Brad stood by the kitchen window, staring out at the street. In his hands, the plate and sponge still remained. Foam dripped to the floor with a soft splat, but he didn't notice. His gaze was fixed on the empty space where, just moments ago, twelve motorcycles had roared by, their engines growling and their slow, deliberate procession a show of defiance.
Motorcycles with blue and yellow Viking flames on their sides.
Brad moved his jaw, as if chewing something unpleasant, though his mouth was empty.
This wasn't their part of town. Not their territory. They had no reason to be here. And yet, they acted like they were announcing to the world that things were different.
"Uncle, what was that noise?" Angela stepped into the kitchen. She looked like she was about to go to bed. She wore a pink flowered pajama set, and her eyelids were heavy. Despite being fifteen, she looked a little bit younger.
"It's nothing," he smiled, noticing the foam still dripping from the plate onto the floor. He quickly returned to the sink. "Just some passing bikers."
"Not your friends?"
"My friends?" He raised an eyebrow and smiled, playing the picture of innocence. "I gave that life up when you were little."
"But your bike is still in the garage…"
"Did you ever see me riding it?"
"No," she admitted. "But I don't get why you don't ride anymore…"
"Because I don't need to," he answered cheerfully, though his whole body screamed that it wasn't true.
Angela, however, seemed satisfied with the explanation.
"I don't remember bikers ever riding past our house before," she remarked, furrowing her brow. "We don't live on the main street…"
Exactly. They didn't live on the main street, so why…?
An icy slug seemed to crawl up Brad's neck and slide under his shirt, along his spine.
He set the plate down and started removing his gloves.
"Uncle, is something wrong?"
"No, no," he lied. "Doc went for a walk, and I thought he might get lost. He doesn't know the area yet…"
No, that wasn't it. Stone was a big guy; he wouldn't get lost in a small town with such a simple layout. But Angela was right. Their street wasn't a route for bikers. If they were passing through, they had a reason.
Just two nights ago, Brad had a one-on-one with one of them. Now, their whole pack had just passed by his house, which was hard to believe was a coincidence. They were probably sending him a message. And yeah, he heard it loud and clear, just like the whole street. He heard it and understood—Brad Lipski had crossed their line, and he'd have to face the consequences.
Not just him. Brad quickly removed his apron and walked into the living room. Doc was part of that failure at the bar, too…
"Angela," he hoped his voice sounded calm and confident, "I'm just gonna check on Doc to make sure he didn't get lost."
"O… okay…" she agreed.
Brad practically ran out into the thickening night.
Where are you, Stone?
Doc should be safe, he told himself. The Western Vikings had no business with him.
They shouldn't.
But maybe…
He still saw them in his mind's eye: twelve machines, their engines growling like the threatening growl of dogs just before they attack. Maybe they weren't looking for Brad. Maybe they were looking for…
The light in the shed wasn't on.
He wouldn't be asleep yet. Too early. He'd only left about twenty minutes ago. That meant he was still out on the street.
Still out there, where anyone else could find him.
But they didn't have any reason to be looking for Doc, right?
Or maybe something had happened at the bar that Brad didn't know about? Maybe Doc had said something to Steve when he was checking him over?
No, he couldn't have said anything that would turn the gang against him. The guy was a lifesaver, not a…
Damn—maybe he said something by accident, not knowing the rules, not knowing he shouldn't have interfered. Like he did with the police that time.
Brad's heart hammered harder. His mouth went dry.
The bikers shouldn't do anything to him.
They had no reason.
Even if Stone had let one word slip, they shouldn't want to hurt him, for Christ's sake. The guy was new in town, he didn't know the rules, and he didn't belong to any crew. Unless…
Unless they wanted to send the right kind of message.
Brad ground his teeth and was already opening the gate when—
"Barad…?"
Lipski's heart jumped and he almost stumbled back from the gate. Colin Stone appeared suddenly, whole and well, thank God. So why was Brad's heart still racing? Why did heat suddenly wash over him?
"You're back?" he asked, not even sure why he felt so awkward.
"Yeah. Just ran out for a few things… Everything okay?"
"Sure!"
In that moment Brad felt the childishness of his own worry and his reaction. Was he really afraid the Western Vikings would want to hurt the town's new doctor? Even they weren't that stupid. They still needed someone to fix them.
"It looked like I saw the neighbor's dog," he offered. He didn't know whether he felt more relieved or wanted to laugh at himself.
"I didn't see any dog," Stone said, looking around. "What breed?"
Stone had really bought Brad's excuse? Brad fought back a smile that wanted to surface.
"A German shepherd," he explained. "Well-trained, calm dog, but sometimes it gets out…"
"You want us to look for him together?"
What an unexpectedly tempting offer—a late-night walk beside a very attractive doctor…
But if the Western Vikings had turned up in this part of town, trouble might follow. Lipski wasn't scared of them. He could drop anyone who tried to fuck with him without blinking. But if there were enough of them, and some of them turned on Stone—Brad didn't even want to think about that.
"No," he said, swallowing. "I must've imagined it. Look!"
Across the street, one house down, a dark long muzzle stuck through the iron fence and wise eyes gleamed above it.
"Okay, then I'm off to bed," Stone smiled politely. "Good night again."
"Good night," Brad replied, watching the man walk away. He closed the gate calmly. He frowned because his heart wouldn't quiet down.
Had the Vikings really unnerved him that much, he wondered gloomily. Why?
Before he'd left White Shore and ridden with his crew, nothing scared him. He could stand up to five at once and even if he took a beating, he didn't give a damn. He even liked fighting. As a kid he looked for scraps. He loved the rush before a fight and the taste of victory afterward, because Brad never lost. Not once. He left town unbeaten.
When he came back, he stopped picking fights. He wasn't interested anymore. Besides, he'd returned as a pro driver. He had respect. He had pride. He was somebody. Even the Western Vikings had to admit it. And they did. He'd had no trouble with them.
Until today.
Because today they'd marked their presence on his turf.
It looked like they'd lost respect for him.
They thought him soft. Weak.
They'd decided he wasn't a threat—even after he'd dealt with Steve, pinned him against a wall with one hand.
Was it because he wasn't on top anymore? Because he had to watch the cops like never before? Because he wasn't part of any gang now?
Or was it because he had beef with Jonathan Anders?
It didn't matter, he thought as the corner of his mouth lifted a little, like a wolf's lip. Brad hadn't been bluffing when he warned Steve. If anyone even tried to hurt someone under his protection—they'd die.