“That’s all for now,” he would say. “You don’t want to fill up that can because who would empty it?” Then he would walk away laughing, believing that nothing said funny like cruelty.
Lying on the nasty mattress, she wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to being without clothes. She also wondered if she’d been kidding herself about someone coming for her. She’d believed it when she’d told her captors that the Devils would kill them for what they were doing. But they hadn’t saved her and she was struggling to hang onto the notion that they would.
Batiste opened Angelique’s bag. What should he take? He didn’t want to disturb her things. He wanted to leave everything exactly as she’d packed it, but he had to take something. In case. He refused to finish that sentence, couldn’t get bogged down allowing his mind to form images and scenarios of what she might be going through; that even worse than what he’d seen was possible.
He found a cotton robe. Royal blue, white, and black plaid. It was lightweight, but it would cover her and it might even be comforting to wear something of her own. He pulled it out.
Batiste insisted on taking the Chevy wagon because it had excellent air conditioning and extra legroom. The robe went onto the backseat. Her purse and suitcase in the far back because no decision had been made about where she was going after he had her. That call would have to be made on the spot. Depending…
Between Brant’s homeless imitator, who was affectionately called Mask, and an SSMC hang around who had a reputation for being a lady charmer, a miracle was wrought. While Mask was walking the streets with the kind of keen observation skills taught in the CIA, the ladies’ man was asking around the neighborhood if a flock of new guys had recently become locals. By three thirty, they knew where the Stars and Bars were.
The building adjacent to the Spotted Lizard had been a twelve room bed and breakfast hotel. When the owner decided to sell, he simply put up a sign, stopped taking reservations, and moved up to Metaurie. Manatee located him and negotiated a deal to sell for fifty thousand dollars, even though the price had been just under five million. The former owner had been an ideal target because he didn’t appear to have relatives, at least not any who would notice he was gone.
Manatee murdered the hotelier and sunk the body eight miles out in the Gulf then took over the man’s identity for the purpose of banking, utilities, and running up debt on his credit cards, none of which had to be done in person. Among other things the cards were used to outfit club members with ‘casual business’ wardrobes.
Once the utilities were running, the Stars and Bars stored their bikes, took down the For Sale sign, moved in and set about enjoying temporary hiatus from their real lives. It was a brilliant version of hiding in plain sight, but was more the result of accidentally stumbling into a scheme than a suggestion of extraordinary intelligence on the part of club leadership.
From Brant’s perspective, the biggest obstacle, assuming things went according to plan, would be disposing of Stars and Bars bodies. They decided in advance the easiest way to do that was to make it bloodless. They bought up every tranquilizer pistol between Houston and Baton Rouge. If blood was spilled, it would be their own. Optimistically, that meant there would be none.
He didn’t know if anyone had ever taken out an entire motorcycle club at once before. It was a coup. Grisly, but historical nonetheless. Brant decided he’d contemplate the judgment he’d held about the way the SSMC did things in his dad’s way at a later time. Maybe he had more outlaw in his nature than he’d believed. In any case, he’d think it over another time.
At the moment he was focused on the task at hand, which was extracting a girl who never should have been mixed up in this and delivering Stars and Bars to their maker.
With Mask’s camera, he’d discovered that there was a bay door at the back of the hotel that had been used for deliveries. It was also his guess that there was some kind of pass-through between the hotel and the club next door. That was logically sound conjecture since the club was the place they’d chosen to leave Angelique. As it turned out, he was right. The Spotted Lizard had once been a restaurant with an interior door that was shared by the hotel for the convenience of guests. It had been locked up during the years when the restaurant had converted to a smooth jazz club, but it wasn’t a lock to be taken seriously.
Mask and Brant speculated that the club might be full of Stars and Bars members who might be waiting for whomever came to claim their victim. They might put a gun to Angelique’s head and demand that the rescuer make the call saying he had Angelique in his custody and that all was well.
Relaying that possibility to Batiste, they decided he would wear a Kevlar jacket liner under his leather. Pickup would drive. He would pull up in front of the club door in a black van big enough to hold fourteen Devils with seats taken out.
At the same time a white bobtail truck full of SSMC and Devils who were superior shots, would pull up at the hotel’s back delivery door. If the Stars and Bars were engaged in monkey business, they’d be concentrating on the club, not the hotel. Eric would use the lock picking skills he’d learned from Arnold to open back doors to both hotel and club. By the time Manatee and his guys figured out they were there, it would be too late.
Batiste would step out from the front passenger seat and proceed into the club. His mission was to claim Angelique and either get her to safety or, if necessary, cover her with his body. Seconds after entering the club, he’d be followed by the men in the van. With luck they’d be able to stun several S and B before they could process what was happening.
The Mandeville Devils took a vote on whether or not Rou would participate on the raid to free his daughter. Everyone except Rou voted no.
The thing about motorcycle club presidents is that they rarely rise to that office by being good sports about not getting their way. So he fumed and seethed and ranted and raved and threatened to burn down the Lafayette Chapter along with the Stars and Bars until, rolling their eyes, the members of his club gave in with the stipulation that he would wait in the truck until the situation was under control.
At first he refused, but his own vice president was able to bring him around by pointing out that his daughter was going to be fragile and need him alive.
Something similar went on at the SSMC. Together they decided that Brant could best serve the mission by continuing to serve as master mind and communications coordinator from afar. Brandon was in New York. Brash was intent on going, but was likewise persuaded that too much of the club’s income depended on him and him alone. The idea of being indispensable appealed to Brash’s vanity enough to keep him in Austin.
Most importantly, the club’s core family leadership needed deniability. Just in case. Everyone else, except Rescue, went along.
“No,” Brant had said. “Louisiana hayride’s goin’ without you this time. You got one job in this club and it’s probably more important than mine. Takin’ care of those dogs.”
At five fourteen that evening eight bikers were walking toward each other across a Basile rice farm, four from the east, four from the west. Dev was on one end with Rooster beside him. He carried a small sports bag stuffed with paper in the approximate size and shape of seventy-five envelopes with two thousand dollars in each. A lot of money can be crammed into a small space if it’s in hundred dollar bill denominations. That much would easily fit into an over-the-shoulder designer purse.
Dev knew he’d never have to reveal that there was no money in the bag.
Brant’s sniper would take out the two on the right. Since Dev and Rooster knew it was coming, they’d be ready and would be a second faster than the two men left standing. If they were left standing. There was a chance the sniper would hit all four.
Dev took a deep breath and told Rooster, “Be ready,” under his breath. When they were about twenty feet apart, Dev heard one shot followed by another in rapid succession. He dropped the bag as he reached for his pistol, but before it had even cleared the holster, the sniper had claimed four
kills.
Dev put his gun back in place then glanced at Rooster. “Wow,” was all he said.
“Second that. The man’s got a skill,” said Rooster.
Brant had expanded on his original idea to transport the bodies in their own vehicle to the site of their recently abandoned clubhouse.
Army made sure all four were dead while Lazare got their car keys and trudged across the field. He drove the car as close as he could without getting stuck in the mud then they dragged the bodies to the Explorer, put the back seat down and stuffed them in the back.
“Thank fuck for dark windows,” Dev said. Then he warned Lazare, “All you gotta do is get there without being stopped. You don’t get spooked by corpses, do you?”
Lazare grinned while shaking his head like that was a crazy question. “Nah. Dead’s dead.”
“Okay. We’ll be a little ways behind. See ya there.”
At five fifteen Batiste opened the passenger side door directly in front of the Spotted Lizard entrance. When his boot touched the pavement, his heart began beating faster. On high alert, his senses felt almost enhanced. He’d been wearing dark sunglasses because they’d anticipated that it might be darker inside the club.
They were right.
He pulled the brass handle with his left hand because he was holding Angelique’s robe in his right. The door was unlocked.
It only took a second for his eyes to make the adjustment after he stepped inside.
Angie was tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Naked. And battered. Gagged. But not blindfolded. The dark patches under her once luminous eyes told the story of her ordeal.
Manatee was standing next to her wearing a wide grin and holding a gun to her head. “Company come to call,” he sang.
Batiste kept walking forward for a few feet before he was grabbed by a couple of S and B while a third began frisking. He opened his mouth to tell Manatee that Batiste was wearing Kevlar, but that thought froze in his throat as he was pricked by a tranq gun.
Five more S and B met the same fate while they were trying to process what was happening. Since it never occurred to them that the Devils or SSMC or both might figure out how and where they were hiding, they were completely unprepared for that sort of invasion. They thought that Batiste might show up with a few Devils because of distrust, but they were outnumbered by three to one.
In the initial confusion Manatee’s focus was split between Angelique and what was happening around him. With luck on her side Angelique chose that very moment to rock the chair over on its side.
With the S and B who’d been holding Batiste distracted, he rushed Manatee. Manatee’s first instinct was to turn and kill Angelique , but her head wasn’t where it was supposed to be. He turned the gun on Batiste and fired just before he was hit in the thigh by an accidental stray bullet from the gun of one of his own men. Batiste crumpled to the floor just inches from where Angelique lay helpless.
She tried to scream his name, but even if she hadn’t been gagged, she had no voice. She tried to cry, but was too dehydrated to do that either. All she could do was lie on her side on the composition floor and watch Batiste’s beautiful eyes close.
The entire event was over in less than a minute.
Pickup, who’d come in with the first wave, looked around for Angie’s robe. He covered her as best he could, then struggled to get the chair upright and turned away from the room. He put the robe over the front of her body, removed the gag and, pulling a knife out of his motorcycle boot, began to cut away at the rope bindings.
There was a lot of noise in the room, but Pickup saw that Angie was trying to say something. He leaned down and put his ear close to her mouth.
“Just,” she said.
“Yeah.” Pickup grinned. “He’s gonna have a fuckova bruise.”
She frowned and shook her head. “Dead.” She tried to whisper.
Pickup cocked his head. “Nah, Cher. He’s alive and ornery as ever. Got years ahead of struttin’ ‘round tellin’ the rest of us what to do.” She looked like she didn’t believe him. “Let’s get these off you and I’ll show you. He was shot up close and personal and there’s gonna be some damage, but he’ll be okay.”
He removed the rest of the rope and held the robe to her back so that no one could see anything while she put it on.
As she was turning around slowly, she heard her father’s voice. He was coming toward her too fast. Pickup stepped in front of him. “STOP!” Rou stopped but was preparing to plow Pickup under when he said, “She’s fragile. Needs doctor care. Be really, really careful if you touch her.”
Rou’s expression changed from murderous glare to gratitude. He nodded at Pickup.
Angelique was unconcerned about her father’s arrival. She was sure everybody had gone insane, walking around Batiste as if he wasn’t lying on the floor dead.
“She needs assurance that Just is alive,” Pickup told Rou.
Pickup went around to the other side of Batiste and gently pushed his shoulder so that Batiste rolled onto his back. “You need to open your eyes, boss. The woman’s ‘fraid you’re dead.”
Batiste did open pain filled eyes that immediately searched for Angelique.
She was relieved, but confused.
Pickup unzipped the leather jacket, then the Kevlar liner. “Well, I’ll be a hell cursed goat fucker.” The bear claw that rested on Batiste’s solar plexus had been split in two. He lifted it and showed the others. “This thing helped slow that bitch down for true.”
Ripping open the shirt underneath, there was a burn mark where the bullet had hit the Kevlar and ugly red bruises were beginning to form around that.
“You got broken ribs, boss?”
Batiste managed to force out, “Don’t know.”
“Both lungs workin?”
“Think so.” His gaze never left Angelique. He saw that she was standing next to her father, wearing the robe he’d brought, and tried to form a smile.
Pickup looked at Rou. “You got somebody on call?”
Like Lafayette, the Mandeville chapter did have a veterinarian on call who wouldn’t report such things as gunshot wounds or attempted gunshot complications or trauma that looked like torture.
Rou nodded assent. Looking at Angelique, he swiped at his face.
When they took inventory, there were sixteen S and B who were unconscious, having been administered a dose of sedative sufficient to keep them knocked out for another six hours. Longer than was needed. The drive to the S and B clubhouse at Lake Charles was only three and a half hours.
One of the Mandeville chapter was dead. One SSMC member was missing an ear and would likely need plastic surgery if he wanted to wear his hair short in the future. Blaise had been shot in the torso, but judging by the fact that he was still alive with a pinkish color, the bullet had probably missed vital organs and intestines on its way to its final destination.
All in all it wouldn’t be a lot of blood to clean up. Nightclubs always had blood stains around which showed up in black light. But just to be certain, Rou called his cleaner while the passed-out bodies were being loaded into the back of the truck that was snubbed up to the service entrance in the rear.
When all was said and done, everyone was accounted for. Except Manatee.
Eric drove what was left of the S and B, minus Manatee, away in the truck. Pickup locked up and drove Batiste to Mandeville, where Rou was taking Angelique and the rest of the wounded.
According to plan, the Sons dropped the remaining Lafayette members off on their way back to Austin.
Dev, Rooster, and Army pulled up to the S and B clubhouse gate behind Lazare. Army jumped out with the big chain cutters they’d brought for that purpose. When the chain gave way, Army pushed the gates open and both vehicles drove through.
The S and B clubhouse was twenty minutes outside Lake Charles and had been a country auto repair at one time. The main building was metal with four bay doors. Dev and Rooster broke in easily. The electricity was still on
and, to their delight, they found cold beer in the cooler behind the bar.
While they waited for the main event, they ransacked the place. S and B didn’t have much worth having, but they did have a few bottles of liquor that were worth salvaging. Army and Lazare stowed those in the SUV that would be headed back to Lafayette, while Dev and Rooster started a game of pool.
Dev had reported the outcome of their part of the plan to Brant as soon as they were on the road to Lake Charles. Shortly thereafter, Brant called to let them know that, all considered, things went well in New Orleans.
“Truck headed your way,” Brant said. “Arnold will get there sooner. Don’t shoot him. He’ll be in a white pickup.”
Arnold owned a black BMW sedan, but small towns along I10 like to stop people in cars they deem fancy to give tickets. The philosophy is that rich people from Houston or New Orleans don’t have time to return to small town courts and fight traffic violations of the chicken shit variety. It keeps the governments of little towns that have lost their industry alive. Barely.
So Brant and Arnold decided he’d drive an older model white pickup, probably the least likely vehicle to be stopped. That was especially good considering the cargo Arnold was carrying in the small interior storage area behind the front seat.
When a white pickup pulled up at the gate, Dev said, “It’s Arnold. Brant says don’t shoot him.” Rooster snickered and took his shot at number three, side pocket.
When the white bobtail truck showed up, Lazare said, “Showtime. Better finish up your game,” he told Dev and Rooster.
He jogged out to the SUV, started it up and drove it through one of the two open bay doors, shoving the pool table against the back wall.
“Was that fun?” Rooster asked drily as Lazare climbed out.
“Yeah,” Lazare grinned. “Jealous?”
Rooster chuckled.
But when they saw the white truck driving through the second bay door, Dev, Rooster, Lazare, and Army decided it was time to vacate the S and B clubhouse.
Batiste Page 11
