Story 3: "Smile, and Be A Villain"
With the fireball raging in the laneway behind them, the Sons were trapped. The Russians and the Yakuza were pouring bullets on the warehouse rooftop and for a moment, Jax had a hideous premonition that the Arrow would skewer his throat with an arrow tonight.
"Ceasefire!" Igor barked. "Ceasefire!"
"What, are you crazy?" Opie said, as he unloaded another round from his Glock at the mystery assailant above. "That Arrow prick could have half a dozen guys up there waiting to turn us into human kebobs!"
Igor held up his hand to silence any argument. "The arrow attacks are following a pattern." He pointed to the ground before them. "Watch closely."
One arrow pierced the tire of an abandoned car. Three seconds later, another arrow shaft skittered harmlessly on the pavement. Another three seconds - and another arrow impaled a wooden crate to their right.
Igor scowled. "He is firing arrows using some sort of pre-programmed contraption. He is long gone." Jax watched as arrows were fired at three or four-second intervals. As long as they stayed six feet from the preset range, they would be safe.
"Chibs - you go around back. Meet up with Happy and take some of the SAMSTAR guys to the roof. If he's there, take this Arrow son of a bitch out - permanently."
"You got it, Jackie boy," Chibs said.
A surge of panic rippled through Jax as he looked at the warehouse. "The guns! We've got to clear out the Irish guns. Opie, you and Tig need to secure them."
"Oh, sweet Buddha," Tig muttered. "My bladder's about to explode here!"
They heard a scream from the Japanese gangster with an arrow in his calf. His friends had managed to extract the arrow shaft. Yakuza lieutenant Hideki looked at the wound and winced. "This port is filthy. The wound could already be infected."
"Isn't piss supposed to be sterile?" Opie said. Without another word, Tig unzipped his pants and proceeded to relive himself on the kyodai's wound - to the horror of the well-dressed Yakuza. A full minute later, Tig smiled at the Japanese crew. "Hey, I just saved your little buddy Akira's life!" Opie and Tig ran into the warehouse along with a few Russians to clear out the Irish guns before the SCPD arrived.
"I can buy you maybe 10-15 minutes," Igor said. "I have people within the Glades precinct, both civilians and uniforms. Unfortunately, there is also the special anti-gang task force that will most certainly come here." He glared at the Yakuza. "They will expect Russians, but our Asian friends should not be here when they do arrive."
Jax looked at Hideki. "Dude, you and your crew need to disappear. You think your guy's okay to move?"
Hideki nodded. "He will be fine, embarrassment aside." He gave Jax a business card. "You can reach me at The Smiling Geisha, Starling City's finest holistic spa." Hideki and his crew carried their injured friend into a black Escalade and soon zoomed away.
"Tank isn't doing so good," Igor said. "He's losing blood. There will be questions if the police find him."
"I got this," Jax said. He didn't know how he was going to get Tank out of here, but he would find a way.
Happy and Chibs were already atop the warehouse roof, where three crossbows were stationed on tripods. Something that looked like a tennis ball launcher was also pointed below. "The Arrow himself must have fired the arrows that took down the Soviet and the Jap," Happy said, "but the rest ... he was firing crossbows at us by remote control. The arrows ... and the flash-bombs."
"That slippery weasel," Chibs said.
In moments, Bobby and the rest of SAMSTAR arrived at the scene with an orange school bus.
"Jim, it looks like we'll be making the gun run ahead of schedule," Jax said, surprised at the sight of the bus.
"We don't have much choice at this point," Jim said. He opened the rear door of the school bus. Beneath the bus seats were hidden empty compartments: ideal for smuggling illegal weapons and ammunition.
"Tig, Happy - get this bus south. Pronto," Jax said. "SAMSTAR will escort you to the Northern Cali border. Rogue River can watch your back till Oaktown. Chibs, go back to the clubhouse with Jim. See if you can touch base with Clay. He needs to be ready for the delivery. The guns are our first priority. Romeo will be expecting to see this shipment intact and ready for his Mexican war. We'll meet up when the heat dies down. "
"Consider it done, V.P.," Happy said. SAMSTAR loaded the bus with crates full of ammo, SIGs, KG-9s and Glocks. Tig jumped into the driver's seat. Half a dozen Harleys from SAMSTAR lined up behind the bus. Jim, Chibs and the rest of the Starling MC roared away on their Harleys in the opposite direction.
"Looks like you and me got a road trip, Hap," Tig said as he gripped the steering wheels. "'The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round' ..." Happy chuckled, but he silently hoped that Tig wouldn't sing like this for the entire trip. They were a long way from Charming.
When SAMSTAR and the school bus had left, only Jax, Bobby and Opie were left with the now-unconscious Tank. Igor and the Russians had already gone to the port's gated entrance to stall the SCPD.
"We can't take him back to the SAMSTAR clubhouse, the cops are gonna stop there for sure," Bobby said.
"Shit," Opie said. "We need someplace to be scarce ... at least until the heat at the port blows over. And Jim's guys have already split with our rides."
"There's an old Volvo on the other side," Bobby said, pointing to the rear of another warehouse. "The Russians said it's still working."
"Let's hope so," Jax said, as they rolled Tank onto a canvas tarp. It would have to be a makeshift stretcher. "Otherwise, we'll be meeting this Captain Lance sooner than we think."
Outside the port gates, Quentin looked at the plumes of smoke in the distance. He knew it was gang-related, but the Russian who ran the port was clearly stalling for time.
"Unlock the damn gates," Quentin said.
"You will need a warrant first," Igor smiled as pleasantly as possible.
Quentin glanced at Igor Zakharov's crew, some of whom had cuts or bruises on their faces and hands. The flames still licked the walls of the distant warehouse. "Your boys got into a bit of a mix-up tonight? Who was it - the Chinatown triads, Los Diablos, Blood's old crew? Some sort of Glades turf war? I know SAMSTAR has to be involved."
"My lawyer would be only too happy to answer all the questions you have," Igor smiled behind the chained gates.
Quentin fumed. He could do nothing. The local SCPD precinct was first on the scene - and deeply in Igor's well-monied pockets. He could expect little help from them. He had probable cause to search the portlands, but Igor was smart. If Quentin were to force his way into the port, the Russians would use the law to throw out the search as unlawful. Any useful evidence would be scrubbed away or tossed into the harbour before he ever set foot on the docks.
"Okay, Igor, we'll do things your way," Quentin said. "The warrant's on its way and you'll have to open the gates anyway. I'll be taking statements from you and your whole crew. You can forget about getting any sleep."
I can forget about an early night too, he grumbled.
Roy walked down the street from the variety store with a bag of snacks and energy drinks. Unless Ollie called him to suit up for another late mission, he expected this night to be a quiet one. He had difficulty sleeping, ever since he had met Jax Teller, V.P. of SAMCRO. The son of legendary Sons founder John Teller, Jax had arrived in Starling City to show support for the local charter SAMSTAR. Captain Lance's anti-gang task force was leaning hard on SAMSTAR after the portlands murder. Somehow this had caught the mother charter's attention and prompted Jax and his crew to ride up from Northern Cali.
In the distance, he heard the squealing of tires. A beat-up blue Volvo screeched down the road, then promptly stalled two blocks away from him. Far away, somewhere near the docks, a string of sirens wailed. Roy's instincts told him trouble was nearby. He walked closer to the Volvo.
"Shit!" Bobby cursed. He stepped out of the Volvo's driver seat. He coughed as smoke bellowed from the car's engine. "This car is toast."
Opie stepped out of the car. When the engine smoke cleared, he was looking directly at someone in a red hoodie. The stranger had eyed the backseat and spotted the injured Russian ... and Jax.
"I-I didn't see anything," Roy said. Opie pulled out his Glock from his waistband.
"And you won't be sayin' nothing - or you're a dead man," Opie said, ready to put a bullet into Roy's forehead. He was surprised when Jax pushed his arm down.
"Chill, Opie. This is Roy. He's a friend of the club," Jax said with authority. He looked at Roy, his eyes pleading with him to cooperate.
"Seriously?" Bobby said. He and Opie struggled to support the injured Russian on their shoulders.
"He's from the Glades," Jax said. "One of the locals. SAMSTAR's helping him find parts for his old Harley." This seemed to convince both Bobby and Opie that Roy wasn't an immediate threat.
Sirens wailed. On the horizon, their flashing lights seemed to be coming closer. "We've got an injured buddy of ours," Jax said, "but we can't exactly take him to the hospital."
"Understood," Roy said. Crap, he thought, I'm knee-deep in this now. If the cops come across Jax and his friends, it would be bad news for both SAMCRO and the local charter.
"We need to lay low ... at least until the heat on the street cools down," Bobby said.
Jax pulled Roy aside. "I know you've left the life behind," he said. "I'm not here to turn you to the dark side. Far from it. All we need is a place for our buddy here to recover from his wounds, away from curious eyes. You're from here - if you know of any place we can hide out, at least for tonight ..." Jax did not seem like a hardened criminal, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, and Roy could sense the desperation in the man's voice. His friend Sin had told him that Jax had a family.
He has a new fiancee. And two young sons that he loves very much. That's all he wants. To keep his family whole.
The vigilante in him, Arsenal, knew that he should give Ollie the heads-up, or maybe give Felicity or Diggle a call first. SAMCRO was a criminal organization who sold guns to other criminals. But the Glades hoodlum that Roy used to be had an innate mistrust of all authority: cops, politicians, anyone who thought their moralizing and snobbery could ever change the Glades. He would never call the police.
In the Glades, we look out for ourselves.
"I know a place," Roy said, immediately regretting that the words came out of his mouth. When Ollie first donned the persona of the Hood two years ago, he had several safe houses and hideouts scattered throughout the Glades. When Roy joined Ollie's team of masked vigilantes, Ollie told him about a few of these safe houses.
"How far is it?" Opie said. Roy could not take back the offer. It was made now, he had made it. It felt wrong to him, and weeks later, Roy would realize that Ollie's narrow view of right and wrong would see it as a betrayal regardless of the circumstances. But Roy wasn't thinking about it in moral terms. In this moment, Jax was in a jam, the cops were on his tail and the Sons - friends and protectors of the Glades - were in trouble and in need of help.
"Not far," Roy said. One of Ollie's older safe houses - little more than a place to change clothes and re-equip - was in an abandoned textiles factory that belonged to Queen Int'l Exporting, a now-defunct subsidiary of the Queen empire. The Glades were littered with dozens of these shuttered and half-demolished factories.
Twenty minutes later, Roy approached the old textiles factory. Jax and Opie were behind him, grunting as they carried the injured Russian in the canvas tarp stretcher. Lagging behind them was Bobby, who huffed in exhaustion.
"I used to stash my stolen goods here before I fenced them," Roy lied. "It's been awhile. Lemme check it out first." He unlocked the rusted door and went inside. The sirens were still wailing but they sounded more distant now.
"Can you trust this Roy dude?" Opie said. "It would kinda suck if he's in there calling the cops. Ratting us out."
"He's a friend of the club," Jax said. "He brought us this far, he's not gonna burn us."
The door opened. "All clear, guys." He turned on the factory lights, which hummed and flickered. Several windows above had been smashed, after years of neglect. Empty crates and scrap lumber lined the walls. Pigeons cooed in the rafters above. It was sparsely furnished, with only a table, a few chairs, two cupboards and a bathroom.
"You'll find some first-aid kits in the cupboard," Roy said. Opie checked the cupboard and came back with rubbing alcohol, gauze bandages, a needle, Tylenol and medical thread for stitches. He wondered why it was stocked full of new medical supplies, but with his mind focused on staying alive and off the SCPD radar, Opie let the suspicion fade from his mind.
Roy soaked a cloth with the alcohol and once he pressed it against Tank's wound in the forearm, the large Russian bellowed in agony. He studied the wound.
"What happened to him?" Roy asked. "It looks like someone stabbed him."
"We were at the port for club business," Jax said. "Things went south when that hooded vigilante - he calls himself the Arrow - attacked us and our Russian pals." He chose not to volunteer that the Yakuza were also at the port. "Seriously crazy shit. Tank over here got an arrow in the arm for his troubles."
"That sucks," Roy said as he began to stitch the Russian's gaping wound. Ollie had attacked them at the port!
"What do you know about this Arrow?" Opie asked Roy. "From what I hear, he rolls with his own crew of masked outlaws."
"I don't know much," Roy said, hoping that they wouldn't pick up on his fear in his eyes. "I can't believe half of what I see in the news about them. It's kind of ridiculous that he'd go running around with bows and arrows when all the criminals have guns."
"The Arrow managed to get the drop on us and the Russians at the port," Jax countered. "We had him out-manned and outgunned and he still pinned us down. He attacked us swiftly. He had a plan and executed it. Without remorse. And he vanished into thin air."
Jax studied the rings on his hand. He was the prince of SAMCRO and this vigilante had threatened his MC. "This Arrow is no weekend amateur - he's a professional with a unique skill-set. Probably ex-military or Special Ops. He's made an enemy of SAMCRO tonight. We'll be prepared for him next time."
Bobby hovered over Roy's shoulder, his breath reeking of rum and cigarettes. "You've done us a solid here, my friend. Really stepped up. If Jax says you're good with him, you're good with me. And with SAMCRO. Thank you for this, bro." He sat at the table and took out his flask for another sip of rum. Near the door, Opie sat on a crate. He lit up a cigarette and took a drag. It was going to be a long night.
"Thank you, Roy," Jax said as he settled into one of the chairs, relieved that he could take a breather after a long night. "Your help means a lot to me, and to the club." The events at the port had drained him of energy. In minutes, the Vice President of SAMCRO had fallen asleep.
Tank, the Russian, was already unconscious due to painkillers. Roy began to wrap Tank's forearm with more gauze bandages.
"You're welcome, Jax." Roy said. He didn't know how he had managed to stitch the Russian's wound with steady hands. He was anything but calm.
Whether it was by choice or by fate, he could not shake the looming sense that he was now at the devil's beck.
In this room.
With Jax Teller.
The Arrow had complicated the club's plans, whatever they may be, and injured a friend of the club. According the codes of the street (and the traditions of SAMCRO), such an offence demanded retaliation. There could be no appeal to mercy - because the Sons of Anarchy had none.
He hoped that Ollie had long forgotten about this safe house.
Because if he did show up tonight, Roy was certain that Jax would shoot Oliver Queen in the throat.
To be continued ...
