Expose

by C. D. Breadner

  From the side, the Red Rebels stood in a cluster, watching the proceedings. Tiny seemed at ease, chatting with one of the men sporting an automatic rifle. That told Tank lots, and with a look at Knuckles the hunch was confirmed.

  They were absolutely, completely, one hundred percent in.

  As the truck was closed up, relieved of its load, Anthony Guidinger made his appearance wearing a shit-eating smile that Tank was learning to really dislike, but he smiled back and shook the bastard’s offered hand.

  Guidinger shook hands with Knuckles, Fritter and Spaz as well. “Great work, on time and accounted for,” he appraised, unneeded, then reached into his jacket.

  Even with the smile and those words, Tank was tense until an envelope appeared. “Easy, gents. No need to get jumpy.”

  Apparently not only Tank had a bit of distrust with this guy. Fritter had half-stepped in front of him, and at his right, Knuckles was reaching for his piece. The envelope made everyone calm down.

  “Fifty large for your troubles. You can count it if you like.”

  Tank shook his head and tucked it into his kutte. “Not needed. We trust you.”

  Guidinger nodded as though that was all he needed, then turned back for his crew. Tiny gave them a wave and headed for his truck.

  Knuckles let out a breath loudly. “Whew. That was not so bad.”

  Tank grinned. “Yeah. And we’re a lot richer for it.”

  “Let’s meet up with Tiny, get the report.”

  Tank nodded at Knuckles’ suggestion and headed for his Fat Boy. Tiny gave them a salute as he rolled past on eighteen wheels, and Tank returned the gesture. Their meeting point was a truck stop diner that had a magnetic sign along the highway boasting the “Best Pie In The State.” That sounded promising.

  Tiny was making the rounds around his rig as they pulled up and parked in a row along the road side of the lot. No one here thought four men on bikes and unmarked leather jackets were strange. The truckers in these parts paid them no mind as they passed through the glass and chrome doors to claim a red-vinyl booth with a well-worn black and chrome table. Without planning they each ordered coffee and slices of pie, then once the waitress was gone, the three who had arrived on bikes turned to the man who’d been riding in an air conditioned cab.

  “Loading went the same,” Tiny assured them, doctoring up his coffee with a casual shrug. “Quick, no talking. Really quiet crew, actually. But I’m sure you guys noticed that. And you guys were on the route. We were clear through Bakersfield. No one touched us. I didn’t know the Sachettis had anything with G-Town.”

  “Or they’re scared of the mob, like everyone else is. Can’t forget that the Sachettis are a big shark. We are tiny, tiny fish.”

  “You text Jayce yet? He’s likely going out of his mind now.” Fritter said with a chuckle.

  “Shit, yeah.” Tank fished his cell out of his inside jacket pocket, flipping it open. He quickly sent a vague note about the world being all good in their corner, and as he was tucking it away again, their pie arrived.

  “Hell, yeah,” Fritter moaned, mouth stuffed with flaky crust and apple filling. “Best pie. Absolutely.” Flakes of pastry flew all over the table as he said it.

  “Jesus man, keep it in your mouth,” Tank muttered, picking up his fork.

  “That’s my pick-up line,” Knuckles snorted, and the four of them were laughing over California’s best pie.

  And the pie was that good. They didn’t even notice the two Mad Gypsys pull up on bikes until they were walking through the door, which was a terribly embarrassing oversight. Fritter saw them first, elbowing Tank. The way the man’s body had tensed up was a clue and Tank followed his gaze.

  One of them he recognized, and he knew Fritter did, too. They had the prick’s face on tape, they’d studied it at length.

  “That’s the third guy,” Fritter was growling, and Tank clamped a hand on his forearm.

  “Easy,” he warned, voice soft. “Lot of civilian eyes, Fritter.”

  Knuckles and Tiny were staring at them, too smart to turn and stare blatantly. “Not Thor, though?” Knuckles asked.

  Tank nodded. “Nope. Second guy to do it.”

  “Fuck. He’s the one that bit her?” Knuckles’ eyes darkened when Tank nodded again.

  “They’re coming this way,” Fritter said lowly, putting down his fork and then picking it back up again.

  The four of them looked up as the two Gypsys stopped at the end of their table, making a deliberate show of standing such that they four wouldn’t be able to leave without moving them.

  “Help you?” Tank asked, easing his weight against the wall to half-turn to their visitors.

  “You can get the fuck out of our town,” the raping piece of shit spat out.

  His buddy put a hand out, smacking him in the stomach to shut him up. “I know you recognize this guy.” He said quietly, jerking his head to the Gypsy at his side. “I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Bark.”

  Tank felt the way they all shifted when he said his name. Sure it was on his kutte, but Tank had been reading his face, not his patches.

  They knew the name Bark. He hadn’t been a Gypsy they’d really seen a lot of, but the man who’d been doing his best to protect Gertie in his own self-preserving way was no stranger. Gertie had told Buck the details, and Buck had brought it to the table for the club to know. If the stars aligned and the Red Rebels had a chance to take out the Gypsys, Bark would be given the chance to live. Gertie had asked that he be spared simply because he’d tried to create some kind of comfort for her without getting himself dead.

  “Yeah, we know your name,” Tank said, making it sound like the name hadn’t affected him.

  The other Gypsy was staring at Bark now, trying to look tough, but he just looked confused. Something was weird here, and he wasn’t going to work too hard to get Bark to keep talking.

  “So here’s how this goes. I know that’s Gray’s rig out there, Should be enough room for this prick if you want him.”

  The silence was nearly comical, everyone staring at Bark, waiting for the punch line. But the guy had stone-cold down to an art form, his nearly-grey blue eyes not so much as wavering from Tank’s.

  “Interesting. So … why would you do that?”

  “Yeah, what the fuck man?” The asshole’s voice was getting loud, so Bark took the guy’s arm.

  “We should go outside,” Bark suggested, dragging his friend with him.

  The Rebels shared a look, then en masse got to their feet. Knuckles pulled out his wallet while the rest were sliding out of the booth, dropping a sizeable tip on the table, and then they headed for the door.

  Tank raised an eyebrow at Knuckles as he stuffed the wallet away. “What?”

  “Nothing. Just … the waitress wasn’t even really cute or anything.”

  Knuckles wiped crumbs from his beard and grinned. “That’s California’s best pie, though. It’s underpriced.”

  The Gypsys were already embattled in some kind of scuffle as the Rebels caught up to them. Neither made a move to break it up, but it was pretty obvious that Bark was the tougher one. When he had the Gypsy down, one last shot to a cheekbone leaving him reeling for a bit, Bark straightened his kutte and turned to face them, breathing hard and wiping his bloody lip. “So here it is,” he muttered, voice low but sounding more dangerous for it. “I set up the other two guys you already got. And I brought you this prick in exchange for one more thing.”

  Tank exchanged looks with Fritter, and after a nod, Fritter, Knuckles and Tiny backed off to let them talk. Bark nodded his thanks then took another few steps to the side. Tank joined him.

  “You leave Thor until I’m done with him.” It was a statement, not a request.

  Tank frowned. “What are you doing with Thor exactly?”

  Bark’s eyes flashed, and he shot a look over at the other Rebels but they’d kept their distance. Watchful, but respecting confidentiality. “Okay,” he muttered. “You’re not going to trust
me and I can’t trust you, but here it is. I’ve been inside this group for a long fucking time. Ever since they started running weed and heroin from Mexico. Supposed to be going after cartel assholes—”

  “You’re a Fed,” Tank cut in. It had been the suspicion, but having the guy talking this way was like meeting Santa Claus face to face. A whole lot of Holy shit was rattling in Tank’s head but he tried to keep cool.

  “I need to take out Thor,” Bark continued, voice dropping even lower. “Not for the Feds, just for a lot of other shit that event will set into motion.”

  Tank nodded to show he understood.

  “Now, until that is arranged, I need the Red Rebels to stay out of Hazeldale’s troubles. I’m trying to find a way to make Thor your Prez’s kill, you can take that to him. I’m putting my life in your hands with that. But if my cover gets shot to shit I’m assuming it’s your fault and McClune won’t get the chance.”

  Tank sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I think we can agree to that. I gotta take it to Jayce, though.”

  “Of course. If you’re in agreement, make this a noisy corpse. If the answer is no, make him disappear and I’ll understand.”

  Tank nodded. “We can do that. And as far as your cover … Well, as long as you’re not coming after us, it’s not our problem.”

  Bark nodded. “Appreciate that.” He held a hand out and Tank took it. After a short shake Tank then watched him walk to his bike.

  “What’s the word there, big guy?” Knuckles shouted from his spot next to the Gypsy who was coming around and getting to his feet now.

  “Take him with us,” Tank instructed. “Fritter, text Buck and tell him we’ve got a present for him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rose was learning a lot on her own. And the first thing she was learning was that she was as boring as fuck.

  There was no TV and no radio. All the books in the tiny half-size bookshelf behind one of the sofas were Westerns. The one time she’d tried going for a walk she’d gotten lost for only about twelve minutes and had nearly had a heart attack. So she stayed close in her wanderings, passing time by sitting on a chair on the small front porch or in the hammock in the back.

  She’d loved the hammock the second she saw it. It wasn’t one of those off-balance things that made you feel as though you were about to be pitched to the dirt. Each of the four corners was tied of with a length of chain, and it was huge. In the sunshine in the afternoon it was a lovely spot to nap with a throw blanket.

  Her first night was a lesson. Tank hadn’t lied, it was cold at night. Sure he’d shown her how to build a fire, but showing and doing were two different things. She’d been near to tears, wrapped in three layers and huddled under a blanket while watching every bit of paper burn for a moment and go out. Then she remembered she hadn’t opened the downdraft thingy. She pulled the level, tried again, and soon it was blazing away. She’d dozed off on one of the sofas, still wrapped in layers, just to be close when the fire was waning so she could put another log on.

  By the third day she was contemplating calling Tank. This was ridiculous, and starting to get scary. She had no idea when he was planning on collecting her. There was a healthy supply of canned goods and crackers and the like in the cupboard. She would probably survive quite a while left to her own devices, assuming she didn’t beat her head against the wall until she suffered a brain bleed.

  She tried reading the Westerns. They were silly books with over-the-top cowboys and outlaws, and yet reading them made it seem like Tank was with her. All the heroines called their heroes “Cowboy” at some point, and it made her smile.

  Mostly she was left to her own thoughts. Maybe that was what he was pushing on her. If she kept finding ways to wedge her shit between them, she was going to be alone. So this was what truly alone felt like. As in, old age. When no one would be around to even be her fuck buddy. Alone. Very, very alone.

  She wasn’t disillusioned about her hang-ups. She knew precisely where they came from. She was one of those women with the unflappable faith that when shit got difficult or messy, men ran away. She’d had that belief since she was twenty-one, and while that hadn’t even been a decade of jaded perspective, it was ingrained.

  Fresh off the boat, arriving in New York, it became obvious that stage work wasn’t going to be easy to come by. Off-Broadway productions were fun and all, but so was being able to pay rent and eat. When she’d headlined in a two-woman show about lesbian strippers, a man had come backstage to offer her a regular job.

  His name was Darius James. He owned and managed a high-end strip joint on the good side of Harlem, and he thought she could make very good money. And he was right.

  At twenty-one she was tall and lithe, youthful, with an ass that could bounce change. Her dancer’s metabolism meant she was always lean, without looking as scrawny as some girls did. She looked muscular, still feminine, even if her tits were barely an A-cup.

  Darius bought her implants about the same time he became her lover. She knew he was married, but with all the naiveté one would expect, she thought he was in love with her and waiting for the chance to leave his wife to be with her.

  Rose had been beyond stupid for that man. His gifts were wonderfully extravagant, and she thought, at the time anyway, there would be no other man who could make her feel as wonderful as he could, carnally or otherwise.

  She ignored whispers and women warning her that he was fucking half the stable at the club. He was very smooth at making her believe it was her and only her he wanted and was with.

  Of course he never left his wife. She was a glamorous woman with an amazingly curvy body and an expensive weave, looked like the trophy wife a man as well-dressed as Darius deserved. She wanted expensive shit, he could afford it, so she honestly didn’t care that her husband was fucking the help.

  Rose didn’t know that part until after Darius was done with her. And that road was a long, sad one to get to.

  Twenty-two and knocked up by a married man was so cliché. Yet there she was, not even scared. Finally, he’d have to divorce his wife and be with her. She was going to have his kid; it was how it all had to play out. How fucking lovely their life would be.

  Instead he gave her two options. A plane ticket back to England, or an abortion. Since she was still in the US, it shouldn’t be hard to decipher how that played out.

  The prick didn’t even drive her to the clinic. Her best friend Brandi did, the one currently living it up in Vegas. She was there for Rose through all of it. And afterwards, Darius was done with her. He even fired her, and she was left to find another place willing to take her on. She knew this wasn’t a unique story. It was as common as people marrying high school sweethearts. Just not as happy.

  Rose knew the whole thing had changed her. She tried to convince herself she was just as carefree and fun-loving as ever, but she wasn’t. She could feel her bright optimism vanish. For a career, for a relationship that meant more than sex, for a place that was all hers.

  Until right then. She was at a place that felt like home for the first time in eight years, and she was being horrible to a man that wanted her all to himself and treated her like she deserved. Stupid and stubborn, that was her motto. But she could fix it; she had to.

  So rather than call and pester Tank to tell him she got it, he won, he had her all figured out, Rose decided to wait. There was a comfort in knowing he was coming to get her at some point. She knew he would. She trusted in it.

  Not only did she need to apologize, she had to come clean on all of this. He deserved to know what he was getting into, and if he decided it wasn’t worth the trouble it would hurt, but lying and avoiding him was no way to treat someone you supposedly cared about.

  Rose and Tank had to have a Talk. Capital T. It was that important.

  She was lying in the hammock in the afternoon, the breeze rustling the leaves overhead. She was staring up into the sunshine, watching the yellowing ruffles dance, a few of them letting go every now and then.
When she heard the truck she’d wondered if she’d dozed off, then the sound of a door closing convinced her she was still awake. And not alone anymore.

  Of course there was a chance it wasn’t Tank. A stranger. But that was highly unlikely. This wasn’t the kind of place where people stopped for directions. She slung herself out of the hammock and circled the cabin, suddenly feeling shy and uncertain.

  His head, topped off with that cowboy hat, came into view as he circled the cab heading to the front door, carrying a bag of groceries. He stopped when he saw her, and there was this weird pause while the whole world seemed to wait to see what was going to happen next.

  Rose couldn’t wait that long. She ran at him, launching herself into his arms, toppling him back a few steps with a startled chuckle. That sound warmed her heart, made her smile and caused her eyes to water up all at the same time.

  “I’m sorry,” she was whispering. “I’m so sorry. I’m so stupid. Please forgive me.”

  His hands circled her back, and she wanted to outright sob at how wonderful that felt. “Don’t be sorry, English,” he said softly, rubbing her. “Just be honest with me. That’s all I need.”

  She nodded and tightened her hold around his shoulders more, stifling a sob against the side of his neck. “I’ll talk,” she promised. “I swear. I’m sorry. I’ll talk.”

  They held each other wordlessly for a few minutes, and she let all the good Tank-ness sink in. When he mentioned he needed her to be his calm all those days ago, she got it. Quite suddenly and days too late, but she knew exactly what he was talking about. That was what he did for her.

  Rose leaned back from him, taking his face in both hands. As she studied his eyes, his face, he broke into that smirk. They had to talk, but she needed him first. She pulled his head towards her and kissed him, intending for it to be soft. But that didn’t last long.

  His tongue took control, and soon she was clinging to him as though she needed him to stay upright. He pulled away and she tried to prevent it but he was stronger. Still, he chuckled. “English, we need to talk. Remember?”