his sergeant-at-arms, are sitting at the bar, nursing a hangover beer. They turn when they hear Wyatt enter. They don’t look hung over. He’s seen them hung over. He’d recognise it. This is something different. They look solemn.
Instantly, Wyatt is on alert. From where he stands, he looks around the rest of the clubhouse. On a sofa he sees Donnie, the birthday boy himself, sitting forward with his head in his hands. Others sit near him, or stand close by, arms folded and brows furrowed. He sees Dale McKenna leaning against the wall, chewing on a thumbnail.
“What the hell’s happened?” Wyatt says. The women that were present last night have all gone. Wyatt isn’t sure how this makes him feel. Ordinarily, they’d still be hanging around, sleeping off the effects of the night, stumbling on their heels with their hair wild. His mind jumps to the worst-case scenario. Someone got carried away. One of the girls got hurt. Maybe she died – an overdose, or at one of his boys’ hands. Wyatt grits his teeth. “Don’t tell me someone’s dead.”
Mark Logan is first to stand and answer him. He’s as solemn as the others, but he’s more alert. He’s not slouched over, holding his head in his hands or chewing on his fingernails, looking like he fears the worst. “We just found out,” he says. “We tried to call you. Figure you must’ve been riding over here.”
Wyatt glances at his phone. He has six missed calls. The time stamps all correspond with his ride. “You just found out what?” he says. “What’s happened?”
Glen clears his throat. “Nate,” he says.
“Nate? Nathan Wood? What about him?”
“He got in a fight,” Logan says, scratching at the side of his chin through his blond beard. “He got arrested in Utah. Cops are holding him.”
