by Amy Isan
I take the spoon from her. "What's gotten into you? You're... never this..." I try to search for the words so I won't offend her. I want to say 'nice' but that isn't quite right. She watches me intently, but not in a judgmental kind of way. "Understanding," I finish. Maybe I'm the crazy one... I am always eating her food after all. I'm the one always complaining about her loud sex and everything.
"You kept your cool last night with those bikers, I was really impressed," she says. She takes a bite of ice cream. "I don't even know how." She doesn't elaborate.
"I was scared shitless," I admit, somewhat embarrassed. I feel my cheeks flush and she cracks a smile. She takes another spoonful of ice cream and downs it with a click against her teeth.
"You had me fooled," she says. I take another bite of my sandwich. The light peeks through the window and I stare hard at the porch, long enough that Sara eventually follows my gaze. There's nothing there, but I can't help it. She clears her throat and sets her spoon down. "Wanna watch something?" She picks up the remote and starts going through the channels.
"Yes, anything to make this day go by a little faster," I say. She chuckles and I feel my nervousness fading. It is nice to have a friend who cares, even if she has no idea what I've done or gotten myself into. I'm starting to wish I hadn't pushed Logan away. I almost miss him.
CHAPTER 5 — LOGAN
It happens today. The drug deal is going to be out in the middle of the desert. I've already collected everyone together at the bar, and I'm ready. Are the men? I scan over my small crew and try to pick them apart. Some of them look a bit nervous, but not in a way that makes me worry. Rifle is late, but I don't expect much from him anymore. I feel like I'm being thrown down a highway at full speed. It's almost funny, because that's when I feel like I'm at my best. My mind is sharp and ready to act at the first sign of trouble.
Fucking Cassie. I can't believe she would be so thick-headed. Like she didn't know I was a biker, in a biker gang. Didn't she call me an outlaw outright when we first met? Does she just think that regular guys, honest and upstanding citizens, steal wallets and IDs, mess with crime scenes, and shit? I should be pissed, but I'm more upset than that. Tank is eyeing me suspiciously. I haven't spoken since I walked into the bar, but I'm getting ready to.
"You look like shit, Prez," Tank jokes. I shake my head and crack a weak smile.
"I didn't sleep because I was worried one of you assholes was gonna be late," I reply. I shoot a look at Rifle, but he doesn't seem bothered by it. If anything, that's a good thing. The less aggressive he is with me, the better things will be around here. I guess he's finally calming down — maybe he's nervous. Like he's human.
The truth is I couldn't sleep because of Cassie. Any other woman I would have told to fuck off and I would have walked out of their life. What's the point of stressing about it? I'll meet more. Hell, I'll meet hundreds more, and sleep with them all too, right? I snort and realize I'm grinning like an idiot to no one at the bar, and Sword cocks his head at me.
"All right," I say, slamming my hands down on the pool table. The lacquer is peeling off the trim, and there are dark gashes present from someone digging their knife into the wood underneath. "You all made it, good. I guess you all have what it takes to do this run then. Now," I lean down and reach under the bar and pull up two bags of cash. "This is our stash, we're trading it to the smugglers today. Since some of you don't know how this goes, let me educate you." I narrow my gaze on a couple of them, Sword and Petrol mostly, who don't look as engaged as they should be. "I don't want any twitchy moves out there. Tank and I will ride with the money in our bikes, and we'll hold standard formation."
I hike up my pants and pull my pistol from my jeans. I slam it on the table to punctuate my speech. "I'm sure you all brought guns today, like I told you."
The other men murmur in agreement and all produce their own pistols, revolvers and snub-nosed guns. I examine them, taking each one in my hands and checking the cleanliness and condition one after the other. After circling the group, I end up back at the front of the table with my gun still resting in its place. "Now trade."
Each of the men look at each other, as if they had already decided who would get what. They hand the guns off with firm grips and decent gun discipline. I don't ask where they got them, because I frankly don't care.
I shoot a look at Tank, who hasn't traded his gun. He clears his throat, and I understand without a word. I hand him off my gun, and we trade arms as the last duo. Each man holsters his gun, and I nod approvingly. "Good. Remember, you're brothers in here and out there, so you need to trust each other. Sometimes the hardest part of being a family is trust." I swallow hard on the last couple of words. I lay my hands out on the velvet and feel my right palm throb from the cut. Cassie isn't an issue anymore, I'm not involved with her, so they don't even need to know about it. Besides, it's not like Surge died, right? I don't need to worry them about something so trivial.
I check the wall clock. It's nearly time to head out.
"All right boys, saddle up. Let's make Surge proud."
. . .
Dust and sand kick up into my face as the riders and I turn off the paved road and onto a barely beaten trail. Sage brush and red-speckled rock are scattered around us, and the spare amount of life seems to grow thicker on the landscape the longer we ride. Our motorcycles howl and roar off the distant rock and bounce back to our ears, the pleasing echo filling my heart with pride. I know it fills the other men's souls too, because Driver won't get a stupid grin off his face. Tank is as stoic as ever, but that's just determination. I can respect that.
The coordinates the smugglers gave us are pretty far out from the city, but that's good. The farther the better, and the safer we are. It'll be an hour or two ride out, depending how many scars we all want from the rocks and gravel getting kicked up by our tires. I don't have to worry at least, as I'm near the head of the pack.
My worn leather saddle bags rattle against the metal frame of my bike. The money is heavy, and I can feel it shift around with each twitch of my wrist. It isn't heavy enough to throw me off balance, but it is noticeable. I didn't bother counting it again. I simply took Surge's word for it: it's about 500 grand.
That should be more than enough to get us a good chunk of marijuana to sell on the street. The trades were easy and painless in California, most of the time. I don't know how things are expected to go down out here, but I feel ready for anything.
I nod to Tank, who follows me as I turn down another path. This time, leading further from the road and between two large red crags. There, in the deeply reddened shadow, is where the deal will go down. I don't like it, because the crags provide a lot of cover, and with cover come hiding places. I would have loved to show up early to scope the place out, but we didn't get the coordinates until it was just time to leave. Planned, of course. They don't want to take any risks either.
Half the time I wonder why they don't just kill us and let our bodies rot out in the middle of no where, but I suppose that's expensive. What's the point in killing your clients, after all? They're running a business.
We're not. We're running more than a business. We're trying to begin a legacy. I'm sure if Surge was there at the bar when we were riding out, that's what he would have said. I didn't even think about it until now, as we ride up to the looming spires. At least the shade will be a relief from the ruthless sunlight.
The almost shiny and smooth rock that lines the walls of the canyon makes our motorcycles sound even louder than before. The previously gentle pinging off the rock is deafening and forces each of us to kick into higher gears just to try and quell the beasts. At the end of the canyon, there's a man with two guards standing with him. Dressed in all black, they're impossible to miss. An unremarkable brown van is parked behind them, just against the back wall. A dead end.
About a hundred yards away, I brake to a sudden stop. The men slide up behind me, their bikes skidding along the dusty canyon floor. I shut my bike off, and th
e rest of my men follow suit. It doesn't hit me that they're all following my every move until just now. I never led any expeditions or trades when I was a rookie in Cali. I'm used to being in Driver's shoes. The greenest of the group.
I look to Driver, and he starts to raise his hand to wave. I shoot him a mean glare and stop him without a word. What the fuck? Maybe I wasn't like Driver. I move to the back of my bike, making sure my movements are slow and methodical. Who knows if they have snipers or anyone watching up in the canyon, ready to kill any of us at the first sign of trouble. I unbuckle my saddle bags from the bike and hoist them to my shoulder. The money is heavy, and I only have half of it. Tank follows suit, and we start to make our way toward the man and his guards.
Coming closer now, I can see that the man is wearing sunglasses. His black suit is immaculate, but there is a small hint of a tattoo peeking out along his wrist. He holds a pistol in his hand, I can't tell what model. The two guards standing near him are wielding rifles. They make our guns look like peashooters. But to be honest, I never wanted my men to have to draw their guns in a firefight. They're just for the confidence that they can bring a bunch of weaker men.
I stop directly in front of the three men and throw the saddle bag down on the ground. A small plume of dust kicks up and coils around it before disappearing. Tank throws his down too, and we both take a step back. I try to get a look at the man's eyes behind his sunglasses, but it's useless.
I break the silence, "I'm sure I don't have to say this, but we're the Ruin Outlaws." The man lowers his sunglasses with the tip of his gun and looks at me. I can't tell if his look is supposed to be threatening or smug.
"Good, glad to see you made it here first. I was worried."
"First?" My mind races. What the fuck does he mean, first? I look to Tank, who has no answers for me. "You're trying to pull double here?"
"Not at all," he hesitates and reads the front of my vest. "Bomb. We were expecting Surge."
Rifle opens his mouth to talk and I beat him to it. "He ain't here," I say. I thought I told them to let me handle the talking. "Is that a problem?"
"Not at all," the man repeats. He pushes his sunglasses back up and snaps his fingers. The two burly men open the back of the van and reveal what are essentially bales of weed wrapped in plastic. I eye the goods suspiciously and mentally count the stacks.
"That isn't enough. We brought you 500 grand, that's easily only 250 grand worth."
"I disagree," says the man in black. I clench a fist and resist pounding it into my thigh.
"We'll barely break even with that. Where is the rest? Surge isn't an idiot."
"The other 'gang' requested we hold a little auction."
"What other gang?" I ask. Rifle steps forward and I go to yank him back along the line with us. His collar just slips out of reach before I can grab it. I scowl, "Rifle! What are you doing?"
He cooly walks up to the man in black and shakes his hand. "Nice to see you again, Mr. Martinez," says Rifle. He shoots me a dark look and stands behind the drug dealer. "What other gang, Bomb? Who do you think? The Skeletons."
"You did this? I fucking told Surge you were bad news, but he wouldn't listen to me. God Dammit. You're the one fucking this all up?" I can feel my face turning red, the heat of the desert feeling cold against my skin. Mr. Martinez's guards step forward and threaten to raise their guns, and I back off.
My vision goes narrow. I can only see the weed and Rifle, and I want to kill one of them. I can only feel the tension rising behind my back, and the men are starting to murmur and fidget with their pants and holsters. I want to tell them to back off, that they can't pull their guns. It'll be a bloodbath. Especially when I'm already so close to pulling my own gun on Rifle.
Just as the air grows thick with sweat, a familiar sound of howling motorcycles reverberates throughout the canyon. The Skeletons must be here to deal.
"Then why even bring us out here? Rifle?" He gazes at me, but seems to look through me more than anything. "Are you trying to fuck us all over?"
"One of the members of the Skeletons came to me, Bomb, and they don't have a club with a bunch of children," Rifle says. "Including one that hides things from his supposed brothers."
I try and not respond to his call about what I can assume is Cassie. "A child would be the one jumping ship because he doesn't like getting his ass beat."
Mr. Martinez raises his hand and shakes his head. "Boys, please. I'm trying to run a business here, not a clubhouse. I don't give a fuck whatever your disputes or quarrels are, I'm just here to make money."
"You're here to rip us off!" I shout at him. My cool has been lost, and he shoots daggers back at me. Is Rifle threatening Cassie? To hell with all of them. His guards raise their guns and point them square at my chest. I don't even care. I shake my head and reach behind my back for my gun. Before I can grab it, hard hands squeeze my wrists and push my hands away. Tank's hands.
"Stop, Logan," Tank hisses. "Jesus, what's wrong with you?"
The Skeletons ride up just in time, probably saving my life. Their fifteen crew members roll in past our bikes and cackle as they slide to a stop. Each of them throws themselves off their bikes and shuts their engines down. The canyon is quiet again, but the air is still thick with sweat and fury. My ears burn with rage. They look so god damn pleased with themselves too, the bunch of assholes. Old and young, they just don't have any uniformity to their ranks. One gives me an especially nasty look, and I gaze at his name that's stitched on his cut: Rattlesnake.
The leader of the Skeletons, Zero, walks up to Mr. Martinez and shakes his hand. Zero is a monster of a human. Bigger than Tank and more gnarly looking too, with a shining bald head and piercings covering almost every inch of his face. Everyone is shaking the dealer's hand, it makes me look like a damn fool for being so cautious. It looks like the only reason I needed to be was because Rifle was doing shit behind my back.
"What are these pricks still doing here?" Zero says. He spits on the ground.
"We're simply performing an auction, Mr. Zero, I'm sure you can understand that," Mr. Martinez says. He hasn't lost his cool once this whole time. Rifle is standing with a smug look nearby. Zero shakes his head, "Whatever." He clicks his tongue and looks to one of the other members of his crew.
The other guy digs a vest out of one of his bags and throws it over to Zero, who catches it. Without missing a beat, he hands it over to Rifle, who tears his Ruin Outlaws vest off and dons the Skeleton crew cut immediately.
"Looks good on you. Much better than that rag you were wearing before," Zero says.
Rifle gazes at it, holding it out the flared bottom in front of him. He nods and looks at Zero again. He avoids my gaze. The discarded vest is laying in the dirt, disgraced and disrespected.
I can't believe this is happening. I should have known that Surge hadn't prepared this crew for this. Everyone was too inexperienced to be doing this. What the fuck can we do now? The Skeletons could easily take the rest of the product and distribute it themselves, leaving us to fend for the scrapes. This isn't what I promised the men, or what I promised myself. I feel a hollowness inside and my mind wanders to Cassie. At least she isn't stuck in the middle of this mess. At least, beyond whatever bluff Rifle called.
Zero speaks up and turns to one of his men, the one who gave me the evil eye. "Get the stuff already, we're on a time limit here."
Two of his crew grab their saddle bags and throw them on the ground, adjacent to ours. Their money spills out as they drop the bags, and it looks more appetizing than our lumpy excuses for leather bags.
Mr. Martinez crosses his arms. "Everyone present? Good. We'll start bidding at 200 grand."
Zero speaks up immediately, "Come on. We brought 800 grand, just give us the merch."
Tank lowers his voice and leans closer to me. "He doesn't know what he's looking at... You do." I turn and nod to him, but I don't know what good it'll do us. Mr. Martinez will just get even more money for his pathetic amount of weed....
Or will he?
"Don't fuck yourself, Zero," I say. His hard eyes turn to me, like I just cursed his mother. "That van barely has more than 250 grand worth of product in it."
Mr. Martinez's shades keep me from seeing his reaction, but I'm sure it isn't a pretty one. Zero stares at me long and hard, until he turns to the van and examines it. He counts audibly, "Two... Four... He's right."
"It doesn't matter. Whoever pays more will get all of it."
"I'm not fucking my crew over something like that, it isn't what we agreed to. This runt," Zero points at Rifle, "told us that you had a deal with the Ruin Outlaws. We said we'd beat it, that's it."
"So is your bid 800 grand then?"
Zero hesitates and I shout out my bid. "I'll take it for 225 grand."
"Bullshit," Zero says and he regains his composure. "300 grand. I'm not letting you losers sneak in on our turf. I don't know why we don't just finish you off right here."
I ignore him. "350 grand."
"400 grand."
I pause and let him think he's won. He turns to his men and opens his arms. "Nailed it, didn't we?"
Mr. Martinez looks toward me and shakes his head. I'm surprised. Did he expect more from me or something? I feel a pressure from the men behind me, who are no doubt agitated and restless by how everything is turning out. I can't peel my eyes off Rifle. He's avoided my gaze since he switched cuts which only makes me more frustrated. "450 grand."
Zero stops celebrating with his crew and gawks at me. He waves me away and scoffs. "Pfft, you can waste your money."
Mr. Martinez nods and orders his men to gather up our money. I dip down and pull out enough stacks to save 50 grand then I throw the extra cash to Tank. Mr. Martinez's thugs gather the saddle bags and throw them in the back of the truck. After gathering up the marijuana, we stuff it into our saddle bags. I hand a saddlebag set to Tank, who takes it off my hands easily.
