Nine has been my only close friend since meeting in juvie a decade and a half ago. He recently reconnected with his girl. Long story, but he’d been looking for her for a long fucking time, and even though I believe love is bullshit concept, Poe is a ride or die kind of girl, and the man is the happiest I’ve ever seen him. Actually, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him happy, so I don’t give him shit about it. Well, not too much shit.
“The truth. That we’re driving a shit truck to meet a boat, and sucking a shit ton of MDMA along with a lot of actual shit out of it to bring it back to Logan’s Beach so Pike can begin his reign as white trash Pablo Escobar,” he announces, with a dramatic wave of his hand and an exaggerated bow.
I tug on a fitted baseball cap with Logan’s Beach Septic printed across the top onto my head. I make sure the brim is low over my eyes and my hair is tucked inside so I won’t be too recognizable if caught on any traffic or security cameras. The same logo is painted on the side of the truck and embroidered on the back of our coveralls. “I’m not gonna lie,” I tell him, pondering the name. “I don’t fucking hate the name. White Trash Pablo Escobar.” I chuckle. “I should have business cards printed.”
“Dick,” Nine laughs.
Thirty minutes later, we’re at the dock. It’s over an hour before the boat we’ve been waiting for slowly pulls in. “Charley’s Charters,” I read the name on the side of the boat quietly to Nine. “That’s the one.”
The fifty foot fishing boat finds its way into the empty slip we’re standing in front of, and the engine is cut. The large off-shop fishing poles mounted into the holders at the back of the boat rattle and bounce with the boat’s movements. A rope is thrown down over the side and then another, landing at our feet. Nine and I make quick work of rigging the vessel to the dock.
A man with a long, black beard and an actual white captain's hat climbs down from the secondary steering wheel perched several feet above the main deck. Four men wearing polo shorts and button-down Hawaiian-style shirts climb and meet him at the back of the boat where another man wearing a Charley’s Charter shirt opens a small gate and lowers the steps. “Gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed your time out there today. I told you that you were all fishermen, and I think you proved me right today.”
“Great time!”
“We’ll do it again!”
“Great meeting you, Captain!” The three men respond as they hobble off the boat, a bit tipsy and laughing, slapping each other on the back with smiles on their sunburnt raccoon faces. They make their way up the steps toward the parking lot behind the indoor boat storage building without so much as acknowledging us as they pass.
“Boys, do what you gotta do,” the captain says with none of the cheeriness he’d just shown his charter clients. His first mate is already cleaning out the coolers. “I don’t know a thing.”
I shrug. “So then, you won’t need to get paid.”
He twists his lips. His face reddens. “You know what I mean. Just get it over with.”
Nine jogs over to the septic truck which is parked so the back is facing us just above the lowered dock area. He pulls off the hose and jogs it back down to the dock, plugging it into the boat's sewage disposal system. He flips the switch, and the sound of a large vacuum fills the air. The captain reaches the dock and stands beside me. He bends over to tie his shoe, and his hat falls to the wooden planks. I pick it up, and before handing it back to him, I pull the envelope of cash from my coveralls and place it inside.
The captain pretends he doesn’t see it, and folds his hat in his hands, walking off into the night with a whistle on his lips.
The first mate waddles down the ramp with two buckets in his hand. He’s glaring at the captain’s back.
“Hey, man,” I stop him. “You okay?” I need to make sure this operation is going to go smoothly, and if the first mate is about to murder the captain in the parking lot, it’s attention I can’t afford.
“I know what you guys are doing,” he says, still staring at where the captain is now long gone.
I eye him warily and reach behind my back, feeling for my gun underneath my coveralls. “And? What exactly does that mean to you?”
He meets my gaze, realizing what he just said his face pales. The kid is no more than eighteen years old. He’s scared, but he’s too pissed at the captain to understand how fucked he might be depending on his next choice of words. “I made eighty fucking dollars today. The charter was over fifteen hundred, and the fat fuck didn’t lift a finger. The fishing spots we went to are all ones I’ve found on my own, and when we docked in the Bahamas, I’m the one who loaded your shipment. Not him.” He looks at the hose and lowers his voice. “All of that, and for eighty fucking dollars. He didn’t even split the tip with me when it should’ve all been mine.”
“That sucks, kid, but you didn’t answer my question,” I reply. I play my fingers on the metal of my gun like a piano, but music is not what this kid has in store for him if this goes wrong. “Do we have a fucking problem?”
He rolls his eyes. “No, we don’t have a fucking problem. At least, not with you. My name’s Joe Watershed. Logan’s Beach born and bred. I know who you guys are, and I’m not going to say anything. I don’t have a death wish. My issue isn’t with you. It’s with him,” he grates. “You know, one day, I’m going to buy my own fishing boat, and take out my own charters, and I’m not going to treat my fucking staff the way that fat piece of useless shit does.”
“Watershed? You got a brother who rides with the Lawless?” I ask, the last name sounding familiar.
“Yeah, Angel,” the kid replies. A little of the anger dies away, softening his earlier murderous expression.
“Your brother would be pissed if he knew that captain was fucking you over,” I say, lighting a smoke.
“He would be fucking pissed, and he’d do something about it, but I don’t want him to. I can fight my own battles,” he says, puffing out his concave chest. “I don’t need to go crying to my brother every time someone fucks me over.”
I appreciate the kid wanting to do things on his own. Reminds me of a younger more hideous looking version of myself. “How are you going to fight this battle?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Puffing out his cheeks, he blows out a breath. “Honestly, I’m not fucking sure.”
I grin, leaning on one of the thick wooden pillars. “I think I can help.”
“How?” he asks. I offer him a smoke and my lighter, and he takes it, fanning the smoke away from his eyes.
“We chose this captain because he’s hard up for money. His boat is being repossessed. He’s got to get that money I just gave him to the bank by Monday before it hits the auction block Tuesday afternoon,” I tell him.
Joe’s shoulders slump. “If he gets the boat taken away, then I’m out of a job. How does that help me?”
“It won’t. But it will help if you drive the boat to another dock and park it there tonight. Cover it up. Then bring it back here. Park it just where it was, and go to the auction. Which is on Monday afternoon. We altered his notice.”
“But I don’t have…” he trails off when I whistle to Nine who cuts the hose and tosses me a thick envelope from his boot.
I shove the money into the kid’s hands. “You buy it. There’s two thousand more in there then I gave the captain. If he realizes it’s Monday instead of Tuesday he still won’t have the money to buy it.” I slap him on the shoulder. “Captain Watershed.”
He shakes his head in disbelief, staring hard at the money in his hand before glancing back up to me. “I don’t understand. How does this benefit you?”
“This was a one-time deal. The captain said so himself. He just needed enough money to pay off the bank and save his boat. However…” I let him fill in the blanks.
“If the boat is mine, then I can do this run for you again.”
I knew the kid was smart. Well, smart enough. I exhale smoke through my nose. “You sure as fuck can, and you keep every fucking dime fro
m both the charters and from this.” I pat the envelope in his hands. “Except you’d make twice that every run.”
The kid smiles from ear to ear. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I’m in. Whatever you need.”
“Think your brother will be okay with it?” I ask, remembering that Angel is in the MC, and I ain’t about to get the kid twisted in something that would piss off a member of The Lawless. Bear, the president, is a friend of Nine’s and an associate of mine. Can’t have my name being dragged around the fucking clubhouse.
Joe scoffs. “Are you kidding? He’ll probably offer to be my first mate,” he beams.
“Now, scram, kid.” I point at him with my smoke and lower my voice. “And if anyone asks why we’re here tonight…”
“But you weren’t,” he says, running back onto the boat, forgetting his buckets on the dock.
“Go to North Captiva. There’s a house at the end of the island. Three stories. Blue. It’s hidden from plain sight. The dock will be empty because the owners take it back up north after season!” I call to him. “Dock it there!”
He climbs up the captain’s perch and starts the engine. Nine kills the switch on the pump after he’s sure the septic tank is empty and the truck is full. I release the ropes tying the boat to the dock. The kid smiles and waves as he backs out from the boat slip, disappearing across the Caloosahatchee River.
I help Nine wrap the hose back around the side of the truck.
We’re on the road for a few minutes before stopping at a truck stop next to the highway. I fill the gas tank even though it’s still half full while Badger, a member of the Lawless, and a trusted member of my team, jumps into the truck behind Nine. Badger’s role in all of this is for protection and because he’s the one who knows the manager of the septic company.
We get back on the road and head for the septic station where the manager is waiting for us to help separate the shit from the blow.
“What you got in here, besides shit?” Badger asks, sniffing the air and wrinkling his nose. “I mean, I know what, but how much?”
“More than you can imagine,” I answer, not fully being able to believe the amount of MDMA currently in my possession.
Badger whistles. “Fuck, Pike, you gonna be able to move all of it?”
“I sure as shit am,” I answer proudly.
“Who's the buyer?” Nine asks.
“Tino from Jacksonville,” I reply. “His supply from Columbia dried up, and he reached out because he knows I have connections in Peru, and so…here we fucking are.”
I put my life savings up for this deal, plus King and Preppy fronted the money to make it happen with the promise of a swift return with a shit-ton of interest. Pun intended. One point nine million dollars, and in less than twenty-four hours, I hope to turn it into two point eight million. After expenses, giving Badger and Nine their cut, and paying back King and Preppy, I’m going to be walking away with almost a half a million in my torn pocket.
After we wait for hours at the septic facility, I’m feeling even more confident as we load our shipment into an unmarked black van. I feel downright victorious as we drive off with a half a dozen barrels filled with neatly packaged slightly shit smelling MDMA ready for delivery to my buyer.
Apparently, I’m not meant for victory today. Because a tire blows, and the steering wheel spins out of my hands. I brace myself as we slam into the median and crash headfirst into a cement light post at the very top of the fucking causeway.
My head throbs. Blood trickles down my forehead into my eye. I wipe it away before it can blur my vision, smearing it around my eyebrow. “Everyone okay?” I ask.
Nine looks panicked but otherwise alive. “I just saw my life flash before my eyes,” he groans. “And my life sucked.”
Badger moans from the backseat. I turn around to find him laying sideways, clutching his ribs. “Yep, just banged up,” he says, hissing as he pushes back to a seated position.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here before the cops show up,” I say. “Grab the spare,” I order.I push the door open and hop out of the van to check the tire. It’s got a huge nail in it. “What the fuck,” I mutter, leaning down to inspect it further. It’s not a nail. It’s a fucking spike. A foreboding feeling wraps around me like a black fucking halo. I jump to my feet to warn Nine and Badger, but I’m too late. Several men dressed in hoodies wearing black skeleton bandanas across the lower half of their faces surround the truck, shotguns aimed.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter as I’m pushed face first against the truck.
“Don’t’ fucking move!” another man shout followed by the sound of a single shot and a wail that belongs to Badger.
“I’m going to kill each and every one of you motherfuckers,” I grate, my cheek scraping against the painted over rust of the van.
My gun is removed from the waistband of my pants and tossed over the railing. “Tell King that there’s a new King of The Causeway now, and this will continue to happen unless we get what we want.” The man shoves me to the side and orders me to my knees while the others change the tire.
They work in unison like a fucking pit crew at the Daytona five hundred. Fast and efficient. Within a few minutes my shipment, my investment, and my reputation is being driven away into the fucking dark.
The three remaining men back up slowly to get back into a white van, firing a few warning shots at our feet.
“Go fuck yourselves,” Badger shouts, giving them a double middle finger goodbye. His left leg is gushing blood. Another shot rings out as the van speeds off.
“Fuck me,” Badger groans, jumping on one leg and pressing a hand over the blood gushing from the newest bullet hole in his thigh. He falls to his ass, lifting his knees to his chest. “Got myself a two for one, boys,” he says, gritting his teeth. “And not the good kind like when beer’s on sale at the Stop-N-Go.”
“Why didn’t they just kill us?” Nine asks, dumfounded as he stares off into the dark after the van. “Why keep us alive at all if they’re going through all of that trouble? It doesn’t make any fucking sense.”
“I don’t fucking know.” I shake my head and clench my fists as rage like I’ve never felt before thunders through my body like a hurricane waiting to make landfall. “But what I do know is that when I catch up to them, I’m going to make them fucking wish they did kill us.”
Chapter Three
Pike
There are regular storms, and then there are shit storms. Right now, Nine and I are in a tsunami of a shit storm the likes of which I’ve never known before.
And it’s about to get a whole lot fucking worse because we’re about to meet with King. There’s a reason why he runs this town. He takes no bullshit.
“Are you going to tell him?” Nine asks. In addition to being bruised and banged up, his face is lined with worry. He’ll never admit it, but I know he’s nervous.
I shrug. “He already knows, and he’s already pissed. There isn’t much else to tell. You don’t have to be here, brother. This is my mess. I should be the one to take the brunt of King’s wrath, not you.”
“You’ve never skipped out on me. I’m here, and if you try to kick me out, I don’t give a shit. I’m staying anyway.”
I appreciate Nine more than he’ll ever know. He’s the very definition of ride-or-die. “Thanks, man.”
We’re waiting for King in the unfinished framed-out addition of his house. Sawdust coats the floors and the smell of fresh cut wood drowns out the pungent scent of saltwater permeating from the bay only a stone's throw away in the backyard.
I’m mindlessly spinning my handcuff bracelets around on my wrists as King steps inside like a beast exiting his cave. His jaw is tight, and his posture is even tighter.
He looks us both over, eyeing the cut on my eye and the bruise under Nine’s.
Nine is on his phone but looks up when he hears King approach and shoves it back into his pocket.
Nine turns over a construction bucket and takes a seat,
ready to get down to business.
“Tell me everything,” King demands. “What the fuck have you found out?” He lights a smoke, and I think it’s to keep his hands busy from tearing down the fucking walls. I can’t blame him. I’m not exactly the picture of calm and collected either. Owing King money makes me more determined to find those responsible for trying to make me look like a fuck up. We took every precaution, yet I still can’t figure out how they knew we were coming or why they were stupid enough to hit something King was attached to. I know I’m not that fucking dumb. Whoever it was, they’ve got some fucking balls.
Nine sighs. He’s got a busted lip and a red mark on his cheek. “We’re on it, but not much luck yet.”
King takes a step toward him, and I can see the vein throbbing in his forehead with each step. The cords in his neck tighten. He leans down and points his cigarette at Nine. “Nobody fucks with us in this town. That’s rule number one, and whoever is behind this is going to learn that the very fucking hard way.”
Nine doesn’t shy away from King. He seems to embrace it. Gain confidence from it. As do I.
Nine’s shoulders straighten, and he nods.
King turns to me with his eyebrows narrowed. “Don’t fucking stop looking until you’ve talked to everyone in this town, until you’ve turned over every grain of sand on that fucking beach. Don’t stop until you have a name or, better yet, a body.”
Nine stands. “You got it, Boss.”
“So, what do we know?” King asks.
I push off the wall and wring my hands. “We know that those fuckers were wearing masks. Skeleton ski masks of all fucking things. They didn’t sound or look familiar. If you ask me, they’re hires and not affiliated. The way they jacked us was reckless and not well planned. They shot up the truck tires from behind the guardrail, and we crashed into the median. They surrounded the truck before we could fire back and ordered us out of the truck. When Badger told them to go fuck themselves, they shot him.”
Pike: The Pawn Duet, Book One Page 3
