Hard to Love, Book 1

by W Winters

  “Other one is empty too,” Derrick tells me and then Connor appears, the keys to the other van clattering in his hand. “We’re all set, Boss.”

  “What about the fireworks?” I ask them and Connor tells me those are all set too.

  “All right, let’s do this.” I give the command as I shut the doors, but Derrick grabs my arm. “What about the dogs?”

  Half of me wants to mess with him, tease him about being scared of some dogs, but tonight is all business. “Tranqs are in the glove box of my car. Grab ‘em.”

  Derrick pats my shoulder and I can see the instant relief on his face. While he’s off getting the tranquilizer guns, I tell Connor to take that van and I’ll ride with Derrick.

  This isn’t the first time we’ve done this shit. Won’t be the last. Roman and Liam are at the Club, but they’re on call and they know it. Sometimes in our line of business, the more, the better. But late at night, in the dark with a surprise like this, the fewer, the better. We only need three.

  I probably could have done it with just two, but someone needs to be driving and someone else on the walkie while we’re moving. So three it is. Besides, I don’t know how much shit Mathews has in his stores.

  Reaching in my jacket pockets, I hand Connor one of the two walkie-talkies. “Let’s do this.”

  The gravel crunches under my boots as I round the back of the van and I look up to the moon. Not a star is in sight, just vacant dusk and a sliver of light. Every five minutes I swear the night sky is getting darker.

  “You drive,” I tell Derrick and hear Connor close his door. He starts his van before Derrick can move. The empty van sways as Derrick swings himself into his seat.

  “You good? Got your mask?” I speak into the walkie and pull my mask from the glove box. It’s a simple ski mask. I’m sure there are cameras, so we’re taking every precaution. I don’t have to wait long for a response.

  “All good, Boss.”

  The van revs to life and four streams of white brighten the dirt road ahead of us.

  With the walkie’s talk button pressed down, I speak to both of them, going over the plan one more time.

  “As soon as we’re lined up at the docking site, Connor will set off the first round of rockets a block down. They’re all set, right, Connor?”

  “Got ‘em in place. And they’re the best ones too. They’re low and sound like gunshots.”

  I wait for the click and continue. “There are only two men on-site and they stay out of the storage unit. I bet Mathews is too scared one of his men will steal from him, so he keeps it light. We get their attention with the fireworks. They run toward the noise or to their cars, I don’t give a shit where, so long as they’re far enough back and going after something that isn’t there. We back the truck up, over the fence and right into door of the storage building at the dock. In and out, no talking. Not a damn word unless someone’s going to die. Got it?”

  “Got it,” they both answer without stress, with nothing but seriousness.

  “We’ll take this shit back here, dump it, change the plates, and head back to the Club like nothing happened.”

  “It’s a plan,” Derrick comments as we round the corner, getting us out of here and where we need to go.

  It’s silent while we drive. Just like the drive down here. All the while, I let the adrenaline flow. It courses through me, urging me to get it done as quick as we can without missing a beat. I glance at Derrick, whose hard expression mirrors what I feel. It’s why this crew works; we all need the same, want the same. I focus on the plan and why we need Mathews to back the hell up. This will hurt him and it’ll make him think twice about inching closer to Tremont.

  Time goes by too fast, but not fast enough just the same.

  I can already smell the water. There’s a saltiness to the air with the windows down. We have five minutes until we’re there. If that.

  Five minutes of calm although it feels anything but. My muscles are tense and my throat tight. This spike in my veins is a different kind of high. My second favorite. The only thing that tops this is when I’m under Laura. Or on top of her, for that matter.

  This right here, I fucking love the intensity. The need to fight severely, quickly. The desire to protect what’s ours… It will never grow old. It’s everything. Laura should know that. She just needs time.

  When Derrick sees me putting on my gloves, he does the same. One block to go, and the small bait store on the corner comes into view. The fixture is an old shed and shut down for the night. Everything down here is closed. There shouldn’t be any witnesses. Other than the two men working for Mathews.

  “Masks on,” I tell them and put on my own. It’s hot with it in place, but a necessity. Just like the gloves. The mask is cheap, but my gloves are thin leather and expensive as shit. I can’t have gloves slipping off or hindering my movements when I’m in the heat of it all.

  Thump, my heart pounds in my chest, fighting against my rib cage as we come around the corner. There are three white storage sheds made of steel. Each surrounded by chain-link fences ten feet high. They look about twenty feet apart from each other. One has two dogs inside the perimeter, with a doghouse in the far corner. That’s it.

  There are two men on that property. At least there should be, but I don’t see either of them yet.

  “Here,” I speak into the walkie and watch as Connor’s van comes to a stop in the rearview. We’re in a good position to keep a lookout and not be seen. Turning off the vans, we wait.

  This is the worst part. The waiting. Not being able to move.

  We need eyes on the men doing patrols. I wait a minute and then another, feeling the ring in my blood, the need to be fast and not sit and wait. It could be a setup. Wright could be two-timing us. The glance from Derrick tells me he’s on edge just like I am.

  We can’t wait. When you’re still, that’s when your enemies catch up to you.

  “Now.” The second I say the word, I catch sight of a man coming around the corner of the dock. Smoke billows from his blunt as he rounds the building from inside the fence.

  Crack, crack, crack!

  The rockets go off somewhere unseen, but they hit the building farthest away from the one we’re after.

  The man screams what sounds like a name, dropping his smoke and grabbing the gun at his waist. He races to the gate of the fence furthest from us. His back is to us; he doesn’t have a clue we’re here.

  So far, it’s all going according to plan, but anything can go wrong.

  Wait, wait. I can barely keep still in my seat, willing both of them to move. To get to their cars, to go toward the distraction. Something. Anything.

  My foot taps anxiously on the floorboard of the van as I stare at him and see him wave a guy over. The second guy comes around from the other side.

  “Again,” I speak into the walkie and just like that, a second round goes off just as the two men move to open the gate. They take cover behind the doghouse, but the German shepherds are there, barking and going crazy. They sound vicious even from here and with a series of curses, one of the men smacks a dog over his head with the back of his gun. The yelp of the wounded animal is swallowed by the pandemonium of bangs and cracks from both the fireworks and the shots fired by men who think they’re under attack.

  “How many?” one yells over the supposed gunshots.

  “I don’t know!”

  The two men scream while the sounds ricochet throughout the docks.

  I can imagine what’s running through their minds. They’re dead men. It’s too many blasts, too many guns, which means too many men for only the two of them.

  I’m eerily calm watching it play out. It’s only been two minutes, maybe five since we’ve pulled up. We don’t have a lot of time before more of Mathews’s men get here.

  Everything’s quiet, save one shepherd barking, hovering over the other dog and hollering as if he’s the one in pain. The men don’t look back toward the dogs or toward us, instead they stare down th
e road, searching for the location of the gunmen coming after them.

  “Now!” I can barely hear the one man yell, the one who seems to be leading things. The one who may be high. I expect them to go down the street toward the shots, slowly making their way to gauge the threat. That’s what I’d do.

  He fires a few shots aimlessly, as does his partner, but they both run to the parking lot. That’s when I relax slightly, feeling a smirk pull up my lips into an asymmetric grin. They’re running.

  “Again,” I speak into the walkie, and the night fills with smoke as more fireworks go off. The second man is barely in the vehicle when they take off, still shooting behind him. With the squealing of their tires, we turn on the vans, revealing ourselves for the first time.

  The fear in the eyes of the man shutting his door is palpable. “Go!” he screams even as their getaway car is in gear.

  “Connor, once more and then back it up.” I give the command. The rockets go off again and both Derrick and I hold our guns out of the window as Connor turns his van around, firing at the car as they fire recklessly at us. A bullet hits the side of the van. And then another as they drive by. The pings make my chest tighten and my blood turn ice cold each time.

  With my jaw clenched tight, we keep firing as the car disappears. My gun empties first, and it only takes half a second to reload. Connor’s van has already flattened the chain-link fence as he slams the van into the building, the roof of it crumbling down onto the hood. When he drives forward, it falls to the ground, but more of it collapses when he reverses again, slamming into the building and opening it wide up.

  The lone German shepherd lets out a territorial bark from back in the corner of the place. Poor thing won’t move away from the other. Derrick’s already got the tranq and he pulls back to load it the second he steps out of the van.

  “Leave them,” I call out before Derrick can lift the gun. I shouldn’t have said shit. But my voice was deep and I tried to disguise it.

  He looks at me, standing beside the van and then back at the dogs. One’s lying helpless; I don’t know if he’s dead or unconscious. The other isn’t leaving his side.

  I can see Derrick swallow, tense and uncertain before shoving the tranquilizer gun into the waist of his jeans at his back.

  If he were to shoot, it’d be evidence left behind. The less we leave, the better.

  Connor’s already opened the back of his van and Derrick does the same to ours as I pull back the bent steel door and make my way over the rubble to see what’s inside.

  It’s dark in the building, but the brake lights from the van give me everything we need. In the ten-by-ten-foot space, there are eight crates and nothing else.

  Setup. I think the word as I walk around them. I don’t trust Wright, but so far, he told the truth. He was paid off with cash, plenty of it.

  It takes a moment to pry the top off of one with my pocketknife. They’re a light wood and look like something fishermen would use. Or at least that’s what I imagine they’re going for. I’ve never touched a fishing pole in my life.

  Without hesitation, I crack open the one in front of me, knowing the clock is ticking away and Mathews’s crew will be here soon.

  Under a bed of straw is at least a dozen bricks of snow.

  I heave the crate into Derrick’s chest as he makes his way to me, feeling the anger consume me. It’s so close. He’s five miles from my turf. Setting up storage here is unacceptable.

  As we haul the crates into the vans, all I can think is how I wish I’d brought gasoline, so I could light this place on fire when we’re done.

  Next time.

  It takes only minutes with the three of us. Less than ten minutes in all to load, to get back in and take off. I keep looking in the rearview, but no one’s there. When we get back to Linel Centers, we switch the plates on the vans, then park them inside to hide the one with the bullet in it. Roman will take care of that on Monday.

  Moving the bricks out from the crates, we dump every last one of them down the drain. The plastic wrap cuts easily with a knife. The white powder, hundreds of thousands of dollars of it, disappears in a swirl down a filthy drain.

  The large room is silent as we do it. At least at first. I’ve learned from each hit we do, that it takes time to cool down. It takes time to let it all turn still again.

  No one says a word until we’re opening up the last crate.

  “First round’s on me, gentlemen,” Connor speaks up, breaking the silence, and takes out a flask from his car. Derrick chuckles, helping me with the last of it and takes a swig when Connor offers it. I follow suit.

  Another five and we’re done. It’s over.

  “Damn good night,” Derrick comments and I nod in agreement.

  Looking at the clock on the wall, an hour has passed; I broke my promise to Laura. She’s definitely on her second drink by now. Fuck, I hope she didn’t wait for me.

  Laura

  Laura

  Picking up the twenty off the polished wooden counter, I turn on my heels to face the register. My sneakers slip easily on the worn linoleum floor as I tick my blunt nails against the metal buttons until I hear the ping and the cash register opens.

  How much shit could he have possibly gotten into in just an hour and a half last night? Every time I know he’s out there, doing something—something that could get him killed—I watch the clock like it’s going to have answers for me.

  Like last night. I glance at the clock that never has anything for me but how long he’s been gone. I stared at it for an hour and a half, making small talk in between and drinking with Roman while he watched the clock on his phone like he was waiting for something too.

  I was sitting there feeling every tick of the clock squeeze my heart harder and harder when Seth sat down next to me on the leather bench in the back of the Clubhouse, put his arm over my shoulder and kissed my jaw. He was happy and relaxed, like there’s not a worry in the world.

  Before I could even speak, he was making me want to thank him. “I know I’m late, but I grabbed you the vodka you like,” he said.

  It’s Grey Goose Citron and the bar was out of it. So yeah, I wanted to thank him.

  Touching me, kissing me, giving me gifts and acting like he got stuck in traffic on the way down here.

  One shot and thirty minutes later, I was laughing along with everyone else. Feeling the ease of being among friends. Even if half of them knew what Seth was doing last night and I still don’t.

  “Thanks for the beer,” Mickey says from the far end of the bar. “Keep the change.” The wrinkles around his eyes deepen when he gives me a wave and heads for the door. He’s a regular. Well, a regular during the day. At night things are different; busier, louder, more… intense. Technically we’re closed then and it’s just a hangout. The crew—and us—aren’t charged. We kick out anyone who isn’t one of us due to the “private party.” It’s always intense, and a good time if I’m being honest, when the crew is here.

  The “private parties” are what got me through so much shit.

  During the day, it’s just a slow old Irish bar. Lunchtime always picks up though, right about now.

  “Thanks, Mick,” I call out to my regular before he can make it through the exit. The front door is old wood, dark brown except for a little black on the outside of it. Where the fire from next door caught it a few years back. The bar is in need of updating, but Seth and the guys say they like to see the memories. I get that. I like to see the memories too.

  “Good luck on the test,” Mick calls back to me and I flash him a smile. His bill was only twelve bucks, so I scoop eight bucks from the register and slip the cash in the back of my anatomy book that’s open next to the register. I keep my finger wedged in the pages I’m reading though. I can’t lose my place.

  With the pen in my hand, tapping it against the notebook, I take tabs on the three remaining guests. Two are women, whispering over large pours of red wine in the back corner at a high top table. The picture frame
s above their heads are of the old times. Black-and-white prints from when Connor’s family first came here from Ireland. Those are my favorite pictures in the bar.

  The women’s glasses are still relatively full, although twenty minutes ago, they were sucking the wine down like I’d given them water. The look on the brunette’s face combined with a few whispers I heard tells me she most likely dumped someone, or got dumped.

  Either way, they’re good for another chapter of notes.

  The other patron is another regular, staring up at the TV above the leather bench I sat on practically all last night. An old soccer game is on. Or a new one. I don’t know and I don’t care; sports aren’t my thing. I assume it’s an old one though, judging by how Cormac doesn’t yell, “Oh, come on!” every five to ten minutes.

  So, back to studying I go.

  I only get two lines written in my notebook when I hear the front door open. “Welcome to the Club,” I say and greet the new guest with a smile. It’s automatic but it drops nearly instantly. Just like the lump that sinks down my throat before it gets stuck.

  “Officer Jackson, what can I do for you?” I keep my voice upbeat and barely catch sight of Cormac taking another swig of his beer while looking over his shoulder at the cop in full uniform who just walked in. The old man eyes him, but then turns back to the television.

  The officer’s slick boots don’t seem right in here. They look brand new with the way they’re shining. Putting down the pen, I watch as he walks to the bar.

  I like Jackson just fine. I always have. But I don’t like him coming around because he’s not one of us, and that badge on his chest could lead to problems I can’t have.

  I instantly wish I hadn’t told Roman it was fine to take off for lunch. He hangs out here, just in case. That’s what the guys tell me when I say I can manage being on shift alone when it’s so slow. Just in case.