Tank looked at her like he'd almost forgotten about her again. "Not me. My girl needs to learn how to do this."
Terry nodded and gave her a kind smile. "Ma'am," he said while touching the brim of his ball cap, then left them where they stood.
"Tank? What's going on?"
He focused on her now, smiling but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't worry about it."
"It's worth worrying about, I can tell from your face."
He sighed, taking the dirty box of smelly beer bottles from her. "I think they're part of the same organization that hurt you, Rose."
They being the people in the trailer that Terry was talking about, she assumed. "And the kids?"
Tank's mouth set in a firm line. "They traffic people. Sex trade shit. Including kids."
Her mouth fell open, and her heart dropped like lead. "You have to get them."
"Gotta talk to the club first, English, and that takes some doing. Tiny's on the road, and Knuckles is with the Nomads for some contract work." He set the bottles down and reached for his antiquated phone. "I'll tell Jayce about it, though. He should be able to get Tiny in soon. Knuckles we can fill in and proxy his agreement or not."
"Would anyone agree to let this go on?" She was incredulous at the idea.
"Not very likely, English. But this is how it happens. We don't do anything without a plan."
She waited while he placed his call, striding away from her a bit so she couldn't quite hear what was going on. She kicked at the ground, looking out at the boards on spindly legs out in the middle of the field, then back at the beer bottles.
Ah, targets.
She picked up the box again and carried it across the hard-packed, baked dirt to the stands and started lining up the brown glass sacrifices to her personal protection. Then she dropped the box to the ground and returned to where Tank was flipping his phone closed. "So, we won't have as much time as I'd like, but we'll make the most of it, English."
"Okay."
He pulled out the handgun, turning it over in his large palm. "It's a Glock 17, Gen Four," he explained, as though that should mean anything. "The clip holds 17 rounds. Release this lever here and the clip comes out." He flicked something on the side, pulled at the end of the grip and the clip did indeed slide out. He slammed in back in then handed it to her, grip first. "You try it."
"Is it loaded?"
He chuckled. "It's pointed at me right now. No, it ain't loaded."
She took it and followed the same procedure before shoving the clip back into place with that satisfying slide and click.
"Now we're going to load it. Takes 19-mil rounds. They look like this, okay?" He pulled a handful of something from his pocket, then opened his hand palm up. He was driving around with bullets in his pockets? She had to stop thinking, though, and pay attention because now he was asking for the clip. She freed it and handed it over, then watched as he fed the rounds into the contraption. Then he slapped it back into the gun and smiled at her.
"Always check the safety. It's up here. And once the safety is off, you need to pull here to pop a round up into the chamber to get it all started." He stepped in front of her, careful now of which way the weapon was pointed. She stood to the side, behind his shoulder basically, as he performed each action he was describing. Then he turned the gun over awkwardly, pulling back on the top thingy and cupping his hand over it. He held up a round in his hand, then tucked it in his pocket. "Okay English, sixteen rounds. Only one way to really learn how to do this."
She hadn't been lying. She wanted to do this, always wondered what it would be like to pull a trigger. He handed the gun over carelessly, so she assumed the safety was on, and it was. She turned to where the bottles were lined up, releasing the safety just like he had.
As promised, he moved behind her, hands resting lightly on her waist. "Get your first round in place."
Shit, that was right. She pulled back on the thing again and then pointed it back away from herself.
"Now there's a notch at the back and a little thing sticking up at the front. You see them?"
"Yeah."
"Line them up, pointing at what you want to hit."
"Like this?" She did the two-hand grip thing like she'd seen on TV, one hand wrapped around the grip while the other cupped both the grip and her hand.
"Bend your elbows. This works better if you're not all tensed up."
She did as told, breathing deep. Little less fun now. He was so bossy.
"Line up the notches again."
"Okay."
"Now empty your lungs, breathe it all out, and when you hit that stillness, squeeze your hand. I know you know the difference between a squeeze and a pull, baby.”
She stomped a foot. “Tank, be serious.”
He was chuckling, and that didn’t help her calm down. “Don't pull the trigger, just squeeze the whole grip."
Rose kept the notches lined up, exhaled, and, concentrating on squeezing versus pulling, she did as told. The contraption jerked in her hand violently, startling her. The sound was monstrous, and she gave a yelp. A tuft of dust kicked up about halfway to the bottles.
"Shit. That sucked."
"When you were getting relaxed your arms dropped. Keep that sight lined up, English, until you see the fucker explode. Do it again."
"Don't I need ear protection?"
With another chuckle, he put his hands over her ears. Okay, that was kinda sweet, too.
The second report was just as loud, but now that she knew what it felt like it didn't jolt her arms nearly so much. She had no idea where the bullet went, though.
"I don't know where it went."
"Don't worry. Nothing is out there that can't take a little lead. Again."
Third shot went between bottles. She saw one of them tremble. Then, on the fourth try, the thing finally exploded, and she gave a cry of triumph, about to turn and hug Tank when he made a noise of warning and clamped his hands on her hips, locking her in place.
"Safety, English."
She flicked the lever, then turned and threw her free arm around him, pointing the Glock downward and kissing him quickly. "Am I dangerous now?"
"More practice and I'll be confident with you going out armed, yeah. I still gotta show you how to take care of it. A neglected weapon is all but useless. But for now you still got five bottles out there."
With a chuckle at her noise of disappointment, Tank spun her back around. "Pretend it's the guy that burned you, honey," he said softly, close enough to her ear that she felt the damp of his breath. "Show him he fucked with the wrong person."
Her stomach hardened at that, and she fell still.
"This is why we're here, Rose," he went on, obviously sensing the change in her. "I'm glad you're not scared of guns, honey. But you gotta know how to use them. Remember Gertie? No gun. And Trinny? Her and the kids would have been dead without 'em." Now he kissed her neck. "So take aim, and take 'em out before they can hurt anyone else."
Rose brought both arms up, ignoring how her lip trembled. Took aim, exhaled, squeezed, and ... nothing.
"What the hell?"
"Safety, English."
"Fuck!"
He was chuckling again, a bit less serious. She didn't need to see him, the feel of him behind her was enough to ground her. It relaxed her, but she wasn't as lackadaisical as she brought the Glock up again. This time a second bottle was sacrificed immediately, and she fired the next round right away. And missed.
"Don't get cocky. You have to be steady, aimed, centered. Don't loosen your grip once you've hit something. That throws everything off. Keep a comfortable grip, and get used to shooting with it."
She took out five of six bottles with her sixteen rounds. When the trigger only brought about a sad little clicking sound, she flicked the safety to again and kept it pointed down while he circled in front of her. He was grinning widely, and she had to return it.
"Not bad, English. You'll probably feel that in the morning, though."
"Really?"
He nodded. "It's an odd impact on the body, you'll feel it in your arms and shoulders."
"Are we done then?" She was a bit disappointed.
"That's lots. You did good, English."
"Thanks, Tank."
He took the Glock back and tucked it into his waistband.
"You just ride around like that?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Cops don't stop us. No need to worry." Then he took her hand. "Let's get you back home. I'll see what the club has to say about that trailer."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"He says it's the yellowy one with the faded red trim," Tank was saying quietly as Jayce peered through binoculars pointed at a sad-looking trailer court. The units were crammed so close together end-to-end you'd have to turn sideways in some places to get between them, and there was barely enough room to park two vehicles parallel to the units in the space that separated them side-to-side. There were no potted plants, no lawn furniture. Nothing that was trying to make these places look like permanent abodes for anyone.
"I see it. All the blinds are drawn, but they're all like that."
"Neighbors are on top of you the whole time," Buck pointed out. "How do they hide anyone?"
Tank shook his head. "I have no idea. Unless they're only here for a little while, sold out to others who come and get them once the stock is in, so to speak." He heard the creak of leather and looked down to see Buck's hands tightening into fists.
"Someone's coming out," Jayce said, lowering the glasses. "Older guy, not as young as the acid guy. I'd say he's about fifty. He's having a smoke."
Tank took the offered goggles and brought them up, finding the trailer in question easily. They were looking at the back of it; it was on the outside edge of the park. He caught sight of a guy circling around the ass end to the back, leaning against the wall to enjoy his cigarette. Short dark hair, darker skin tone, dirty jeans and a navy blue hoodie. "Nothing on him saying he's Mazari."
"He might just run the storage unit," Buck pointed out. The guy sounded wound up. This was a truly disgusting business they were looking at, but that just made it all the more important for them to keep their heads.
"What's the plan?" Tiny asked from Tank's other side.
"I'd love to torch the whole fucking place," Buck mumbled.
"Let's talk logistics," Tank cut in and handed Tiny the binoculars. "Let's say there's a half dozen abducted kids in there. Even if we go in, guns blazing, take out every bad guy, get the kids out and burn the place down, what then? What happens to the kids? Gertie got the urge to adopt six children? We put them on a boat back home and hope they know how to get there?"
"He's right." Jayce was nodding, one hand in his jeans pocket while he chewed his lip.
"So what? We leave them?"
Tank put a hand on Buck's shoulder. "Easy. No one's saying that. I want them out, too, brother. But we have to be smart if we want to do right by any innocents in there."
"I'm stumped," Tiny declared and handed the glasses back.
They all looked at him. Well, alright then. "The only thing I can see is handing this to Downey. Let the law shut this bullshit down. They're still in the county, so she gets the good press for nailing some pedophile assholes. She puts the kids in contact with child protection first, then they try to find out where they came from. Maybe get them back to their families." He shrugged. "Chicken shit move, but we can't drop the kids off at the sheriff's department. They need to know why they're there."
"Plus there's no proof we turned them in," Jayce added. "I hate these Mazaris. We've seen how they try to get their way. We put a few of their helpers in jail and maybe we slow them down a little."
"As long as it's handled like an anonymous tip ..." Buck trailed off, nodding like he was in agreement.
"I still want to tell Downey directly, though. I want her somewhat prepared for what they're walking into. I'm assuming they're armed."
Tank nodded his agreement with his Prez. "Absolutely. And she should know enough to have plenty of backup."
"Okay. That's the plan." Jayce had spoken.
They fell quiet again, looking in the general direction of the trailer even though they were too far to see it without magnification. He knew Jayce was thinking about his own kids, and Buck was remembering Gertie's horrible treatment however many months ago. And even Tiny had a kid out there somewhere that he never knew, or at least Tank thought so. Tank didn't have a family of his own, but it wasn't needed to feel the bitter anger over this kind of thing. Anyone mistreating kids in any way deserved a good lifetime of ass-raping in jail, by Tank's estimation. The thought that they might be this close to kids that might need their help had them all reluctant to walk away.
"Car," Tiny called out, but Tank was bringing up the binoculars, having already seen the headlights bump up behind the trailer. A man got out of the sedan, a late-model gold Cadillac, and shook hands with the smoking dude. After a short conversation the man in the navy hoodie turned and walked around the trailer to the opposite side. The new guy stayed put.
Tank got a good look at him. Dark jeans, dark gray windbreaker. Wearing sunglasses and a beanie. "Car has New Mexico plates," Tank shared, reciting the plate number for the others to memorize.
Navy Hoodie came back, and Tank's hands tightened on the binoculars. The man was pulling a boy by the arm, about thirteen years old. The kid was fighting, but he was nowhere near strong enough to make a difference.
Grey Windbreaker popped the Caddy's trunk, and the two of them wrestled the kid into the trunk.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me," he mumbled, bringing the glasses down. "We gotta roll."
"What's going on?"
Tank shook his head and looked at Jayce. "They just stuffed a kid in that trunk. We can't let them drive away."
Jayce inhaled, then took the binoculars back. Tank paced. Buck raged. Tiny waited.
"Okay," Jayce decided. "We stop that fucking car."
They ran for their bikes, using the service road leading to Terry's lot to meet up with the rural road that was the main in for the trailer park. They headed that way, unsure where the car was going to head.
His helmet wasn't even strapped on. He was so furious his vision was red, entire body trembling. Not just over the fact that this was happening, but the fact they were so comfortable with it they were doing it out in the open like that. That spoke of assumed complacency. How long had they been at this?
A gold Caddy approached and passed them before long. As one they slowed and hung U-turns to follow. Ideally they needed to stop him before he got to the highway.
He knew his brothers well enough to know that they wouldn't risk being sideswiped. He roared out ahead between Jayce and Tiny, pulling his Ruger from his kutte. Riding one-handed on gravel was tricky, but he was a motivated fucker. Two shots blew out the rear window entirely, likely scaring the shit out of the driver. Sure enough, Tank reacted just in time, falling back as the car spun off the narrow grid, fishtailing and then sliding into the ditch in a cascade of sand and stones. They parked at a distance, dismounting slowly and pulling weapons.
Tiny took point, crouched low and flanking the passenger side of the Caddy. Tank approached the rear, took a breath then launched himself along the driver's side.
He heard coughing inside the vehicle, so the asshole was conscious. Crouched over so his lower back starting bitching, he scurried along the side panels and wrenched the driver's door open, then ducked out of the way.
No gunshots, but that meant nothing. He counted to five, then ducked his head around the edge of the open door well. The driver was holding his eyebrow, blood gushing between his fingers. He'd hit his head good, and when he turned to see Tank, his eyes seemed unfocussed. Tank noted the lack of a seatbelt and yanked him out of the vehicle by his windbreaker and tossed him into the dust. He wasn't armed? He was just going to pick up human cargo like he was running to the store?
Jayce was climbing into the driver's seat,
but Tank stayed focused on the human shit on the ground. He used his foot to roll the guy onto his back, eliciting a loud groan. He leaned over the man, pressed the muzzle of the Ruger to his cheek, pressing hard enough to make the guy squirm. "Where were you headed there, fucker?"
Tiny stood on the other side of the man, crouching down. "Asking you a question. You're not too hurt to fucking talk. So spill. Where you headed with the kid?"
The man started sputtering, his rolling eyes finally trying to focus on Tiny. Tank could almost smell the moment he recognized the kutte Tiny was wearing, and he became very, very pale. Anemic pale.
"Is that your memory returning? You know who I am now?" Tiny asked softly, almost sounding psychotic. "That's good. Now where the fuck were you going?"
"I'm just the courier!"
"And where were you headed?"
"They ask me to pick shit up and bring it to them. Even gave me the car!”
Tank pressed harder with his pistol. "This isn't a fucking job interview. Where. Were. You. Headed?"
"Bakersfield. Some rich fuck, name of Murphy. That's the last name, I don't know his first name. He pays cash. I think he's acting on someone else's behalf, too. He's too much a yes man to be in charge of anything."
"Address?"
"It's on a paper in the cup holder. Rolled up in there. It's always to different addresses so I gotta write 'em down. I swear it. Fuck, please don't kill me. Take the kid, take the car, take the address. I don't fucking care."
Tank checked over his shoulder. Jayce had the trunk open; the kid was standing in front of him watching the proceedings. The Prez had one hand on the kid’s shoulder. Tank turned back to the shit stain. "What do we do, boss?"
"We let him go back to his boss and tell him his shipment was hijacked. There will be no retaliation because by the time they come looking for it that trailer will be crawling with cops."
It had merit. Tank nodded and straightened up with a groan, then issued a good kick to the guy's ribs. "Don't tell me you think this guy is running an adoption agency. You know what these kids are used for. I don't see how you can fucking sleep at night."
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