Chapter 16

(Saint)

The Mistake That Could Have Proved Fatal

“Hey man, can you spare some change or a couple bucks or somethin’”

When Saint had come to factory row intent on checking out the old candle factory, he should have known his presence wouldn’t go undetected. The old buildings were a haven for vagrants, dope heads, and whores looking for a place to ply their trade.

Law enforcement presence was easily predicted, they rolled through once an hour and never got out of their cars. If they couldn’t spot it from the road then they didn’t give a shit if it was happening unless someone was stupid enough to make their presence known. Usually that involved a flashlight, a fire, or a loud enough disturbance that it couldn’t be ignored. A few years back a young man’s body had been found in the textile mill, he’d OD’d on crank and his tweaker buddies had waited days before calling it in. Police presence had increased for a couple weeks, and the winos had taken to staggering around the park after dark rather than be rousted, but eventually the news had faded and attitudes had shifted back into the he brought it on himselfcamp, as public sympathies, what little there’d been, shifted to something else.

“Nope,” Saint replied as he continued walking back to his bike.

“Awe man, I know you’ve got to have a little something if you’re driving around on a sweet machine like that,” a second voice chimed in.

This guy stepped out of the doorway to Saint’s left, the shuffling sound behind him a surefire indication that he wasn’t the only one in the building.

Saint just shook his head and glared. “Fuck off, both of you.”

“Don’t be like that,” the first one said.

“Like what? Someone annoyed at having to say no twice since the first time didn’t sink in?” Saint asked as he lengthened his strides.

“Dude you can’t just come through here without paying a tax or something,” the third guy said.

Someone kicked a bottle, the plastic spinning past Saint who rolled his eyes and turned, thrown to see that not one, but two more guys had joined them. Four on one odds wasn’t the worst he’d ever faced but until one of them pulled out a weapon, he’d keep his peace hidden where it was and hope the old school spiral semi-truck antenna he carried in his back pocket would prove to be enough of a deterrent.

Snarling, Saint yanked it out, a flick of his wrist extending it to its full length. He’d broken bones with the thing on more than one occasion and was already zeroing in on the one he felt would be the best target to take out first. “You four might want to rethink this before you earn yourselves a trip to the ER.”

The last thing he expected was the blur that came at him from the right, clumsy and not at all stealthy, giving Saint all the time he needed to whirl out of the way and bring his makeshift baton crashing down on the man’s shoulder. Unfortunately, that meant losing track of the other four until they slammed into him.

Everything was a blur of motion after that, a few hard shots slipping through his defenses as he fought to stay on his feet, driving a knee into one’s midsection before blocking a punch someone else aimed at his cheek. He headbutted that assailant in the face, which might not have been the best idea because it left him seeing stars. Something cracked him across the wrist hard enough that he lost his grip on his weapon. Before he could make a desperate lunge for it, a sneakered foot caught the tip and sent it spiraling out of view.

Someone caught hold of the shoulder of his jacket and jerked, so he pulled away, aiming a kick at one guy’s midsection, staggering as he yanked his arm free of the leather. He flung it in the face of the first guy when the man charged him and caught a sucker punch to the kidney that almost sent him to his knees. Groaning, Saint widened his stance and lashed out at one of his assailants, feeling the man’s nose crunch beneath his fist. The grunt of pain he heard didn’t come from that guy though, but from somewhere behind him as things finally began to slow down a little.

The reason why was easy to determine, once Saint caught sight of a whirlwind of golden hair and his weapon clutched in the hands of the kid who worked the night shift at the gas station. He was making short work of a much larger brunette, leaving Saint to turn his focus back to the guy who’d tried to blindside him. No way he was sober, not when he was throwing wild punches with a shoulder that looked separated.

Saint caught him with a stiff punch to the midsection and an uppercut to the jaw that only staggered him a little. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the guys he’d dropped earlier staggering to his feet and making his way back into the fray only to be cut off by the kid wielding Saint’s weapon. Good, that allowed him to focus on the little engine that could, who caught Saint with a punch to the ribs. Saint kneed him in the abs in retaliation, then hooked in a guillotine choke and dragged him to the ground, locking it in tight until the punk stopped squirming.

By then there was only groaning, the occasional curse, and harsh gasps from the kid, who stood doubled over, hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Hey mister, you okay?” the kid rasped out in-between ragged inhales.

“Thanks to you,” Saint managed as he shoved the guy he’d choked off his legs and lay staring up at the sky.

“One of them took off towards your bike,” the kid said.

“Fuck!” Saint growled, shoving himself to his feet and shaking his head enough to clear it a little. It took a moment for him to orient himself, and spot his jacket, which he retrieved before he tore off as fast as he could manage. Had it not been for all the busted glass he’d have parked his machine closer, but at the time he’d been more worried about popping a tire than someone trying to make off with his bike.

The kid hadn’t been wrong. Saint spotted one of the guys a few feet away from his baby and quickened his pace, plowing into him and spearing him into the dirt. It took several shots to the face before he stopped moving and by then Saint was beyond furious. The moment he was back on his feet he drove his boot into the man’s side, then stomped his hand until the tread of his heel was imbedded in the man’s flesh.

A quick glance back at where he’d left the kid showed he was headed in the other direction and with Saint’s weapon too. For a moment, he considered calling out to him, then decided it was a small price to pay for the help he’d been given.

Too small, really. He’d have to drop in at the gas station one night soon and make things all the way right.

After one last kick, this time to the head of the unconscious man, Saint mounted his bike and roared away from factory row, his aching back and side throbbing with every jolt they took. The streets hadn’t been repaved in forever. What the fuck were they paying taxes for? The potholes were getting so deep you could almost fish for bluegills in them. Another year and they’d easily rival the town swimming pool. All the way back he fumed, slamming into the clubhouse when he arrived and heading directly for the bar.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Mark asked, even as he plunked a couple glasses on the bar and reached for a bottle of whiskey.

“Buncha tweakers thought I’d make an easy target,” Saint grumbled, downing the whiskey Mark slid his way in one go before holding the glass out for a refill.

“How many?”

“Five.”

Mark let out a long, low whistle. “Lookin’ pretty good for those kinds of odds.”

“That’s ‘cause I had help.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Night shift kid from the gas station.”

“Blue hair or the blond.”

“Blond.”

“Ahh, the quiet one,” Mark said. “Never can get a read off him.”

“Well, he was clutch today, that’s for sure,” Saint replied. “Shit popped off so fast things could have easily gone south, especially after I lost my weapon. Kid’s got it now.”

“That’s not the only thing you lost,” Mark replied as he pointed to a spot on Saint’s jacket.

Glancing down, Saint noticed only the remnants of ragged threads where his VP patch used to be.

“Son of a bitch!”

Fuming, Saint slammed his glass on the bar before he ran his fingers over the threads, nose wrinkling into a snarl even as Mark refilled it.

“I’ve got half a mind to head back out there and issue a second beatdown.”

“Don’t bother,” Mark said. “The way your luck is goin’ you’ll come back without your head next.”

“Fuckoff you,” Saint grumbled.

“Patches can be replaced,” Mark said. “You can’t. That old antenna of yours has served you well for a lot of years now, hopefully it does the same for the kid.”

Saint knew his brother spoke the truth, even if he wasn’t in the mood to accept it. “Kid picked it up and waded in like it was an everyday thing.”

“Could be,” Mark said. “Especially if he spends his time out there.”

“Yeah, he was headed for the train trestle when I saw him last,” Saint admitted.

“I bet he lives in the trailer park south of the tracks,” Rabbit said as he plopped down on the seat beside Saint. “I grew up in one of those trailers. There’s a path leading from the west side of the trailer park into factory row we’d ride our bikes on. We used to play hide and seek in those old buildings. Slept in ‘em a time or two when my mom brought a new boyfriend home.”

“I’ve said for years now that they needed to board those buildings up properly,” Mark muttered.

“They tried that,” Rabbit replied. “Plywood isn’t going to stop anyone who’s truly determined. They’ll just bust out a window and get all cut up crawling through.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience.”

“’cause I do.”

“Hey, anyone wanna vouch for this kid?”

From across the room, Saint saw the hulking mass of one of his club brothers and a much smaller figure at his side. Size wise there was no one else it could have been beside Kong, but who he had with him must not have been a club member’s son. They hadn’t added any members with kids while Kong had been gone, so there was no other explanation why he was calling for a vouch.

When no one moved, the lazy bastards, Saint shoved away from his stool and the whiskey and sore ribs he’d been nursing. With sunlight streaming in behind them it was impossible to see the smaller person’s face until he was right up on them.

Was no mistaking those vivid blue eyes or the long golden hair that tumbled in wind tousled waves around a tanned face.

The kid from factory row.

He wore a grimy jean jacket covered with the oddest collection of patches Saint had ever seen. Saint wanted to thank whoever had taught him to fight because he’d clearly had more than his fair share of scraps. The outcome might have gone an entirely different way without his help.

“He’s good.”

Two words, that was all he needed to say to gain the kid passage past the doors. Kong retreated to his post outside, leaving Saint to walk the kid to the bar.

“Most strangers don’t wander through the gates unannounced,” Saint informed him as he plopped a can of pop on the bar for the kid, certain he wasn’t old enough for the hard stuff. “It’s been known to get someone hurt. What’s your name, kid?”

“S-sorry,” the kid stammered, brushing a hank of hair from out of his face.

His eyes grew wider the longer he looked around, and it took Saint all of two seconds to figure out that he was in awe of the sights and individuals assembled in the room. It dawned on him then that those patches and the ratty jean jacket were an attempt to mimic them.

“My ummm, name’s Axel.”

He didn’t try to conceal his curiosity either. He actively stared from one face to another, so much so that Saint nudged his arm and pointed to the can he’d sat in front of him.

“Well Axel, you keep looking at people like that and they’re gonna make you for a rookie cop or a poorly trained Fed and you’re gonna have issues I won’t be able to fix.”

“Don’t need nobody to fix nuthin’ for me,” the kid muttered beneath his breath before he took a drink.

If that had really been true, he’d have met Saint’s eyes when he said it, but for now, Saint was willing to let it go, if only to figure out why Axel had followed him back to the clubhouse in the first place.

“Then how about you tell me what you do need?”

“Nuthin’” Axel replied, reaching for the upper pocket of his vest a little too fast for a room full of jumpy bikers.

Saint half expected him to pull a badge out, considering that chest pocket was too small for a gun or a worthwhile knife. At least, not the kind that would get him anything but laughed at. What he didn’t expect to see was his VP patch.

“I found it on the ground after you left,” Axel explained as Saint reclaimed it and stuck it in the inner pocket of his kutte, right beside his gun.

“Thanks. I’m surprised you didn’t keep it to add to your collection.”

Saint gestured to Axel’s jacket as he said it, surprised when the kid suddenly met his gaze.

“Patches have to be earned. They ain’t worth shit if they’re stolen.”

Nodding, Saint steepled his hands on the bar in front of him, maintaining his composure so Axel wouldn’t catch a clue of how thrown he was to hear him reciting a Joker’s law.

“What was that you said?”

Swiveling on his stool brought Axel face to face with Pope. Saint wondered what the hell he was thinking now that he was effectively blocked in. Pope, despite hovering on the line between his 50’s and 60’s, was an imposing figure, all classic, long salt and pepper hair, old school bandana and trenchcoat that had been known to conceal both a sawed off and panel notes. Talk about a guy who’d taken legit to a whole other level, capitalizing on the mainstream’s fascination with the outlaw lifestyle to pen several fictional MC stories that had rocketed up the bestseller list.

Of course, he’d shared his good fortune with the club, as was right, after all, those adventures were a shared experience, belonging to not one, but all of them. That Pope had been the one to try his hand at turning their misadventures into something profitable was typical, really. The man was a genius whose more legendary schemes had rescued them from hard times on more than one occasion. Hell, he’d been the brain behind the first rent party and the infamous Howling Hog Barbeque contest. People had lined up for over a block to pay for sample plates and take part in the voting for best main dish, best sandwich, best side and best dessert.

“I said patches have to be earned,” Axel repeated. “They ain’t worth shit if they’re stolen.”

“Well, one things for certain,” Saint muttered, chuckling a little as he gestured towards Axel’s jacket. “You won’t ever have to worry about someone stealing one of those.”

“You wanna tell me where you heard that?” Pope asked.

“Not particularly.”

“Too bad.”

The order was in the tone, not the words Pope deliberately left off. It wasn’t too bad in the way of acceptance that he wasn’t going to hear the story. It was too bad you don’t want to tell it, but you’re damn well gonna tell it anyway or I’ll shake it outta you.

“This guy said it to me when he caught me stealing.”

“And what were you trying to steal?”

“Just this patch I saw. It had a cool saying on it.”

“How long ago was that?”

Axel shrugged. “I dunno, maybe 10 years.”

“Do you still remember what the patch said?”

Axel snorted. “Fuck man, I don’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning. Captain Crunch and Sprite, I think, or that might have been yesterday. I gotta remember to pick up milk on the way home or the old man is gonna go ballistic again.”

“Saint, what’s the bottom patch on the left side of your rocker say?” Pope asked, his tone never changing, his gaze never softening. He was boring a hole through Axel like he was digging for the kid’s heart. Maybe he was. Could be he was looking for the same thing they’d looked for in others over the years.

A future prospect.

Someone who would both give and earn their loyalty.

“Hell was full so I came back.”

“Now turn around.”

Saint knew why Pope said that, he wanted Axel to see that Saint was right. Saint complied, not having to look to know that Pope was pointing that very thing out to him.

“When you put in the work to earn something, when you live through it, you don’t forget,” Pope said. “Glad to see those words stuck with you.”

When Saint turned back around it was to see Axel staring at Pope, his mouth half hanging open as Pope lowered his shades, revealing his mismatched green eyes, one a brilliant emerald, the other darker and almost jade.

“It was you,” Axel declared.

“Yup. Always wondered if you went back and took it when no one was around.”

“No.”

“I’m impressed. Most of the punks I’ve had dealings with would have run back the moment my back was turned.”

“I didn’t know they were important. I just thought they were cool. Like the ones from my favorite bands.”

“I could see how that tracks,” Pope told him, “what’s not clear is how you figured out their value.”

Axel shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. Was it the attention, the question or something else that was making him squirrely?

“I asked this old guy who lived in the trailer a couple rows down from mine. He had a vest like yours, so I figured he’d know why they were important.”

“It’s called a kutte,” Pope corrected. “So, what was the old guys name?”

“Dalton.”

Chuckling, Pope uncrossed his arms and took a seat at the bar, tapping the smooth surface with his fingertips, a signal for Mark to pour him a drink.

“And what did he say when you asked him about them?”

“That they were a collection of stories and people and places. Like a graveyard, they were to be respected.”

“They are.” Pope said.

“Wanna tell me the story behind that mismatched assortment of thread all over your vest?” Saint asked.

“Adventures.”

“Yeah, that color scheme is adventurous alright. Most people just dye their hair if they’re feeling bold.”

“Growing up, I had a friend who lived three trailers down. His mom made the patches for us every time we showed up messy, bleeding, or with the cops on our asses.”

Saint couldn’t keep his amusement in check. He let out a snort, reminded of some of his own mishaps growing up and trying to imagine the collage of words and symbols that would have been used to capture them.

“I guess I just wanted to feel like I belonged to something. That I wasn’t alone,” Axel said.

Pope nodded as he swirled an ice cube around in his glass. “Here’s a question for you: did you find what you were looking for?”

Axel let out a noncommitted little grunt. “I guess. For a little bit. Then I got left behind.”

“Then the real answer, is no,” Pope said.

Saint watched Axel’s eyes widen a fraction before he stood, shoving his hands in his pockets but not before Saint noticed them trembling.

“I um, I gotta go. I just wanted to get that back to you. Good seein’ you’re okay.”

“Thanks to you.”

Axel’s throat worked like he was trying to swallow around a hunk of food as he backed away, shrugging.

“Naa kid,” Pope said, never looking in Axel’s direction, but his tone clearly caught Axel’s attention, because he stopped moving. “Around here, we don’t treat what you did like it’s nothing, and we don’t leave our brothers behind. You jumped in when it wasn’t your fight. You got bloody without ever asking why. That matters. Remember that.”

“Y-yes sir,” Axel stammered, voice a little breathy, his little pink tongue poking out from between his lips. “This is yours too.”

When he laid the antenna on the bar and slid it towards him, Saint just shook his head and slid it back.

“Keep it, you earned it,” Saint told him.

“T-thank you,” Axel stammered.

He turned and fled before either Saint or Pope could say anything more, opening the door to abruptly let in a stream of light before letting it bang shut behind him.

“Does he ride?” Pope asked once he was gone.

“No clue.”

“We should find out.”

Saint hedged. For as much as it had pleased him that the kid had come to his rescue, there was something about him a little soft and naive that left Saint uncertain if he’d make good club material. “Are you planning on making him your special project?”

“Maybe. It intrigues me that he listened. I don’t misjudge people often, but I did him.”

“He could be lying.”

“Doubtful.”

“Really? And what makes you so certain?”

“That ratty vest of his, for starters. If he’d gone back and stolen the patch it would have been on there. That thing wasn’t new when the kid started wearing it, and those makeshift patches sewn on there are likely the only things holding it together. It’s gotta be at least ten years older than him. I wanna know more.”

“Yeah, alright, I’ll put someone on it. The kid works over at the….”

“Gas station on the corner of Vine and Seventh,” Pope finished for him. “I know. I’ve seen him behind the counter. Let the rest of the crew know he’s under our protection.”

“Will do.”