Steady Trouble (Steady Teddy Book 1)

by Mike McCrary

  But I will. I’ll go scorched-earth on my new family quicker than whale shit through an ice flow. I am serious about my plan. I do feel like it’s the only way.

  Feel like this does not end with smiles.

  Feel like it ends with bullets, blood and bad feelings.

  There is no way that woman is going to let there be peace.

  I’ve met her. Live and let live isn’t something she’s familiar with.

  Not to mention, that bitch killed my parents.

  Skinny Drake is calming Gordo down. They look to me.

  I wave.

  Gordo stares.

  Chapter 55

  “You realize home invasion isn’t the same as making the peace? Quite different actually,” Gordo says.

  “Got it.”

  We’re on Gordo’s plane, headed to Montana, I’m told.

  They’ve got a large house on a plot of land in no-man’s-land Montana. I hear it’s nice out there. This is the main house of the McCluskey clan. The one Mama considers home. So, of course, this is the one I want. Gordo contacted them and told them our demands. A meeting at the house in Montana with her and the sons. We, in return, would bring Rondo and ourselves, and we would like to end this thing peacefully.

  “You know damn well there isn’t going to be a peace,” I say.

  “There could be, if you’d consider it.”

  “That’s a fairy tale, Gordo, and you know it.”

  Rondo is still out cold. We’ve strapped him into a seat and secured the wheelchair we used to get him on the plane. “He’s a sick friend,” we told people. Skinny Drake is also passed out. Gordo is working over a glass of scotch and refilling as he sees necessary. I declined the booze. Wanted to let my mind unwind naturally as I watch the tiny world below pass by. A world that has much different plans than I have.

  “You know people around there? Gonna need things,” I say.

  Gordo nods.

  “Like guns. I mean guns and shit. Like a lot. I mean, I’ve got my bat but this visit might take a wee bit more juice.”

  “I can find us some tools.” He leans in to me close. “If you’re going down this path, and it sounds like you are, we might consider bringing in some help.”

  “Nope. No more people. Got too damn many as it is.”

  “Teddy—”

  “Nope.”

  “Teddy, we are outnumbered. This little family you’re about to go to war with? They have security. Not to mention, they do this all the time. Violence isn’t a new thing for them. They are not strangers to the concept—violence is their friend. They might be surprised for a half a second, and when that half second has passed… they are going to unleash.”

  I avoid eye contact, looking out the window. I know he’s right.

  Hate that he’s right.

  “Please, think about letting me find us some help on this.”

  “Like who?”

  “I know two guys. Two brothers who do this type of work.”

  “And what work is that?”

  “Nasty work, Teddy.” Gordo tips his scotch back.

  Chapter 56

  The metal door to the self-storage unit rolls open.

  We’re at a shitty storage facility near the Bert Mooney Airport in Butte. The weather is nice. The city is beautiful. There’s even a ninety-foot Virgin Mary. But this storage place? Not beautiful in the slightest. It’s a shithole. Maybe that’s the point.

  Inside the storage unit is nice buffet of firepower. Laid out much in the same way as the condo back in Austin. A variety of handguns, shotguns and what look like tricked-out assault rifles, along with boxes of bullets and magazines. There’s also some communication equipment, like mini portable mics and earpieces. I’ve never liked guns, still don’t, but recent events have made me come over to the dark side.

  Still like my bat best.

  It’s got personality.

  The Nasty Brothers are going to meet us here, I’m told. Told that’s not their real last name, but it’s what they go by. More of a branding thing, I guess. Gordo says they are a little rough around the edges, but effective. The Nastys have done a lot of work for the McCluskeys over the years, but have no strong feelings for them. They’re more independent contractors than family friends. They’ve been screwed over just as bad as everyone else by the McCluskeys and would welcome the opportunity to get some payback while earning a paycheck.

  I still don’t like the idea of bringing in outside help, but I realize we’re outnumbered and Mama McCluskey probably has some things waiting for us. I only just now realize my last meal might be a bag of pork rinds and a Dr. Pepper I got from a gas station on the way over here.

  I might die in that house tonight.

  This is crazy. What in the hell am I doing?

  I’m standing in front of a concrete floor full of weapons, about to go visit some people who want to kill me, and waiting to meet two dudes who call themselves the Nasty Brothers and, not to mention, they’re late as hell.

  May you live in strange times.

  I want my times to be less strange, thank you.

  Want to get back to a life less strange. I want to sit and watch TV. I want calm. I want the wall of worry to come crumbling down. I want to sleep. To be one of the normal folks. One of the nameless, faceless masses that trudge through life. I want boring.

  Dare to be boring.

  A couple of wiry guys are walking toward us.

  Skinny Drake and I each grab a 9 mm and jam in magazines. We both look to each other, impressed by how good we’re getting at this sort of thing. Gordo motions for us to stand down while he goes and talks to them. He walks toward the two guys moving down a busted concrete walkway lined with rusty storage units. Both of the brothers are about the same height, roughly six foot I’m guessing. Not massive, but not tiny either. Their arms are tight wraps of muscle around bone. Both covered in tats, scars, and attitude. They’re dressed like they work at a tech startup. Both look like out-of-place hipsters. One of them is white, the other black.

  Gordo explained that he doesn’t know their real names. They simply go by White and Black Nasty and they only accept cash. Gordo shakes their hands and points back to us. I give them an exaggerated, excited wave, kinda like I just saw Taylor Swift. Black Nasty returns my wave and matches the excitement with his mouth open and eyes wide, then returns to ice cold in a blink of an eye.

  “You trust these guys?” Skinny Drake asks me.

  “Of course not.”

  “Gordo trusts them.”

  “Yeah. Looks like it.”

  “What do we do?”

  I watch Gordo hand them each a stack of a cash.

  “We trust them until we don’t,” I say.

  White and Black Nasty each blow us a kiss.

  I give them a finger curl wave and swallow hard as hell.

  Chapter 57

  I’m told we are near the Big Hole River.

  Me, Skinny Drake and Gordo, along with White and Black Nasty, are lying in the dirt on a small rise in the land, overlooking the large plot of earth the McCluskeys call home. The night sky is huge, peppered with stars. Amazing to take in, under different circumstances.

  Rondo is tied up, lying next to me with his mouth gagged. He’s awake now and pissed, but I don’t care. He said a few choice words, still about balls, before we shut him up. We don’t really even need him anymore, but I wanted to have him as a just-in-case type of deal. Like, say, if we get bunched up and need some back pocket aces to lay down. Plus, I don’t like the guy, so the idea of him being tied up and freezing out here makes me happy. It’s cold by the way. Around forty or so, which considering I came from a Texas oven that was clocking in around a hundred plus, is pretty damn cold to me.

  From my view through the binoculars, this place looks peaceful. A large, two-story home that stretches out like a big-ass L stuck in the land. I like Montana. Maybe I’ll think about relocating here someday.

  Don’t like thinking like this, but it’s obvious:
this place is a better version of my parents’ place. I feel it. The anger. My anger. It’s coming on fast. This place is bigger, it’s nicer and, oh yeah, the woman inside killed my parents and tried to kill me. I want to get up and run screaming into that house and unload on everyone and everything in there. I want to spit fire and crap smoke. I want the people inside that nice house to hurt.

  But I know that’s not the right move here.

  I breathe in and out. Finding calm is hard.

  I look out again at the house. It’s bathed in spotlights that illuminate the front and back, along with the surrounding land. Not by accident, either. Gordo told me there are motion detectors and cameras all around that house. This is the home of criminals, and they haven’t been around this long by not taking care of shit.

  I look over to Gordo. Both he and the Nastys have been in that house so, unfortunately, I have to defer to their knowledge of the place. They’ve given me and Skinny Drake a brief rundown of the layout. Giving up control of this does not make me happy, but I don’t really have much of a choice in the matter. Recently, my uncle hasn’t given me any reason to suspect otherwise. He’s been pretty straight with us since that unfortunate business at the hotel, but ya know, he’s been with Mama McCluskey and the rest of them longer than me and my brother.

  Old habits die hard.

  We worked out a plan before we got here. It’s not elegant, but it’s what we’ve got. Surprise is really all we’ve got, and what we’ve worked out maximizes that advantage.

  I think it does.

  I hope it does.

  Gordo passes out the night-vision goggles to all of us, along with some black ski masks to cover our faces. We’re also all connected, so we can communicate verbally. Earpieces stuck in ears and mics placed near lips. We’ve tested them. Wired for bad shit, the Nastys called it. We had a quick tutorial on the gear on the way over. The Nastys are very informed people. They’re also crazier than hell, but I love their balls. I mean, not their actual balls, never seen them—forget it. I admire their grit.

  White and Black Nasty climb up into a large Ford F-150 Raptor. There’s a thick, steel cattle guard mounted to the front grill along with floodlights mounted above the cab. It’s a massive, steel beast of a vehicle with tires bigger than Skinny Drake. The Nastys are armed with assault rifles, and sit in the truck’s cab waiting for Gordo to give them the signal.

  This is really happening.

  Me, Skinny Drake and Gordo stay low and move down toward the house, staying in the darkest patches and trying to move quiet as can be. We move under the cover of darkness, but it’s not dark to us. To us the world is a big canvass of greenish blackness through the night-vision goggles. We’ll take them off shortly. We only need them for this part of the thing.

  I can’t keep my head from churning thoughts. Can’t help but think of things as we move along. My nature, I guess. My head not only thinks of my parents, but of Lizzy and Diego. Of that poor, annoying girl who worked the desk at the condo. The waiter and his boss at the pancake diner. Of all the people I don’t even know about who have lost their lives or have been hurt by the McCluskeys. This isn’t about money anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not giving it back. I’m not a moron. But this is about ending these horrible people in that house. And as much as I hate to admit it, I like what Jonathan had to say in New York.

  What he said about doing some good with his money.

  I like that.

  I want that.

  Need to remember that in the coming minutes, because some fairly rough stuff is about to go down real quick. Gordo motions for us to get down. The three of us are hiding behind a rock about fifty yards or so from the house. Gordo knows the cameras and security tech can’t find us here. He turns to us.

  This is it.

  My stomach twists.

  He speaks to the Nastys via his mic. One word. Two letters placed next to one another in the correct order to form a word that will change everything.

  Gordo simply says, “Go.”

  The Raptor moves toward us.

  We left Rondo tied up back there on the hill.

  Because, ya know, fuck Rondo.

  Chapter 58

  The Raptor starts with a slow roll down the hill toward the house.

  Headlights off.

  Rolling slowly but gaining speed with each passing second, like a boulder coming down a mountain.

  I look to Gordo as he checks his gun. I check mine along with my bat. Mr. 9 mm in my right. Mrs. Bat in my left. I check Skinny Drake too. He’s a nervous damn mess, but his gun is ready. I know once it’s show time he’ll be good to go.

  He’s a gamer.

  He has to be.

  We all do.

  Once the Raptor passes us we’ll start hauling ass toward the house behind it. The truck is not far away. I glance to the house. I think of Mama McCluskey in there. Asleep with no idea of what’s coming her way.

  Good.

  I’m giving her much more notice than she gave my parents. At least she knows we’re coming. She’s only fuzzy on the time.

  Raptor passes by us.

  We get up on our feet in unison, pushing forward toward the house. We’ll be in the lights soon, but not before the Nastys. The Raptor’s engine roars, splitting the silence of the night in two. The Nastys have opened her up with the pedal down now. That steel beast is charging hard and fast toward the house. We pick up our pace now, charging at full speed. We’re a thundering herd from hell. The truck is closer and closer, going faster and faster. A rampaging shit fit of metal and crazy fueled with bad intentions hurtling toward the house.

  We’re running full tilt now. Knees churning high. Feet pounding dirt. Legs sprinting in a straight line toward the front of the house with bad intentions of our own.

  At the last possible moment, White Nasty dives from the passenger side and Black Nasty dives from the driver’s. They tumble-roll into the dirt, both coming up with their assault rifles at the ready. Part of the plan, but damn impressive to see in real time.

  Alarms in the house start to blare. A screeching, irritating noise ripping the night calm all to hell. Lights kick on inside in the house one after the other.

  The Raptor slams the front doors like a runaway crazy train. Smashes through with the force of a steel sledgehammer powered by a four hundred and fifty horsepower V-8. Looks more like an explosion than a truck wreck.

  While running full throttle, I can’t even see if there’s much left of the front of the house through the dust and debris. Really does look like a bomb went off. The home security alarms keep screaming into the night. The entire house is now lit up like a Christmas tree. As each light comes on the Nastys lay down fire through each window, blowing them out one by one. The glass shatters, then falls to the dirt in a tinkling rain of sharp shards.

  Black Nasty turn his attention from the windows to the massive hole at the front of the house. He blasts rounds through the dust and smoke, clearing the way for us to go running on in.

  “Take off the goggles,” Gordo says.

  We obey. This mask itches. We race past the Nastys, almost to the blown-out entrance of the house. Above the sound of alarms and streams of gunfire, I can barely make out yelling and screaming coming from inside the house.

  Surprise is gone.

  Dead.

  Gordo is the first through into the house. I grit my teeth, expecting to hear gunfire erupt. It doesn’t. No, that doesn’t start until me and Skinny Drake jump on through.

  Into the hole.

  As I enter the house a rip of bullets spews from above, plunking into the floor in front of me. Skinny Drake grabs my shoulder, spinning me clear, sending me tumbling behind a pillar. As he does he catches a bullet. Maybe the shoulder or the arm.

  White globs start moving across my vision.

  I spin out with my gun blasting. No idea what I’m aiming at. Can’t see shit. I reach, finding a handful of Skinny Drake’s shirt and pull him over with me. More bullets pound away at us.
The sound is punishing. I try to find out where he’s shot and how bad it is, but I’m interrupted by the chunks of pillar being blasted all to hell next to my face.

  I stick my arm around, firing my gun without looking, trying to hold them back without seeing who them is.

  “Gordo,” I bark into the mic.

  Nothing.

  More bullets gouge chunks from the pillar. Skinny Drake is bleeding badly.

  “Gordo!”

  More white globs.

  Static cracks. Gordo’s voice finally comes through. “I’ve got Marcus. Get upstairs. Mama is holed up in the office.”

  “We’re pinned down. My brother is hit—”

  A hand whips around, grabbing me by the throat. It’s that asshole Malik I thought I killed at the condo in Austin. His face is all fucked up thanks to me, but he’s very much alive and pissed off. He punches my face.

  Once.

  Twice.

  I swing my bat around, tagging him solidly in the side of the head. This kid does not learn. He drops sideways. As he hits the floor another one storms in behind him with an assault rifle held dead on me. I raise my gun, taking two wild shots before diving clear. The guy lets off a burst of fire that whizzes inches to the right of me.

  I land, skidding behind a couch. I jam-load a fresh magazine and grab my bat. I can see Skinny Drake on the ground a few feet away. He’s awake, but doesn’t look good. He gives me a thumbs-up, but I know it’s bullshit. I hear some shots off in the distance, maybe upstairs.

  The house alarm has stopped screaming at us.

  Shots rip up the couch I’m hiding behind. Where I am isn’t going to hold much longer. I look to my brother and give him a finger countdown.