Chapter 3

He was cold enough that he became concerned there may be snow on the road on the top of the pass. It was February. There was going to be snow on the sides of the road for sure, but he was hoping the road would be clear.

‘Why? What’s wrong, what does she need?’ Was his thought as he began to slow down.

He should keep moving as it would only get colder as the sun drew down. It was after three, and sunset came at about six pm this time of year. The sun was on her downward trend now.

He ordered a black coffee and two shots of cheap rye whiskey; he needed the warmth and wanted the burn.

He let the server know he wasn’t in the mood for small talk by his look and tone. The woman served quietly. She knew his type, moody. Jake was trying to warm up a little. He had taken his slicker off at the door. His riding leather sat on the bench beside him. He had wrung his bandanna out before he came through the door. His hands wrapped around the hot coffee cup. His shivering was under control. He sought to relax and let the heat flow into him. His head back, he closed his eyes for five.

Jake was back in the saddle in twenty minutes. A little warmer and still determined.

He had guessed right and wished he hadn’t. The rain had turned to snow as he approached the last few miles rising over the top of the summit. He was truly fucking freezing now.

He barely controls the shivering. It wasn’t going to get better. She needed him. He kept pushing.

He was running about forty miles an hour up this stretch, fighting to stay in the tire tracks of the vehicles that had come through before him.

Thank fucking Thor, no one had tried to pass him yet. There was a car staying a hundred yards back. Jake was waiting for a place to pull over. To let the car get around him. He kept moving forward. The cold is freezing his eyes balls; he has to squint to see through his dark sunglasses, the windshield, the snow and wind. He was grinding his teeth now.

About a mile from the crest of the pass, an opportunity arose. A semi had pulled off to the side of the road for some reason in the last half hour. There looked to be an inch of snow now in the tracks. Jake figured he could slow down and keep rolling through in the truck’s tracks, hoping the now two vehicles he saw in his review mirror behind him would pass.

He didn’t want the fuckers fishtailing around as they tried to pass him in the snow as some pricks did. He wanted them to ease by him.

The first car came by at a decent speed. The passenger. A young woman with a huge grin waved at him as they drove by. He was too cold to wave back. He just nodded his head in respect. He didn’t look to see who was in the second car as he spotted another set of headlights in his mirror coming up fast. Jake decided to slow down even more and let this vehicle go past as well. He stuck his legs out, just in case. He would run out of lane way. He stopped.

His teeth were chattering now. He knew he had to get off the mountain fast. The snow was now big soft flakes, and his shivering was becoming ridiculous.

He kept slapping his hands into his thighs, trying to keep his fingers working, then bending forward, reaching down, seeking heat off the motor.

The last vehicle was a one-ton truck dually (four tires, two tires on each side) at the rear end of the truck.

He was probably doing eighty miles an hour. The Mother Fucker flew by Jake, throwing up a rooster tail at least four feet long and wide! Half of which seemed to smack Jake from foot to face. He was a snowman on a motorcycle.

Jake was furious. He slammed his throttle down, and his back tire fishtailed immediately. He had to back off. He wanted to kill someone, something; instead, he had to focus on what he was doing, shake the residual snow off, inch the throttle forward, and respond to each twist, each tap of the rear brake, the two actions working in harmony with each other, in the rut he was plowing through while minimizing his fishtailing.

He finally got going. When he hit fifty miles an hour and had to fight off a second drift slide, he backed off the throttle. The truck’s taillights were long gone. He was forced to accept he wouldn’t catch the bastard tonight.

Jake throttled down to a more manageable speed over the snow but committed to keeping an eye out for the truck and the fuck head driver forever! God forgives, but bikers don’t! “I’ll find you someday!” Jake howled into the wind.

Then locked his rage in the vault called wrath for the day it could be released.

Shivering so bad he was having a little trouble holding the bike steady. The anger had helped warm him up, or maybe he just hadn’t been thinking of the cold as much.

He was well over the crest of the pass now.

His hands were frozen, and his nose was about to fall off. His moustache was a block of ice, and the bandanna was freezing up. At the moment, he hated his steel-toed boots. It was so fucking cold. His toes were trying to crawl back up and into his calves for more heat.

The snow stopped as he rolled down the coastal side of the pass. Finally the rain quite falling. He continued down, slapping his hands on his thighs every few minutes. Bending over the tank for what heat he could find off the motor. He finally rolled up to the bar—his last stop before the ferry.

He had plenty of time before he had to make the jump to the ferry although it was dark now. His trusty Timex read five o’clock.

At least the rain had stopped on this side of the pass. He was a little worried about his fingers. They were numb. He knew what was coming, the burning cold as they unthawed. He wanted a hot cup of coffee to hold on to while he went through it.

“Fuck!” he mumbled as he dragged his hard worn, heavy steel-toed, riding boot across his seat. He was unable to lift his frozen leg any higher. He almost laughed, ‘Getting old.’

Opening a saddlebag, he withdrew a black leather travel bag which would provide a dry shirt, socks if needed. His purse, as more than few had referred to it. He always smiled at the thought, had no real idea why, but he did.

He shook his head as he walked up to the bar door and used his shoulder to push it open.

There was a country tune in the air. The heat hit him like a wall; it took his breath away for a second.

He stood in the open doorway. His sunglasses perched on his head. His eyes made the adjustment required when moving from outside to indoors. It wasn’t much of an adjustment.

Jake took in his surroundings in a sweeping glance. He saw everything—his commando training, naw, a life of bar hopping.

There was a half wall on his right that ran up about six feet from the bar and stopped. The upper half of the top of the wall was opaque plastic. He could not see through it. The music was louder than he would expect at this time of the day.

The bar was a good forty feet long. Centered directly in front of the door he had come through. No bartender. Maybe in the cooler? Washrooms on the right end of the bar.

Tables to his left. Jake turned left, found a table at the back and began to remove his slicker, his heavy leather biker jacket, and his electric vest that he had been too stupid to plug in. He shook his head at his old-school thinking.

The song played out. It was quiet all of a sudden. From off to the right came a scream. A frustrated, angry female cry. ‘What have I walked into?’ was his first thought; his second was to duck. Flying through the plastic wall, a pool ball was coming at him. He dodged it.

A skin-on-skin slap. A loud one. Another, now muffled scream! ‘Wtf!’

Not one to run, Jake stepped further into the bar, not seeing anyone ahead, even behind the bar.

Off to the right again, an explosion of air leaving a gut.

Jake took another step and saw a standing man bent over a woman and two eight-ball pool tables. The asshole had his hands around her throat and was bending her backwards over one of the pool tables.

She was kicking her legs about, scratching at her attacker’s arms, blood trails running down his cheek and forearms.

It took four long steps for Jake to come up behind the asshole. He looked for a weapon on his way over but didn’t see anything he could use. Just plastic ashtrays on the tables and chairs. No pool cue on his path to the attacker.

Jake wasn’t shaking from the cold ride anymore.

He was focused. He had been in his share of bar fights over the years. Just before he got to the stranger, Jake pulled an old golf pencil out of his daily vest pocket. A pencil he kept and used for notes once in a while.

He stepped right behind the guy, grabbed his head with his frozen left hand then, with his right hand, slid the pencil into the guy’s ear. Rubber eraser end first. Deep enough, the guy felt it. Jake stood a good four inches over the guy.

The asshole started to jerk backwards. Jake didn’t sense any real strength in his captive. He squeezed the guy’s head with his left hand and applied more pencil pressure to his inner ear stating, “Your choice Mr., die now with this pencil driven into your brain or settle right the fuck down! Now!”

Pencil head froze, but he growled out, “Who the fuck are you?” Jake stated, “Let her go,” and jabbed the pencil in a little deeper once again. The attacker let her go. Jake eased up the pressure on the eardrum.

The woman was coughing and choking, holding her throat. She was trying to wiggle out from under her attacker. She got free.

A second guy came around a corner and into the pool area. He was a good size. He stood at least six-foot-two. He must have been in the washroom.

Pencil ear laughed and said, “Now what are you going to do, Mother Fucker?” Jake shrugged, looking at the new guy, “One thing for sure, this pencil ain’t leaving your ear anytime soon.” Jake shoved it in the deepest yet. The prick squealed like a pig. His big friend stopped coming.

Jake was in a pickle. The woman had disappeared. He was running through his options while the new guy just stared at him as pencil dick whined about how Jake had busted his eardrum.