Confession

by Garrett, Jamie

  Confession

  Jamie Garrett

  Wild Owl Press

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jamie Garrett

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. All requests should be forwarded to jamie@jamiegarrett.com.

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  Cover design by The Final Wrap.

  Editing by Jennifer Harshman, Harshman Services.

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  Contents

  1. Seth

  2. Nikki

  3. Seth

  4. Nikki

  5. Seth

  6. Nikki

  7. Seth

  8. Nikki

  9. Nikki

  10. Seth

  11. Nikki

  12. Seth

  13. Nikki

  14. Nikki

  15. Seth

  16. Nikki

  17. Seth

  18. Nikki

  19. Seth

  20. Nikki

  21. Seth

  22. Seth

  23. Nikki

  24. Nikki

  Also by Jamie Garrett

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Seth

  Dusk settled over the high plains just outside of Oklahoma City, carpeting the mostly flat landscape into varying shades of dark purple, gray and variegated shades of black. In the eastern sky, stars appeared, while to the west, fading wisps of daylight clung stubbornly to the horizon. A sheet metal warehouse stood about 50 yards away, a lone, bare bulb in a rusty metal cage and its glass cover long broken hung crookedly on one wall near a doorway. A dull cone of light shone onto the ground around it, barely catching the edge of the larger double-wide doors fitted with electric garage door openers.

  Seth glared at the moths darting toward the light, bouncing against it before flitting away. Stupid, fucking moths. He hated moths. Dirty, fuzzy, dusty, and erratic creatures. He wasn’t afraid of much, but he’d rather face a pissed-off rattlesnake than a stupid moth. Go figure. Of course, no one knew of his secret dislike—not quite a phobia but close—of moths and grasshoppers, and no one ever would if he could help it. He could just imagine the shit he’d take from his boss and the others if they knew. Not Seth ‘Sticks’ Sterling, vice president of the Steel Kings motorcycle club. Not the tall, lean guy who regularly faced off with those knife-wielding, well-armed sons of bitches Jokers at the drop of a hat or a wrong look.

  Shit. This so-called stakeout hadn’t been productive after all. Now all they had to do was—

  “Sticks! I see ’em!”

  Seth glanced over his shoulder with a scowl. “Keep your voice down, Chops,” he hissed. He turned his gaze back to the warehouse they were watching on the outskirts of northwestern Oklahoma City, where several members of the Jokers motorcycle gang were in the midst of some kind of deal. If their informant had gotten it right. If said informant hadn’t been paid off by a Joker to confound and set a trap for the Steel Kings, if . . . he sighed. You couldn’t trust anyone these days. Especially when it came to the Jokers. They were bad shit all around.

  The Jokers, primarily illegal Mexicans and remnants of Central American gangs with associations with MS-13 and Mexican cartels, had grown in numbers over the past couple of years throughout the Southwest, their territory now ranging from western Arizona through New Mexico and into Texas. They’d been branching out, extending their underground empire and moving northward into western Oklahoma. The Steel Kings weren’t the only group that despised the Jokers. So too did most clubs they were friendly with, along with just about every law enforcement agency he could think of, including the alphabet soup government agencies like the DEA, the FBI, the ATF, and most of all, Homeland Security. As vice president of the Steel Kings, a motorcycle club that had a multigenerational history on the western outskirts of Oklahoma City, Seth took every opportunity he could to make life miserable for the bastards.

  He glanced toward Grady “Merc” Corben, their sergeant at arms. His past military service, along with several combat tours under his belt, had gotten Grady the job with few questions asked. Especially about his history with the military. He’d been dishonorably discharged, but he was working with some yahoos with the army’s Criminal Investigation Services to get the “dishonorable” redacted and the “honorable” back where it should be. A while back, Grady had learned that he’d been set up to be a fall guy in some incident regarding the death of civilians in the Afghani mountains. That word on his discharge papers had haunted him like no one’s business, and he’d been one pissed-off dude.

  Ever since Seth had met him shortly after his discharge, he’d never turned his back to Grady. You never knew what would set him off. You didn’t mess with Grady. With a history of PTSD and the emotional instability that came along with it, Grady was—putting it nicely—fucking crazy most of the time. He’d settled down a bit since his engagement to Callie Barnes and apparently the positive progress of clearing his military record. He was less unstable now, less apt to fly off the handle. Still, Seth was glad that Grady had moved away from the compound where the Steel Kings had their “headquarters” of sorts and into Callie’s house in a western suburb of OK city. He’d always have Grady’s back, just like he would any brother, but it was a little calmer in the club house most days now.

  The compound, as it was called by the club, was nothing more than an old saloon; bar downstairs, several rooms upstairs served by an old wooden staircase. The structure looked like it’d been plucked right out of a Western movie, along with its several outbuildings that stood slightly off a two-lane asphalt highway on the northwestern outskirts of OK city. Until recently, Grady had lived in one of the small cinderblock outbuildings but Seth had moved in there as soon as Grady moved out.

  Seth shook his head, clearing it of everything that didn’t have to do with their current task. Watching the warehouse, determining what the Jokers were up to, and if things worked out all right, chase the bastards out of their territory. They weren’t welcome here, and the Steel Kings had made that plenty clear over the past few months. At the moment, Grady’s eyes remained riveted to the yawning dark doorway of the warehouse, attention focused on that moment when the three Jokers who had entered would emerge with their cargo, whatever it was.

  It was Shakespeare who’d happened upon the warehouse a couple of weeks ago, out on a frontage road in the northern industrial business park section of the city. It was in one of the cheaper places supposedly owned by a trucking service that transported lumber and construction supplies from Jalisco, Mexico through Texas and Oklahoma before transporting goods further north through Kansas City, and points north.

  The president of the Steel Kings, Levi “Vlad” Hancock, with wicked computer skills—Seth had no idea where those skills had been learned—had learned that the Jokers wer
e moving more than lumber in those trucks. Their confidential informant had backed that up. Rumor had it that they were moving human cargo, and not just illegal aliens coming through the border, but kidnapped American citizens destined to be sold into sex rings, both domestic and international. Levi had gotten wind of it. Levi hated sex traffickers more than anything. More than drug mules, more than weapons dealers. More than terrorists, domestic or foreign. Levi took every opportunity to disrupt the Jokers. Upon learning of the location of the warehouse, Levi had grinned, given the nod to Grady, and arranged for a raid of sorts on the warehouse, “just for jollies.”

  Levi wasn’t present this evening, having other business to attend to. Seth knew better than to ask. If Levi wanted you to know, he’d tell you. If not, you minded your own business. Tonight would be the third time that they’d staked out the warehouse. If nobody showed up, Grady would have a talk with their CI, find out why he was jerking their chain. Seth glanced once more at Grady, hoping for the CI’s sake that something happened this time. At least now Grady wouldn’t kill the guy or anything like that. Maybe scare the shit out of him, maybe rough him up a bit. While Seth wasn’t afraid of Grady, he was wise enough to remain wary, even if his mood had improved lately. While Grady’s explosive temper had grown less erratic, and he didn’t blow his fuse over little shit as often as he used to, thanks to Callie’s calming influence, he was not one to be messed with. When the “crazy” took hold, you’d better watch your ass, because Grady could do a lot of damage with those big, meaty fists of his.

  More than once, he and Grady had traded blows. Seth had never backed down. Why should he? He was the fucking vice president! Still, he’d quickly learned to spot the cues that Grady was about to lose it. For the past month or so, they’d given each other a wide berth, because hell, everyone knew that it if you pushed Seth too far: he could go a little bit crazy on you, too. That’s the way it should be. He glanced to his left, saw the bulky shadows of several of the other club members hiding in the shadows on the outskirts of the warehouse’s dirt parking lot. He didn’t have to ask if everybody was ready. He knew they would be.

  They all carried weapons. Seth hoped that they wouldn’t be necessary, as he didn’t particularly like to leave a mess behind. One of these days, the cops might get lucky with their damned forensics and find something that would nail his hide, or someone else’s, to the wall. Not that he minded ridding the world of a Joker, but they didn’t need the extra scrutiny. The cops were well aware of the ongoing feud between the Jokers and the Steel Kings, but why complicate matters?

  Grady held his silver-plated .45 in his hand while Seth cradled the custom-made handle of his Glock 21 Gen 4. Its accuracy and light recoil were perfect, not to mention a 10–13 round magazine capacity. What he most liked about it was its reversible magazine catch, which could accommodate left or right-handed use, both of which Seth was adept with. Being ambidextrous had saved his shit more than once, and you never knew when such skills would come in handy. The others? One of them had a colt revolver, the old-fashioned, Western kind, while the others carried automatics.

  A half dozen of his club members were spread out along the front of the warehouse, two more in back. He eyed the dark, yawning opening and frowned. What the hell were those bastards doing? They had arrived to find a semitrailer pulled up to the front of the warehouse, back door now slid up, but it looked empty. A Ford 250 had parked just behind the semi. Drivers had gotten out and entered the warehouse. Had they just finished unloading or were they going to load? What would they carry now? Lumber and construction supplies or other cargo? Humans? Drugs? Weapons? He didn’t put anything past the Jokers. They made money hand over fist, and they weren’t picky. Anything, from human trafficking to street or prescription drug sales, even some cybercrime and identity theft. It was all fair game to those assholes.

  “Here they come!” Grady whispered, slightly shifting his position behind the small rise they used for shelter. “No shooting unless I say so, got it? There could be a meth lab in there for all we know.”

  The hushed order made the rounds but no one needed to answer. Grady’s commands were obeyed. If not, you risked his wrath. Besides, they didn’t know what the Jokers were up to. It was possible they’d cooked something in there and an explosion would definitely attract unwanted attention.

  They’d been watching the place on and off for days. Until this afternoon, with dusk slowly darkening the eastern horizon and casting deeper shadows along the high plains, they hadn’t seen anything. No trucks going in and out, no bikes, no Jokers, no nothing. Just that now empty semi and the Ford had been parked there after they’d arrived and hidden themselves. Was their intel off? Certainly possible, depending on how high or how drunk the confidential informant was at the time. A couple they had were semi reliable, a couple of others absolutely worthless. They had a few they sometimes paid off, but mostly they relied on their own guys. Seth had no doubt that one of the CIs, and he didn’t know which, might even be passing information along to the Jokers, a double agent of sorts, reaping the benefits of what both the Steel Kings and the Jokers paid him, whether in cash, drugs, or goods. A dangerous game to play, but what the hell . . . some people were just plain stupid.

  The rumble of an engine broke the silence as a dark silver GM truck pulled off the frontage road, churning crushed gravel beneath its tires as it bounced its way along the dirt path leading from the frontage road to the warehouse and its large metal doors. Seth and the others remained well hidden. A surge of pride swept through him at the discipline they showed. So far, the numbers were about even, Jokers versus Steel Kings, but Seth wanted to avoid gunfire if possible.

  The Jokers were known to not only carry hand weapons, like themselves, but AK-47s and Uzis, supplied by the cartels they worked for. The cartel that Seth worried about the most, especially as it made its way north through Texas and up into Oklahoma, was the Sinaloa cartel. Those fuckers were crazy, ruthless, and interested in only two things: intimidation and money and not necessarily in that order.

  “What the hell?”

  Grady’s whisper from a short distance away pulled Seth from his musings and he watched the driver of the silver truck open his door and step out of the vehicle. The man wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt and sported close-cropped black hair and a drooping black mustache. He held a black automatic in one hand as he slowly gazed around the area before equally slowly making his way toward the back of the truck. There, he paused, hand resting on the tailgate. Another slight movement and the tailgate dropped open, exposing a dark gray canvas tarp.

  Seth’s heart raced and adrenaline surged through his body in anticipation of a conflict. Not that he was itching for one, exactly, but ready. What was in that truck? Bales of pot? Bags of meth or heroin? The man grabbed a handful of the tarp and yanked it back, then gestured with his hand, switching his gaze from whatever was in the back of the truck to the grass, the rocks, and the desert shrubs surrounding the dirt parking lot in front of the warehouse.

  He called out something in Spanish. Seconds later, two men appeared from the deeper shadows of the warehouse, both armed, one with an AK-47, the other with a silver automatic, also wary and cautious. Seth frowned. What the hell were they up to? That was a lot of firepower. With a growl of impatience, the driver leaned forward, reached in underneath the tarp, latched onto something, and pulled.

  Oh, fuck no.

  A blonde woman appeared, squirming, hands bound in front of her with duct tape, another piece of duct tape around her mouth.

  “Shit!” Grady hissed.

  Whether she was a kidnapping victim or a hostage, he wasn’t sure, but she was found and that’s all he needed to know. The woman looked young and slender, wearing skinny jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt with the sleeves folded up almost to her elbows. Scuffed cowboy boots.

  The Mexican jerked her over the tailgate and onto the ground. She landed hard with a muted cry of pain. Two of the Mexicans laughed. The one grasping a si
lver automatic reached down with his free hand and grabbed a handful of her long blonde hair, yanking her upward. Seth’s body tensed, his jaw tight and eyes narrowed as he watched the woman scramble onto her knees, then precariously balance on one foot before her right leg lashed out and the tip of her boot glanced off his shin. The man yelped and raised his gun hand, prepared to slam the butt of it down on her skull.

  Seth cursed. He wasn’t about to stand around and watch them hurt an innocent, no matter what the cost. He stood and fired his pistol, purposely keeping his shot a bit high since he wasn’t sure how the woman would move next. The bullet struck the side of the building just over the man’s head.

  Instant chaos. The man holding the woman’s hair ducked and released her, turned, and ran inside the wide door opening of the warehouse, the other man close on his heels. Seth kept his eyes on the woman, who immediately dropped to the ground and rolled under the truck, using the rear passenger side tire for cover. The Jokers opened fire while the driver of the truck scrambled around the hood, trying to make his way back into the cab. He crouched low, firing shot after shot blindly into the area surrounding the dirt parking lot. It was only then that Grady and the others, spread out, also began shooting. The driver managed to get into the cab, slamming the door behind him. A bullet shattered the side mirror. Seth cursed when he heard the engine turnover.