The three combatants spin round and round careening off of living room furniture, potted plants and the wall. Then to everyone’s shock and awe the gun wielding biker type staggers away from Cade with one half of a nine hundred dollar pair of black Prada ankle boots attached to his head. A large silver handgun goes skittering across the wooden floor right towards me and under the coffee table. As I twist around to get into a position to reach under the table, a hot inky spray of bright red blood splatters across my shirt and onto my neck. The shock of seeing blood for the first time gives me pause; unfortunately it doesn’t give anyone else pause and the battle rages on. With the gun out of the ugly man’s hands Cade and Stacy seem to finally have the upper hand.
Cade easily blocks the other man’s kick and Stacy just attaches herself to the man’s back and is just pounding on the man’s ear with her clenched fist. Then, as suddenly as it began, it all ends when Cade lands a lethal blow to the man’s exposed throat. Both he and Stacy fall to the floor in a heap. Ethan steps back and looks towards me who is still on the couch trying to get into position to retrieve the fallen gun.
“Are you okay?” He asks.
Strange how he asks me first rather than Stacy who actually was in the battle.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “But shouldn’t you be asking your partner in crime there?”
“Oh I know she’s fine.” He replies. “She’s a scrapper!”
“I’m guessing this isn’t the first fight you’ve been in Stacy. Am I right?”
“When your cousin is the president of a powerful biker club it kinda goes with the territory.”
Stacy gets up off the floor, wipes off imaginary dust and retrieves her fallen purse from the hall. The pulls out her iPad and says to me.
“Looks like it’s gonna be a good day. The Dow’s up 185 to just over 15,000, the NASDAQ is at 4,675 and the S&P 500 just breached eighteen hundred!”
“Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with Stacy Adams?” I ask. “You’re shoe is sticking out of some bald guy’s head, your Donna Karan suit is beyond salvage and your giving me updates on the market?”
“Money-”
“Never sleeps!” We finish the mantra in unison.
How true it is. If any of my clients were to call right now and I told them that someone just tried to murder me I’d get the standard uninterested response; something like this.
“Hmmm oh uh wow. So how’s Pfizer holding up this morning?”
That’s it. Four syllables would be all that is dedicated to my life and death problems, then it’d be on to what’s going on with the stock market and how’s everybody’s money doing? It’s okay though. This is what I signed up for. There’s no such thing as loyalty when it comes to people and their money. You make them millions of dollars over the years, but then one trade goes south and they’re crying foul and moving their account to a different broker. If you’re lucky you don’t hear from them in arbitration. That’s when whiny assholes try to make you responsible for their stupidity. Sad thing is the arbitration judges almost always side with the investor over the broker even if the investor was at fault.
Suddenly I remember something. There’s a dead guy on the floor not fifteen feet from me. Not my problem of course unless it interferes with my doing business here. I decide to ask what’s to be done with the body but Cade is already on the phone presumably making arrangements.
The rest of the day goes as predicted; very good. Everything I touched today turns to gold leaving me feeling like the female version of King Midas. I’m only vaguely aware that three scary looking dudes came into the house a couple hours ago and removed the body without saying a peep to any of us live folks. When the closing bell for the stock market rang I actually thought I’d gotten away with being witness to murder and with no adverse side effects. That is until this very moment. The trembling begins in the tips of my fingers. It’s so slight that I don’t at first notice it. But five minutes later my arms are shaking and the rest of my body is vibrating in place. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I keep looking on the floor where there were splatters of blood not three hours ago. There was a dead body right next to that potted plant and under the coffee table…Oh my god, there’s still the gun under the table. And there were shots fired in the hall. I look across the room and I see a hole in the plaster wall where a bullet entered. Oh fuck! Here comes my freak out!
Then suddenly Cade is on the couch beside me and his arms are there protecting me. Well, protecting my body. But whose gonna protect my brain?
“I take it you’ve never seen a dead person before?” He asks.
I shake my head. “My mom…she…she died on her b-birthday when I-I was 13. I found her in bed. I had a try of food. I-I made breakfast and…and s-she was d-dead.”
“Oh shit, I am so sorry Morgan. This must have re-traumatized you. I get so used to…to this life and I forget how it affects others when our two worlds collide. I’m not a bad person Morgan. You just have to get to know me, that’s all.”
“I bet that’s what all killers say.”
“I’ve known a lot of killers in my lifetime and believe me, many of them, had you asked would have acknowledged they were not good guys at all.”
“But not you?” I reply. “You’re different from the other killers? Well I’m sure I won’t be spending that much time with you! As charming as you might be, I don’t think I want to get to know a killer.”
“Wow…even one who saved your life?”
“My life wouldn’t have needed saving had you been a normal person.” I retort back.
“And if you had been a normal person and looked both ways before stepping out into traffic I wouldn’t be stuck here with you watching while you’re turning your millionaire clients into billionaire clients.”
“Jealous much?”
“I don’t think I’ve seen anything to get jealous of yet. I’m not who you think I am Morgan. I’m not a killer; at least not in the traditional sense of the word. I have killed but only when necessary and not because I take any pleasure in taking another’s life. That guy there who I just killed, he’s got a mom somewhere who no doubt loves him. He’s probably got a dad who wants to be proud of his son but I have just taken it all away. I robbed his family of what he could have been and it’s a heavy burden to bear.”
“Yeah, whatever…”
“You’re so judgmental. You sit there with your millions insulated from the real world. You look down on people like me but I’m exactly the guy you want with you when your fancy Mercedes breaks down and your cell phone dies. I’m the guy who’ll keep the wolves at bay. You need me Morgan, but I don’t need you.”
It’s amazing how easy it is for us to go from civil conversation to libelous, contentious, slanderous talk.
“For starters, my Mercedes wouldn’t break down. But say someone ran a red light, struck my car and fled the scene leaving me by myself in a totaled car and I still wouldn’t need you. My car would automatically transmit my current location and alert the police and medical rescue without me even needing to tell them I was in an accident. My millions that you so clearly disdain makes you obsolete! “
“You don’t like violence and the people who participate in it, yet it’s your millions that’s causing most of the conflict between motorcycle clubs. You and your co-workers spend millions of dollars on cocaine and marijuana which my rivals supply you. In turn they take the profits and buy illegal arms to use against me.”
Abruptly he gets up from his recliner and kneels down by the coffee table. After a couple seconds he stands up with a gun in his hand. He does something and the magazine falls out in his hand. Then he does something else and a bullet pops out from the top of the gun. He catches it mid-air and puts it in the magazine. He studies the gun carefully before talking again.
“This is a CZ-75 from the Czech Republic. It’s in perfect condition and has had the serial numbers filed off.”
He shows me.
“Is t
his supposed to mean something to me?” I ask.
“The Hoarde motorcycle club deals in small arms from that area of the world. While you could purchase this gun at the store for about $400, your average street thug would end up paying about a grand for this gun in this kind of shape. The Hoarde buys up to 60 guns at a time and they double their money on just about every sale. The guns are financed by drugs which are financed by people like you who are making people wealthy enough to buy the drugs.”
“Wow, blame me for the problems of the world, how original. I thought you were smarter than that.”
“Alright, that’s it!” Stacy shouts. “You guys are nuts. It’s obvious to me you’re into each other so just shut up admit it already and then you’ll fight a lot less I’m sure.”
We both look at her in surprise. She’s not one to react like that.
“We’re not into each other,” I say, as my face heats up. I must be beet red right about now but she has the good grace to not point it out in front of me or Cade.
She walks over to the couch where I’m camped out. Then she reaches out and pulls something from between the cushions and holds it up for all to see. It’s a condom wrapper. Shit!
“I suppose this just got here by itself this morning?” She asks triumphantly.
“You know there’s such a thing as being too fucking smart for your own good Stacy.”
“Yeah,” she replies. “I passed that benchmark when I was in the third grade.”
That’s probably true. The woman is smart as hell. Rumor has it that her IQ is nearing 200. She got one of the highest recorded scores on the LSAT in the last two decades yet she chose to go into finance. Fortunately Cade is on the phone now and walking into the kitchen so he probably didn’t hear Stacy’s remarks.
“Alright Sherlock Holmes, we did the nasty, so fucking what?”
Her face actually lights up. Who’d have thought she’d be such a gossip monger.
“He’s hella hot!” She says. “Tell me this isn’t just a shag and not something more significant! He may be an outlaw biker, but he is still my cousin and we grew up together. I actually care about him.”
“Just a fucking shag, Stacy so keep your pants on. He’s a fucking criminal biker! I can’t be associated with people like that.”
“When did you get morals?” She asks. “You’ve never balked at working with white collar criminals before so why not a freaking hot blue collar criminal? This is not the time to suddenly develop a conscious Morgan.”
“Geeze, you sound like a mother…well an anti-mother. A normal mom wouldn’t be giving out this kind of advice.”
“Think of me as the devil on your shoulder then.” She replies.
If she’s the devil then Jason would be the angel on the opposite shoulder. He’s the ethical one with an actual conscious. That’s probably the reason he’ll never go farther up the food chain that he already is. This is a mother fucker of a business and working at Capital America is like swimming in shark infested waters. You either become a shark or you become bait. The only reason why Jason hasn’t been gobbled up as bait is because I have been protecting him. Stacy needed protection when she first started as my assistant, but she soon grew out of the need for a mother hen; thank god. I can’t handle mothering more than one assistant at a time for any length.
“What you did back there Stacy, it was in-fucking-credible! Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
“That wasn’t fighting, that was just…just scrapping. I grew up the youngest child and had four older brothers so I had to learn how to scrap. When Cabe moved in with us I learned how to fight. And besides, I was just protecting my income stream.” She replies meaning me.
Not only does she get a salary, she also gets a small…a very small percentage of my net commissions from trades. She earns more on trades than her salary.
“Be sure to send me the bill for those shoes by the way, and don’t you forget.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“So what’s going on back at the office? Have you been in touch with Jason?”
For the next thirty minutes she proceeds to fill me in on office business, office politics, and office gossip. Then we talk stocks. I value her input. Not only is she an unusually good stock picker, but she’s a damn good analyst. While I prefer to keep track of things on my own; my current situation prevents that so I am relying on her and Jason more than usual. We’re just wrapping up our rap session when Cade comes back in with a dark look on his face.
“I have some business to take care of Morgan. Are you going to be alright on your own for a few hours?”
“I’ll be fine. Just leave the drugs with Stacy.”
“They’re on the counter. Alright, I’m out. I’ll see you in a few.”
“Good riddance- I mean goodbye.”
“You do know I have to go back to the office right?” Stacy asks.
“Yeah, I know. I also know that if he knew I’d be here alone he wouldn’t have left me here. You go take care of business and come back for a wrap up when you can break free. Bring Jason too if he doesn’t get buried by meetings.”
“You got it. Here ya go!” Stacy tosses me the bottle of pain medication. I will definitely be needing this.
Not five minutes after she’s gone it all hits me again. I have just witnessed a fight to the death! I have never really seen any violence that was not on the TV or in a movie. I just saw three people fighting for their lives right in front of me and I was helpless to do anything about it. If Cade had not been here I’m sure Stacy and I would be dead! Yeah, Stacy’s a scrapper but I get the feeling that these outlaw biker types take more than a scrapper to take them down. Cade’s a fighter, no doubt about that and he struggled to get the gun from that other psycho guy. I could have died today. I could have easily gone the other way and the three of us could have ended up filled with holes.
I’m not a crier. I don’t weep at sad movies or funerals. The last time I cried was when my mom died on her birthday. Seems that I used up my lifetime supply of tears that day and I have been dry eyed ever since. But after what just happened this morning…I feel like my shell just developed a hairline crack. Is that how it is being an outlaw biker? Constant violence? How does one get accustomed to that? Or the better question might be…why would anyone want to get accustomed to it?
I look over at the clock. It’s nearly four in the afternoon; time to take another Vicodin. Fifteen minutes later I get the warm tingles from head to toe. No wonder why so many people abuse this drug; it’s pretty awesome. My eyes have just closed when I hear the door open and close. That was fast. I didn’t expect Cade for another couple hours or so and it’s too early for Stacy and Jason to be here.
The door closes. “Cade…you in here?” A rough, gravelly voice calls out.
I’m just about to answer when something tells me I’d better keep quiet. In fact, I think I’d better be asleep. If whoever that just came in finds me awake there could be trouble. So I close my eyes and do my best to fake a deep sleep.
I hear two or maybe three sets of boots coming down the hall towards the kitchen. One more time one of the men calls out to Cade but I get the idea that they’re not calling out because they want to talk to him. I think whoever it is in the room, they’re hoping Cade is out.
“Do you know where he keeps it?” The gravelly voiced man asks.
“How would I know?” Asks a smoother voice.
“You’re his brother…his twin for fucks sake.” Says the gravelly voice.
“What, you think we have some kind of psychic connection or something?” Asks the one who is apparently Cade’s twin. “Were twins not super alien intelligences communicating through telepathy.”
“So now what?” Asks gravelly man.
“There’s gotta be a list somewhere around here.” Cade’s brother replies. “He can’t keep it all in his head. Soon as we find out who’s on his side we can make a counter plan.”
A sudden realization hits me like a freight tr
ain! Cade’s brother must be planning something against his own brother; something to do with the motorcycle club and apparently Cade has no idea his twin brother is plotting against him. At least that’s what seems to be happening. If these guys realize I’m lying her awake listening to their every word I could be in serious trouble. My heart begins to pound painfully hard in my chest. If they even come anywhere near me they’ll hear the booming against my sternum! I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. I have to calm myself. I’ll have to roll over and lie on my stomach. It’ll be painful as hell but if they see my face they’ll know I’m not sleeping. This is the only chance I have so I grit my teeth and turn over. Unfortunately my cast foot hits the coffee table with a loud thunk! Fuck!
“What the hell was that?” Asks gravelly voice.
“I don’t know, but it can’t be my brother. He’s at work meeting with a new client.”
“Well someone is here and listening to our conversation.”
And if I wasn’t scared enough, I hear the unmistakable, metallic sound of a gun being loaded or something like that. I do know it’s a gun though. Panic is threatening to make me do something completely crazy; like jump up and run like hell. Like I would get far anyway. I would take two steps and fall on the ground screaming in pain. Instead I lie perfectly still and bite the pillow that my face is pressed into. Seconds later I hear two pairs of boots walk into the living room and over to where I’m lying.
“What the fuck?” Says gravelly voice. “Who the hell is that?”
“No fucking clue! I’m pretty sure Cade does not have an Old Lady.”
“So who the fuck is she?”
“I don’t know but it looks like he’s playing nurse maid. She’s wearing a cast and look at these.”
I hear the unmistakable sound of my pill bottle being picked up and rattled around. Those fuckers better not take my drugs!
The Filthy Few (Iron Disciples MC) Page 5
