Rebel Chasers

by Carmen Faye

  Sydney nodded her head and then said, “It’s hard, though.”

  “What is, baby?”

  “You know, like when we’re watching a movie or fixing dinner or whatever, I just want to rub your ass or caress your tit, or just make out with you for a while. Like lovers do, you know? But the only time we really touch is in here, in bed. Which is great, but… it’s just hard.”

  Shayla thought about it, really going over it in her mind. When she got down to it, those urges Sydney just described were the difference between being in a lesbian relationship and just having sex with your best friend. It was an intimacy thing. An offering. A commitment to the other that you were there for her comfort and pleasure—especially in the way that Sydney just described.

  “Ok Syd. I can’t lie to you and pretend I have those urges as well, because I don’t. Alright? I just don’t. But, I won’t turn you away. If you want to make out while dinner is in the oven, I won’t turn you away. I won’t freak out if you fondle my ass, or decide you need some tit time. Hell, I’ll even enjoy it. But… and I know this makes me a bitch… but not in public. Alright? I’m not ready for that,” Shayla offered.

  Sydney studied her. “So, I should cancel those sponsor tickets to the gay pride parade?”

  “Definitely.” Shayla smiled and rubbed her nose with hers. “Brat.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Neil got off his bike and pulled the case out from under the seat for Leo Martin, a fairly good dealer and longtime customer. He was just about to walk across the grass to Leo’s door when a voice to his left said, “Hey, you. Big guy.”

  The voice was heavily accented with Spanish.

  Neil paused.

  “See this, Big Guy? This here is a shot gun. It makes little guys like me, into big guys like you. You get that? Now, hand over that fucking case.”

  Neil turned his head and counted three of them, but heard a fourth coming up on his right.

  “Yeah, alright,” Neil said, and tossed the case at the guy with the shot gun.

  Neil went down on one knee, drawing the gun from his side holster and the one from his lower back at the same time. He came out pointing the right Glock 9mm at the man sneaking up on him and the other to the left in the general direction of the group with the shotgun. Neil fired both guns, only really aiming the one in his right hand. Three rounds from each gun exploded from the barrels and sent the sneaking kid into the air and then flat on the ground.

  With a speed that belied his size he did a forward roll, and then used both guns on the group of three. They danced from the impact of the bullets and fell.

  Neil then stood and walked over to the case on the ground. The door of Leo’s house opened up and Leo came running out in his socks. “Here! Here’s the money! Give me the case and get out of here before the cops show up. Come on! Give me the case!”

  “Yeah, alright,” Neil said dryly, amused by Leo’s urgency.

  He took the bag, looked inside, and then walked back to his bike, re-holstering his guns. He mounted and then scanned the street. The trouble with this set up was, this was the suburbs. And Leo wasn’t a regular like the girls were. It wasn’t like a drop for the girls, every Wednesday between 10:00am and 1:00pm. Regular as sunrise. Leo wasn’t like that. Monday afternoon one week, then Thursday night the following, then maybe Tuesday noon… he was all over the place. So Neil was looking for who brought them here, who knew that he’d be dropping it off today. This was the suburbs, and those kids weren’t from this side of town. They were Imperial Gangsters. He knew the colors and the tattoos.

  He spotted a red and white panel van, Chevy, a block and a half down. He drew the 9mm from his shoulder and pointed it at the van, taking careful aim. Then he fired.

  The van roared to life and was trying to make a U-turn when Neil got his trike started and pulled out to follow. The van completed its turn and was gaining speed, but there was no way it was going to outrun Neil’s trike. He followed the van out of the neighborhood and onto the freeway. The driver was obviously panicked and driving erratically. If he didn’t watch it, he was going to wreck into something; probably a divider, or a bridge.

  Neil followed at an easy pace, staying in the second lane, letting the van get ahead of him. He wanted answers. Someone knew he was coming; knew where he was going, and what time he would be there, and what was in the case. Someone knew this far enough in advance to pick up some Imperial Gangsters and ambush him.

  But, not kill him.

  That was interesting as well. Why didn’t these Imperial Gangsters just gun him down and take the coke? It was a kilo; $20,000 if they sold it whole, up to $35,500 if they ounced it out. So, what the fuck? Those kids would have capped him for a grand, even less, if they were hurting for dope.

  The one sneaking up on him had a pipe in his hand. Neil saw it fly when the kid left the ground—well, he kept thinking kids, but they were at least twenty or older—so, it made sense that they were going to get him to hand over the case, and then knock him with the pipe so they could get back to the van without Neil putting bullets in their backs. Good plan, but they should have had someone whose Airs didn’t squeak.

  So now he has a headache and is missing the coke. Then what? What’s the point? It can’t just be the dope, or whoever set this up wouldn’t have brought in Imperial Gangsters to do the heavy work.

  Well, it could, Neil supposed, if it was someone on the inside of the club. They wouldn’t want to do it themselves, or kill a brother, just to steal the coke. Pay the Imperial Gangsters say, five grand? Walk away with $30k? Alright, that made sense. This also went a long way toward answering the question about knowing when and where he was going to show up.

  Security wasn’t as tight as it was when Jacques was running the show. Anton seemed to like a busy office, with people inside talking to him and men constantly coming and going with cases. With Jacques, though… When you were in his office with him, you were the only one there unless it was a team thing— and then only the relevant people were present. But with Anton, narrowing down who heard what information— that was going to be a bitch, and probably impossible. So he really did need to keep up with this van, and ask the driver some questions.

  The van suddenly swept across all four lanes and onto an off-ramp. Neil slowed down and let him go, following at a distance. It was hard to miss the red and white vehicle, so he didn’t need to stick too close. Keeping at a distance he followed the van through an industrial area, and then to a warehouse. He pulled up nearly a block away and shut his trike down. The driver got out, ran to the roller doors and lifted them up. Then he ran back to the van and drove it inside.

  He expected the driver to come back and close the door, but that didn’t happen. So he got off his trike and walked toward the warehouse.

  Close to the door, but still in the shadows, he pulled his gun out and changed clips. Then he pulled out the one from his back and did the same thing. He slipped one back into his rear holster, and kept the other in this right hand as he entered the warehouse.

  The van was empty, and the motor ticked as it cooled.

  Ahead he heard a voice talking quickly. So he made his way along the wall and toward an office without a door. There the driver was talking fast on a cellphone.

  “Look, it just fucking didn’t work! Alright! Shit! The guy killed them all, spotted me like I had a fucking sign on the side of the van, and tried to follow me!

  “No!” he exclaimed suddenly. “I gave him the slip! But that’s not the point! I still want my money! What the fuck to you mean, no? You said it was going to be easy. Well it fucking wasn’t easy!” An exasperated pause, and then: “What? Hey, wait! Fuck that man. Fuck that! No. Just fine. Whatever. Don’t ask again.”

  The guy, who looked about twenty-five, with brown hair, a medium build, and definitely a nervous condition, paced a couple of times and then saw Neil leaning against the door jam.

  “Fuck!” he screamed, and hurriedly looked for a way out. There wasn’t one.


  “Calm down,” Neil told him.

  “Calm down! You’re that guy! That fucking guy!”

  “Yes I am. And if I was going to kill you, you would already be dead, right?”

  “Uh, well, maybe.” He hesitated. “I guess. Then what the fuck to you want?”

  “Who sent you? He didn’t pay you, so you owe him nothing. Give me a name, I walk away after dropping, say, three hundred on the floor.”

  “Name? I don’t have a fucking name. I have a number.”

  Neil shrugged. A bit more hassle, but a number might do. He pulled out his cell phone. “Fine, give me the number and same deal.”

  “And you won’t kill me?”

  “The way I figure it, you weren’t there to kill me. Just take the coke, right?”

  “Well… Yeah… That’s right.”

  “Then, we’re square,” Neil told him. “Don’t make a habit out of it, but fuck it. Just give me the number.”

  “Yeah, alright,” he said, and gave Neil the number.

  Neil was going to save it to his phone book, but the message came up that he already had this number. It was listed as Anton.

  He put his phone away, then reached in his pocket and pulled three hundreds off his roll and tossed them on the ground. “There. I would keep away from home for a few days if I were you. Just to be safe. You know, loose ends and shit.”

  “Seriously? You’re not kidding, are you? Fuck!” The man pulled at his hair anxiously. “I knew this fucking thing was wrong! Goddamn it!”

  Once outside, Neil got back to his trike and sat there for a long time thinking things through. Was Anton just trying to teach him a lesson? It could be argued that if Neil lost the coke, he owed the club twenty grand. Being in debt to the club would put him in the position of having to do jobs he may not want to do. Taking out his cellphone he called West, a good friend of his and a brother.

  “Hey, West. Need you to hear something. Got a few minutes?”

  “Yeah, let me step outside. I’m in the club right now.”

  Neil waited, and when West was ready, he told the story from pulling up to Leo’s house to getting the number. West listened without interruption.

  At the end, West said, “Sounds pretty straightforward, doesn’t it? I mean, who else is going to be using his cellphone? I think he has it in for you, buddy. Probably because you don’t take his shit.”

  “Kind of elaborate, don’t you think? I mean, why not just fire me?” He asked

  “Well because, my man, you are good at what you do. You never have problems, and the dope always gets there and no one complains about you at all. Like it or not, Anton sees that. You’re a good asset. You’re also a tough son of a bitch, and well-liked.” West sighed. “So, coming at you straight isn’t going to work out in his favor.”

  Neil processed this while studying the warehouse and the van. “So, he comes at me sideways, and either I’m in debt to the club for twenty grand, or he is benevolent, which puts me in debt to him as a personal favor.”

  “See,” West said, “You didn’t need my help at all.”

  “Thanks, West. I think I’m out of this game. I mean, when you have to watch your back from your own team, it kind of sucks,” Neil told him.

  “You mean you’re going to quit the dope running? Hell, I don’t blame you,” West replied.

  “No, I think I’m going to strike my colors. Get out completely,” Neil told him.

  “Woah there, Hoss. That’s a little drastic, isn’t it? Come on. So the guy tried to fuck with you and you didn’t let him do it. You drop the dope running, which serves him right, but drop the club? Seriously?”

  “It’s changed, West. Changed a lot since Jacques.”

  “Well, yes, that’s true. But you were around when Jacques took over from Hank, right? What was that, eight years ago?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Neil agreed.

  “Well, then you remember him nearly starting a fucking civil war, right? We had fucking knife fights in the club house almost daily.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember. Bad times.”

  “Right, but he got his shit together and became one of our best. Anton is fucking up. He’s trying things and they aren’t working. And he’s getting flak from guys like you, solid members. That probably feels like a slap in the face too,” West pointed out.

  Neil recalled his stare down with Anton over the amount he was going to get paid for the bad dope delivery, and counting the money there in the office. “Sure, alright, I get that too. Maybe I was a little hard on him, and took it too personally.”

  “Do yourself a favor—stick with it for six months. At least. Alright? Seriously. You have a lot invested in this club and a shit load of guys who have got your back, even if you decide to ride into hell. Where else are you going to find that?”

  “True,” Neil agreed. “Alright. I’ll hang and just quit the dope running. Give it a rest for a while anyway. Let Anton get all the kinks in his system worked out.”

  “Yeah, there you go,” West confirmed.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “That’s what brothers are for, but you owe me a beer.”

  “You got it. Next time I’m in there.”

  “See ya.”

  Neil broke the connection and leaned back to look at the sky. Yeah. Maybe he was overreacting. And, well, shit. Jacques gets killed, and then his dad passes less than a month later. He’s not exactly running on all his cylinders. Add on a new relationship with two hot blonds— alright, overreacting is probably normal in this state of mind.

  He smiled to himself and shook his head. Just as he was about to start up his trike, he heard the chorus of at least five bikes roaring down the cross street toward the warehouse. He eased back and watched the bikes pull up to the open door. The riders killed their engines, dismounted, and went inside where the van driver was still hiding. A few minutes later, he heard a distant pop, pop, pop of gunfire. Then the riders all came back out and mounted their bikes again. They pulled out into the street and made the turn back down the cross road.

  As they made the turn, the street light shone down on their backs. It was easy to see the Devil Knights patches on their vests.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Saturday afternoon, Shayla laid on the couch with her shirt and bra off, watching the news while Sydney laid against her, sucking her breasts in a very arousing way. Shayla was hoping Neil would come through the door soon, because girl-on-girl always turned him on. Hopefully he would, at the very least, fuck their asses on the couch again. As it was, her hands were exploring Sydney more intimately and urging her on.

  Shayla was about to switch over to the financial channel when the story came up about Juan and Tito Gomez being found murdered in their home. She immediately sat up. “Syd! Look!”

  Sydney abandoned her ministrations on Shayla’s breasts and they watched the story together. The Gomez brothers were apparently hung by their ankles over the inside balcony and then chopped up with some kind of heavy blade. Because of the manner of execution, the police have suggested Cuban or Jamaican posse involvement.

  “Do you think it was Anton?” Sydney asked at last.

  “I don’t know, but it sure looks suspicious,” she replied.

  The news segment wasn’t very long, and after it was done, she turned off the TV and shrugged back into her shirt, leaving the bra off since Sydney was proving to be a tit-hound. She stood and walked into the kitchen with no real intention. Her brain was processing too fast and she just needed to move.

  “He said they were traitors, didn’t he?” Sydney asked from the couch, still looking at the blank TV.

  “Yeah, he did. Said he was going to take care of them too,” she mused.

  “Why were they traitors?”

  “I don’t know honey,” she admitted.

  “Yeah, but, we need to know, don’t we?” Sydney said worriedly.

  “You’re probably right. Neil could probably tell us, but we got people we can call too; we’ll se
e what’s going on.”

  After an hour of phone calls, the picture was fairly clear. The Gomez brothers turned down the bad coke that Anton was trying to push, and then changed over to deal coke for the Steel Highwaymen. Apparently Anton had been sending seventy and even sixty-five percents to them for several weeks. The fifty-percent was the last straw.

  “What will happen now?” Sydney asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if they were dealing for the Highwaymen, then won’t the Highwaymen strike back? Isn’t that the way it works?”