The Devil's Ride

Scar’s POV I took the last drag of my cigarette and pressed the butt against the side of the man’s cheek. He screamed, loud and ragged, but the city swallowed it. Cars honked somewhere down the street. Sirens wailed. People shouted, but none of it mattered and none of it reached me. I pushed him harder against the brick wall. His knees buckled, but I held him up by the collar. My gun pressed against his mouth. He trembled, shaking so hard I thought he might collapse. I caught my reflection in a cracked mirror leaning against the wall. The glass was broken and dirty, but I could still see myself. My smile twisted across my lips. My eyes looked sharp. I gripped my gun tighter. It felt right in my hand. “You know what happens now, don’t you?” I asked. He nodded frantically, unable to speak. His body shook. I spat on the ground. The bass from inside my club thumped through the alley, but it could not cover his sobs. “Good. That means I do not have to explain what happens to people who steal from me and run to the cops.” He tried to speak again, but nothing came out. His fear was loud enough. I sighed and I aimed for my gun. I pulled the trigger, and his body jerked once and went limp. His eyes went empty. He slid down the wall and hit the cold pavement with a thud. Blood spread across the concrete. That was another problem handled and another warning sent. And somewhere out there, another threat waited. Just perfect. I lit a new cigarette and sent a quick text to the clean-up crew with the location. I stepped over his body, careful not to get blood on my shoes, and walked back inside the club. I needed a drink. I slid into my usual booth. A glass of Jack waited for me, already poured the way I liked it. I picked it up and downed it in one go, hoping it would calm the pounding in my head. The migraines had started about six months ago, and I still had no idea what caused them. They hit without warning and felt like someone drove a nail behind my eyes. I let my eyes drift shut for a second. That was when I smelled Ace’s cologne. It hit me before he even spoke, sharp and heavy, and it made my headache spike so badly that I smacked my hand on the table. He stopped beside the booth. “What’s up with you tonight, Scar?” “I have a migraine, and we have a dead guy in the alley with his head blown off. Make sure the clean up crew got my message. I want it handled right away.” I opened my eyes and glared at him. As my VP, he always had something to add to my night. I could tell by the look on his face. “Will do. But Scar, you have a visitor at the front.” “Who is it?” “No clue. Ella said her name is Morgan. She brought some younger chick with her.” I leaned back in the booth and tried to think. The name did not ring a bell. I did not know any Morgan. Still, people only came here for one reason. They wanted something fixed, and they knew they would have to pay for it. I did not run a charity. You did not become the president of the Iron Vipers by being nice. I finished my drink, pushed the empty glass aside, and stood. I tucked my weapon out of sight and started walking toward the front of the bar. The lights, the music, and the crowd blended into a dull roar, and then another sharp throb hit my skull. I stopped, squeezed my eyes shut, and winced as the pain rolled through me. It forced me to turn around. I headed back to my booth and slid into the seat again, dropping my head into my hands. Ace stepped closer. “You alright, Scar?” “Bring them back here. This should be interesting.” Rachel’s POV A few hours earlier… Again, I heard screaming from downstairs. My mom and her boyfriend were at it again, yelling about money. It never ended. Not since my dad died. He died on my eighteenth birthday. The Boston police didn’t care. Southie wasn’t important to them. I had been doing everything I could to figure out who did it, but it turned me into a total deviant. I still hadn’t found s**t. I was a bartender now. Sometimes I hated it. Sometimes I loved it. But no matter what, I still had to live with my broke-ass mom. She had never been able to keep a job or a man. I wished she would stop getting herself in trouble and running to low-level members of the Iron Vipers to save her. The screaming downstairs got louder. I heard glass shatter and the sounds of a struggle. My stomach dropped. The minute I stood, a gunshot rang out from downstairs. I froze. The silence after it was worse than the noise. I crept to my door, waiting for the gunman to come for me next. Gunshots didn’t scare me. What scared me was that one of them had happened inside my own house. I grabbed my gun, the pink one my dad bought me for my sixteenth birthday. I c****d it and held it steady, ready. The door burst open and my mom rushed in with a gun in hand. “Mom, what the f**k happened?” I asked. She saw the gun in my hand and glared. I shoved it behind my back at my waist and rolled my eyes. “An accident. Now we have to go get some help,” she said. “Where is Paul?” “I shot him, honey,” she said quickly. “It was an accident. But we need to get help now.” “Oh my god. We need to call the f*****g police.” “Not that kind of help,” she said. I stood there, confused. She snatched my waist and dragged me down the stairs in a hurry. She didn’t answer any of my questions while we drove. Her eyes stayed on the road and the radio went silent. She drove deeper into Southie, into the parts she always told me to stay away from. When we pulled up to a motorcycle bar, my stomach sank. “I’ll say stay in the car,” she said, “but you’re probably safer inside with me than locked in here. Come on.” “What the f**k are we doing here?” “I told you I need help. Are you deaf?” Reluctantly, I followed her into the bar. “Welcome to the Iron Vipers Bar. What can I get you ladies?” My mom didn’t miss a beat. “Two shots of Patron. And I need to speak with Scar, please.” The bartender glanced at me. “I need to see some ID for the young one here. And can I ask who’s asking for the boss?” I slid my license out of my back pocket and handed it to the girl behind the bar. She looked at my mom like she wasn’t sure if she should trust her. “Okay,” the bartender said, taking my card. “I’ll get the message to him. Just have a seat at the bar while you wait.” She gave my mom a suspicious look, then walked off toward the back. We were left with our shots, glowing amber under the dim lights. I scanned the bar. Guys in leather jackets leaned against tables, laughing and talking rough. Girls moved around them, wearing almost nothing, swaying to the loud music. My stomach churned. I thought about the dead man lying in our apartment. I shivered. “Mom,” I said, my voice low. “What the f**k are you getting yourself into?”