by Callie Hart
“Why don’t you come and wait with me, Sophia?” Hector asks. I’m too paralyzed by what just happened to even contemplate answering, let alone following after him. He takes hold of my elbow and guides me into the lit room he just appeared from, where he sits me down on an overstuffed wingback chair and hands me a tissue. I wipe my face mechanically, too numb to do anything but breathe.
“I should kill you.”
My head snaps up to find that Hector has sat himself down opposite me. I see the room properly now—the rows and rows of shelves along the walls, jammed with books. The writing desk. The fireplace, in which a fire is crackling enthusiastically. This must be his study. Hector bridges his hands together and crossed his right leg over his left, studying me with those green eyes of his. They looked sharp and calculating in the sunshine earlier, but in the muted light they now look watery and inconstant. Like they aren’t any one fixed color and could easily change with the man’s mood. “I hate being lied to, sweet girl. Why did you tell me you were something you weren’t?”
It suddenly feels like I’m choking on my tongue. He knows. He knows I’m not a virgin. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say. Hector tuts disapprovingly, shaking his head.
“I’ve slept with hundreds of women, my girl. I know what an intact hymen feels like. And yours is most definitely broken.”
I don’t answer. It’s better to keep my mouth shut than to confirm or deny the fact. Hector shifts in his chair, apparently getting comfortable. “So really, I should kill you. I would never normally risk such a liability out there, walking and talking, mentioning my name in places it ought not to be breathed. But, you see, I’m currently under investigation for murder. You may know a little something about that, given Raphael’s interaction with Judge Conahue, perhaps? No?”
He dips his head, mouth open, clearly waiting for me to say something. I don’t. “You can imagine how awkward it would be if the authorities chose to visit my home while one of my men was burying a body out the back, of course. They have very unique ways of finding buried bodies these days. Freshly disturbed earth is a bit of a giveaway. A lucky thing for you, Sophia. A very lucky thing.” A clock on the wall chimes, making me jump. Three a.m. Hector sucks on his teeth, tapping his fingertips together, as though he’s thinking on something. “Selling you is the easiest option for me right now, so yes, I have played along with your little ruse. Raphi’s a hot head. He can’t be trusted to have nice things unfortunately. He breaks them, and then refuses to clean up after himself. You leaving this place is best for everyone all round. But let me tell you, Sophia. I heard what Raphi said to you just now. Raphi is a man of his word. He will look for your family, and he will kill them if he finds them. I am in a position to prevent that from happening. All I require from you is that you keep your mouth shut. You don’t talk about me, ever, to anyone. You don’t talk about my home or my employees. Does that sound like a fair trade to you, sweet girl?”
My throat is as dry as the Sahara, but I still manage to croak out an eager, “Yes.”
Hector nods. “Then we have an agreement. I would advise against breaking it, Sophia. I have eyes and ears everywhere. I also have an uncanny knack of discovering if people have been opening their mouths, when they should be keeping them firmly closed.”
“I won’t say anything, I swear.” I almost can’t believe he’s letting me go with another cartel. Seems to me that it would be easy enough to send me out with Raphael a couple of miles into the desert and have him put a bullet in the back of my head, but I am not stupid enough to question him. He stands up and takes me by the elbow again. “Time for us to wait outside. I don’t particularly like the man who has purchased you. I’d prefer he didn’t have to step foot inside my home. Come.”
Hector is weirdly protective about his home, but then again he’s weird all round. I let him take me outside onto the veranda, where he sits me down on the bench swing. “Please don’t move from this spot.” Hector paces with that deliberate, unhurried gait of his down the steps to where Raphael is standing, staring out into the desert. I’m left to do the same. Without any light pollution out here, the dark black velvet of the night sky glitters with an explosion of stars. I have no idea where the rusted van I was brought in here has gone, nor the men that traveled with us. No vehicles, no other people, nothing. Just us, the house, and the stars. Yet again, I’m tempted to slip silently off. The men’s backs are turned. It would easy enough to do right now, but the fear of what they will do to me when they catch me—because there is no if—is enough to keep my bottom firmly planted on the bench.
I hear the rumble of engines before the lights come into view. It’s hard to tell how far away the convoy of cars is in the darkness, but it seems as though there are many of them. I count one, two, three, five different sets of headlights. My whole body is begging me to get up and run, to flee, to see how far I can get at least, before I’m trapped with yet another group of insane, violent men, but it’s too late for that. Too late for anything but to sit and watch the approaching armada of cars float toward us on the horizon. It’s a full five minutes before they’re close enough to make out the great plumes of dark dust and sand being kicked up behind the vehicles in their wake. There are seven cars, not five. Why so many? Hector said he didn’t like the man who’d bought me. Maybe the feeling is mutual. Maybe the extra muscle is to ensure there’s no trouble as the deal goes down.
I’m on the verge of hyperventilating by the time the cars, a mix of sedans and dirty four by fours arrive in front of the house. Hector walks out to the lead car. A window buzzes down, and he shakes hands with the dark figure inside. Men begin to pour out of the cars. Every single last one of them is Mexican. Covered in tattoos and sporting a variety of weapons, they don’t look any friendlier than Hector’s people. The last person to get out of the cars is grossly overweight, dressed in a cream suit, complete with panama hat. And he’s wearing sunglasses. At three thirty in the morning.
Hector slaps the man on the shoulder, grinning and shaking his hand. They speak in rolling, loud Spanish together, and the men standing around them burst into laughter. The fat man signals one of his guys forward. He’s carrying a brown paper bag—the kind Mom used to put my lunch in back when I was in elementary school. Hector doesn’t touch the bag. It’s Raphael that takes it from the other guy, perhaps his counterpart within this other cartel, and begins withdrawing bundles of money from inside. I can’t see what denomination the money is in, but Raphael lines up ten stacks side by side next to each other on the hood of the fat guy’s car.
Hector casts his eye over the stacks, nods once, shakes hands with the obese man one last time, and then climbs back up the stairs toward me. “You go with him now,” he tells me. “And remember what I said. You open your mouth…” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. “I hope I never see you again, Sophia Letitia Marne.” And with that, he vanishes back inside the house.
When I turn to face my fate, there are at least fifteen men staring up at me in the dark. The majority of them are leering, eyes already eating up my skin, devouring me whole, though the fat guy doesn’t appear to be even half as interested in me. He steps forward, gesturing me forward with an impatient beckoning motion of his fingers. “Come on, child. I have guests arriving at my home shortly. We have to hurry.”
Another thick Spanish accent. I think doing as he asks is probably the smartest thing I can do, and yet I just can’t force myself. My body will not comply. I want to go home. More than anything in this world, I want to be back in Seattle. The idea of voluntarily leaving with these men makes me sick to my stomach. If I do that, my whole world is going to change. I know that without a shadow of a doubt.
“Juan, go and fucking get her,” the fat guy says, talking to one of his men. I see the sneer spreading on Raphael’s face as a tall, thin man with one hand firmly gripped around a gun stalks toward me. I don’t have the courage to back away. I freeze to the spot, my mind racing. Juan climbs the steps, hooks one wiry ar
m around my waist and then half-drags, half-shoves me back down the steps after him.
“Put her in my car,” the fat guy says.
And that’s what Juan does. I am unceremoniously bundled into the back of the lead car—a dark sedan with blacked-out windows. Juan climbs in the front driver’s seat, and then the rest of his crew helps the fat guy lower himself into the back with me.
The doors slam, the sound of a shotgun ringing out into the night, and that is it—I am sold. People have taken longer to buy a pack of cigarettes. Juan starts the engine, and we’re moving within seconds. I swivel in my seat, turning to watch as the black, black outline of Raphael grows smaller and smaller behind us.
“So. You’re the piece of pussy who’s been causing all this fuss?” the fat guy asks. He lays a meaty hand against the bare skin of my thigh, grunting with approval. “You may call me Mr. Perez,” he informs me, as though entertained by the use of the English address, instead of the Spanish. “And now, I have some friends who would very much like to meet you.”
REBEL
Being the president of an MC is a lot like being the president of a small country. There are things to consider. Firstly, traffic laws. Convince your constituents to not ride around in their cuts. If they ride around wearing their cuts, people will be able to identify them. And where’s the common sense in that? Secondly, diversity is king. If your entire club is made up of white guys with shaved heads, you start to look suspicious. And besides, no one Widow Maker is better than another, regardless of the color of his or her skin. The only hierarchy we subscribe to is this: Prez’s word is final. If Prez isn’t around, V.P.’s word is final. Thirdly, gender equality. Ain’t a single man born on this planet without the good graces of a woman. Clubs that refuse women in their ranks are fucking retarded. After the cuts, what’s going to attract more attention than a bunch of angry-looking dudes riding around on motorcycles? Nothing. Throw a couple of women in the mix and suddenly you’re a hell of a lot less conspicuous.
The Widow Makers are black, white, Asian, Hispanic, male, female—you name it, we got it. Our bikes aren’t the kind of things you’d see being built on Orange County Choppers. Yes, a good percent of the Widowers’ rides are monstrous cruisers built out of chrome, exhaust pipes fatter than they have any sane reason to be, but we have street fighters too. Sports bikes built for speed and cornering quickly. Tourers built for comfort. Road-legal dirt bikes that can turn on a hairpin and jump a fucking mini van if they have to.
The Widow Makers aren’t your average MC. We’re a bit of everything. We blend into the background. We’re covert. We fly under the radar. We’re the only MC in the United States of America that operates like this. You may be asking yourself why we hide who we are from the prying eyes of the public. The answer to that question is simple:
We’re not just a motorcycle club. We’re criminals. And we’re really fucking good at not getting caught.
******
Julio’s Compound
Rebel
I hear the cars pulling up around four am. Carnie hears it, too. He was sleeping, silent, not one muscle twitching, but the low rumble of tires on hard-packed earth has jolted him awake. His Beretta—he calls her Margo. After his mother—is in his hand, ready to shoot. One of Julio Perez’s employees lifts his semi-automatic, aiming it at Carnie’s face.
“Calmate,” the Mexican says. He has the look of a stone-cold killer about him. There’s nothing going on behind those blank, dark eyes of his. Carnie winces up at the guy, shifting in his chair. Margo goes back into the waistband of his jeans.
“Do I not look calm to you, asshole?” he asks. Carnie hasn’t been prospecting for us for long, but he’s got fucking stones like bowling balls. He’s never really looked the part—tall and gangly, glasses, side parting. He’s basically a thirty-three-year-old hipster redneck. I found him half beaten to death just outside a bar in Midland City, Alabama. I wasn’t going to waste my time scraping him off the ground, but Cade went through his pockets and found out he had his light aircraft license. Not surprising, given that Midland City’s the location of Dothan’s regional airport. He was a crop sprayer for a living before we picked him up. Spent his time dusting fields with enough weed killer to deform an entire county.
After we hauled his ass to the hospital and kept an eye on him for a while, he became our prospect. When we’re outside the clubhouse, the guy is on my hip at all times, learning how the fuck to behave himself. Other times, he’s also a runner. What he runs at any one time depended solely on how we are making our money that month. Pot. Guns. Stolen goods. If it’s illegal, odds are Carnie’s hauled it across state lines in the back of his Cessna 208. There’s only one thing we don’t touch, and that’s girls.
Until now.
Andreas Medina, Julio’s right-hand man, makes a low tutting sound, looking up from the bank of security cameras he’s studying. “What you want with this bitch, anyway?” he asks.
I remain slouched in the leather armchair of Julio’s security center, eyeing the two punks that have been left behind to keep watch over us. Just because Julio’s doing us this favor doesn’t mean he trusts us. Especially since I’m bribing him. “She’s hot,” I tell Andreas. “I saw Hector’s post go live and thought to myself, ‘Now that’s the kind of pussy I need in my collection.’”
Andreas grunts. It’s plainly clear that he doesn’t believe me. News about what happened in that side street in Seattle is spreading fast. Los Oscuros and the Widow Makers are at war. Everyone with enough common sense is battening down the hatches, preparing for the storm to hit. Julio and all of his men must know that this girl we’re paying them to fetch for us was involved in my uncle’s death somehow. That’s why I’m paying the fat old fuck a hundred grand to do this job for me.
The sound of approaching vehicles grows louder. Andreas doesn’t ask me any more questions about the girl; he’s too busy verifying that the cars slowly rolling into view on the security cameras are the same seven cars that left the compound four hours ago. A burst of static erupts from the radio sitting on the desk in front of Andreas. “La tenemos. Abre la puerta,” a voice advises. We got her. Open the gates. Doesn’t sound like Julio, but Andreas does as he’s told. On the grainy, pixelated screen, a set of huge, high gates swing outwards, letting the cars drive slowly, one at a time into the compound.
Carnie shoots me a stern look, and then stands. “Time for us to be going then.”
We should probably stick around inside and observe etiquette. After a business dealing with Julio, it’s customary to sit with the man and have a beer. We can’t afford that luxury tonight, though. I’m bone tired, and we need to get this girl as far away from California as possible. If we loiter here too long, the likelihood of her being murdered by Los Oscuros grows by the minute. I get to my feet, stretching out my body.
“Been a blast as always. Boys.”
Andreas jumps up too, holding out a hand. “Why don’t you just slow your roll, ese? Julio might want to confirm the exchange.” I pull out my cell phone and pull up the transaction confirmation. One hundred thousand dollars, cleared into the account details Julio gave me.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” I say, pushing past him. The guy who threatened Carnie with his semi-automatic a moment ago steps in front of me, blocking my way. He lifts his chin, daring me to do something. “What do you think happens if I don’t walk out of here?” I whisper. “What do you think happens if there’s even a scratch on me when I leave?”
The guy blinks at me. He doesn’t move.
“It’s okay, Sam. You can let him by.” Andreas places a hand on the guy’s shoulder, which seems to descale the threat level somewhat. They both move out of the way so I can exit, swiftly followed by Carnie. “Hey, Rebel,” Andreas calls after us. I glance over my shoulder. “There will be an end to this, y’know. You can’t hold it over him forever. Julio ain’t just some punk you can fuck with. We will get the files back.”
I give him a lazy smile, flashing t
eeth. I’m not afraid of you. “As always, such a pleasure doing business with you, Andreas. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”
As Carnie and I hurry out of Julio’s villa, three half-naked women run down the corridor in front of us, screaming. They vanish through a side door, tits and ass flashing everywhere, and then they slam the door closed behind them. “Working girls?” Carnie murmurs.
“I doubt they’re here for the free tacos.”
Carnie spits on the ground, shaking his head at another guard as we exit though the front door. Outside, Julio Perez is heaving himself out of a dark sedan, groaning with the effort. He’s wearing fucking shades at night. Carnie elbows me, jerking his head at the fat fucker, as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
I laugh under my breath. “Right?”
Julio catches sight of us—must see us snickering at him—and flips us off. He finally manages to pull himself out of the car. “Motherfuckers,” he growls. “You should think twice before laughing at my expense. What you think this is, a fucking circus?”
“Something like that,” I answer. “Where’s the girl?”
“I slit her throat and left her ass out in the desert,” Julio snaps. The driver of the dark sedan climbs out of the car and stands there, staring at us like he expects us to start shooting or something. I know it’s a bluff, though. I have dirt on Julio. The kind of dirt even an Untouchable like him wouldn’t want getting out. He’d never risk the files I stole from him being made public knowledge. The cops already wanna lock him up; it’s not them he’s afraid of, though. It’s other gangs that would come after him if they caught wind of some of the stuff he’s been up to. Double-dealing. Skimming. Flat out stealing from the skinheads. Bad shit.
