Miles (Highway Reapers MC): Inked Hearts (26 page)

Chapter 92

“No,” Brea cried stubbornly, wriggling free of Miles’ grip. Around them the evening was still and silent, Sylar’s motorcycle having roared away in to the distance.

“He’s coming back,” she started to move towards the house, unwilling to leave.

“Brea,” Miles turned to her. She refused to acknowledge the pity in his eyes. Her brother was going to come back. He’d abandon his pack for her, just as Miles had.

“Sylar is coming back,” she folded her arms across her chest and raised her chin defiantly. “He’s just pushing my buttons. Any minute now he’ll come speeding back down this road wearing his usual cheeky grin.”

Just like he used to when he was younger. Back then he was always testing the boundaries with their parents, seeing how far he could push them. After an argument, he’d leave the house amid a tornado of curse words and scowls, threatening to leave and never return. Brea would watch him go, tension enveloping her young heart like prickly thorns. But Sylar never made good on any of his threats. He’d always return within the hour like the prodigal son, smiling as though the previous argument had never even happened. And her parents always forgave him, grateful that he came back.

“Any minute now,” Brea repeated, nodding towards the road which remained painfully silent. She imagined Sylar pulled over on the roadside somewhere, laughing with his friend about how upset she’d been, pleased that he’d put on a convincing display.

“We need to go,” Miles’ hand was on her shoulder, his words warm but stern.

“No,” she shook her head. Sylar was coming back. He wouldn’t just leave her like this. This wasn’t how they were going to say goodbye. He was coming back.

“Your brother is loyal to the Reapers to a fault,” Miles continued, scratching at his chin with his free hand. “You pushed him to choose between you both and he chose the pack.”

“No, he didn’t,” Brea snapped. She refused to truly believe it. She could already feel the swallow swelling up inside her, threatening to drown her as she stood in the driveway which had once felt so familiar and reassuring but now was alien to her. Dark shadows bordered her on every side, mocking how she’d once found security in such a place.

“I know this is hard for you,” Miles was moving away from her now, swinging himself up on to his motorcycle. “But sweetie, we’ve got to go. “If we linger here too long we might run into someone we don’t want to see.”

“He’s coming back.”

“They’ll kill us if they find us,” the bluntness of Miles’ declaration cut through Brea like a sword. She stared at him wide eyed.

“I’ve abandoned my pack at a crucial moment, such an act is unforgiveable in their eyes,” he continued. “They will kill me to make an example of me. And then they’ll kill you to taunt your brother. And our deaths won’t be swift. Both packs prefer blades to guns.”

Brea noticed the freshly stitched wound on Miles’ head which was caked in dried blood. She bit back tears.

“Get on the bike,” Miles ordered. She wanted to stay, to wait in the driveway for Sylar’s inevitable return, but fear was now seeping into her bones. She didn’t want to die beneath some stranger’s blade because of her own stubbornness and naivety. Quickly she headed to Miles and climbed up behind him on his bike, pressing herself tightly against him as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

“Hold on tight,” he instructed before kick starting the bike. The engine grumbled and then roared like a beast which had suddenly been awakened. They pulled out of the driveway and then careened off into the night, taking the opposite direction to Sylar. Whilst he had been heading North towards Colridge, they would be taking the South route to avoid detection. Brea could feel the wet heat of her tears soaking her cheeks as they rode off into the night.

Chapter 93

Miles had no idea where he was going. He was just driving. He was driving hard and fast and putting as much distance between him and Colridge as possible. The lights on the highway blurred as he picked up speed, the roadside becoming indecipherable. He weaved through traffic, the wind tousling his hair. Behind him he could feel the pressure of Brea pressed against him. It felt good to have her so close, so near. She was safe and that was all that mattered. But how long before that changed? How long before Hank went back on his word or before Deacon realised that his nephew was missing? Would they forsake the fight at Colridge to search for him? Miles doubted it. The fight was too important. As long as he was long gone by the time the dust settled he’d be okay.

Nerves made his entire body feel unpleasantly tight. He was suddenly adrift without a clear path, just as he had been when his mother tossed him out. He remembered that panicked feeling of abandonment, how it had opened up within his teenage self like a cavernous black hole, threatening to consume every inch of him. But he’d made it back then and he was going to make it now. Because he wasn’t alone this time. He had Brea and they loved one another. Surely that was enough of a foundation to create a fresh start?

As he continued to drive Miles mentally counted how much money he had on himself. Hundred and fifty dollars, two hundred at most. He always travelled with a considerable amount of cash on himself, a habit he’d picked up since riding with the The Reapers. You never knew when shit was going to go South and he’d need to hold up in a motel for a few nights and lay low. And that was his plan now. Get the hell out of town, out of the state and find a quiet motel somewhere he could hide away in with Brea. He felt comforted at the thought of them sleeping together in the same bed behind a locked door. He’d keep her safe. The blade he’d shoved in to his boot reminded him that he’d do anything to protect her if it came to it.

Chapter 94

It was chaotic in the bar when Hank made his way back inside. The entire Blood Gang was present and becoming increasingly rowdy. At the bar, Deacon was doing his best to calm his troops but his efforts were in vain. The monster he’d created had now taken on a life of its own.

“To Colridge!” the old man eventually declared when he realized he didn’t have a handle on the bustling crowd. En mass, everyone started to retreat back out of the bar. Hank hoped that Miles had enough of a head start not to encounter any of them. Not that they’d even notice him. Everyone was focused on finding their bike and being the first to arrive in Colridge.

“Let’s fuck shit up!”

“Death to all Reapers!”

They were all fixing for a fight, Hank included. He pulled himself up on to his own bike, ignoring the ache in his bones from a lifetime of hard living. He was almost salivating at the prospect of spilling some fresh blood.

“Where’s Miles at?” Colin was beside him, throwing a leg over his own bike and staring at Hank through glassy eyes.

“He’s already there,” Hank said mildly. “He wanted to get a head start on us all, scope the place out.”

“Figures,” Colin nodded with understanding. “Miles has always been a thinker like that.”

“Uh huh.”

The sound of numerous engines revving up was deafening. Bikes began to peel off into the night as though part of some giant medieval beast which had awoken. Their headlamps pooled out to the highway and they all began their trip over to Colridge.

It felt good to feel the wind in his hair. Hank briefly wondered if this was to be his last ride. His body was riddled with scars, new and old, from previous fights. He had his fair share of near death experiences. Everything he did, he did to excess. Be it drinking, fighting, or sleeping with women. He always had to be the one who did it the most. And over his lifetime he’d excelled in his field.

In his peripheral vision, he could see Colin riding, bent low towards his bike. Further back in the group he could hear pack members cackling and hollering. Everyone was in high spirits, even though they might be driving to their doom. Because that was what it meant to be a Blood Gang; that’s what drew Hank to the pack. They laughed in the face of danger. They didn’t shy away from a fight they ran towards it wearing a most wicked smile; one that he assumed the boogeyman, under the bed, wore. Hank’s grip on his bike tightened as he drove past the welcome sign for Colrigde; They were almost there. He could taste the anticipation that was carried in the air, along with the bike fumes and liquor which surrounded the pack like a smog.

As one, the pack drove down the main street when they promptly came to a halt. Greeting them was a wall of headlights. The motherfucking Reapers were already assembled, awaiting their arrival. Killing his engine, Hank parked up his bike and carefully unloaded his machete, unsheathing it from its leather case. If the Reapers were fixing for a fight then a fun  fight is what he’d give them.

“So they’re already here,” Colin noted quietly as he pulled out a hammer from the waist band of his pants.

“Yep,” Hank nodded, “ready and waiting.” Looking up at the houses bordering the main street, he saw some drapes drawn tightly shut, while others open for display, with light shining out from within. He imagined people in their homes for the night, after a long hard day of the 9-5, stupidly unaware of the fight that was about to break out beneath them.

“Think the cops will show?” Colin wondered. It was always a fear but the cops never show up to intervene; they know better than to fuck with this.

Hank and Colin joined their brothers in line and began to advance towards the waiting Reapers, who were moving in a similar formation. Crude weapons glistened beneath the street lights. There were blades and crowbars, wrenches and baseball bats adorned with rusty nails. No one was equipped with a weapon that could potentially bring about a swift death. Everything had been carefully selected for its ability to maim and cause relentless pain and suffering. Hank ensured he had a sturdy grip on his machete. There were thirteen notches on its handle, one for every man he had slain with it. He remembered the last time he’d used it, how it had sliced through the other man’s gut, as though it were made of butter.

“Ready to do this?” Colin asked. There was no fear in his voice, only excitement. Hank nodded.

“I was born ready,” he growled. There, on the darkened main street of Colridge, their fate would be decided.

Chapter 95

Miles slowed to rub his eyes. How long have they been driving? He’d lost all concept of time and now his fuel gauge was hovering near the empty line. He’d have to stop soon and rest. He just hoped that he’d managed to drive far enough to out run his past. Brea was slumped against him and he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. He hoped so, at least if she was resting she was being released from the grief she felt over her brother leaving.

Scanning the road ahead, Miles spotted at the neon sign for a motel; the vacancy sign was lit. He started to slow the bike and veer away from the highway. The streets of Colridge were probably already bathed in blood. He was thankful that he’d finally found something to take him away from that life, something to give his life meaning. He owed Brea everything.

Chapter 96

Sylar liked how the engine of his motorcycle trembled thunderously between his legs as he rode. It made him feel powerful. And with the wind in his hair, it made him feel wild and free. Infinite.

Zooming up the highway, he tried not to think about what had just happened with Brea. He had no choice but to walk away from her. But he knew he’d forever be haunted by the pained look she’d given him as he possibly walked away from her for the last time. But how could she expect him to give up everything for her? He owed the Reapers his loyalty, how could Brea not understand that?

As his frustration mounted, Sylar drove faster. He bobbed in between the lines of traffic, desperate to reach Colridge before it was too late. Smith was always close by, keeping pace. No matter how fast Sylar went, how much he pushed the limits of his bike and of himself, he knew that Smith would always be by his side. Loyal to the end. He was his family, his brother. 

With a loud screech Sylar pulled hard on the breaks. The putrid stench of burned rubber filled the air. Smith stopped beside him a few seconds later, breaking just as abruptly. The two men were perched on their bikes and looking down at Colridge’s main street and the carnage unfolding within it.

“Jesus,” Smith breathed while Sylar remained silent. He could only stare at the apocalyptic scene which greeted them.

The street was slick with freshly spilled blood. Countless men were engaged in hand to hand combat. Even from a distance, Sylar could hear the sickening squelch of a blade being thrust into someone’s gut. The air was heavy with the coppery smell of blood and death. It reached up towards Sylar and Smith desperate to entangle them in its fatal embrace.

Smith dropped off his bike and retrieved his crowbar.

“I guess we’d better get in to it,” he said solemnly.

“Can we even tell who we should be fighting?” Sylar looked down at the writhing mass of men engaged in battle. It was impossible to distinguish friend from foe. Everyone was drenched in either their own blood or a stranger’s. The emblems on their jackets, they so proudly wore, had been obscured beyond recognition.

“Does it even matter anymore?” Smith held his friend in a level gaze.

“People are dying down there.” Sylar could see the fallen, scattered along the street. Left down there to rot like an unwanted piece of garbage.

“War is never pretty.”

Sylar sighed and looked skyward. Above him, the stars in the sky sparkled like unobtainable jewels. If Brea could see him now she’d tell him to run, to turn away from the gruesome fight and never look back.

“As a kid I used to wonder if my parents were up there,” Sylar was still gazing up at the stars.

“Watching over you?”

“Yeah,” Sylar gave a sad smile. “I imagined them looking down at me, watching what I did. And you know what?” he lowered his head to lock eyes with his friend.

“What?” Smith prompted.

“I’m pretty sure they’d be bitterly disappointed in me.”

“No,” Smith his head, his voice thick with certainty. “They wouldn’t.”

“Wanna bet?” Sylar raised his eyebrows. He knew that he was far from a perfect son and now, was far from a perfect brother.

“Maybe you did some things you’re not proud of, but it always came from a good place.”

“Mmm.”

“Your sister is going to go on and have a better life, because of you.”

Sylar felt his heart tighten in his chest. Where was Brea now? She was probably driving down some dark road moving further and further away from him. Would he ever see her again?

“If you want to walk away from this, tell me now,” Smith turned his back completely on the fight to stare at Sylar. He crowbar was now lowered at his side, no longer being brandished as a weapon.

“We can’t walk away,” Sylar sighed. This was their battle. It was here on the streets of Colrigde, that their fate was supposed to be decided.

“We can,” Smith ventured softly. “We can get on our bikes and ride north until we hit the border.”

“And what then?” Sylar demanded tersely. “We spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulder?”

Smith pursed his lips and jerked his head towards the gang members still standing and fighting. It was gruesome. Men squealed like pigs as their limbs were severed by crude weapons. Whoever did come out as the victor would surely be gravely wounded. There was no longer a victory to be had. It was now just about survival.

“I think whoever walks away from this fight will have better things to do than come after a couple of fugitives.”

Sylar couldn’t understand how his friend was having such a change of heart. Had the terrifying scene beneath them terrified Smith as much as it had Sylar?

“I thought the pack meant everything to you,” Sylar challenged.

“It does,” Smith confirmed. “But so do you.”

There was a heavy pause between them. Slowly filling up with thoughts unsaid.

“You’ve been my best friend for a long time,” Smith continued. “And that friendship, Sylar, it means something to me, its the most tangible thing in my life right now. How fucked up is that? Regardless, if you tell me you want to fight, I’ll walk down there with you, in all likelihood to our deaths. But we’ll be dying as we lived, side by side. If you tell me you want to walk away, then we’ll do that side by side too. I’m loyal to you over the pack, Sylar.”

Sylar was speechless. He’d always assumed that the pack mattered most. The desire to walk away was almost too delectable to ignore. They could assume new identities, new lives.

“We can’t run away.” But the reality was that they were men with violence hard wired in their DNA. Wherever they went, trouble would follow. They were Reapers through and through.

Smith tightened his grip on his crowbar and raised it menacingly. “Well, then let’s do this.”

“We can’t fight either,” Sylar added. He watched his friend’s face contort with confusion. “It’s suicide to fight in that.” He looked down at the street where fewer men were still standing. There was so much blood, so many anguished screams bleeding out into the night, being ignored. Even angels would fear to tread down main street that night.

“Then what do you suggest we do?”

“We claim the Reapers as our own,” an idea was starting to formulate in Sylar’s mind. “We return to the bar and await the return of those who survive.”

“They’ll hate us for not fighting!” Smith insisted, his face reddening with worry.

“Not if we say we were against it all along. That we always knew it would be a blood bath. We chose to forsake the fight in order to ensure the future of the Blood Pact. No one from that fight will be in a fit state to oppose us.”

Sylar could see the wilted stance of all those who still stood. They reached for wounds that wouldn’t cease bleeding as they half heartedly fought the next man in their wake. No one was going to chastise Sylar and Smith, not when they were the strong ones who still had some fight left in them.

“You’re saying we take on leadership of the Reapers?” Smith cocked his head to one side, weighing up the proposal. “Together?”

“Exactly,” Sylar nodded and flashed his friend a grin. “We lead the Reapers into a new era. Side by side.”

“We could still walk away,” Smith ventured. “We get on our bikes and just drive until dawn.”

“We’re not the type to run away,” Sylar gave him an apologetic smile. “Nor are we the type to blend into normal society. We were groomed to be pack members. Now it’s our turn to take the reigns and mold us into the most powerful pack in the state.”

“I do like the sound of that,” Smith was running his hands over his short hair.

“We’d live like Kings,” Sylar added, grinning devilishly.

“I can’t really argue with that,” Smith laughed. “Maybe its time we get back to the bar and wait on the arrival of the others.” 

“Yeah,” Sylar took one last look at the fight which was drawing to a natural conclusion. He was ready to lead his pack. A part of him knew that all along this had been his destiny. He glanced up at the stars as he kick started his bike. He no longer cared if his deceased parents disapproved of his choices. He was making his own way in life and he was proud of himself and that was enough.