Not As I Do 7

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The sun had vanished by the time Pete arrived back at the bike shop, the rust of twilight giving way to the inevitable darkness of night. He looked up, hoping that this wasn’t some sort of meaningful sign for his future. But then, even if it was, the stars still came out.

Most of the businesses had closed, and the ones that hadn’t were in the process; he could see lights going out and owners locking up for the night all around the lot. He wished he’d gotten back here earlier. It made him feel nervous. Miguel had worked many years in this area, but he did not stay here at night any more than he had to. The scar in his left side was a testament as to why. A few years ago, he’d been working alone in the shop after hours when four gang members jumped him. He barely escaped with his life that night. Eventually they were caught and convicted, which was how Miguel met Woodward in the first place, but he never worked after dark again.

Pete noticed, however, that Miguel’s truck was still in the lot, the only other vehicle in sight than his. It was a bit later than Miguel usually stayed, but it wasn’t full dark yet. It was good and bad both; good that he’d managed to catch Miguel before he left, and bad because... well, because he’d managed to catch Miguel before he left. Pete wasn’t looking forward to the blowup, and Miguel would.

As he approached the shop, however, he noticed other things, things definitely out of place. Miguel’s truck window was down. He sometimes left it open during the day, but only when the front pull-down was open, which it wasn’t. And all the lights were on, which was definitely odd. Near closing, Miguel turned off all the lights except in his office to “keep away the pendejo,” whatever that meant.

His hand was inches away from the door when he heard the crash.

Instantly he jerked back, trying to look everywhere at once. There was someone inside and it wasn’t Miguel. That was a toolbox getting knocked over and the sound of boots. Pete knew Miguel’s footstep by this time and it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. He looked over his shoulder at the surrounding businesses, dismayed to realize he was alone. To make matters worse, one of the lights of the parking lot was burned out, producing dark places when he wanted them least.

Somehow he knew without having to figure it out that these intruders were unwelcome ones.

Slowly, so as not to make footsteps that might be heard in the building, he backed away from the door, sidling along the side of the building and making sure that no one could see him through the high windows, unlikely as that was to occur. When he was far enough away, he fumbled in his pocket for his cell. Keeping an eye on the door – he could still hear movement and what sounded like a harsh, barked laugh – he pulled up Woodward’s cell number. Before he hit call, however, he suddenly realized that it was stone quiet. Even his breathing sounded loud to his ears, his steps like boulders falling. He didn’t dare speak to make the call. Looking sharply at the door again, he typed out “WOODY – URGENT – 911. BURGLARS IN SHOP. MIGUEL MISSING, MAYBE STILL INSIDE. PLEASE HELP. *URGENT*”. After he hit “Send TXT MSG” he went through the menu and changed the ring to vibrate and slipped it back into his pocket.

Pete was halfway back to the door when he realized what he’d just done. He suppressed a groan; the first time he opens communication with the man in weeks and it’s because he wants something. This was not a good trend.

Unfortunately, fate didn’t want to make things smooth for him. As he got closer to the door, he stepped into one of the dark places cast between the building and Miguel’s truck, and stepped right on a cat that had chosen that place to hide. As his foot made contact with the tail, the cat screeched and yowled, jumping up and clawing the air in all directions, which unfortunately happened to be where Pete’s leg currently was. Before he could stop himself he let out a yelp and jumped backward, which made him back into a steel drum planted next to the entrance for waste oil. The drum reverberated loud enough to be heard a block away.

Everything happened at once. Almost before Pete could react, shouts sounded inside the shop, definitely not Miguel or anyone Pete knew, and the door crashed open, clipping Pete on the arm as it swung around into the wall. Before Pete could even react or even fully regain his balance, a pair of hands grabbed him and yanked him inside. Pete tried to pull away and run, but he was outnumbered before he could even think. “Grab him!” He caught a quick glimpse of a hulking man in a dirty denim vest before something impacted with his head and the world went dark.

Consciousness fought Pete every step of the way. He didn’t dream; it was solid black and thick as syrup until he became aware of sound and light and a throbbing pain in his head. It didn’t do anything toward making him want to go on living.

“He’s awake,” said a voice. There went any chance of pretending to still be unconscious and getting information. His vision swam. He was on a chair next to the Kaw he’d been working on what seemed like a year ago, his hands held behind him and his feet to each of the chair legs. Unfortunately hope was definitely out of the equation too. His heart sinking, he realized with a start that his mouth was held closed with the same duct tape holding him to the chair. The good stuff, the aluminum duct tape. He’d thought that he could talk his way out this situation, in both senses. He felt his head painfully jerked around by a hand in his hair. With difficulty, he took in the scene in front of him.

“Well, well, a lost little puppy,” said the same raspy voice. “Whose puppy are you, boy? Miguel got a new queer buddy I see.” There was a gleam in the man’s eyes that made Pete very afraid. He tried to erase the fear from his face, but he knew he had failed. Pete learned a long time ago in the playground that showing fear or anger either one might end his exultant life. Now was the ideal time to put that old lesson back in use.    “Knew there was a reason why Mig left the group. Huntin’ out butt-buddies.” Pete gave a start at hearing that, fortunately before the man saw. No wonder Miguel didn’t talk much about his biker past. On the other hand, it explained the other long scar he had along his back. He’d been quiet about that too, but Pete had just assumed it was something from his youth in Colombia before he’d emigrated to the states with his mother.

There were three of them. They were dressed in dirty, greasy denim and had biker leathers on; real leathers, not leather from biker wannabes. These three had seen hard use and long roads in their time. The first, holding Pete’s head, topped Pete by more than six inches, had long dirty hair and the smell of too much cheap scotch. The other two stood apart from him, almost mirror images of each other. They were shorter and had shaved heads, and from the look of things, they took their lead from the other. Among the many patches on their vests, the only similar one between the three of them was one with a stylized arachnid with a narrow body, sharp pincers and a vicious tail. Pete could barely read “SCORPIONS” through the dust and dirt. He felt his heart sink even further than it had before. The worst possible thing at the worst possible time.

Pete knew about the Scorpions by reputation even if he’d never seen them before today. Every business owner in the area knew about these three, especially the bike shops. They had to. These three were the last surviving members of a biker gang that had terrorized the area for years. Woodward had talked about it a long time ago, telling Miguel and Pete details that no one else but the police knew.

And so, apparently, had Miguel, Pete now realized. He'd definitely played dumb well enough then. He'd even managed to suggest surprise. It was in retrospect, however, that Pete could see the performance for what it had been: a performance. At the time Woodward's speech and Miguel's reactions had seemed appropriate, but Pete could see in his memory that the whole conversation had been *too* well-timed, too well-rehearsed. They must have had the conversation for Pete's benefit, to warn him of this.

Apparently the Scorpions had started off as a legit motorcycle enthusiast group but within two years several hardcore bikers joined the group, the more mainstream members dropped out, and the group started travelling down a dark road. Numerous acts of violence and vandalism started happening, and when several members were caught running a meth lab the last few sane members disappeared from the group. Two of them literally; they’d been approached to testify against the ones running the lab, but before the trial they went missing and were never seen again. There was a lot of blood on their hands, some of it their own members.

The taller man turned to one of the others – how he could tell which was which Pete had no idea; they were nearly clones of each other – and said, “Blade.” He jerked his head toward Pete and let go of Pete’s hair almost violently, shoving his head back. “He moves, you die.” He stalked into Miguel’s office. “Rock. With me. Bring the scope.”

Pete glanced at the the other man, surprised. He doubted it was his real name, but even as a nickname it was wholly wrong for him. He had a tough look to his face – and a nasty scar Pete hadn’t noticed earlier; now he could tell the two apart – but his smooth-shaven face was almost diffident, his posture slumped. He looked scared and trying not to show it, wise all things considered. Unfortunately he was failing miserably.

Rock started and mumbled, “Yes, Stain.” Rock glanced at Blade and dropped his eyes, seemingly in shame, following the taller man – Stain – into the office, pulling of all things a stethoscope out of the inner pocket of his leather jacket. Blade met the look briefly before glaring at Stain’s back, just visible through the office door, and turned back to Pete, his mouth turned down in anger.

Several things added up in Pete’s mind almost instantly. So that’s the way it was, was it? Hope suddenly flared up in Pete. It was a small, feeble, flickering, but it was there.

“Son of a bitch,” Blade muttered to himself, seeming not even to see Pete sitting right in front of him. The phrase was clearly meant as a curse at the larger man and not as a general expression of frustration. Abruptly he focused on Pete and his look hardened, but Pete had the distinct feeling it was all surface. “You behave yourself, boy, and you won’t get hurt. All Stain wants is the money then we're gone.” Blade was well-named, at least; he looked like one and ready to use one too. But only at need, it seemed. Pete could believe that all would end well, even not knowing what money they meant - Miguel kept no more than $50 in the safe at any given time - if it were not for Stain. It was obvious which of the three of them was the crazy one. Unfortunately it was the leader.

The few facts he could examine came into his mind point for point. Money. What money? It had to be a significant amount or else they wouldn't be doing all this, but Miguel had no such cache of cash laying around. If he had, Pete would have asked for a raise months ago. Miguel. He was obviously not there or he'd be tied and gagged too, but then why was the shop unlocked? The door hadn’t been forced that he’d seen... and Miguel’s truck was still parked outside, unlocked. Curiouser and curiouser, he thought. The sound of items being tossed from shelves and desktops and Stain’s irritated voice came to him. Crap, he thought. The safe. He suddenly realized why Rock would need a stethoscope. Mentally he chided Miguel, wherever he was. Pete had told him over and over to get a newer safe, one with an electronic lock, but he’d refused to shell out the bucks for it. Unfortunate that he couldn't speak to convey any of this.

Blade half-glanced at the office when Stain barked out something at Rock (“I don’t care if it is a fucking seven-digit lock! Open the goddamn thing!”). There was the sound of a slap and a crying sob from Rock.

Blade's face hardened, then focused on Pete again. He looked into Pete's face for a long moment, glanced toward the door, then seemed to decide something. What had he seen in Pete's face? “You have no fucking clue, do you.” Not a question. Thinking it couldn't get him in any greater danger, Pete shook his head, wishing he could make intelligible sounds. "Kid, maybe you're Mig's asshole buddy or not, don't give a fuck. Matter of fact..." he seemed a bit abashed, "Rock and I are... well, queer buddies. Close queer buddies. Like, biker bitch queer buddies, dig?" He did not like saying what he was saying, that much was plain, but he was talking. Making that kind of admission alone... "Stain don't like queers. But he keeps us around. We're the last Scorps. He needs us." In the tone of the last three words was the entire story, even without the additional information coming. Rock and Blade were trapped. How wasn't important, but they were trapped and desperate to get out.

He took a breath and Blade's entire manner changed. It was like the dropping of a mask, or the shedding of a skin, it was so total. His posture became straighter, the tilt of his head more dominant and refined, more open to trusting. "Listen very carefully," he said, his voice deeper, richer, more refined, even cultured. It was like he was now an entirely different person. "I don't know who you are or why you're here and I don't care. All I care about is making sure that Rock is kept safe and alive. He was the one that led us here, down this path, and I've gone this way strictly to protect him, as I love him more than I love my life itself. He is everything to me. Do you understand?" He was serious as the sound of scraping stone. "Our lives were so different then. I was a lawyer, kid. A fricking lawyer, and I gave it up to become this." The last word had a sea of disgust attached to it. "Just for him. Oh, you know that's gotta be real love. You know the saying, 'Love Sucks, True Love Swallows.'"

“Five years ago Miguel was a Scorpion, right when Stain took over, before he offed those two witnesses.” Blade looked a bit nervous revealing as much as was, but he didn’t stop talking. Fortunately he kept his voice low. “Stain and some other members robbed a bank truck right around then. I don’t know when exactly, I was out of town, but he had the money when I got back. Miguel wasn’t part of the op. In fact, I think this was why he left the Scorpions. I don't know. But then Flor got knifed in a dyke bar and Roach got picked up for possession, so Stain put the money with Miguel. I thought it was dumb at the time, but then Stain got sent to State. Rock and I, we, uh...” he hesitated, “We got to know each other then. Stain told us to take care of the Scorpions while he was in, but Ran and Torres took off for California two days after he was sent up. Bricks ran into a wall and ended up with two broken legs. They say he might be able to walk again.”

“I don’t know what happened,” he said, shaking his head. “Once Stain was gone, everyone took off. I guess they were right. I wish Rock and I had been smarter then. It was all so much fun, so exciting. I ignored my common sense, telling me we needed to get out, that the excitement was the reason why. Then I realized that Rock was completely under Stain's control, and all I wanted was for us to be together.” He was lost in a haunted look. “Rock wants out too, but Stain...” Abruptly he became aware of the silence in the room. There was no more sound coming from the office. Both he and Pete looked at the same time.

Stain was standing in the doorway, Rock behind him looking terrified. Rightly so, from the look on Stain’s face. “Having a good talk?” he asked. His voice was steel. “I don’t suppose you thought to ask him where Miguel hid the money.”

Blade started to say, “Stain–” but got no further. Stain came forward so suddenly he seemed to be in two places at once. With a shattering blow, he punched Blade right in the face, knocking him backward onto the floor out cold, blood exploding outward.

“Fucking moron,” he said to Blade’s unconscious form, then put a finger under Pete's nose. “Give me a reason. One.” Rock practically cowered on the floor as he went to Blade’s side to tend the man. He looked almost hysterical but wisely kept quiet. Pete stared at him, eyes wide, unable to think of anything to say even if he could. He was so frozen in terror he found he couldn't even shake in fear. "Where's Miguel?" He didn't seem to care that Pete couldn't give a coherent answer. Pete managed to make himself shake his head to express that he didn't know. “Wrong answer,” he said, and slapped Pete across the face as hard as he could.

Pete’s vision was covered with black flecks and stars as he lolled around, struggling to stay conscious. The tape had moved a tiny amount. A very tiny amount, but it exposed the corner of his mouth. It wasn't enough to speak, but it raised hope. Pete just hoped he was still healthy enough to produce words at that point.

"Stain, he doesn't know!" Rock almost shrieked, making Stain desist in the punch he was about to deliver to Pete's face. Stain whipped around and delivered the punch to Rock instead, but it did not arrive square; he'd been off and Stain had been turning, so while it was still an impressive blow it more or less glanced off of Rock's face. Rock still went down next to Blade though.

Stain barked something at the two of them about what shit they were, but Pete stopped paying attention the second Stain was distracted. He shoved his tongue as far as he could into the small opening in the tape, trying to force it down enough to allow him to speak. It was fortunately only taped around his cheeks, but Pete knew from using this metal tape that it was not only durable but extremely adhesive, more so than regular duct tape by a good margin. He ignored he sharp edge of the metal as it sawed into his tongue. He had no time for pain. Please, he begged whatever Deity was out there, Creator, Yahweh, Shiva, or Ganesh. Please let me live. In a flash he made several resolutions, starting with reconciling with Steve, being honest with his Dad, squaring with Miguel, planting a tree, seeing Paris, writing a novel...

He was brought back to the present by Stain physically picking up Rock - Rock wasn't tall, but he was solidly built - and throwing him across the room. Pete's eyebrows went into his hair. He hadn't realized that Stain was that strong, but then he wasn't a beanpole. He was powerfully built. Then Stain gave a look at Blade, who was in the act of getting off the floor, and Pete realized something else as he saw the look in his eyes. Stain was crazy. Really, truly, certifiably insane. Maybe it was drugs that did it, maybe bad childhood, but Stain was the most dangerous animal in existence. One that didn't care whether it lived or died, nor whether it took a few down with it. Pete got ready to start sawing at the tape again, ignoring the burning cuts on his tongue and the acrid taste of blood already in his mouth. It didn't matter. He had to get out of there, find Miguel, call the cops, whatever. The sooner the better.

"You're dead, queerbait," Stain said, advancing on Blade, when Rock spoke up, shaken but coherent.

"Stain!"

Stain looked at Rock, ready to murder them both and Pete for good measure, when he saw what Rock was staring at. Pete looked at it immediately and felt his heart plummet even further down. Rock had been thrown into the only tool cabinet not screwed directly into the wall, and done that way for very good reason. When he'd landed, he'd pulled it around and down, scattering various tools and parts in all directions and making the cabinet land face-first on the floor. Far from worried about the mess, Pete suddenly felt a clock start ticking. For behind the cabinet was a neat door which had been cut into the corrugated aluminum. Miguel's stash, which Pete wasn't supposed to know about but of course had found within the first week of work there. There were a number of interesting things there, including a few things that were expensive and far from legal, but no money. Why Miguel had included a bottle of absinthe and a pair of bronzed baby booties in the collection, however, Pete could not fathom.

"Oh, Mig, you sorry sack of shit," Stain said to himself, looking at it, sounding almost sane. "Think you can fool me with this shit? Dumb fuck."

The problem, Pete realized instantly, was that Stain would immediately break into the stash there expecting a large amount of money, and when he didn't find it Pete's life could be measured in minutes. Pete had no answers and Stain was not sane enough to believe that. Once he saw there was no money there Pete was dead, and Miguel once he reappeared. Miguel where the fuck are you? A timely rescue would help a lot, but he had the feeling it wouldn’t happen. He was on his own. He felt a stab at that thought, realizing its real implication. Then, in the midst of desperately looking around the room, he stopped and looked to his left again. He blinked a few times, unable to believe his eyes. He couldn't even saw at the tape. Miguel was standing on his left next to a cycle-less spoked wheel less than five feet from him, away from Stain and the others.

There was only one small complication.

For a moment, Pete's mind refused to work; the sight simply did not register as something humans saw. The figure was standing at full height, completely nude and immediately close to him and the other three could not see him. There was a simple, obvious reason why.

Miguel was well under a foot tall.

Maybe even six inches; it was hard to tell with scale playing tricks with Pete's eyes. It could not be; but then, Pete had seen some strange things over the last four months. Just not this drastic. Many obvious stupid questions occurred to him, beginning with: How? But even as he thought the first word, the question died in vitro. He knew exactly how. He was the only one who could cause this kind of thing, and when he'd left that morning he'd had one last pointed barb to throw at the man as he slammed the door. Wonderful, he thought. But then, maybe it really was: Miguel was here and had heard everything and they had not found him. These were plusses. The only minus was that Pete had no way of restoring Miguel or freeing himself either. A small minus but a bad one.

Pete looked at the three again, and Stain was tearing away at the cabinet and all the other tools and parts surrounding the access point of the secret compartment, the other two halfheartedly helping him. They had not seen or else they would have other things on their minds right then. The tiny man looked over at the other three and said something, or at least mouthed the words, but Pete wasn't quite close enough to see to read the man's lips, and it was a sincerely bad idea for either of them to make audible sound to draw attention to this new development. Pete shook his head a little with an expression indicating he did not understand. Miguel looked frustrated, then resigned. He gave a quick look at the three of them struggling, took a breath, and made a dead run to the chair where Pete was tied. Unfortunately, there was no coverage around Pete, so it would be impossible for him to remain hidden should they focus their attention back, but for the moment he would be safe. To what purpose, however, Pete could not fathom.

It was only when Miguel reached the back of the chair that Pete realized what Miguel intended, as he began climbing up the chair leg, the back, and even Pete himself. Miguel was going to remove the tape himself, as dangerous as it was. If he fell, it would be the equivalent of a 25-foot fall and might kill him. If they saw, they would definitely kill them both. And even if he managed to succeed, if Pete just started randomly shouting out commands, his power would do no good if he got his throat cut before he could formulate the words that would save them both. This had to be the most frightening and ill-advised plan he had ever heard of. But then, it was a desperate time and called for a desperate measure. Besides, he couldn't think of anything else. His tongue had gotten very neatly sliced open by the tape.

Miguel finally, arduously, was perched on Pete's shoulder, which produced a very odd sensation in itself, and began whispering desperately into Pete's ear even as he began working to loosen the tape still attached to Pete's face. It wasn't easy; Miguel was fairly strong as a full-size human but his strength had proportionately diminished as his height had. Also, the metal tape was designed for high-pressure duct work; the adhesive wasn't meant to ever let go. Or to be attached to human skin. Pete was certain that some of his stubble was being pulled out by the roots. Miguel swore in Spanish, one he hadn't used before. "Gotta leave it to Stain, he's got his cojones coming back after all this time." The tape was coming off slowly but slowly, but it was coming off. If nothing else, Miguel was trying to at least get the part already exposed to be a workable area. "Remind me never to leave this shit laying around, okay?" Pete felt like laughing, but the joke, in context, was definitely gallows humor, and he recognized that his laughter was the onset of panic.

"You know," Miguel continued, "I was pretty pissed this morning. I've been shrinking since the moment you walked out. I'm still shrinking." Pete took his eyes off watching the three and examined Miguel. It was hard to tell from peripheral vision, but Miguel did seem smaller than just a few moments ago. "But you know, if I had been badass Miguel when Stain broke in I'd be dead, hermano, and you too probably." Miguel kept his voice down to just the two of us, but the steady stream of chatter seemed to not only help focus Miguel to the task at hand but keep Pete's fear controlled too. With much work, the tape finally let go from the skin of Pete's right cheek, dangling open. This was both good and bad; Pete's mouth was half free - free enough to speak, at least - but the second they turned around and looked Pete was dead. They had to act fast; Stain was close to figuring out the secret latch.

"We got to figure this out, dude. I need you to make me big enough to handle the three of them. Rock and Blade - can't believe they're still alive, they always wanted out - ain't the big deal. Stain's the problem, but the other two will follow him until I can neutralize him." Pete's neck hairs stood on the use of the word 'neutralize.' "Just say..."

Miguel's hurried whisper was interrupted by a bellowing crash as Stain took the nearest large wrench used for pipe fittings and broke right through the fake metal panel. Miguel saw what was about to happen a moment before Pete did, and quickly ducked behind Pete's head and onto the chair back in preparation to clamber down again. Dammit! Just say what? "Son of a BITCH!" Stain spat. "Where's my fuckin' money? Where's my fuckin' money?! YOU!" he said to Pete, who was clearly not in a position of being able to respond, simply turned his head slightly so that Miguel was protected from sight. Stain was first at the hidden compartment, then right in front of Pete, so quickly that Pete couldn't do more than gawp at him and get a quick flash of something metal in Stain's hand. He was still holding the wrench.

Then there was a sickening crunch as it impacted Pete's skull. Pete made an inarticulate yell and began falling to one side, momentum carrying him. The impact of the floor on Pete's skull did it no favors either, but Pete was only vaguely aware of it. He was only vaguely aware that he was alive. All he could concern himself with was the strange wet stickiness that seemed to be covering his eyes. In fact, it was covering them so well that the room seemed to be going dark. And his head didn't feel right, like the bones didn't line up exactly any more. Huh. Odd.

There was something he had to do, something important, but he couldn't move his arms or legs, and thought was becoming an arduous chore that he couldn't perform. It would be so much easier to sleep. In fact, he might even decide not to wake up again.

Through the red haze of his vision, Pete saw a familiar figure step forward, like a doll-sized man, looking frightened. It looked like it was saying something, but there was something wrong with his hearing; he couldn't seem to process sounds. Wait. Yes. That was it. Something... It was an uphill battle, but Pete managed to get out two words, just audible enough for the small man to hear.

"Yooooooooouuuuuuuu'llllllll.... grrrrrrrrrroooooooooooooow..."

Pete's last thought was that he was sorry he'd never live to see Steve again, or his parents, or Vince...

The last working synapses in Pete's broken skull, for it was broken, fired and went still.

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