The Devil's Syndicate

by Chris Draper

  A moment later Travis had switched off the cameras and they watched as the array of console monitor screens went black, each reading 'Line out' in the corner in large white print.

  “Good work. You stay here and watch the guard while Randall and I go check out the crates.”

  “What about the bodies?”

  They both looked around at the dead guards strewn across the room like plastic mannequins.

  Byron said, “Leave them here, they're not our problem anymore” and then was out the door with Randall following behind.

  They made their way down some metal steps into the main storage area, tore off their masks and pried off the first lid on one of the wooden crates with a crowbar. Inside was a dozen stacks of old Russian service rifles.

  “My dad used to have one of these.” Byron said. “A bit old though. Unless we're gonna play cowboys and Indians.” He moved on to the next box and took off the container on that one. Inside was a stack of Ak-47 assault rifles. “Now we're talking.” Byron said inspecting one of the rifles. He looked up and spotted a large crate in the corner that they hadn't opened yet. “Let's try that big sucker over there.”

  They moved over to the large crate and Byron got on top using the crowbar to take off one corner of the lid while Randall pushed from the other side. When they got the lid off they both looked inside for a second, momentarily speechless at what lay beneath them.

  “I can't believe my eyes man.” Randall said shaking his head. “It's like we stumbled upon Atlantis or something.”

  Byron smiled and reached into the box, taking out an RPG-7 rocker launcher. “Atlantis ain't got nothing on this badboy.” He said turning it over in his hands. “Have you seen what these things can do to a building? We could take out the Federal reserve with firepower like this.”

  “No shit?”

  “I'm serious.” Byron said and suddenly realized that they had been opening the crates for awhile and started to feel a little panicked. Who knew if the security company was on their way to check out the missing camera feed. “We gotta roll.” Byron said replacing the crate cover. “I'll go park the van by the backdoor and you grab whatever you can carry and start sticking it in those bins in the back. Be careful loading those explosives though or we'll all go up like the fourth of July when we drive back through the Everglades.”

  Byron made his way back to the van and backed it up to the loading dock outside. He looked back as Randall started loading the gear into the van. It was true that Randall never said much, but that what was what he liked about the man. He got shit done and didn't complain, not like others who whined about pulling off the smallest of jobs. They'd been running together since the days of the notorious Satan's Stormtroopers biker gang back in the late 1990's when they were both fresh riders, back before the gang disbanded and they started the Devil's Syndicate together. There wasn't a lot of people Byron could trust but he felt he could always rely on Randall.

  The air in the van was humid and muggy and made his lungs feel clogged so he got back out and went to the security room to check on Travis. He was finished on the computer and was packing up his things back into the duffel bag. He looked up when Byron came in.

  “Everything cool?” Travis asked.

  “We've got most of the bins loaded up in the van, some really good gear in those crates. Should help out the Syndicate a lot in the future.”

  “No doubt about that. I'm just about done here. I removed a bunch of internal employee files that could have had Randall listed someplace.”

  “Cool, let's get ready to leave.” Byron and Travis both looked down at Lester who was lying on his side on the floor, hands still half-tied behind his back from where Dale had tried to loosen them.

  “What about him?” Travis asked cocking his head down.

  “Good question.” Byron put a finger to his chin and thought a moment, then the bottom of his mouth curled into a menacing smile. “Maybe we can bring him back with us and feed him to some of the crocodiles in the swamp. They're in mating season right now and have more of an appetite, I'm sure they wouldn't mind a nice piece of dark meat to go with their fish.”

  Travis broke out in laughter and Lester's eyes grew wide.

  “No please...” Lester was pleading to Byron. “I won't say a thing man, I swear, please don't.”

  Byron looked down at him and there it was again. That feeling. The fear. Eyes widened to the limit – it gave him that euphoric satisfaction he'd felt earlier. Knowing that he had the power to snuff out a man's life in the blink of an eye. He'd had that same feeling with other men he'd killed – in prison, on the street, in bars – and it never grew old. The adrenaline felt like pure nitrogen rushing through his bloodstream.

  “Oh I suppose we can spare you for a little while.” Byron said. “At least until we figure out which croc has the sharpest teeth.”

  “You son-of-a-bitch...” Lester tried getting up into a sitting position but Byron pushed him back down with his boot and said to Travis, “Shove his ass in the van.”

  “It's all here.” Randall said as he loaded the last of some assault rifles into a plastic crate in the back of the van then slammed the rear doors. He got in the backseat with Travis and they checked back on Lester lying on the floor in the back, between some crates, tied up again with the tape back over his mouth. Byron had finished closing the doors to the warehouse and was dashing back over to the van. He jumped into the front seat, turned over the engine, and peeled out of the empty parking lot. In a few minutes they would be heading West on I-41 towards the Florida Everglades and then they'd be home free.

  He focused on the empty streets ahead and thought about how the night had gone. True, the robbery could have went smoother but in this line of business he'd learned that when shit hit the fan you had to be ready. And shit had definitely hit the fan tonight. The police would be looking for whoever killed those men which meant that the Syndicate had better lay low for awhile.

  He hadn't planned on there being any killing but sometimes that was how things worked out. Plus if someone wanted to tango with the Devil's Syndicate than it was their own hard luck anyway. He didn't think himself as being unjust, he gave everyone a fair chance to surrender. And if they didn't obey him they were better off dead anyway. Sometimes it was necessary for the status quo of things; his men would respect him more and people would learn not to mess with them. And with their new firepower not even the hardest gangs in the state would mess with them now. A snarly grin folded over Byron's lips as he thought about what the gang would be able to accomplish.

  The adrenaline rush he'd felt earlier had mostly subsided now but it would be back. He needed that rush like he needed air to breathe. It was the only thing that kept him alive.

  4

  Simon Hawk landed at Miami National Airport on a bright Saturday afternoon and checked in to the Miranda hotel on Clifton Street. The flight in had been an uneventful 3 hours and Hawk had spent the time reviewing the notes on Dottie Wagner he'd compiled the day before. Nothing new had jumped out at him however and he was anxious to get to Florida and begin his search for the missing daughter of Harvey Wagner.

  Miranda hotel was a basic 4-star he had for the night close to the heart of the city overlooking the ocean with a sweeping view of Miami's sprawling beaches. After checking in he went for a walk near the waterfront boardwalk, had an ice cream and sat on a bench overlooking the ocean. He looked up at the faultless blue sky and felt a light south wind rub his face. Miami. It was magnificent this time of morning and was exactly how he'd always imagined: Girls in bikini tops and tiny shorts zipping by on rollerblades; retirees strolling effortlessly down the boardwalk in their flower shirts and khaki shorts like lazy penguins; and an incessant number of sunbathers soaking up the sun's glaring rays on the sands below. Oh yes and that heat– the tropical heat he'd always heard about which was now bearing upon him like a second layer of skin – that was something he'd known about too. San Francisco in July was hot but livable but this was l
ike living in an infernal oven. Another blast of warm air hit him in the face and he decided to get up. He couldn't let himself enjoy this too much – after all, he was here on a work assignment and couldn't forget the importance of his being here. The frothy waves and sandy beaches could wait; Dottie Wagner could not.

  Hawk tossed his ice cream in a wastebasket and started walking back down the boardwalk, past a street performer doing a juggling act for a flock of gap-mouthed tourists, and caught a bus to a car rental agency where he picked up a mid-size sedan. Afterwards he stopped back at the hotel to grab his notepad, his gun case and some sunscreen then pulled up the GPS on his phone. It was time to visit the Shark Club, the last place where Dottie was known to have been, and see if he could find any trace of her there. He plugged in the address and a few minutes later was already cursing himself for missing two directions and decided to keep the car at a steady 40 down a narrow palm tree lined street to ensure he wouldn't miss the next one. He made a right onto a street close to the beach that didn't have a lot of houses on it and kept his eyes peeled for the address on the right-hand side of the road. Would Dottie Wagner be at work when he got there? Somehow he doubted it. That would be too good to be true and things rarely worked out that way. Still, he had to keep an open mind and be ready for any circumstance.

  A minute later the voice on his GPS said he'd arrived and he looked over and saw the place sitting on a sandy looking lot wedged between some palm trees. It looked shabby and run down. A seedy strip club that had probably seen its heyday in the 1970s when the mob still ran the city. A sad neon with missing letters sat on a brown shingled roof that read 'The Shrk Clb' in faded pink letters with a silhouette of a blonde girl wearing high cut jean shorts perched below it. The rest of the building was a grey brick structure with Budweiser and Corona signs lighting up some of the dark windows. A couple Harleys were parked in front and Hawk could hear loud rock music playing from inside. Fabulous, Hawk thought. Why don't I just pin a badge on me and say I'm a cop? These people could smell law enforcement from a mile away.

  He parked in the lot outside beside one of the Harleys and looked at his watch: 12:15 pm. It was early but a Saturday so he hoped that if Dottie was here she'd be on shift and if not then he could at the very least get some information. He made note of the time in his notebook and got out of the car, strolling up to two large chrome doors guarding the entrance and went inside.

  Immediately he was met with a wave of cigarette smoke that pummelled his nostrils and for an instant he brought an arm to mouth to save his lungs. This was Florida after all and smoking in bars was still legal in some bars. After his lungs recovered and his eyes adjusted he took stock of the place. It smelled like a mix of stale beer, puke, cheap perfume and even in the darker environments he could tell he stood out against the other leather-and-demin clad patrons in his sandals, khaki shorts, and his favourite shirt: a bright Hawaiian tee with a toucan outstretched over one of the sleeves. If this didn't scream tourist he didn't know what did. He'd prefer they think him a tourist rather than a former cop though, otherwise he wouldn't get anywhere. It didn't matter though because at that moment he was sweating and couldn't understand how these people were still wearing leather jackets in such tremendous heat.

  A large bouncer with biceps that looked like He-man came over and frisked him. Luckily Hawk had left his gun in the car as he'd half-expected something like this would happen. He'd been around these types of places before and they always searched the innocent-looking ones while turning a blind eye to the real scum.

  “Isn't it a little early for this?” Hawk asked as He-man finished patting him down.

  “We search everyone who comes in here on Saturdays, especially people from out of town. Otherwise they bring in all kinds of things. Weed, knives, video cameras – you never know with those people."

  Hawk's eyes cut around the bar. The people here didn't exactly look like the 9-to-5 crowd in his opinion. “Based on your current clientele I'd say a little weed is the least of your problems.”

  “Huh?” He-man's big arms flexed a little but his small brain wasn't comprehending. “Are you trying to be funny or something?”

  Hawk let it go. “No, nevermind. What time do the girls come on anyway?”

  “In about 5 minutes. I'd get a good seat if I were you – this place fills up pretty quickly on a Saturday. Even this early.”

  Hawk stepped over to the bar and planted himself down two stools over from a young redhead wearing a black sequin dress with a purple holster top. She was as pale as a ghost for Miami and he could see bright patches of freckles on both of her shoulders. The redhead looked over at him, cast a vacuous smile then looked back at the cigarette she was holding between her fingers.

  Hawk ordered a beer and looked around the place. From what he knew of Dottie Wagner he had trouble placing her in a joint like this. He took out his phone and looked at a photo of her from the files he'd been given from Harvey Wagner then scanned the room. Everyone was either male or didn't even remotely match her appearance. He took a few sips of his beer then heard the loud rock music stop and a chorus of cheers start up behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw a chubby blonde woman who didn't match Dottie's description saunter out on a small rectangular stage to possibly one of the worst dance songs he'd ever heard. She took hold of a single pole in the centre of the platform and started grinding against it much to the delight of a group of bikers crowded in the front. The girl wasn't particularly attractive and her breasts sagged a little too much but in their state of inebriation the bikers roared and cahooted for more. Hawk had never been into strip clubs in his youth – the thought of getting off to a feminine stranger up on a stage surrounded by a bunch of other dudes just didn't appeal to his sense of romantic imagery.

  He looked back at the redhead two seats down and she looked over and gave him a faint smile again. Hawk smiled back then took the seat beside her carrying his drink over. She leaned over to within talking distance, which was pretty close with that dreadful tin-drum beat playing in the background.

  “Having a good time honey?”

  “I've had better.” Hawk said and the woman laughed. “Do you always spend your Saturdays like this?”

  “Only when I'm working.” She said and put out her cigarette in a ashtray on the bar. “You from out of town?”

  “Sorta. You work here?”

  “Yeah every day of the week from 3 pm until close.”

  “That's cool. Do you got a second? I want to ask you something.”

  “What?” She cupped an ear closer to him. “I didn't hear what you said.”

  “I said do you got a second to talk?”

  “I thought that's what we were doing.” She laughed again into her drink as she took another sip of beer.

  The shouting at the stage grew louder as another woman came on – a petite dark-skinned youth with long paper thin legs. The bikers were getting more into the show and one of them was slamming his hands on the stage yelling for more. Hawk leaned into the woman and got to the point.

  “Look I'm trying to find someone who might work here and I want to know if you could help me. Her name is Dottie Wagner.” Hawk took out his cellphone and showed the woman the picture. “She's around 18-years-old, might have started working here about 3 months ago. Do you know her?”

  The redhead took a look at the photo then gave Hawk a cold stare. He'd seen it before working as a Vice cop. The stare that usually meant Don't talk to me cop.

  “I don't talk to cops. Now leave me alone.” She said then shifted away from him and watched the stage.

  Hawk grabbed her arm lightly. “I'm not a cop. Dottie is missing and I've been hired to find her. Now I would appreciate it if you could tell me anything you know about-”

  He was cutoff by a strong hand grabbing his shoulder and looked up. It was He-man.

  “Is this guy giving you a hard time Cherice?”

  “Just a second.” Hawk held up a finger to him and continued speaking
to Cherice. “Look, anything you can tell me about Dottie would be very helpful. Her family is very concerned--”

  He-man then grabbed Hawk by the collar and yanked him up from the chair with one hand like he was uncorking a gigantic bottle of champagne.

  “Alright pal you're going outside. You tourists are all the same.”

  “I'm not a tour--”

  “Shut it!” He said bringing a fist into Hawk's ribs that took his breath away and forced him back towards the bar's entrance. When he got to the door he pushed Hawk head first outside onto the stone steps and he stumbled down to the parking lot and fell flat on his face. A few bikers were smoking nearby and glanced over, chuckling. Hawk ignored them and got up, checked his elbow and saw a few scratches, frowned when he saw a tear in the collar of his shirt, then turned around and headed back through the front doors.

  He-man was still standing there and charged over to him.

  “You just don't listen do you asshole? Now get the hell out of here before I call the police.”

  Hawk said, “Someone oughta teach you a lesson in manners,” then let go a strong right hook that caught He-man's jaw, sending his large body flying backwards towards some swivelling kitchen doors beside the bar. Hawk had trained in karate during his cadet days and knew that rotating the arm gave additional force to a punch. He-man tried countering with a left uppercut but Hawk parried it away, caught He-man's arm in a firm hold, and shot up a right elbow into his forehead which sent him tumbling backwards through the kitchen doors. Then Hawk followed him into the kitchen where a young pimply-faced teenager was cleaning dishes. When he saw the fracas he quickly dashed out of the way as Hawk let loose another punch that sent He-man forward into the sink headfirst. Hawk went over, lifted up his head, said “Soak awhile” then dunked him back into the soapy water and left him floating there. Then he went back out to the bar, iridescent bubbles now covering his shirt, and took his seat back beside Cherice.