April 9, 2022
Saturday, 2:30 p.m.
Northmen Headquarters
The Raven was a hole-in-the-wall two-story beer joint outside of Dallas, halfway between Hutchins and Wilmer off IH 45. Built in 1958, hailstorms through the years had dimpled its patched tin roof, and torrential rains left streaks of rust visible from the highway. A covered porch stretched along the front width of The Raven’s first floor, and weathered plank siding gave it the overall look of an old country antique store. Yet people of the area knew better. The law rarely came there unless bloody Saturday night brawls erupted.
The second floor was Frederick Simpson’s office and meeting room. Before making The Raven home base for the Northmen, his Nordic styled criminal operation, drugs were rampant in the bar, and a sleazy brothel was upstairs. But the avowed ruler of the Northmen halted the activities when he hung his Triskelion flag on his office wall to display the Triple Horns of Odin. The Raven was to remain clear of reasons for the police to raid the business. Anyone wanting pills and a quick piece of ass could go elsewhere. Simpson dealt in larger quantities of drugs and flesh. Though he still let his men take pleasures with their girlfriends in the shadow-filled booths, the only thing sold in the Raven was to be whisky and beer.
By age nine, Frederick had suffered enough physical abuse from his father to last a lifetime. At ten, after his father went to prison for beating Frederick’s mother to death in a drunken rage, the state shuffled the boy from one home to the next. Foster parents declared him incorrigible, destined to follow his violent father’s path to prison. And he spent the rest of his youth in state juvenile facilities, learning to survive and claim leadership among his peers.
At twenty-two, he entered prison with a long record of aggravated assaults, armed robberies, and transporting drugs. He learned how to create and lead The Northmen by studying under the best tutors. Prisons were ripe fields for the recruitment of followers.
Now at forty, he sat at his desk in The Raven with the ranks of his Northmen filled. His drug and human trafficking operations remained well supplied. Mexican cartels and an incompetent president who ignored illegal immigration helped Frederick’s empire succeed.
The leader looked out the window and brushed his mustache with a finger while watching the passing cars on the freeway. Blond hair pulled back into a tail, head shaved on both sides, his six-foot frame was like iron, ruggedly built, made so by years of weightlifting in prison yards. He had the Triple Horns of Odin tattoo on his left breast and other prison tattoos along his stomach and the left side to cover knife fight scars. His back was a canvas of Nordic symbols stretched around a Viking dragon’s head. He liked the savage Viking culture, yet knew little about the seafaring people or their mythology other than they were warriors. Only the strong survived through battle, and that was most important to him.
The approach of heavy footsteps on the stairs broke Frederick’s daydreaming. He turned as Loden, his second-in-command, stepped from the stairwell and started toward the desk. Face appearing cut from rough leather, the brute preferred to be known as Loden rather than his given name of Elmer Davis. He believed it better fit his role in The Northmen. Loden had been Frederick’s first recruit, but their days in prison together had strengthened their friendship.
“Two of our guys were put out of commission last Monday. They were in a Houston hospital for a day and just reported in.” Loden’s thick, dark brown eyebrows lowered as he lightly shook his head.
Frederick sat back in his chair. “Who?”
“Frank Halverson and Jackson West. Both are new, been with us for a few months. One has a broken leg, and the other has a broken wrist and elbow. But the kicker is that someone sliced their ears and slashed their faces.” Loden moved his finger horizontally across his face from one cheek to the other.
Straightening in his chair, Frederick leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk’s top. The broken bones were irrelevant. That was life. But intentionally slicing their ears and leaving their faces permanently marred was different. Retaliation was required.
“Who did it to them? Some greaser gang in Houston trying to steal a shipment? How many jumped them?”
Loden stared at Frederick. He exhaled hard and raised his right forefinger to chest level. “One guy.”
Shoving his chair back, Frederick rose and walked around the desk to Loden. “One guy did all of that to them? No, that’s bullshit. What really happened?”
“Frank said they went into a bar, saw an old whore they knew, and when they went back later to party with her, a guy came out of the dark and jumped them. Jackson had the same story.”
Frustrated, Frederick swiped a hand over his moustache and mouth. Gaze drifting across the office, he turned back to Loden.
“Find out more—check their stories, where it happened and who this guy is. Let’s find him. Take a couple of men with you. I want blood. The last thing we need is him bragging about the fight. We don’t need word going around that Northmen can be attacked without retribution.”
A curt nod came in reply. Loden turned to leave, but paused.
“And if their stories have holes?”
“That would be unfortunate for them. We have no place in the Northmen for liars and cowards. But I still want this man found.”
***
April 10, 2022
Sunday, 9:15 a.m.
Jack glanced at the scattered clouds and hoped any chances of rain would hold off until the afternoon. He stood on the sidewalk of the Backstreet Pub, feeling self-conscious about his clothes as he waited for Val’s arrival. His shirt showed wear, his jeans had faded, and although he brushed his boots, they needed polish. New clothes were in order, but he had not taken the time to go buy them. Money was not an issue. Yet there did not seem to be an urgent necessity when working all morning at the tackle shop and on into the evening at the pub.
He glanced at his reflection in the pub’s window, ran a hand over his hair, and sighed. At forty, he had little to show for himself in terms of earthly possessions, yet he was happy. More so when an older model Chevrolet truck stopped at the curb and Val smiled at him. The brown paint was fading, the tires were almost bald, and a few minor dents speckled its fenders, but Jack never noticed as he slid into the passenger seat. All he saw was the driver.
Patting the dashboard, Val grinned. “It’s not much to look at, but it’s paid for and mine,” she said, driving away from the pub.
Past training made Jack keep watch on the landmarks as they passed. It was always good to know the layout of the land in the event an escape became necessary. Yet his gaze kept drifting back to Val. Today was a rarity. Her short, wavy hair was brushed, and she wore a hint of makeup with a soft red lipstick to complete her look. A long-sleeved blue blouse concealed her tattoos, and her dark pants and brown leather boots appeared to be of good quality.
Glancing at her blouse, she smiled nervously. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing at all. It’s been a long time since I enjoyed a morning like this,” he replied. His words brought a gentle smile to her lips.
Val drove through town and, near the end of the main street, turned into a crowded parking lot of what appeared to have formerly been a retail store. At the curb stood a wide hand-painted sign welcoming all to the ‘Living Word’ church. Parking at the rear of the building, she motioned Jack to follow as she left the truck.
Seeing him glance over the building, Val laughed. “It used to be a clothing store until they went bankrupt. The church bought it ten years ago, and the members did the remodeling.”
A steady stream of amiable people strolled through the parking lot toward the rear glass doors created to be the church’s main entrance. On the wide porch, volunteers greeted arrivals, shook hands and patted shoulders, welcoming all to the morning service.
“Valerie, my dear,” a slender, older gentleman in jeans, an untucked fishing shirt and buffed boots, called out at her approach. He had a contagious smile, honest brown eyes, and his arms shot wide in greeting. Hugging Val, he looked at Jack and extended his right hand. “I’m Pastor Jobe. Welcome to our church, sir.”
They shook hands. Before Jack could speak, a line had built behind them of visitors and members eager to greet the pastor. Val guided Jack by the arm through a sea of people, smiling and shaking hands, then moved to a row of pews and chairs near the rear of the wide room. Regardless of where anyone sat, they had a good view of the pulpit. Yet Jack was oblivious to all around him. The feel of Val’s hand holding his right arm as they walked made him smile inwardly.
A five-piece band on the stage played contemporary Christian music, and the congregation stood, clapping and singing. Throughout the music, Jack’s gaze swept left and right, watching the visitors and church members sing and sway in place. Young and old alike enjoyed themselves, and Jack relished the sense of peace permeating the church.
The songs went on for twenty minutes, then Pastor Jobe walked out onto the raised stage, greeting everyone as the band left. After announcing the latest church news, he stood at the pulpit and opened his leather-bound Bible. He exhaled deeply, as if mentally preparing himself.
Gaze drifting across the room, aware of every corner and exit, Jack looked at the congregation to assess any threats of danger. Doing so came as natural as breathing, and he did it without thought. Yet when the pastor spoke, the words rang through Jack’s mind like the tolling of cathedral bells. The world faded and all he heard was Pastor Jobe’s gentle voice.
“The guilt of our sins is like a daily burden upon our shoulders that grows heavier to carry as the years pass. In youth, we walk swiftly, unbothered by the weight of our actions. In time, our steps falter and we struggle beneath the weight of our guilt. We weigh the actions of our life, and in despair, feel alone, afraid others might learn of our iniquities.” The pastor’s tone softened, as if he were reflecting upon himself.
“Without God as our moral compass, we wander lost through life, never understanding the hollowness we feel within us. Are we frightened of no longer being worthy of God’s grace? Have we fallen so deep into the abyss that darkness surrounds us, and we cannot see His light?”
What compass have I been following? The Colonel’s? He taught me to obey him completely. Execute the guilty, and by doing so, make the world a better place.
The faces of the dead he had accounted for swept before him, and he struggled to justify the reasoning for their executions. No, they were corrupt, vile, and deserved death. Politicians who had long ago sold themselves to the highest foreign bidder. Men who turned on their countries and released classified information to the enemy for money and flesh. People who cared little for their fellow man, starving and torturing them while filling personal coffers. And there were those who abused children for pleasure during their daily affairs. Ahmad Rashid Khalili rose in his mind like a raging fire.
No, even God would want that bastard dead.
Pastor Jobe’s voice shook Jack from his thoughts. Raising his head, he focused on the man at the pulpit.
“God loves each one of us. He doesn’t favor the rich over the poor. In fact, he chooses the worst among us, the most injured and wretched to work His miracles through. Acting on orders from the Temple, Saul killed his own people… But God blinded him, then healed his eyes so the new man, Paul, could see the true light and change his ways.”
An hour passed like the blink of an eye, and through it all, Jack felt as if the pastor were talking directly to him. Did Harry or Val tell the pastor about me?
The pastor spoke a closing prayer, and in unison across the congregation came ‘Amen.’
They filed out of the church with everyone in good spirits, but Jack solemnly walked with Pastor Jobe’s words still echoing in his mind. We silently struggle beneath our guilt’s heavy weight…
Val glanced at him. Her eyes narrowed in question, yet she remained silent. Once in her truck, she waited a moment, then looked at Jack, who stared out the windshield.
“Jack… Jack. Are you alright?”
“I’m sorry. What?”
She chuckled. “You were off in your own world the entire time we were in church. Is everything okay? I’m sorry you didn’t like it… I thought—”
Jack saw the disappointment in her eyes. “No, honest. I’m glad you asked me to come with you. The sermon just hit home closer than I realized and…” His words tapered off into silence. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Could we go somewhere, anywhere, and just walk?”
When the traffic in the parking lot thinned, Val left the church. She drove along the main street, glancing at Jack. He seemed to be himself once again. They drove past the tackle shop and by the street leading to the pub. Five blocks later, she turned eastward and travelled eight more blocks. The Gulf of Mexico loomed into view.
Sunlight shined across the water, glistening off the waves. Jack inhaled deeply and the distinct smell of the sea filled his nostrils. Seagulls circled through the air, stood perched on dock posts, and fought one another as they landed on the roadway in search of food. They squawked, then went airborne to circle over the weekend fishing boats that came and went from the piers. A wide sidewalk stretched across the front of small tourist traps, stores selling bait, tackle, tee-shirts, and trinkets. Val parked in a dirt and rock lot half filled with unattended trucks and empty boat trailers.
“I never realized we were this close to the coast.” Jack glanced about him as they started along the walkway. He looked at Val and smiled from the joy he felt at being near her.
In the morning light, with the sun upon her face and the sea breeze lifting strands of her wavy hair, Jack believed she was far more beautiful than before. Maybe the feeling came from seeing her with a touch of makeup or away from the pub, but whatever the reason, he knew she had fueled a strange fire within him. One he could never recall experiencing with other women.
“Thank you,” she said, looking at a shirt hanging on a rack outside of a store.
Jack’s brow lowered. “For what?”
Turning to him, her gaze pierced his soul. “For knowing my past and still being a gentleman around me. I’m sure Harry mentioned problems I’ve had with drugs, and Frank and Jackson didn’t help that night in the pub when they said all those cruel things about me. You never acted differently and have always treated me with respect.”
“Everyone has demons they live with, things that never let the guilt go away.”
Her brown eyes grew wet, and the warmth of her smile tore at his heart. She leaned close and kissed his right cheek. “Thank you, Jack, for always being a gentleman.”
She turned to walk along the sidewalk, and he felt her hand brush his. Their fingers touched, curled and held. In that instant, he felt as electrified as a schoolboy at his first sweetheart’s touch. They strolled along the sidewalk in silence, fingers interlocked, enjoying the moment.
“Did the sermon this morning hit home on things you’re trying to forget—or run away from?” she asked, her gaze focused ahead. “I know nothing about you, but I know I trust you.”
“What has Harry told you about me?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “But I know you protected me from Frank and Jackson in the pub, and I saw what you did to them that night. When Harry asked you to look after Ryan with that bookie, you did. I overheard Ryan telling the guys about you.” Val squeezed his hand. “Was it something from your past that bothered you about the pastor’s sermon?”
“His words cut deeper than I realized.” Jack stopped to gaze across the Gulf. “I can’t change the past and must live with it. Right now, I want to enjoy today, this time with you, and not worry about tomorrow.” They walked on in silence, her left hand held in his right. She squeezed his hand and with it, the day grew better.
At a small shop, Jack bought a cup of coffee and Val wanted an ice cream cone. They sat at a wooden picnic table to watch the weekend anglers come and go. Seagulls squawked and dove at the fish cleaning areas in hopes of scraps. Children tossed pieces of bread and shrimp bait into the air, then laughed as the birds dove and swarmed about them.
Val licked her ice cream cone and grinned as her gaze drifted over a young girl of about seven that grew frightened when the gulls drew closer and bolder. An older boy, possibly her brother, rushed forward to the girl’s rescue and waved the birds away.
Watching Val, Jack smiled. This was a perfect moment in a perfect day. But like daylight vanishing behind thunderstorm clouds, Jack felt a blackness engulf him. Will the day come when I must leave for her to remain safe? Has enough time passed that the Colonel no longer hunts me? Can I start a new life here with her?
Val caught him staring at the ground. She pulled his hand, and they rose from the picnic table. “Let’s walk.”
Reaching the end of the sidewalk and piers, they started back to the parking lot, talking about everything yet nothing. The hours swept past them in bliss, and by the time they arrived at her truck, it was midafternoon. She drove through town and entered the alley leading to the door of his room at the rear of the tackle shop.
“Thank you for—” Jack halted, confused when she parked and stepped from the vehicle. He eased from his seat, closed the truck’s door and walked around to the driver’s side. Val stood waiting for him.
“I would invite you in, but the room is pretty bare, and I only have a bed,” he said, embarrassed that he could not offer more. His blue eyes gazed at her face.
She reached out, brushed the scar on his chin with her fingertips, then took his hands in hers and softly squeezed. “A bed is all we need.”