Devil's Claim: Apaches MC

by Claire St. Rose

  A pool of thick, burnt red blood collects at my boots. I step back a bit, hoping to avoid making any footprints. I was smart enough to leave no evidence. Guzman’s men, on the other hand, were practically planting it left and right.

  I watch as one of the men touches the body with his bare hands, smearing bloody fingerprints on his clothes. Then there’s the rope that tied him to the chair. They wanted to just leave it there in the basement of the safe house. I’m sure if I didn’t say anything, they would have left the body there as well. They managed to get the job done, but the quality certainly wasn’t up to Apache standards.

  Killing boys, like this kid dressed proudly in his Aztec letters, was never my proudest moment. Some guys got that killer in them. They crave the blood, the shouts, and the bullets. They carry around knives in their back pockets—just in case. They’re the first one to hit the shed or caravan when we call out to get armed up. It’s their sport, and honestly, it’s probably the reason why they love riding with the rest of the Apaches and me. There’s been a lot of this shit going down under my leadership.

  I bark out a few orders to Rafael, who is still lingering around the post of the basement, smoking a thin, hand-rolled cigarette and looking like he just had the best sex of his life. He’s one of those guys, the killers. This sort of thing never seems to faze him. In fact, he’d probably have more of it if I let him take over or make the call. But he knows his place, and he knows that no one shoots until I say shoot.

  This time, though, I didn’t exactly give the orders myself. I waited for Sierra to call me back. I wasn’t going to tell her what I had to do, but I needed to hear her voice in that moment. I needed her to tell me that I’m okay, that I’ll be able to atone for this. But whom am I kidding? She’d never be fine with me shooting up some kid, let alone an Aztec she probably knew—or at least knew of. Even though this bastard tried to kill her and her best friend, Sierra was different. She had integrity.

  So I called her to get her to back me off of that ledge. I wanted her to yell at me, to scream “no” until I had to listen. I wanted her brainy head to come up with a plan that would have kept me from telling the Guzman boys to shoot him dead. But she never picked up. She never called back. She said her goodbyes and that was that. We were over. The end. No happily ever after in our cards. No reasons to change my ways.

  Still, there’s a part of me that can’t let go. I clench the phone in my hand, as if there’s even the possibility she’ll change her mind at any moment. The volume and power buttons leave indents in my skin as I hold on just a little tighter. But the only sound in the room are the Guzman men happily chatting and pointing out something or other; I can’t really tell, since they’re speaking in rapid Spanish. I’ve picked up enough of the language to know some of the basics, but I’m nowhere near fluent.

  Then I catch something that does sound familiar: Guzman says something about the pandilla -- the posse -- using this place as their meeting spot. This makes the hairs on the back of my head stand on end. I rapidly snap my fingers towards Rafael, who immediately runs to me, practically foaming at the mouth. We head upstairs, past Guzman’s men, who are struggling to move the body outside without dropping the blue tarp it’s wrapped up in. When we’re safely out of their way, I whisper low to my second, “Something’s not right, Rafa. Did you pick up what Guzman’s men were saying down there when they were talking in Spanish?”

  Rafael’s darkened eyes grew wider, giving him the look of a surprised demon, “Yeah man,” he says, nodding. “Something about Guzman’s move. What do you think that’s all about? You think that Guzman’s—”

  “—working for Abe?” I finish for him. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. That son of a bitch is double crossing us.”

  “You want me to take their asses out, boss? I mean, sure, there’s a few of ‘em, but I swear to God I can get the job done.” He pulls out his pistol, a jet black 96 Beretta with the safety already off, and cocks it. “Locked and loaded, man,” he grins. Rafael is a crazy bastard, but I’d rather have him on my side than against me.

  Still, no way I’m letting this situation get out of control. I yank the weapon out of his hand, empty the chamber, flick the safety on, and stick it in my pants pocket. “No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “Leave them to me. We still need them. This war ain’t over just yet. What I need you to do is to look, listen, and for the love of God, don’t give away that you know what is going on. You’re my best intel man, Rafa, so I’m trusting you can get this done. Report back to me in an hour. Until then, stay out of their way.”

  Rafael smiles wickedly at me and heads back towards the men who have managed to get the body outside and near the pit already dug for it. I watch from a window as Rafael helps toss the blue tarp and its contents carelessly in the pit and then kicks some dirt over it. The rest of the men grab shovels and begin the burial.

  The sound of dirt falling back to the earth lingers in the air, as the dust kicks up. A storm is brewing in the distance. From my spot in the window, I can practically see the water falling from the clouds upon the small Mexican villas in the distance. The acid-fresh smell of it takes over my senses, as my mind drifts back to Sierra and the smell of her body after I’ve had my way with her. She smells just like the Texas and Mexican air right before a storm falls.

  I look down at my hand once more. This time, the screen is lighting up, flashing brightly. I blink quickly, thinking that I am imagining this. But I’m not—the phone is actually shaking and vibrating in my palm, as I stumble to press the green “accept” button at the center of the screen.

  I pause to clear my throat, as I practically run towards the bathroom of the empty house. When I speak, my voice is hoarse, tired, and miles away. “Sierra?”

  Someone laughs. It’s long, hearty, and much deeper than hers. I repeat her name two or three times, hoping to get a different response. But all I can hear is that man’s laughter that’s eventually joined by a few other additional boys in the background.

  The voices clear as the man speaks, “Tsk, tsk, tsk Tank. You really think that your girl is going to answer you in a time like this? Who do you think I am?”

  “Abe.” It’s an answer to his question, as my blood begins to liven up in my veins. I can feel every bit of me build up in a lump in my throat as I try to choke it down. “What the fuck are you doing with Sierra’s phone?”

  “You should care a little bit more about Sierra and a little less about her phone if I were you.” He’s the same old snide prick that I banished from the club all those years ago. I can practically picture the smug uptick in his smile as he chastised me.

  “Fuck you, Abe! Where the fuck is Sierra?” I am done playing his stupid little games. He has crossed a line now, and there is no turning back.

  He laughs again, but this time the chuckles are shorter, snappier. He answers less brightly, “Oh, don’t worry, Tank. She’s with me, and you’ll be happy to know that she’s alive, too. Barely. Girl took a bit of a beating on our way over. You should have taught her better about controlling her anger. Though I should have known too, considering she was my girl first.”

  I can’t help it as I respond in a rage, “She was never your girl, Abe. Sierra wouldn’t dare touch a dickless little bitch like you—even if you paid her.”

  “We’ll see about that soon enough.”

  My blood boils at the thought of what he’s insinuating. “If you lay even a goddamn finger on her, I’ll personally cut it off of your cold dead body and wear it around my neck. You hear me, motherfucker?”

  “Ha! A touch dramatic, don’t you think? Do you really think your little threats matter to me?” I can hear him smiling like the slimy little weasel he is. “But you know why I don’t give a fuck about what body parts you think you’re going to cut off of me?” He pauses, waiting for me to answer. I give him no satisfaction. “It’s because I have something you want more than anything in this entire world. And if you want to get her whore ass back, you’re gonna have to sack up and do so
me business with me. You hear me, motherfucker?”

  The oxygen in my lungs has seemed to have vanished with every word he utters. I’m dumbfounded. Has he…I can’t even think. I can barely breathe. I’m amazed I even manage to choke out, “Okay, Abe. Where and when?”

  “That’s more like it. If you want your slut back, I suggest you bring my man to the Faben’s Rest Stop outside of El Paso by two in the morning. Bring no one else and no guns either. If I get even the slightest whiff of another one of your pussy Apaches lingering around, I’ll pull out faster than I did out of her pussy earlier.”

  He laughs, which gives me the impression he’s all talk. But that does it. I know in that moment that I’m going to kill him. Now, it’s just a matter of getting what I need. I mull his offer over in my head. He’s obviously trying to trap me. I know Abe better than I know any of my other men, and I know that if I attempted to go, I’d be ambushed with no chance of seeing Sierra alive again. This wasn’t my first hostage negotiation. But this time, it was the first with a dead man at play.

  “There’s an issue,” I explain slowly. “Your man’s dead. We shot him three times in the head. I’m watching my men bury him right now. Do you want me to take a picture or something? Send a blood sample in his place?”

  The other line of the phone is dead. No answer. Either Abe knows already what my answer was going to be, or he is truly shocked that I managed to execute him before he formulated his plan. His voice sounds less assured when he does answer, “Just you then. Two in the morning. One minute late and I’ll personally kill her.”

  I press the phone to my ear and in the stillness, I hear the small voice of someone gagging and crying in the background. I can’t stop myself from whispering her name out loud, “Sierra.”

  “Oh, you hear her?” Old, comic book villain Abe returns quickly. “You want to speak with her? She can tell you all that we’ve done… so far.”

  There’s a small commotion as I hear her shouts and screams. The phone thumps and pounds, as it’s pressed in hands and up against ears. Her voice fills the speaker as she cries out, “Tank! Tank!”

  “Sierra.” My voice shakes as I try to think of something to say to her. “Are you hurt? Where are you?”

  “I…I don’t know where I am at. It’s some dark building. There’s some guys here that I don’t recognize and—” The phone briefly cuts out, as I hear a loud clap and a horrified scream. There’s another slap as Sierra turns to her captors and begs, “Please! Please! Stop!”

  A man other than Abe shouts back, “No more details, bitch!”

  “Sierra!” I say quickly, trying to get her attention again. “Listen to the men. Don’t get yourself killed. I need you alive.”

  She is sobbing, choking back tears. Whatever they’ve done to her is beyond what I would ever think of doing to a family member or friend. Beating the shit out of a rival member was one thing. Inflicting this kind of pain and torture on someone totally unaffiliated was sadistic, psychotic—and totally Abe. My heart actually hurts listening to her try to come back to her senses.

  After a few moments, she managed to compose herself, “I’m sorry, Tank. I’m sorry. I should have stayed at the hospital. I should have listened to you, but I—”

  I couldn’t let her do this. I couldn’t let her talk as if she was about to be killed and that it was entirely her fault. “Don’t speak, Sierra. Just listen to me. I’m coming to get you. Just stay there. Stay strong. Don’t let them hurt you anymore. Whatever they say, you do it.”

  “Tank, just let me go. Don’t get yourself killed! You know better!” She sounds frantic, desperate to get me a message.

  “No, I’m not letting you go. I’m not letting Abe take you. I will see you in a few hours. Do you hear me?”

  “No! Tank! Please. Just let me—”

  “Shut up, Sierra. This is my war, let me fight it. I’m coming to get you. I promise you, I’m going to find you and then kill Abe. I promise you, Sierra.”

  “Tank… I…”—she hesitates before bursting her final words out in one loud spasm—“I love you, Tank!”

  “Sierra…” I can’t bear to say it back, not yet.

  “Time’s up, lovers!” Abe screams over the sounds of Sierra shouting and then gagging. “But that was really, truly precious. I never knew you were such a softie, Tank. This whole thing is going to be so much easier than I even thought. Nothing like a little sap in love to make revenge so much sweeter.”

  “I swear to God that if you touch her, you will pay.” My words are harsh, cold, stinging. I was back to old Tank, but Tank with a purpose. Abe had no idea what he had just unleashed in me.

  “Two in the morning, Tank. I’ll see you then at the Faben’s Rest Stop. I’ll be waiting for you. So will she.” He laughs once more as it fades in the distance. Then, there’s a click and the phone goes blank. I throw the phone across the room, listening to it slide across the wooden plank floors with a loud clamor.

  Outside, Guzman’s men and Rafael wait around their bikes, checking their watches and phones, while inside, I slump to the floor of the bathroom, unable to make a plan. The only sound in my mind was that of Sierra’s screams and sobs as Abe and his goons beat her.

  Chapter 24: Caught

  During the first hour, I screamed. I screamed so loud and so long that I thought my lungs would burst or my head would explode. I screamed so much that the person next to me yanked down my hood for just a second—enough time to stick a dirty black sock into my mouth. And even with me choking back the smell, the sweat, the cloth pressing up against the roof of my mouth, I still managed to scream.

  But I got what I wanted. In that second, I got a glimpse of what was happening around me. It wasn’t much information, really. However, just knowing a few simple things gave me hope. I was sitting in a van, a gunner van—the vehicle that stashed all the guns and armory for a motorcycle gang. And in my brief bit of visual freedom, I spotted at least four, long, black and brown, cut off shotguns near the left side of my head. On the right were knives and machetes, enough to make any man shake.

  The man who pulled my hood down was unfamiliar to me. He was bald with a long gray beard that touched his bare chest. He wore only a leather vest with the Aztec seal on it. This man was just about as old as my father, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he knew him when he was an Aztec, or if he had joined under Abe’s regime.

  Abe sat in front of us in the front passenger seat, and I listened to him yell shortly at the man next to me to shut me up. He seemed more agitated than ever. The Abe I knew was cool, calm, and collected. He was never fazed when I rejected him over and over again. And he didn’t bat an eyelash when I brought other boys I was interested in to the neighborhood to meet my family. He would just brush them off as if they didn’t matter in the long run.

  I had a sinking suspicion that this was how he had planned on it going down all along. My stomach ached, and my head felt like a balloon as every bit of me longed to escape the shell of a body being transported towards Abe’s future plans. I screamed even louder in hopes he’d just drop me off at the side of the road.

  A rusty, brown-gray cage separated Abe and the driver from me. The rest of the van ride, I would listen to it rattle as the road became hillier and uneven. We were off the highway, that was for sure. And based on the minutes I counted in my head and the turns I tried to map out like a human GPS, I guessed we were somewhere near the border on the east side—close enough for Abe to run to safety but far enough to be away from Tank’s territory.

  After about an hour, I felt myself nodding off. The adrenaline that had kept me kicking and screaming had worn off, and the weight of the predicament that I was in settled in heavy on my shoulders and eyes. Another part of me thought that if I just let my eyes fade for one second, I would wake up back in bed with a crick in my neck from sleeping on Tank’s wide and muscular shoulders.

  My head grew heavy, as I found myself drifting. Each time, I would force myself alert, begging myself to pay at
tention for just a few seconds longer to the changes in the road, the men’s voices, the lights that occasionally filtered their way through the sack over my eyes. If I could use the hands tied up with wire, I would have slapped myself, but all I could do was pinch the skin of the other palm in the hope that it would do the trick.

  Another twenty minutes or so passed before the car fully stopped. Abe or the driver turned off the music, and the car went dark. I tried to scream again, hoping that we were making a run somewhere where a person outside the Aztecs could hear me. But my hope dropped when I felt two different hands lift me up from under my arms and carry me out into the cold, dark night. One of the men knocked my hood back, enough for me to catch the red gravel dragging along by my heels, the little leaf ash brush that stuck to the hem of my short black dress, and the hands of a man with a tattoo unlike any I had seen before.

  A door opened, and I was carried into a room with cherry wood floors and a bright yellow welcome mat. We passed a room, probably a bedroom, with pale gray carpeting and what I thought was a baby toy lying discarded near an entryway. The men around my arms followed a man’s voice giving orders to them on which way to the main bedroom. This wasn’t their usual digs, apparently.