Mister Prick
Page 6
He pushed the door open, pointed the pistol toward the man, and fired a shot into the door of the Cadillac between the two men.
“Siéntate, o te pondré una bala en la cabeza, pendejo,” Vince shouted.
The man sat down.
As if it was just another day in the life of Vince ‘Black’ Devoe, he hopped in the car and gave me a charming smile. “I’ll explain everything over dinner. How’s that?”
The man in the blue shirt stood. Before I could say anything, he took off running.
I wagged my finger toward the window. “One of them’s running away,” I screeched.
“Son of a fucking bitch.” He opened the console, grabbed one of the pistols, and tossed the other into my lap. “If Diego moves, shoot him.”
He jumped out the door and took off running.
I’d never held a gun, much less fired one. Nevertheless, I picked up the pistol. Surprised by its weight, I hoisted it to arm’s length and scrambled to climb over the passenger seat and outside the car.
I took Spanish in college, but my ability to speak it was limited. The only words that came to mind were do and nothing, so that’s what I said. Do nothing.
I pointed the pistol at him. “Hacer nada.”
I had no idea who the men were, but it was obvious Vince did. He even knew their names. Convinced they were drug lords, and that Vince was on a super-secret CIA mission in the war against drugs, I held the pistol as steady as I could while Vince tackled the runaway in a 7-Eleven parking lot a ways down the block.
I felt powerful. Like I was making a difference. The sense of sexual euphoria escaped me and was replaced with a rush of adrenaline that all but made me high. I’d found my calling in life, and it wasn’t selling BMWs.
As Vince lifted his would-be escapee to his feet, two black Chevy Suburbans careened into the parking lot. One came to a screeching stop behind the Cadillac, and the other parked beside it.
Men dressed in military-type clothing jumped out. Armed with machineguns, and wearing bullet-proof vests, they surrounded the Cadillac.
“She’s my CI,” Vince shouted.
They acted like they didn’t even care. While several of them searched the Cadillac, two others dragged Diego to the SUV.
In seconds, the two men were tossed into to the back seat of the Suburban. There were no handshakes nor were niceties exchanged. There was no paperwork filled out, no arrest reports, no pats on the back, and no cigar smoking captain who scolded Vince for putting the general public in jeopardy for firing a shot in a coffee shop’s parking lot.
I stared in awe as the SUVs sped away. Vince shoved the pistol into the waist of his jeans and then reached for mine.
“What’s a CI?” I asked as I handed the pistol over. “You said I was your CI.”
“Confidential Informant.”
“Like a partner?”
He chuckled. “Of sorts.”
“I don’t want to go back to work,” I said.
“I thought we’d discussed that already? You were going to call in sick, and we were going to go to dinner.”
“No,” I said. “I mean ever. I want to do this. With you.”
He shoved the second pistol into his pants and looked me over. As the sound of sirens wailed in the distance, he pointed toward the car.
“Get in. We’ve got to get out of here before the cops get here. I hate explaining shit to the cops. They never understand, and it’s always a mile of paperwork.”
“Partners,” I said. “Yes, or no?”
The sirens grew closer.
“We’ll see,” he said.
I knew what we’ll see meant, and it wasn’t the answer I was after.”
“C’mon.” He gestured toward the door. “We’ve got to go. Seriously.”
“Let me help you. We can fuck and fight crime. No strings attached.”
He glanced toward the flashing lights of the approaching cop cars and then looked at me. “Fuck and fight crime, huh?”
“Uh huh.”
He looked me up and down. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
I grinned. After licking my lips nervously, I winked. It was all I could think to do.
He nodded toward the door. “Get in.”
“Yes, or no?”
He glanced over his shoulder and then reached for the door. “Having a woman with me would give me some new opportunities, for sure. Does this deal include those toe-curling blowjobs?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Do we have a deal?”
He opened the door. “Get in partner.”
I hopped in the car and climbed over the console. As he pulled the door closed, I fastened my seatbelt. “What’s this job pay, anyway?”
“As much as we take from the bad guys.” He started the car and glanced over his right shoulder as he backed up. “We keep it all. It helps fund further operations.”
“No shit?”
He shifted the car into gear, shot over the curb, and merged into traffic. “No shit. Technically, I guess half of what I tossed in back is yours. As we’re partners and all.”
“What did you toss in back?”
He shrugged. “Probably four or five million.”
My jaw fell open. “Dollars?”
“Correct.”
“Half of which is mine?”
“Also correct.”
I leaned over the console and reached for his zipper. “You opposed to road head?”
“Tough saying,” he said with a smile. “I’ll let you know in a minute.”
Fucking, fighting crime, and stealing money from the bad guys.
Life couldn’t get any better than that.
Also by Scott Hildreth
Want more MC novels?
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About the Author
Scott Hildreth was born into this world early and plans on leaving late. Between his arrival and departure, he has written forty novels and has every intention of writing many more.
Despite falling in love with his wife, Jessica, late in life, Scott professes to be an authority on the subject of love, and his writing is a reflection of this belief.
His preferred careers of being a biker, military hero, mafia boss, boxer, vigilante, and tattoo artist will always be favorites, but as writing has become a full-time gig, he must live vicariously through the characters in his books who share his admiration for these professions.
You can keep up with Scott’s self-published and traditionally published work here:
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