Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  More nervous than a nun at a penguin shoot, I walked gingerly through the home, hoping to see something.

  As per Baker’s instructions, each of us went to the bedroom we were assigned. After traveling up the stairs, Tito took the master bedroom, and I went to the bedroom described as number two.

  The remote home sat on a large lot that was a little more than five acres in size, most of which was covered in trees. The portion that wasn’t tree-lined was a shielded from view by the mountain the home had been built against.

  I stepped into the dimly lit room and turned on my flashlight. The room was almost as large as my entire home. A quick check of the obvious places: under the mattress, beneath the dresser and night stand drawers, and beneath the throw rug, produced nothing.

  The closet had no hidden openings, and no safe.

  The two pictures that hung on the walls concealed nothing, nor did the toilet’s tank. I pointed my light directly at each of the screws that affixed the heating and air vents in place, hoping to see signs of tampering, but each one appeared to be unaltered.

  Frustrated, I walked to the next room. Baker was finishing his survey. He looked at me with hopeful eyes. “Anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  He forced a sigh. “Check on Tito.”

  I went to the master bedroom just in time to find Tito leaving. “Nothing?”

  “There was a safe with the door open. Empty.”

  “Big one?”

  He shook his head. “Small fire safe. Probably keeps his wallet in there.”

  “Fuck,” I breathed.

  “Anything in yours?”

  “Not a fucking thing.”

  After we checked with Goose and again with Baker, Tito and I searched the last remaining rooms. Ten minutes later, we had found absolutely nothing. The four of us met in the hallway.

  “I fucking swear,” Baker seethed. “If we don’t find anything, I’m going to light this son-of-a-botch on fire.”

  “Okay by me,” I said.

  He sighed heavily. “You and Tito take the kitchen. Check that motherfucker with a fine-toothed comb. Goose and I will take every picture off the walls and check behind them.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  We did what we did for various reasons. Baker perceived himself as a modern-day Robin Hood, giving a good portion – if not all – of his proceeds to charity. Ghost did it for the thrill, looking at the financial gain as an added bonus. Tito did it because he enjoyed computer hacking, and he used the successes of each job as a means of measuring his abilities.

  Goose did it because it was what the rest of us did. He lived in a modest home, spent a little of his earnings on landscaping and upgrades to his yard, and invested the rest.

  Reno did it because he loved seeing things explode. Knowing what I now knew, I couldn’t help but wonder if his affinity for setting off bombs had something to do with his parents, and the childhood that he was forced to live.

  Being angry with one’s parents was a common thread with people who enjoyed explosives.

  Me?

  I did it with the hope that one day I could buy a home big enough to enjoy living life beyond the MC. I dreamt of a home overlooking the beach but knew it would never come to fruition. It didn’t hurt to dream, and it was dreaming that fueled me to be the best I could be through the course of our ‘jobs’.

  Tito and I spent an hour in the kitchen, which was fifty minutes longer than most thieves spent robbing an entire house. After finding nothing more than some fine dinnerware and a collection of expensive tequila, we looked at each other in wonder.

  “How big was that safe upstairs?”

  “It was one of those cheap Wal-Mart fire safes that you bolt to the floor.” He shrugged. “Maybe two feet square. It was in the closet, why?”

  “Probably kept his jewelry, pocket money, and watches in there,” I said.

  “Probably.”

  “Drug dealer like this ought to have a big safe. If he’s peddling big dope, he’s got to have big money. Big money requires a big safe. You know he doesn’t keep that shit in the bank.”

  “Only place left is the garage,” he said.

  “We ought to take that fuckin’ Ferrari.”

  “We’d be caught before we got on the freeway,” he said. “That thing’s so rare, the cops would know it’s his. My guess is it’s the only one in this part of the country.”

  “You haven’t seen anything weird or out of place?” I asked.

  “Other than his bedroom smelled like ass? No.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “Smelled like he just decontaminated it. Probably mopped blood off the floor and cleaned it with bleach and Pine-Sol.”

  “I can’t stand the smell of cleaning products,” I said. “Surprised you could smell shit, with that broken nose.”

  “I can smell, it’s just, I don’t know, different.”

  Because the smelly bedroom was the only thing that stood out as being suspicious about the entire home, I decided I wanted to smell it for myself.

  “Let’s go up there,” I said. “I want to smell it.”

  He turned toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”

  I followed him up the stairs and into the room. As soon as we stepped inside, it was clear to me what the smell was. The room was freshly painted.

  “It’s paint,” I said. “He just painted it.”

  A quick check of the room’s trim revealed he’d painted only one wall – the one directly behind the bed’s headboard – and that he’d painted it the same color.

  “Why the fuck would he paint only one wall,” I asked, not necessarily expecting an answer.

  I touched the wall with the tip of my finger. The paint was dry. The room had only a faint hint of the paint’s smell, but the lack of air movement – from the air conditioner being set to an away setting – caused the smell to be more prominent.

  I stared blankly at the wall.

  Then, it came to me.

  “All the tools are in the SUV?” I asked.

  “That’s where Baker wanted them, why?”

  “I need a stud finder. Is that on the list?”

  He nodded. “There’s one in there. A digital DeWalt. Why?”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  I ran to the SUV, got the stud finder out of the tool kit, and ran back to the room. When I got there, Baker, Goose, and Tito were bitching about the home being bare of anything valuable.

  I looked at the men and grinned. “If I’m right on this, we’ll need a few sledgehammers and a couple of keyhole saws.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Baker asked.

  “Gimme a minute,” I said. “Hopefully I’m right.”

  I pressed the stud finder to the wall at the bed’s side. A standard sheet of sheetrock registered on the digital screen.

  I jumped onto the bed and pressed the tool to the wall behind the headboard. The screen registered that there was three inches of wood behind the wall. I moved it over three feet. The same thing registered.

  My heart raced.

  I moved over five feet and checked again.

  According to the readout, three inches of wood was concealed behind the freshly painted sheetrock. The scanner couldn’t discern three inches of tightly-packed money from three inches of wood.

  My hope was that he’d hidden everything behind the wall.

  “Grab some hammers and as many saws as you can carry,” I said excitedly. “Everything’s behind this sheetrock.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Baker asked.

  I tossed the stud finder to Baker.

  “Watch this.” I thrust my fist into the sheetrock. Instead of plowing through it completely, it penetrated the sheetrock and stopped. Again, and again, I punched, until I could grasp the loosened piece.

  I pulled it away from the wall, leaving a six-inch irregular shaped opening in the wall. Immediately behind it was a sheet of cellophane.


  I glanced over my shoulder and grinned.

  “What is it?” Baker asked.

  “It’s my new house on the beach,” I said with a smile.

  I pulled my knife from my pocket and excitedly slit the cellophane. After pulling it open and peering inside, I pumped my fist in the air.

  “Hundred-dollar bills, mothafuckas!” I shouted. “The wall’s full of ‘em.”

  Baker hopped onto the bed and began frantically pulling sheetrock off the wall. Behind each section, cellophane-wrapped money looked back at him.

  “Fuck,” he said. “This is going to be huge.”

  He looked at me. “Good thinking, Cash.”

  “I had to make up for a bad month,” I said.

  Baker chuckled and slapped his hand against my shoulder. “This ought to do it.”

  Like men possessed, two of us swung sledgehammers while the other two ripped sheetrock from the walls. An hour later, we had so much money removed from the walls that I questioned how much of it could fit in Ghost’s SUV.

  The room looked like a demolition crew of a home makeover show had gone nuts in it. Bare wall studs stood where the bed’s headboard once was, and the floor was littered with chunks of sheetrock. The entire room was covered in a film of white dust.

  I kicked the stack of money. “How much do you think this is?”

  “Four point five cubic feet per million,” Tito said. “For hundred-dollar bills.”

  I waved my hands over the mound of money. “How many cubic feet is this?”

  He shrugged. “Sixty. Maybe eighty.”

  Baker looked at Tito. “Twenty million?”

  Tito nodded and then studied the massive pile of money. “Back of the SUV will hold thirty-five cubic feet. We’re either going to have to leave some of it or steal one of his vehicles.”

  “We’re not stealing a car,” Baker said. “That’s a guarantee of getting caught.”

  “I’ll steal one of ‘em,” I said.

  “No, you won’t,” Baker said. “We’ll either load it up, or we’ll make two trips.”

  “It’s six hours round trip,” I reminded him. “It’ll be morning before we can get back here.”

  Baker looked at the money, and then shook his head. “Fuck.”

  “Wrap it in a blanket, and put it on top,” Tito said. “Like one of those Thule cargo boxes.”

  “Good idea,” Baker said.

  “We’ll look like we’re haulin’ coke,” I said with a laugh. “Cop sees a blanket-wrapped package on top, sealed up nice with duct tape, and we’re getting got for sure.”

  Baker sighed. “Good point.”

  “The back of the SUV holds thirty-five cubic feet,” Goose said. “That leaves twenty-five. At five a piece, we can carry that on our laps. It’s less than a sack of groceries.”

  “Fill the back of the SUV,” Baker said. “Whatever’s left, we’ll wrap in bedsheets and carry out. Every man gets a load.”

  In fifteen minutes, we had four hundred pounds of hundred-dollar bills in the SUV, and each of us had a lap full of money.

  As Ghost drove the three-hour trip back to San Diego, the men laughed, joked, and talked of how they were going to spend their cut after Baker split it up.

  Oddly, I wasn’t as thrilled as the rest of the men. I knew, regardless of what my cut was, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it fully even if I got the house on the beach.

  Because I’d be living in it alone.

  73

  KIMBERLY

  I didn’t recognize the phone number, but I picked up the phone nonetheless. Hoping that it wasn’t Cash calling from one of his friend’s phones, I raised it to my ear.

  “This is Kimberly.”

  “Kimberly, this is John. I’m going to need you to stop by the office at your best earliest convenience.”

  “John? I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about. John who?”

  “John Fillmore with Fillmore and Ruffin, Kimberly. It’s regarding your account.”

  I hadn’t left my home in nearly two weeks and had no intention of doing so. At least not yet. I looked like hell, felt worse, and feared I couldn’t drive without having an accident. Whatever news he had regarding the status of my retirement account could wait until I was in a better psychological state.

  “I’m kind of sick,” I said. “Can we get together sometime next week?”

  “I’m afraid we need to do it sooner than next week.”

  “Can we discuss it over the phone?”

  “I’m afraid not. I can’t express the importance of this meeting, Kimberly. If there’s a way, we need to get together today.”

  The tone of his voice led me to believe something was terribly wrong. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “What do you mean? How can it not be?”

  “We can discuss matters further when you’re here. When can I expect you?”

  “Can you give me two hours?”

  “I’ll see you at two,” he said.

  I looked at the phone’s screen. He was right. It was noon, and I hadn’t so much as showered or had a bite to eat. I let out a sigh, nodded, and then agreed.

  “I’ll see you at two.”

  I sat on the couch and blubbered. As if I didn’t already have enough reasons to cry, I now had another. I wished Cash was with me, so he could hold me and tell me everything would be alright.

  But I knew I’d never see him again.

  And, it wasn’t going to be alright.

  Without the interest income from my investment account, losing Cash would be the least of my worries. I cried until I was out of tears. Then, I cried some more. I cried until my stomach heaved, and continued crying until I made myself sick.

  While I sat on the bathroom floor and dry-heaved into the toilet bowl, the doorbell rang. I knew it wouldn’t be Jennifer or Cash, because they both knocked on the door. I dismissed it, knowing there was no one on earth that I was interested in seeing.

  While I tried to convince myself to stand, it rang again. Frustrated – and at wits end – I rose to my feet and stumbled toward the door, prepared to give whoever was invading my moment of sorrow a piece of my mind.

  I yanked the door open.

  The young woman standing on my porch looked familiar, but in my current state of mind, I couldn’t name her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t--”

  “Andy,” she said. “We met at Goose’s.”

  I forced a crooked smile. “Oh. Hi.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked, her face washed with worry.

  I wiped my nose with the washcloth I was holding. “I’ve been better, thank you.”

  She raised her hand to her mouth, and then coughed out a laugh. “I’m sorry, but you look like hell.” She pulled a bottle of wine from her purse and held it between us. “Can I come in?”

  “I’ve been sick. I don’t think…” I stammered.

  “You look like you could use someone to talk to,” she said. “How about a few minutes over a glass of wine?”

  She was right, I did need someone to talk to, but not about what she was hoping to talk about. There was only one reason for her to be visiting, and I wasn’t prepared to talk about Cash. I did, however, plan on telling her about my financial woes, and a glass if wine sounded like a great idea.

  I moved to the side. “Please. Come in.”

  She stepped inside and looked around. “I love your home. It’s beautiful.”

  I glanced in the living room. A mental sigh escaped me. My blanket and pillow remained on the couch, right where they’d been for the last month. I had yet to sleep in my bedroom since Cash left.

  I couldn’t bring myself to.

  I gestured toward the pile of bedding and turned toward the kitchen. “I had a slumber party last night.”

  “Looks like a big group,” she said with a laugh.

  She followed me into the kitchen and poured two glasses of wine. After joining me at the table
, she looked me over.

  “When was the last time you ate?” she asked.

  I coughed a dry laugh. “What night was the barbeque?”

  She gave me a side-eyed look. “Seriously?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve eaten a little.”

  “You don’t look like it. Do you want me to make you something?”

  “I can’t eat. Not right now.”

  “Want to talk?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact,” I said. “I do.”

  She raised her wine glass. “Start wherever you’d like.”

  “Some son-of-a-bitch hacked into my account and stole my money. I’m flat broke.”

  “Wait? What?” she gasped. “What money?”

  “My money,” I said through my teeth. “All my money.”

  I told her of the money, the mysterious accounts, and of there not being a name or an account number to find. The more I spoke, the angrier I became. By the time I was finished, I wasn’t crying.

  I was furious.

  “If I find out who did this,” I said through my teeth. “They’ll need a bucket to carry him away in, because I’m going to hack him to pieces.”

  “I can’t imagine,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Do you have a plan to try and retrieve it? To catch the guy?”

  “I’ve got a longshot. I’m going to throw a Hail Mary and hope.”

  I finished my glass of wine and stomped to the kitchen to pour another. After realizing that we’d finished the bottle she brought with her, I opened the door to my wine fridge.

  Empty.

  I opened cabinet doors, looked in the refrigerator, and double checked the wine fridge.

  In the last month, I’d somehow consumed every ounce of alcohol in my home.

  “I’m sorry,” I said with a laugh. “It looks like I’ve been raided. Probably my neighbor.”

  “Were you done with your story?” she asked.

  “I guess so,” I said. “I’m too mad to talk about it anymore.”

  She stood and turned to face me. “I’ve met my fair share of assholes in my life. I could tell you stories of cheating, physical abuse, and everything in between. Instead, I’m going to tell you about men who are better than that. Well, not men, but one man.”

  I started to interrupt her, but she took a quick breath and continued.