The Inner Circle Read Online Free

do you think?”  
    Carver, keeping his focus on the Racist, shook his head.  
    The Racist had returned to the bar. In seconds a red mohawked bartender was pouring the Racist a shot of Jameson, reminding me of being in the Sundown Saloon back in Reno, ordering two shots of Southern Comfort before Simon made me do something I didn’t want to do.  
    Both of us whiskey drinkers, apparently. As if that bonded us somehow.  
    “This is it,” I shouted.  
    Carver nodded. He shouted back, “Get the car. I’ll call you when I’m headed out. Let Ronny and Ian know what’s up.”  
    I headed for the exit. As I stepped outside, passing a bouncer decked in a cowboy hat and chaps, I took the earpiece out of my pocket and replaced it in my ear.  
    “You guys there?”  
    Ronny said, “Where have you been?”  
    Ian said, “Yeah, man, we were getting worried.”
    “Sorry,” I said. “The Village People were having a reunion inside.”  
    “Seriously?” Ian asked.  
    “Look, the target’s on his way out. Ian, get the SUV.”  
    “I don’t have the keys.”  
    Ronny said, “I’m headed there now.”  
    “Then meet up with him, Ian. We’re going to have a very small window to maintain visual.”  
    I was headed away from the club. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Traffic was still heavy, tires hissing on the pavement. And above this constant noise came the sudden high-pitched whine of a motorcycle as it approached from down the street. The light at the intersection was turning yellow, then red, and the motorcycle stopped more or less directly in front of me. It was a Ducati sport bike. For some reason my eyes focused on the rider, completely dressed in black, wearing a full helmet. The helmet was also black—everything about the bike and rider was black—and when the dark faceplate tilted in my direction, I had the distinct impression the rider was staring at me.  
    I just stood there on the sidewalk, staring back at the rider, at once wishing I hadn’t given Ronny my gun.  
    The red light turned green, the glow reflected off the black faceplate.  
    Traffic started moving forward.  
    The high-pitched whine cried out again as the rider gunned the Ducati and then was gone.  
    All at once, shouting came from inside The Spur. The walkie-talkie clipped to the bouncer’s belt screeched with static, and an urgent voice said: “Micah, we need you in here now.”  
    The bouncer was already moving, turning away from his post and dashing inside. I found myself starting forward too. Reaching for my gun, but of course I didn’t have my gun. I didn’t have anything.  
    I stepped back inside, my eyes darting everywhere, expecting the worst. What I wasn’t expecting to find was the Racist charging toward the exit. The bouncer tried stepping in his way, placing a hand on the Racist’s massive chest. But the Racist grabbed the bouncer’s arm and twisted it behind the man’s back, shoved him face first into the wall, and continued on.  
    Coming right at me.  
    Behind him, back near the bar, the transvestite in the yellow and pink polka dotted dress was being helped up by two helpful patrons. The transvestite was holding her—his?—jaw, shoulders hitching, trying to fight back tears. It was quite clear what had happened, or at least somewhat clear, but I had no time to speculate, because at that moment the Racist was walking right past me, close enough for me to reach out and touch.  
    And what, I’d later wonder to myself, if I had? What if I’d stepped in front of him like the bouncer had done and told him I knew exactly what was happening. That I too had once been trapped in Simon’s game, thinking there was still a chance to save my family. But that instead I quickly learned there was no outlet, absolutely nothing that could be done to save my family or myself other than walking away.  
    But I didn’t do that.  
    I just stood there, watching him walk past me, hearing him mumbling under his