Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  Upon recognizing the distinct sound, I peered over the edge of the roof. The low idle speed and the unmistakable exhaust note each time the approaching motorcycle came to a stop was an all too familiar sound.

  Shovelhead’s ran like a striped-assed ape and sounded like absolute shit. They were beautiful and grotesque at the same time.

  Baker pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. I pushed my shears into my back pocket, stood, and surveyed the morning’s work.

  “I’m up here!” I shouted.

  The sound of his boot heels against the concrete drive confirmed he’d traveled alone. As soon as he stepped onto the roof, I knew something was amiss. His long face and tired eyes warned me not to bother asking. He sauntered toward where I stood.

  I could count Baker’s solo trips to my home on one hand. Each one brought with it a unique revelation. He never stopped by “just to talk”.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, turning away. “Beer or tea?”

  “Whiskey,” he replied. “Something smooth.”

  Whiskey at ten am on Sunday. I didn’t like the sound of it. Nonetheless, I returned in a few moments with a bottle of Macallan single malt and two glasses.

  After pouring two shots of mind-numbing size, I set the bottle aside and handed him one of the glasses. “You look like hell.”

  He held the glass beneath his nose and drew a breath. “I’ve got a cop’s head in one of my saddlebags. It’s not a good feeling.”

  He downed the shot.

  I wasn’t thrilled about a five-month-old head being parked in my driveway. I’d chosen to relocate to the beachfront getaway to stay one step ahead of the police, not give them an invitation to raid my home for evidence.

  I drank the shot in one gulp and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. “You don’t say? Any idea where the rest of him is?”

  He looked like he was going to puke. “Hands and feet are in there, too.”

  I swallowed a mouthful of bile. “What about the rest?”

  “There’s only one more piece,” he said. “Cash has got it in the bed of his truck.”

  I suspected at ground level it smelled pretty fucking ripe. Luckily, the fifteen pots of freshly-planted marigolds were keeping the roofline from falling victim to the dead cop’s stench.

  “All the fucking cops will have to do is follow the trail of swarming flies,” I muttered. “What the fuck were you thinking, Bake? Coming here?”

  “Last I remember, you said you wanted to be involved,” he grunted. “Consider yourself involved. And, for what it’s worth, it doesn’t stink.”

  “According to who?” I asked. “All that hair on your face is blocking your nose. The son-of-a-bitch has been dead for five months. Depending on where’s he’s been—”

  “Encased in concrete.”

  I was impressed. Not a lot, but for having Cash involved, I felt that I should at least pat him on the shoulder the next time we saw each other.

  “All of it?” I asked.

  “All the pieces I brought. That poor Shovel’s weighed down pretty good.”

  I closed my eyes and drew a slow breath through my nose. The marigold’s pungent odor was something I’d grown to enjoy. I’d purchased them because of their ability to withstand the full sunlight of the roof deck and to ward off insects.

  They, like Baker’s Shovelhead, were a simple reminder that not all of nature’s beauty appealed to every one of a man’s five senses.

  “What are you thinking you’re going to do with ‘em?” I asked.

  He glanced around the roof deck and then met my gaze. “Can’t have ‘em at the shop, we know they got a warrant for that place once, and they’ll get another if they need to. If they know where you live, they know where all of us live. Only place I can think of, until we decide what’s best, is to leave them here.”

  “No,” I snapped.

  “Goose,” he pleaded. “It’s the only safe place.”

  I widened my eyes. “Safe? Leaving a cop’s body parts here isn’t safe.”

  “This place probably isn’t even in Ghost’s name yet. Hell, there wasn’t enough time to get the deed transferred before he died. I doubt they even know Ghost was living here. They damned sure won’t be able to get a warrant in Abby’s name. I think this is the only logical place to leave ‘em.”

  My natural response was no. Thinking about matters logically told me he was right. Leaving the chunks of concrete anywhere in public would make them free reign for the cops. Having them on a piece of property required a warrant.

  Getting a warrant for a piece of property that wasn’t in my name would be impossible. Leaving them would be the only logical thing to do.

  I forced a sigh. “You’re right.”

  “Where are we going to put them?” he asked.

  “What do they look like?”

  He chuckled. “Chunks of concrete.”

  “God damn it,” I complained. “Are they shaped like a wad of shit, a sphere, a triangle, what?”

  “Perfect squares,” he said. “He formed them up with wood.”

  “How perfect?”

  “The perfect kind of perfect.”

  “How the fuck’d you fit a concrete-encased head in your saddlebag?”

  “It’s not as big as you’d think.”

  I glanced around the roof deck. I hated the thought of it, but keeping the body pieces at the beachfront home was in the club’s best interest. “Best place, as much as I hate saying it, is up here. Nobody’ll come up here looking for ‘em. Hell, I’ll paint ‘em black and stack flower pots on top of ‘em.”

  He laughed. “Sounds like a great idea.”

  “You’re carrying ‘em up here, though. This is you and Cash’s handiwork. You get ‘em up here, I’ll keep an eye on ‘em.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said.

  Later that night, just before sunset, I copped a squat on a bench beside the dead cop’s head. I drank my umpteenth cup of coffee for the day. I gazed out at the ocean and drew a breath of the crisp winter air.

  The sweet smell of the ocean and taste of salt lingered in the air. The pulse of the waves was rhythmic. Predictable.

  Soothing.

  The sun folded behind a cloud along the horizon. The sky transformed from a soft blue to oranges and pinks. The bright colors eventually faded, only to be replaced by a deep translucent indigo.

  I closed my eyes and let the waves take me away.

  My mind drifted to thoughts of Ally. Not of fucking her in the car, but of the first time I saw her. The day her natural beauty caused me to drift off into a sexual daydream.

  It was her outer beauty that originally drew me to her. I later learned her lack of fear, outgoing personality, and willingness to challenge me were far more beautiful than her appearance. I’d never met a woman with enough spunk to stand up to me. Now that I had, I realized how valuable of an asset it was.

  The sun setting along the ocean’s horizon brought a smile to my face. I’d lived a matter of a few miles from the ocean for eighteen years and had rarely taken time to experience its majestic beauty.

  The only sound was of the waves washing ashore. As I let the depth of it all seep into my soul, I realized there was one place on earth that could satisfy all a man’s senses.

  I was fortunate enough to have it as my yard.

  129

  ALLY

  I surveyed the glass case. It was filled with overpriced knives, throwing stars, and miscellaneous other bullshit that would appeal to angry teens. On the walls, various branches of military uniforms hung, many from generations that had long since passed. I was obviously in the wrong place.

  I turned toward the door. A man’s voice from behind me caused me to hesitate.

  “If there’s something you’re looking for and it’s not on display,” he said, his tone hoarse and gravely. “I’ve probably got in in the back. If not, it’ll be in our warehouse.”

  I turned around, expecting an elderly man. A bearded
man in his mid-twenties stood on the opposite side of the glass case. Bits and pieces of his hair went in every possible direction. The buttons on the blouse of his improperly sized uniform were straining the thread that held them in place.

  “I was looking for night vision,” I said dismissively.

  “Monocular, scope, or goggles?”

  “Goggles. I wanted a—”

  “We’ve got the PNW-57E Russian-issue night vision for four hundred.”

  “That’s a piece of Soviet crap,” I said. “I was looking for the US-issue—”

  “We’ve got the PVS-7, which is the current-issue for US and Allied forces. They’re forty-five hundred. What are you going to be using it for?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Looking at shit in the dark.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “What kind of shit?”

  My intentions were none of his business. Aggravated, I turned toward the door. After taking a few steps, he cleared his throat.

  “I don’t give a shit what you’re doing with it,” he said. “I was just tryin’ to figure out which one would suit you best.”

  I paused. I really didn’t want to drive all over San Diego looking for a night vision setup. I faced him.

  “Is it new, remanufactured, or used?”

  “New. Unissued.”

  I took a few steps in his direction, making certain to stand at his side, in case one of his buttons became a projectile. “Do you have the latest generation? The 7D?”

  “Not here,” he replied. “The one we have in stock right now is the 7A, if I remember correctly.”

  I knew from experience that the first generation would suit me fine. The PVS-7 was my first choice for night vision—and what I was replacing.

  “You only have one?” I asked.

  “That’s all we keep on hand.”

  “But you have others? Somewhere else?”

  “We do,” he said. “In El Cajon, in our warehouse.”

  “So, when you sell this one, you’ll bring in another?”

  He grinned. “That’s how it works.”

  “Will it be the newest gen? The 7D? When you bring in the one that replaces this one?”

  He shrugged. “Probably.”

  “Are you negotiable on price?”

  Although I could afford whatever the setup cost, I didn’t like paying asking price for anything. Ever. Anywhere that allowed negotiation was subject to my penny-pinching wrath.

  “Sorry, we’re not set up that way,” he said apologetically. “We don’t negotiate. Our prices are competitive for an Army-Navy store. If you want it cheaper you can go online and get it.”

  “I don’t buy anything online. That’s why I’m here.”

  “It’s cheaper online,” he offered.

  I approached the counter. “Is it? What’s peace of mind worth? What about privacy? If I buy online, I can’t pay in cash. If I can’t pay in cash, that means I have to use a credit card. If I use a credit card, they have my information. My name, my address. Everything. I could be smart, and use a pre-paid credit card, but that could be traced to the store where it was purchased. Regardless, they’d obtain the IP address of the computer used to make the transaction, which could lead them to me, even if I went to the library and used their computer. If I buy it from you, they don’t know anything.”

  He seemed confused. “Who are they?”

  I shook my head. “Are you negotiable, or not?”

  “We’re not set up that way.”

  “That’s what you said earlier.” I sighed. “But. You’ve got an outdated piece of equipment that will be replaced with the current version when you sell it. You only keep one in stock. That tells me you’ve had the one you’ve got for some time, or it would have been replaced a long time ago. So, you can sit on that old, outdated piece of Mil-spec shit from now until the end of time, or I can buy it from you. In case you don’t realize it, people aren’t beating your door down to buy shit. You’ll make a month’s income on one sale. Essentially, I’m doing you a favor. I’ll give you thirty-five hundred.”

  “I’ll take four grand.”

  “Thirty-two hundred.”

  He blinked. Several times. “Wait, you’re going backward. You’re supposed to come up in price. We’re negotiating.”

  “That’s not how I negotiate. I offered you thirty-five hundred. You didn’t want it. You lost your chance. Now, I’m at thirty-two hundred.” I cocked my hip. “Do you want my money, or do you want to negotiate some more?”

  “Jesus. Uhhm. Shit.” He rubbed his beard while he performed mental mathematical calculations. After a moment, he appeared to have an epiphany. “Okay, I’ll take it. All I need from you is thirty-two hundred bucks and a copy of your driver’s license.”

  “Night vision isn’t a regulated piece of equipment. I’m not giving you my driver’s license.”

  He shrugged his camouflaged shoulders. “It’s just procedure.”

  “My procedure is to pay cash and walk away.”

  “I’m going to need to write down a driver’s license number.”

  “Write down your own. Or, get the one from the next dipshit that comes in here, and use it. Thirty-two hundred. No receipt. No DL. You can make one up. Take it or leave it.”

  He forced a sigh. “Fine. I’ll be right back.”

  In a moment, he returned with the device. I opened the case, inspected everything, and paid him in cash. “We’re done, right?”

  He thumbed through the hundred-dollar bills. “Guess so.” He chuckled. “Don’t go rob a bank, or anything.”

  I grinned and turned away without speaking. A bank? I wasn’t going to rob a bank. Banks had tens of thousands at best. The place I had in mind should have much more cash than that.

  Millions, if my information was correct.

  130

  GOOSE

  “I don’t need every dumb fucking idea under the stars thrown at me,” Baker complained. “I need something that’ll work. We’ve got a fucking detective nosing around, and his curiosity with us is keeping us from moving forward on the Bakersfield job. We need to get this resolved, and we need to agree.”

  I found it amusing that Baker’s opinion on matters changed drastically after talking to me about the situation with the dead cop. In the past, I’d been referred to as skittish, scared, and over-the-top when it came to precautionary measures.

  My caffeine intake was typically to blame, at least according to Baker. He claimed my all-day consumption of coffee left me “on edge” and jittery, which, in turn, caused me to believe everyone was after me.

  I didn’t believe “everyone” was after me. Only the ones that were clearly after everyone, me included. I was informed. At times, I wish I wasn’t. If the general public knew what I knew about the government’s listening and watching abilities, it would make them skittish, too.

  “Reno’s idea wasn’t terrible,” Tito said. “But the existence of DNA remains, albeit diminished, when a body is decomposed through the use of acid. The acid must be disposed of somewhere, and wherever that somewhere is, the soil could be sampled, any DNA would be present. Dumping acid in the Mojave Desert isn’t a great idea.”

  Cash grinned from ear to ear. “What if the acid was dumped in the ocean? That shit would be diluted in a fuckin’ minute.”

  “Only problem with that is gettin’ the acid on a boat,” Reno retorted. “It’d have to be a 55-gallon drum. Loading something that big on a boat will raise a lot of eyebrows. ‘Round here, they’ll think your either smugglin’ a body, or smugglin’ dope. Either way, Coast Guard would be on you like shit on a wheel before you got that shit dumped.”

  Reno was right. A vessel large enough to house all the body parts would be huge. Loading it on a boat wouldn’t go unnoticed. Secondly, we didn’t own a boat.

  “A 55-gallon drum filled with fluid would weight five hundred pounds,” Tito declared. “It would be impossible to dolly it down the boardwalk and get it loaded without being noticed. Half of San Diego bay w
ould be calling 9-1-1 before the boat left the dock.”

  “And, you’d have to wear one of those suits to keep that shit from splatterin’ on ya,” Reno added. “All the whale huggers would call the EPA if nothing else.”

  “I know you all think I’m overly cautious, but I can only come up with two plans I like. One is cremating the body. We don’t have access to a crematorium, so that’s pretty much out. The second is loading the concrete blocks onto a boat, taking the boat twenty miles out, and tossing them. We could carry the body parts onto the boat in beer coolers. Act like we’re taking a fishing expedition. The water’s two and a half miles deep out there. The only problem is we’d have to buy a boat.”

  “I like it,” Baker said. “Why don’t we rent a boat?”

  “Any rental boat would have a GPS on it,” I said. “They could use that data to take them right to the location where we dumped it. If we bought one, it wouldn’t have to be fitted with anything. As long as we don’t take our cell phones on the trip, they’d never know where we dumped the shit.”

  “As vast as the Pacific Ocean is,” Tito added. “The odds of anything being found would be in the trillions to one. Actually, taking depth into consideration, it would be incalculable. That’s the best idea, so far.”

  Baker looked at each of us. “Anybody have a connection at a mortuary?”

  “Crematory,” Tito said, correcting him. “A mortuary may organize the cremation service, but the crematory does the act.”

  “Okay,” Baker sighed. “Crematory.” He glanced from man to man. “Anyone?”

  “Can’t the ashes be checked for DNA?” Cash asked.

  Tito shook his head. “The eighteen-hundred degree temperature destroys any DNA evidence.”

  “That sounds like our best bet,” I said. “What about building an oven?”

  “Our welder is no longer with us, Goose,” Baker said. “We don’t have anyone that can fabricate steel.”