by Carmen Faye
With a speed that belied his size Neil rolled forward forcing his attackers to adjust their aim, coming back up with both guns targeted on the group this time. The 9mm's barked their clips empty. The gangbangers danced and fell.
Silence swooped back into the neighborhood like a militant librarian was on its heels.
Neil got up with his hands reloading the pistols, and walked over to the case on the ground while holstering the Glock in his left hand.
The door of Leo's house opened 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, right," Neil said, amused by Leo's urgency.
He took the payment bag from Leo, checked inside, and then walked back to his bike, holstering his other gun.
Sitting on the big trike the burb air didn't feel like four men were bleeding out and whimpering on the lawn in his peripheral. There was no change in the manner of the neighborhood, no urgency or alarm. No people either.
Neil grew up in a neighborhood like this one, and the trouble with this setup was, this was the burbs, and Leo wasn't a regular like the girls were. If this was a drop for the girls, hell, every Wednesday between 10:00am and 1:00pm, regular as sunrise, then setting up an ambush Neil wouldn't spot riding up to the drop, would be easy. But, Leo wasn't like that: this Monday, next Thursday night, three weeks from Sunday noon -- he was all over the place. So, Neil was looking for who brought the gangers here, because this was the burbs, and those kids weren't from this side of town. They were Imperial Gangsters. He knew the colors and the tattoos. They had to have time to find places to hide, and not be hanging around so long anyone would see them -- and while they had some nice threads, they stuck out around here. Dimes would have dropped and cops would have wanted to know what the fuck they were doing in the burbs.
He spotted a panel van, a Chevy, down a block and a half. Taking the 9mm from his shoulder holster he aimed carefully for the center of the windshield, then fired.
As the van roared to life and was trying to make a U-turn, which turned into a three-point turn, gunning the engine the whole time. Neil watched as he got his trike started, then put on his gloves. The van completed its turn and was gaining speed for the next corner, but there was no way it was going to outrun Neil's trike. He let the van make the corner, counted to three, then followed it out of the burbs 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; like a bridge.
Neil followed at an easy pace, staying in the second lane, letting the van get some distance. He wanted answers. Some one knew he was coming. Knew where he was going to be, and what time he would be there, as well as what was in the case. Someone knew this far enough in advance to pick up some Imperial Gangsters and plan out ambush points.
But, not kill him.
That was interesting. 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 $55,500 if they cut and ounced it out. So, what the fuck? Those kids would have capped him for a grand, even less if they were hurting for dope.
Except, the one sneaking up on him had a pipe in his hand. Neil saw it fly when the kid left the ground. He kept thinking kids, but they were at least twenty, or older.
So, it made sense that they wanted him to hand over the case, without putting bullets in him to do so. Shotgun, was to keep his attention, while Pipe laid him out, took the case, then All to the van. Good plan, but they should have had a Pipe whose Airs didn't squeak.
That sounded right, but incomplete, Neil decided, watching the van make a panicked lane change, then change back for no reason. So, he has a headache, and is missing the coke. Then what? What's the point?
Watching the van make the same changes, this time using his blinker, Neil reminded himself that not everything in the world had to make sense. Some people just did shit. To them it made perfect sense. Still, this whole setup was planned out, and it couldn't be just about the dope, or whoever set this up wouldn't have brought in Imperial Gangsters to do the heavy lifting.
Well, it could, Neil supposed, if it was someone on the inside of the club.
Neil didn't like the way that felt, or the way it fit with the scene he was in. A member wouldn't want to do it themselves, or kill a brother just to steal the coke. Paying the Imperial Gangsters say, five grand? Walk away with $50k?
Alright, that made sense. This also answered the question: how did they know far enough in advance to set up an ambush he wasn't going to spot, in the burbs where you never see people but people see everything?
Security in the office wasn't as tight as it used to be when Jacques was running the show. Anton seemed to like a busy office, with people inside talking to him, and men coming and going with cases filled with coke and money. With Jacques, 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 likely impossible.
The van suddenly swept across all four lanes and onto an off-ramp. Neil slowed down and let him go, following at distance. It was hard to miss that big red and white thing. Keeping five to seven car lengths between them, he followed through an industrial area, and then to a warehouse. He pulled to the curb a block away behind a work truck with shoves and wheel barrels in the back, and shut his trike down. The van driver got out, ran to the roller doors, lifted one of them up, and used a chain pulley to get them higher. 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 – checking the cars parked on the cub as he passed.
Close to the door, but still in the shadows, he pulled his side gun out, thumbed off the safety, then ducked and slipped inside and around to the left, then knelt down on one knee listening.
The van was empty, the motor ticked as it cooled. The light was dim enough that it took blinking his eyes rapidly for a few seconds to force his pupils to adjust to the light.
Ahead he heard a rapid squeaking voice muffled behind thin walls. Being too far away to make out the words, he move along the wall, toward an office without a door. There the driver was talking fast on a cell-phone.
"Look, it just fucking didn't work! Alright! Shit! The guy killed them all. Then he spotted me like I had a fucking sign on the side of the van and tried to follow me!"
The driver paced, listening then barked, "No! I gave him the slip! But that's not the point! I still want my money!"
Neil saw the driver go ridged, "What the fuck do you mean, no? You said it was going to be easy. Well it fucking wasn't easy!"
Neil moved up into the doorway and leaned against the frame, idly checking his gun.
The driver said to the person on the phone, "What? Hey! Wait! Fuck that man. Fuck that! No. Just ... fine. Whatever. Don't ask again."
The driver, who looked about twenty-five, brown hair, medium build with a nervous condition, paced a couple of times and then saw Neil leaning against the door jam.
"Fuck!" he screamed and looked for a way out, but there wasn't one.
"Calm down," Neil told him.
"Calm down! You're that guy! That fucking guy!"
"Yes, yes I am. And if I was going to kill you, you would already be dead, right?"
Driver checked around the room like there might be a door, shield or large hole in the wall offering sanctuary he might have overlooked, then back to Neil, "Uh, well, maybe. I guess. Then what the fuck do you want?"
"Who sent you? He didn't pay you so you owe him nothing. Give me a name, I walk away, 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 m
e 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... right." Driver agreed, with hesitation.
"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, when the message came up that he already had this number, and it was listed as Anton.
He put his phone away, and reached in his pocket, pulled three Franklin's off his role 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. Y'know, loose ends and shit."
"Seriously?" Driver said, his face flashing a smile, then going stoic, "You're not kidding, are you? Fuck! I knew this fucking thing was wrong! God damn it!"
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, then 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 cell-phone 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 interruptions.
At the end, West said, "Sounds pretty straightforward doesn't it? I mean, who else is going to be using his cell-phone? 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?"
"Well, because my man, you’re 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. So, coming at you straight, isn't going to work out in his favor."
Neil processed that, then said, "So, he comes at me sideways, and either I'm in debt to the club for twenty-grand, or he is benevolent and lets it slide -- so I'm in debt to him for the 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."
"You mean you're going to quit the dope running? Hell, I don't blame you," West told him.
"No, I think I'm going to strike my colors. Get out completely," Neil told him.
"Woe there Hoss. That's a little drastic isn't it? Come on man. 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. We don’t ride anymore. People don’t wave at us anymore. Hell, I had a woman reach across and lock her damn passenger door as I passed her on the freeway. "
"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 clubhouse almost daily."
"Yeah, yeah I remember," Neil said, more subdued. "Bad times."
"Right, but Jacques got his shit together and became 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, and that's got'ta feel like a cold 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 then counting the money in the office. He still felt the stare down was justified, but the counting? Maybe that was over the line he admitted, "Sure, alright, I get that too. Maybe I was a little hard on him, and took it too personally."
West grunted, then said, "Do yourself a favor, stick for six months. At least. Alright? Seriously. You have a lot invested in this club and you have a shit-load of guys that got your back if you decide to ride into hell. Where you going to find that?"
"True," Neil said. "Alright. I'll hang and just drop the dope running. Give it a rest for a while anyway. Let Anton get the kinks worked out."
"Yeah, there you go."
"Thanks West."
"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 a normal in this state.
He smiled to himself and shook his head. Reaching to start up his trike, his hand paused when he heard at least five large engine bikes coming down the cross street toward the warehouse. Dropping his hand he relaxed as they pulled up to the warehouse bay doors. The riders dismounted, killing their engines and went inside. A few minutes later, he heard a distant pop, pop, pop of muffled gunfire. Then the riders came back out, mounted up and left the way they came.
As they made the turn it was easy to see the Devil Knights patches on their vests. And he was sure he recognized Varnish and Ace in that group.
Chapter 11
Saturday afternoon, Shayla laid on the couch with her shirt and bra off, watching the news, while Sydney laid against her, sucking her breasts and arousing her like never before. Shayla was hoping Neil would come through the door soon, because girl-girl always turned him on, and he would, at least fuck them on the couch again. As it was, her hands were exploring Sydney intimately, and urging her on.
She 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 sat up, "Sydney! Look!"
Sydney sat up with her and they watched the story. The Gomez brothers were apparently hung by their feet over the inside balcony and then chopped with some kind of heavy blade. Because of this, the police have suggested Cuban or Jamaican posse involvement.
"Do you think it was Anton?" Sydney asked.
"I don't know, but it sure looks suspicious," she told her.
The news segment wasn't 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 got up and walked into the kitchen not sure why or for what. Her brain was processing too fast.
"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.
"You're probably right. Neil could tell us, but we got people we can call too -- see what was 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 percent to them for several weeks. The fifty-percent was just 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?"
"Maybe. I don't know. Neil would know though. What concerns me is what Anton defines as a traitor."
"You think he would try something like that if we just quit?"
"I don't think so, but if he thought we were dealing for someone
else, he might," she told Sydney.
"So, we need to make it clear that we’re not dealing for the Highwaymen or anyone else," Sydney told her.
"Yeah. That's a good idea."
Neil didn't get back to the apartment until after ten, and when he came through the door, he looked grim.
They gave him space, and got him a beer. Took off his jacket and boots and let him sit down and decompress for a while.
After his second beer was nearly done, Sydney went to get him a third, and Shayla asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"
