It was after midnight when they arrived at the roadside bar. The dusty parking lot was packed with large motorcycles and a group of leather- and denim-clad bikers were drinking, smoking and jostling each other outside. The backs of their jackets were covered with huge patches that depicted the snarling jaws of a red wolf. The bar was the kind of anarchic place that seemed to perpetually teeter on the edge of violence. Not somewhere Ziad would ever have associated with Elroy or the quiet Thai.
Ziad parked beside a row of bikes. Their chrome fittings gleamed in the gaudy neon light of a sign which declared the name of the bar: RPM. Awut and Elroy were unfazed by the rowdy bikers who clustered near the entrance, and led Ziad through the group. A guy in a black T-shirt emblazoned with a bone-white skull tested them for coronavirus before ushering them inside.
The loud thrash metal music was almost painful. Bikers of all races, genders and ages crowded the place, dancing, drinking and acting up. Almost everyone wore a Red Wolf patch or sported a similar tattoo. The interior stank of sour mash, doubtless a consequence of years of whisky spillages on the hardwood floor. The walls were covered with black and white photos of classic motorcycles and the bar was decked out in old tin road signs.
Ziad followed Awut and Elroy across the dance floor and through a door which led to the toilets. The corridor was permeated with the stench of urine and the walls were covered with Polaroid photographs of customers in various states of undress. Thought-provoking, funny or just plain lewd messages had been scrawled beneath the photos in pen and marker. One caught Ziad’s eye. It read, ‘I was a sex slave for a week and it fucked my mind.’ Above the messy writing was a photo of a middle-aged woman in her underwear doing a Mick Jagger pout at the camera, her haunted eyes a window into her broken mind.
Elroy and Awut passed the doors to the toilets and continued towards another marked ‘private’. A huge bald-headed man leaned on a stool beside it. Elroy didn’t even acknowledge the giant and marched straight through the door. Ziad followed Awut inside, and found himself in a smoky back room. A couple of skinny bikers had their shirts off and were hunched on the edge of an old sofa sharing a crack pipe. A woman of no more than twenty, wearing black leather trousers and a Napalm Death T-shirt, had passed out in the chair next to them.
Awut took up a watchful position by the door. Elroy didn’t even glance at the crackheads and headed for a seating area on the other side of the room. Three sofas were arranged in a corner, beside a large window that was sealed by a corrugated shutter. On the sofas sat two men and a woman.
‘Ziad,’ Elroy said, ‘these are my associates.’ He gestured to the trio, all of whom had remained seated. ‘This is Eddie Fletcher. He owns this place.’
Fletcher was a bald white man in his early forties. His white vest exposed his muscular arms, which were covered in tattoos that ran up to his neck. Every image was a variation of the ‘Red Wolf’ patch. He nodded at Ziad, but said nothing.
‘His wife Kirsty,’ Elroy continued, signalling a woman of about Ziad’s age.
She wore light jeans and a black vest, sported even more tattoos than her husband and had close-cropped hair that did nothing to conceal the noticeable scar which ran from her left temple down her cheek to her chin. She glared at Ziad with the wild eyes of a dangerous animal.
‘And this is Andel Novak,’ Elroy said, gesturing at the final member of the group.
Novak wore a light-blue suit, a sky-blue shirt that was unbuttoned at the collar, and a pair of shiny black shoes. He looked as though he was in his early fifties, but the scraggy beard that reached halfway down his throat made his age difficult to pinpoint. Like his hair, it was black with broad streaks of grey, but unlike his hair, it was curly and unkempt, giving the man a wild air. His eyes were bright blue and were alive with intensity. He smiled at Ziad indulgently.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Novak said, getting to his feet. The man had a pronounced Eastern European accent, but there was a clipped English formality to his speech, which made it impossible for Ziad to guess his nationality. He shook Novak’s proffered hand, and found the man’s grip surprisingly strong.
‘Have a seat,’ Elroy suggested, and Ziad sat next to him.
‘You are glad to be a free man again?’ Novak asked.
Ziad nodded.
‘Our friend tells us you’ve risen to the challenge, that you can be trusted. Is he right?’ Novak asked.
‘I’ll do whatever it takes,’ Ziad replied. ‘I want Deni Salamov and his family to suffer.’
‘Good,’ Novak said. ‘Do you know what we are?’
Ziad shook his head.
‘We are the Red Wolves,’ Novak continued. ‘Some call us criminals, but we prefer to think of ourselves as revolutionaries who aren’t prepared to accept that the way things are is the way they must always be. One day, when you have truly proven yourself, you might become a wolf.’
Fletcher sneered.
‘Mr Fletcher commands this chapter,’ Novak explained. ‘He’s a very hard man to impress. And rightly so. Becoming a Red Wolf is a great honour.’
This is it, Ziad thought. I’ve finally earned their trust.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.
‘Deni Salamov has a shipment coming in. We’d like you to tell Mr Fletcher when the product is due to be collected.’
Ziad looked at the brutish biker and his wild-eyed wife. ‘Sure,’ he said.
‘You know what this means?’ Elroy asked.
Ziad nodded. ‘Yeah. You’re going to steal it.’
Elroy smiled. ‘More than that. We’re going to start a war.’