One of the men sighed and finally broke the silence. “Borden said he was going to the customs office to get our shipment through. He said he had some pansy that he threw money under the table to get the shit in. He never showed back up. We waited five hours and turned back.” He shrugged, and I studied him for a quick moment. He was older, probably mid-sixties, spindly and tall, with a grey goatee and longish black/grey hair. He had one of those cuts on with the word “treasurer” on it. I didn’t know what it meant. I wasn’t up to date with criminal biker terminologies.

“I know,” Hawke replied. “His men had the same story. He’s disappeared, and we have to find him.”

“Mulligan’s probably got him,” Hector spoke, his eyes still on me. “That’s the only explanation. He wasn’t alone once, not until he ducked out to the office. We circled around that street a dozen times. His car wasn’t there. I thought maybe he just took off, or something happened to his bitch or something.”

His bitch.

“I have a name,” I gritted out. “It’s Emma. Not Bitch.”

Hector shrugged. “Same fucking difference, and you’re still not staying. The business transaction never happened. Now we’re fucked because we don’t have our fucking product to pass up to the Italian mob that’ll be hounding our asses in about five seconds. This is a serious fuck up.”

“Your shipment is here,” Hawke gruffly retorted. “It’s sitting at the fucking port, brother! Getting it out won’t be an issue.”

“We’re not taking her in until it’s out. This deal only works when it’s fifty-fifty.”

Hawke’s expression dropped. I felt a chill in the room radiating from him. He took a step closer, his huge body mirroring Hector’s, but he looked so much rougher, like he’d been around the block way more times than his younger brother. I believed it.

The other two men stepped away from him, deciding distance was better, and that was a wise decision. Hawke was as unpredictable as Borden, and that could be a good thing, or a very bad thing depending what side you were on.

“Fifty-fifty?” he repeated slowly. “Borden sold himself out for you dipshits. He barely takes a slice of the fucking pie. You’re getting a deal of the fucking century with that product, and you dare fucking talk about fifty-fifty? The deal was to make sure she” – he pointed at me with his damaged hand – “has a safe place to be when the time is right – and the time is fucking right.”

“I’m sorry, Hawke, but you don’t get to make that decision. Last I checked, I was the President of this club, and that bitch ain’t staying –”

PUNCH!

The strike was so abrupt, I hardly registered it happened. Hawke’s fist was coated in bright red blood, and Hector was on the ground, hand over his blood nose, wheezing through his nostrils. With ease, Hawke kneeled down to his level and said very slowly, “And last I checked, I’m the real fucking president of this club, and I get to override your substituting ass whenever I fucking well feel like it. She stays. And Hector,” he leaned in even closer, “she’s got a fucking name, and bitch ain’t one of them.”

Eighteen

Emma

Hawke got his way. Hector stormed out of the parlour with a hand over his nose and a scowling face. A minute later his bike roared to life and zoomed away. The other two men just lingered in the background, staring at Hawke like he was Jesus resurrected. He stared back at them evenly, growling out, “She’s staying. Anybody else got a problem with that?”

They shook their heads. The goatee man muttered, “No, Hawke. It’s…good to have you back.”

“I’m not back,” Hawke replied. “I’m just stepping in for a while. When she’s here, I’m the boss, and nobody better fucking look at her. She’s Borden’s property, and you better pass that message along when we get to the clubhouse.”

They nodded adamantly, and I could hardly believe what I was seeing. I was used to Hawke taking orders, not giving them.

“Good,” he said, grabbing a bottle of unopened beer on the counter. “Now give me the fucking key to the place.”

*

He took me to a pub – called Crown – on the same street. It was another non-descript red bricked building. There was a black banner above the name of the pub with the word Warlords on it and a symbol of a sword in the middle of two crossed battle axes and a flaming skull dead centre. I recognized this symbol. It was on the back of their leather cuts.

I wanted to ask why Hawke was taking me to a pub, but I didn’t bother. There was a method to his madness, and I was too exhausted to speak anyway. This entire night felt endless, and I knew even when I hit the pillow I wouldn’t be able to close my eyes. I’d be thinking of Borden and stressing over his whereabouts.

We got out of the car and he took out a key that one of the bikers gave him at the parlour. He jammed it into another black entrance door and, before kicking it open, he said to me, “If anyone is still conscious, stick by me, alright? They might be too drunk to know who you are and try cop a feel.”

I nodded at him. “Okay.”

He opened the door and we stepped in. The pub was huge and ordinary, and the lights were dim but visible enough to see everything. The first thing I noticed was the man passed out on a stool with his head on the bar counter and a spilt mug of beer next to his arm. As I took a look around, I spotted two other guys, one asleep on a chestnut coloured table, another on the ground and snoring with his head against a wall.

I shot Hawke a look of confusion. Where exactly was he intending on taking me? I followed him across the vast room, to the far back part of the pub. Pushing open a door, I saw a staircase so dark and eerie looking, I was sure people got stabbed on them often. This time, I didn’t let Hawke keep his distance. I moved closer to him and grabbed at his arm. I didn’t want to be stabbed on top of everything else tonight. He didn’t seem to mind as we climbed up the long steep stairs. We reached a medium sized open area. It looked like a living space with worn couches, arm chairs, and a massive television. There was one shirtless man sleeping on a four seater couch and a completely naked woman sprawled over him. Aside from her bare ass, her other lady bits weren’t visible. The room backed on to a small kitchen and standing there was a petite woman with light brown hair piled high in a loose bun with her back turned to us. She had a kettle in her hands and was filling up a mug.