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Diesel

Two bikers, two gunmen, a driver, and the king of the assholes get into an SUV together. I wish this were the setup to a joke, but it’s not. Cold steel from the barrel of a gun touches my skull and I look over at my best friend who’s sitting beside me and I roll my eyes; he’s got a gun to the back of his head, too.

"I have to tell you, Hunter, this is the third worst night of my life.”

He frowns at me, his eyes half-closed in concentration as he searches his memories. We’ve had a lot of terrible nights together — that’s what brotherhood is all about; I don’t blame him if he’s lost track of some of them. “Just third?”

The doors to Victor Moretti’s black SUV slam shut and the engine hums as we start down the road; buildings zip by at a growing speed, and soon we’re on one of the many woodsy roads leading out of Ironwood Falls.

“Just third.”

“I know the first, and I’m sorry about that one, brother.” His voice shakes a little, and I know he means it. Hell, even talking about it in passion makes my hands shake and my heart thrash. That night will never not hurt. “But what was the second? Because I’m having a hard time thinking of anything that even comes close to how bad it is to see this asshole’s face.” He gestures at Moretti, who’s sitting in the front passenger seat and pointing a gun at us. With two men in the bench seat behind us with guns at the back of our heads, and Moretti also aiming a gun at us, there’s nothing to do but laugh.

“That one night will always be the worst… But the other…” I pause, clear my throat. My voice almost shook for a moment, just thinking of that night, just thinking of her , and I stop; it’s not a good idea to show weakness in front of your enemies, and that night almost broke me.

Hunter hears it; empathetic bastard that he is, he hears it and he fills the gap of silence — just like him, always picking others up when they’re down. “The second-worst… Was it Jakarta?”

I breathe, steady myself, then laugh. “No, no, not that. Fuck man, are you crazy? That night was great, even though I almost lost my left hand and my… Well, it was great thanks to that woman who ran the rug shop and her pet goats. Fuck, she was a hot piece of ass.”

“Then what was it?”

“Will you two shut the fuck up?” Moretti snaps.

“No, you shut up. We’re talking, and you’re being a fucking rude asshole,” I say. “Hunter, do you remember that time when we were in Karachi for that thing we can’t talk about because these fuckheads who think they’re kidnapping us don’t have the security clearance? When we had that one night off, so we got that LSD that came on stickers with a purple monkey holding an AK-47, and then you suddenly had a craving for fucking mystery meat sandwiches?”

“I remember that those were some excellent sandwiches. Real juicy.”

“They were excellent for you, maybe. You told me not to get that green sauce on my sandwich, but I had to get the green sauce because I was high as shit and I’d never seen a shade of green like the color of that sauce. Then I got the worst case of food poisoning I’ve ever had in my life, and I spent the entire night watching flaming unicorns gallop across the concrete bathroom walls as I lost every ounce of bodily fluid.”

“That was a good night. We had some great conversation until you got sick. And I still think about those sandwiches. They really were that excellent. You should’ve taken my advice, Diesel.”

“Fuck you, ass. I nearly died face-down in the toilet.”

Moretti growls from the front seat. “Shut the fuck up, both of you, or I’ll kill you.”

“You’re probably going to kill me anyway, and no matter what you do, it will not be worse than that lamb sandwich. How does it feel to know that the best you can do is come runner-up to a night of biblical, bowel-breaking distress? Or are you used to hearing that? I’ll bet your fucking mother told you that all the time. Hell, I’ll bet that’s how she describes your birth.”

“It was goat, actually,” Hunter says. “Or maybe camel. The meat, I mean.”

The man seated behind me pistol-whips me with his gun, and colors float in front of my eyes. “I’ll turn you into a fucking goat if you don’t shut up.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” I say, rubbing my sore head. “Are you a fucking wizard now? Did you actually get your fucking letter to Hogwarts?”

Moretti gestures with his gun to one of the roadside signs. “Driver, take this exit, then fucking step on it. I want to be in Boise as fast as possible.”

“You’re taking us to Boise? To fucking Idaho? I was wrong. I guess there are things you can do to make this night worse,” I say.

“Shut up, and show the boss some fucking respect,” the man behind me snarls. He pistol whips me and a rainbow explodes across my vision.

I’m beginning to think he doesn’t like me.

“Diesel, calm down a second, OK?” Hunter says. There’s a softness to his voice that I definitely don’t like. Has having a family taken his killer instinct from him? Probably.

“You should listen to your friend,” Moretti says.

I shake my head to clear my sight and then look at Hunter. Communication passes between us in that second of eye contact, the silent communication that only develops through hard-earned brotherhood and years of practice avoiding the prying ears of commanding officers. No matter what his feelings are, we both know that we need to find an opening to fight back and escape, and we need to do it soon. Because if my time in this MC life — and admittedly spending too much, and yet not enough, of my free time watching Law despite all his practice, he’s not getting any better at it — the gun cracks me with all the force of a baby swinging a tube of wrapping paper.

“You’re the sensible one. Look at this.” Victor then passes the cell to Hunter. “That’s a live feed.”

Hunter looks at the screen for a moment, then lunges, before a gesture from Victor Moretti halts him in his tracks.

“You son of a bitch,” Hunter growls. “Don’t you fucking dare. I swear to god, I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you.”

I look at the screen as well; on it, I see two familiar faces — Emily and Charlie. They’re with a big man whose appearance is concealed behind a pair of sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a feral beard; it can only be Tank. Because no one else I know is so paranoid about being incognito in public that they’d choose to assume the insane identity of an aviators-wearing, Boston Bruins-loving lumberjack.

Then a red dot appears on Emily’s back.

And another on Charlie’s head.

“Fuck,” I breathe, barely managing a sound for the terror roiling in my chest.

I look over at Hunter and his face is gray, ashen; I want to do something, anything — hell, even fucking hug him — to reassure him we’re going to make it through this, that we’ll get back to his family and everything will be OK, but I can’t fucking move. Every muscle in my body is frozen.

Victor laughs, the sound rippling with malevolent glee.

“One wrong word, one wrong move, one more fucking joke, and the two of you can watch as my men move in and murder your friends and family right there in that fucking restaurant. I’ve given my men the order to kill the baby first. You know, when they’re so little like that, they’re incredibly fragile. Breakable. Like a doll. It’s stunning, really. I’ll bet a single bullet would just pop that little boy’s head open like a watermelon. Do you want to find out?”

Hunter shifts in his seat, and his hands clench into fists, but his mouth stays shut. There’s a vein pulsing in his forehead, and the last time I saw that vein arise, ten enemy combatants went down in a hail of gunfire.

There’s my killer of a best friend; I smile.

Except Moretti sees it, too.

“If either of you moves, they die,” Moretti says, and then, with a subtle nod, he signals the man behind Hunter to unleash; this monster is a lot better at pistol-whipping than the man behind me. Hunter slumps forward, blood gushing from a sick gash in the back of his head. It pools in the crook of his shoulder, a thickening lake of crimson.

Yet that vein is still there on his forehead. Still throbbing. Still screaming that we’re moments away from this SUV turning into a hearse.

But I can’t let that happen.

Because Hunter has a weakness I don’t have — not anymore, at least. And it’s a weakness I’ll never take on again. Lesson learned and tattooed on my ice-cold heart with a single name: Brandy.

I can’t let my best friend fight back, can’t let him take the risk, can’t let his family face that danger.

I have to step up and save my friend and his family.

This is my burden to bear.

Fuck me.

I cough, loudly, enough to catch Hunter’s eye, and with a look I tell him what he needs to hear: calm the fuck down, and let me handle this.

Hunter's jaw clenches. He shakes his head, but stops when I give him a sterner look, a look that says: Back the fuck off, you stubborn shithead. I got this.

Finally, he nods.

I open my mouth. "So, Victor, I have to ask: why Boise? I mean, if you're gonna kidnap someone, at least take them somewhere exciting. Like Vegas, maybe. Or Tijuana. Hell, even Salt Lake City would be an improvement."

Moretti's eyes narrow. "I told you to shut up."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But seriously, Idaho? What's in Idaho besides potatoes and a permissive attitude toward bestiality? Or is that your thing? A bit of high quality french fries with some barnyard loving on the side?"

The goon behind me shifts — itching to pistol-whip me again — and I brace myself for the impact.

But it doesn't come.

Instead, Moretti lets out a humorless chuckle. "You think you're so fucking smart, don't you? Well, let me tell you something: Idaho's got something better than potatoes. It's got isolation. Miles and miles of empty land where no one will hear you scream while we break you both into fucking pieces and make you fucking beg to give me what I want."

"Sounds kinky. That’s usually the sort of thing you have to pay for. But why are you interested in us? We’re not your type. Unless you’re hoping to run us through 23andMe? Hate to break it to you, champ, but Hunter and I are not down for the type of consanguineous partying you’re into.”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Then Moretti snorts and gestures to the men behind us. "Bind them. Gag them. I want no more of their bullshit."

In seconds, darkness swallows my sight as hoods are pulled over our heads, and after some loving physical violence, Hunter and I are forced into holding our hands out to be zip tied. The zip ties bite into my wrists as they're cinched tight, and the hood smells like old sweat, fear, and cheap blue cheese.

I fight the urge to gag.

I fail.

Next to me, I hear Hunter's muffled grunt as he receives the same vile treatment.

Then, through the reeking hood, Moretti’s voice assails my ears. “Sit back and enjoy the ride. And if either of you steps out of line one more time, we won’t hit you. We won’t even touch you. In fact, we’ll take your hoods off and you both can watch as my boys butcher and rape Hunter’s ol’ lady, and break his infant son’s head wide open. Got it? Now, be good boys. Be polite. Be quiet. Because if you idiots play your cards right, you just might make me happy enough to let you die quickly.”