by PT Reade
“Dirty?”
“Sure. When someone don’t wanna tell you the details of a job it usually means they’re trying to keep their own hands clean. That’s up to them, but if it all goes south—as it often does—it leaves me and the boys facing the shit. This guy was serious, up to something big and dangerous. The whole thing didn’t feel right, so I turned him down. I told him we don’t do that anymore. Not all the members were happy, but they know who’s in charge. We had absolutely nothing to do with that explosion.”
“I had a feeling you would say that. I already know it wasn’t your crew. What I do want to know is which crew it was.” I pulled free my cell phone and swiped to the pictures I had taken outside the ruined police building. The two men battered and bullet-ridden.
Lincoln leaned forward with a groan from his chair, glanced at the images and spat on the ground like something from an old western movie.
“SMC,” he said tersely.
“SMC? Wanna fill me in?” I resisted taking another sip of my beer.
“Staten Motorcycle Club. A bunch of wannabe tough guys from across the city with shitty taste in bikes and even less taste in company. They take on jobs no one else wants.”
“You sound bitter,” I noted.
“Bitter? Hah! Listen, back in the fifties and sixties a dozen motorcycle clubs sprung up in the city, maybe more. The Angels, Outlaws, Bandidos … a whole bunch. But over time, the city pushed us all out. Only a handful survived. Those willing to change with the times … or those willing to lower their standards. The SMC are the latter. These guys are just thugs. They don’t give a shit who they hurt. They aren’t even New Yorkers. Everyone believes the SMC is based on Staten Island, but they really operate a chop-shop in Newark. I guess the New Jersey MC doesn’t sound so good.”
“So, you know where they are?”
“I do, and I suppose you want me to tell you?”
“That would be helpful.”
“Ordinarily I wouldn’t help an outsider but it strikes me that today is quite extraordinary, so I’m gonna cut you a favor. Besides, anything that takes the SMC down a peg or two is fine with me.”
Lincoln gave me the address, which I punched quickly into my phone.
“Appreciate that, thanks.” I stood to leave but turned back to ask one last question. “By the way, you said you found out what the job was anyway. What was the job that Mr. Upmarket wanted?”
“A hit,” Lincoln replied matter-of-factly. “One man dead for half a million bucks.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
Someone had deep pockets. And they were smart. They’d probably paid for the hit on Teach to keep their own hands clean. I pushed open the door, heading back to the parking lot.
“Take care,” Lincoln shouted after me.
“Thanks,” I said, not expecting the thoughtful concern from such a toughened man.
Lincoln startled me by laughing. “Not you, asshole. I mean the bike—take care of it; it’s a classic.”
TWENTY-ONE
Rey and I arrived at the street across from the Staten Motorcycle Club headquarters at the same time. As he stepped out of his city-issued vehicle, I watched a smirk roll across his lips, taking in the motorcycle I’d borrowed.
“That thing sticks out like a hooker in a monastery,” he taunted. Rey wasn’t wrong. The bike was designed for grabbing attention. Inconspicuous it was not.
“Yeah, but it’s a lot more fun than that thing,” I said, indicating the unmarked cruiser that still looked every bit like a cop car. “Faster through traffic, too.”
“Maybe you should join a gang; you already have the bike.”
“Yeah, very funny. Did you dig up anything on Kellerman?”
“Not much. He’s slippery. I tried calling his office, but one of his assistants or lackeys or whatever, told me the boss was out on business and only in the office for about an hour at 1pm tomorrow. Any questions should be directed to his lawyer, of course.”
“Of course. And did you direct any of those questions?”
“Sorry, I’m allergic to lawyers.” Rey shook his head then motioned to the old garage before us. “Anyway, shall we?”
We were in the heart of Newport, across the river from the twinkling lights of Manhattan and just a few miles from my old apartment. It was familiar territory, but I’d never had reason to visit this particular location since the death of my family. I lifted an arm to wipe the sweat from my face. The heat of the evening refused to shift, a punishment from Mother Nature. I turned to curse her sense of humor and spotted a dark Mercedes SUV down the street. It looked eerily similar to the one I’d seen earlier. Maybe it was following us. Or perhaps I was finally losing my mind. It had been a too long since I’d slept.
Focusing on the garage, Rey and I assessed our options for entry. The street was too quiet. The front was lined with three bays secured by garage doors with shiny locks. I tried one on the off-chance it’d been left unlocked and was disappointed. But it was to be expected. In this neighborhood, citizens knew to lock up anything of value. Rey pointed towards a side door, and we approached, as quietly as possible.
The side door was locked too, but it would be easier to manipulate. Rey pulled a credit card and tried sliding it into the slight gap between the door and its frame. The lock refused to release.
“You’ve seen too many movies, buddy,” I said, gently nudging Rey aside. “The card thing never works. Here let me try.”
Since leaving the force, I’d gained a bit more experience in breaking and entering. Sometimes with a boot, other times with more finesse. I pulled a pair of slim metal picks from my wallet and went to work. Within a few seconds, I was rewarded with the characteristic click of a lock sliding free.
Rey glanced at me sideways, and whispered, “Open sesame.”
We pulled our guns and prepared to confront whatever was waiting on the other side. Rey mouthed a countdown 3 - 2 - 1. I pushed the door wide, simultaneously raising my Glock. It opened into a small area that was probably once a reception space. It was largely empty, save for a chair and a few tattered boxes plastered in automotive brand stickers. We moved inside silently, guns drawn, clearing the area as we stepped towards the main garage, where flickering strip lights cast long, alien shadows.
Two things became evident as we moved through the doorless frame. First, this was definitely the Staten Island Motor Club’s headquarters. The wall featured a large insignia with the initials “SMC” and a dozen or more bikes intermingled with an assortment of motorcycle parts. Suspension forks, exhaust systems, and the odd intercooler. Secondly, metal wasn’t the only thing littering the floor.
Bodies.
Most clad in leather and wearing a healthy dose of ink. They sprawled in awkward and seemingly impossible positions, laying silent wherever they had fallen. Some held handguns, but it was clear few had time to fire. It had been a massacre. I counted twelve.
All bikers. All dead.
Crimson seeped from bullet wounds. Many of the shots had been dead center—carefully aimed for the heart or forehead. The gunfight had been one-sided. The assailants hadn’t given the gang members a chance.
I took in all the bodies and shuddered. These hadn’t been innocent bystanders, but it was still a painful loss of human life. All for what—a turf war? Or did this somehow relate to the bombing?
Rey and I exchanged looks. No words were said. We knew the difficult job we had to complete. Sweep for evidence and call it in.
I looked carefully at the wounds and then the scattering of spent shells on the floor.
A handful of .45 casings, some 9mm too, matching the pair of pistols dropped on the floor. Cheap rounds, easy to buy. Typical for gang members and bikers. But a couple of other casings drew my eye; these were much bigger, longer and copper-colored.
I picked one up. It was 5.56 caliber at least. Another small pile glistened in the corner, these ones even bigger—7.62. These rounds hadn’t come from some street punks or a riv
al gang. This was serious hardware. Assault rifles, real firepower.
“Hey, Rey, come take a—”
A low moan echoing from one of the garage bays, cut off my words, making us jump.
I spun around, searching for the source.
“Over here!” Rey shouted.
I dashed to where Rey crouched, near a slumped figure.
The guy was alive, but barely. He was fitter than most of his comrades. Bulging muscles suggested he’d spent more than a few hours at the gym or a few hours taking pills. His black, shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail. By the puddle beneath him, it was also clear the man had lost a lot of blood. The faint moans escaping his lips were barely audible, more animal than human.
It also was hard to miss the deep chest wound that continued to trickle blood. It was a wonder the man could make any sounds at all. He wouldn’t last much longer. I doubted he’d even survive until the ambulance arrived—but maybe he could hold on long enough to tell us what happened.
“Call the EMTs,” I said to Rey. “Quick.”
He already had his phone in motion, punching the number.
The man on the floor groaned again. “What’s your name?” I asked, bending closer to hear the response.
“Why would I tell you anything?” he gargled with surprising resolve.
“What happened here? Who did this?” I pressed.
The biker spat his response in actual saliva, barely missing my face, “…don’t talk to cops,” he slowly uttered.
My anger built.
This man was my only lead to Teach, and he was playing games, fearing cops when he was about to die anyway. More people would die, more people because of me.
Without thinking, I jammed the business end of my pistol into the man’s wound. He cried out, but I didn’t yield.
“Tell me what happened!” I said, barely recognizing the rage filling my voice.
A firm hand grabbed my shoulder and pulled me away. I didn’t resist.
“That’s enough, Blume,” Rey said.
I looked down at my shaking hands and took a breath. The events of the previous few days were taking their toll.
Rey knelt beside the dying man and spoke calmly. “If you want revenge, you’ll tell us what happened. You’re the only one left, and to be honest, you won’t be for long. If you don’t tell us who is responsible—your brothers’ deaths will be for nothing, but tell us, and we can make the ones responsible pay.”
The man fell silent for a moment. Weighing everything that had been said. I saw the spark in his eye when Rey mentioned revenge. I knew he would obey if he lived long enough.
Between ragged breaths, the man mouthed abrupt phrases. One fragment of a sentence at a time. As he spoke, I noticed a round scar near the base of his elbow. This wasn’t his first time being shot. He likely had countless stories of life on the edge, but there was only one I was interested in hearing.
“Was a job … hired hit. A bomb … explosion …” The man coughed. He was fading. “…rest of the money … double-crossed.”
“Who did this?” Rey asked.
“They … they…”
The final word was more labored than the rest. The man was out of breath. He gasped, reaching for more, but the words wouldn’t come. Finally, his body became limp as the light vanished from his eyes.
I took a few steps back, processing the information as I watched Rey’s hand move forward, closing the man’s eyes. Finally, my former partner stood and ran a hand through his hair. “This … this is a bloodbath.”
“It’s a goddam execution is what it is,” I said, wiping the barrel of my pistol on a nearby rag and resecuring it in the holster. “These bastards didn’t deserve this. What did he say, something about a double cross?”
“Something about money, or a hit. You think they made a deal that went bad?”
“Very bad,” I replied, glancing down at the still figure on the floor.
It suddenly hit me the biker’s arm was slumped in an unnatural position, fingers intentionally outstretched in one direction. In death, he was indicating a wardrobe-sized tool cupboard on the nearest wall.
Rey watched as I stepped cautiously to the metallic cupboard. My initial inspection turned up nothing unusual, but there had to be a reason the man had directed us here, his dying message. Beside the closet, a series of wrenches, ratchets, and pliers were mounted in an arbitrary pattern. I started trying them in vain. The first several came loose in my hand, and I tossed them aside. Finally, one of the wrenches clicked. I tried the cupboard. It was no longer tight against the wall. I shoved hard and pushed the whole thing wide, revealing a small, hidden doorway, opening into a darkened passage.
“Hey, Rey!” I said. “You’re not gonna believe this.”
TWENTY-TWO
The unwieldy tool cabinet groaned as it swung open on hidden hinges. Behind it, the gaping maw of a dark doorway appeared in a rush of stale air. Foreboding and dangerous, it was pitch black.
I looked to Rey, he looked back at me and shrugged.
“Open sesame,” I said wryly.
Freeing my gun, I heaved the tool cabinet a few inches wider so that we could fit into the space behind. Rey stepped up beside me and peered into the darkness.
“Looks cozy,” he said. “You go first.”
I glanced sideways at my old partner. He knew I hated tight spaces. “Thanks, pal.”
I took a breath and slid into the black entrance. There was no daylight, no source of light at all. With my gun in my right hand, I freed my cell phone with my left and after thirty seconds of trying to discover the flashlight mode, gave up and simply turned the screen ahead. A grey industrial tunnel flickered into being on either side of me. Cinder block walls, concrete floors, and overhead, a series of hissing pipes and ducts. A maintenance shaft.
Despite the sweltering heat in the narrow space, a shudder ran through my body. God, I hate places like this.
I squinted, trying to pierce the black ahead, but the weak light from my cell phone didn’t cut through the gloom. There was a slight scuffing though, almost as if—
“Hey man,” Rey stepped up behind me placing a hand on my shoulder. I nearly jumped a foot in the air.
“Jesus, Rey, don’t do that to me.”
“Sorry princess, did I scare the big bad P.I.?”
“Shut up, you. Do you have a flashlight?”
“In my car maybe, not right now. I don’t carry everything on me you know. I’m not Batman.”
“Yeah, ok. Fine, we don’t have much time. Let’s go. Just keep it quiet and watch your head. If I’m right, some of those pipes are gonna be hot as hell.”
“Got it.”
We stepped further into the gloom, and this time both of us started when we found the source of the scuffing. A giant brown rat scurried across the tunnel directly ahead. It paused, apparently curious at the strange glow from my cell phone, and then dashed off underneath a vent near our feet.
“See? Even the rats don’t like you,” Rey whispered.
“What can I say? I’m more of a mouse person,” I muttered. “Hey, wait. Look here.”
Lowering the light, I moved it side to side. Directly ahead of us the tunnel stopped and took a sharp drop into an access hatch. I held the light up, and Rey moved to open it.
“Hey, be careful. It could be hot.”
Rey nodded and gingerly reached for the handle. He stopped his hand, hovering over the grab handle, then went for broke. Rey grabbed it, immediately groaned and yanked his hand back.
“Jesus, are you—”
Rey crouched, and for a moment I thought he was doubled over in pain. Then I heard the stifled laughter.
“Very funny dickhead.”
Rey turned to me, and under the glow of my phone, I saw his trademark smug grin. “Sorry man,” He breathed. “I couldn’t resist!”
I rolled my eyes. It was dark, he probably didn’t see it, but I couldn’t resist either. “Just open it. Come on.”
Rey craned his neck and peered down. “Wonder what’s down there?”
“I wonder,” I said, fixing him with a hard look.
Rey looked to me, to the hole and back to me. “Wait, you want me to go first?”
“Consider it payback for your little prank. Besides, I need to hold the light so you can see where you are going.”
“But…ugh, fine.” Rey holstered his pistol, swung a leg onto the first railing and began shimmying down the ladder, while I held my phone overhead offering as much illumination as possible. After a couple of seconds, he disappeared out of sight. I gave him a few more moments before calling down.
“Hey, you ok? What’s down there?”
“Yeah. Just give me a sec, let me get my phone and—ok got it …. Holy shit!”
“What is it? What’s down there Rey?”
Silence.
“Rey! What’s going on?”
For a few moments, he didn’t reply. I wiped the sweat from my eyes and was trying to work out a way to climb down the ladder with a weapon in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Just then, Rey popped into view at the base of the shaft, about twenty feet below, his own cell phone casting dancing shadows around the space.
“Blume, I’m ok,” he called up. “But you have to get down here. You won’t believe this.”
TWENTY-THREE
Twenty feet below the earth, in the sweltering maintenance tunnel I placed my foot on the concrete floor and stepped off the ladder. I turned, for a moment completely disoriented, and head-thumping, stomach-lurching scared, as my claustrophobia pushed in from the edges.
Somewhere ahead, strange light danced across the walls and shadows stretched into obscene creatures and terrifying thoughts. My pulse quickened.
Breathe.
“Rey?”
