I looked at Reno and raised my brows. “How’d I do?”
He glanced around the table. After receiving a nod of reassurance from everyone, he grinned. “Damn. Looks like I’ll be leaving you a twenty-dollar tip.”
Seeing the grin on Reno’s face was more satisfying than it should have been. Something told me he didn’t do it often. I relished in the sight for a moment, and then flashed him a smile in return.
“I’ll spend it wisely,” I said. “If you need anything, my name’s Carma.”
He glanced at my tits. Again. “Karma? Like, if you do good, good happens to you? Do bad, bad follows you? That kind of Karma?”
I grew up in an affluent neighborhood in Baja California, a state in northern Mexico that lies just south of San Diego. I was raised by parents who insisted that English was my first language. Because of my Spanish ancestry, education, and ability to speak English well, I was often mistaken for being an American. I went by Carma, but my given name was Carmelita. Once I told someone my birth name, the typical response was, Oh wow. You’re a Mexican?
Having that conversation with him would ruin everything. I liked the way he looked at me and I didn’t want that to change. At the end of the night, he could go back to wherever he came from. I’d live the rest of my life telling myself he didn’t care that I was Hispanic.
“Yeah,” I lied. “That kind of Karma.”
The men stayed, laughing and drinking beer until long after closing time. They may have resembled the Vagos or the Hells Angels, but their manners and demeanor were worlds apart. I was so comfortable in their presence that I allowed Luiz to clock out at ten o’clock, like he asked.
Nearly two hours after closing time, they got up to leave. While I tallied my night’s tips, Reno gave me a lingering look from across the empty dining hall. When I met his gaze, he pointed to his plate.
“Your twenty is under my plate.”
I flashed a smile. “Thank you.”
“Food was fantastic,” Crip said with a nod. “We’ll be back.”
I waved. “Thank you.”
They left with the same jovial sense they entered with. Poking and slapping one another like children, they joked and laughed their way to the parking lot. As soon as I finished tallying my night’s tips, I went to clear their table.
A mountain of money was neatly stacked beside a bowl of salsa. My heart skipped a beat. I thumbed through the bills, mostly hundred-dollar notes, and nearly fainted. With the wad of money clenched in my fist, I rushed to the restaurant’s entrance and shoved the door open.
Their motorcycles were parked in a perfect line, all equally spaced from one another. The men were gathered in front of them, talking.
“Excuse me,” I said, walking in their direction. “I can’t…I can’t accept this. It’s several thousand dollars.”
The bearded man who was sitting next to Reno turned around. “It’s roughly thirty-six hundred. Thirty-five twenty, I think, including Reno’s twenty-dollar bet.” He shrugged. “It’s all the cash we had.”
I tried to digest his response but couldn’t quite make sense of it. “I can’t…” I stammered. “This is crazy.”
“You put up with us for three hours without complaining. It’s two hours after closing time. Great service is hard to get—for us, anyway.” He gave a dismissive wave of his tattooed hand. “Keep it. You earned it. It’s yours.”
I hadn’t done anything but treat the men with respect. I was raised to treat everyone respectfully, and never expected doing so would result in such a reward. Overcome with emotion, I looked at Reno and mouthed the words thank you.
He gave a nod and reached for his helmet.
I stood just outside the front door and watched as they put on their helmets and started their motorcycles. Revving their engines as if the sound brought with it proof of their testosterone, they maneuvered two by two, into the street. Once centered in the road, they accelerated like they were being chased by the law. The thunder-like rumble dissolved as their taillights disappeared over the hill.
Rewarding interaction with men wasn’t something that happened often. When it did, I cherished it. Typically, it was with a fifty-something Hispanic male who was pleased with the portion sizes, authenticity of the food, and the speed in which I refilled his glass of water.
Laughing and joking with a man who seemed as interested in me as I was in him was a nice change of pace. Happy with my evening’s rewards but sad that they had gone, I turned and reached for the door handle.
“A dondé vas?” A distant voice asked from behind me.
My spine straightened. If I ran inside the building and locked the door, he’d likely burn it down to flush me out. I dropped the money into my apron’s front pocket and turned toward the familiar voice.
Standing at the far side of the parking lot beside a truck with a man I didn’t recognize, El Pollo looked no differently than he had the last time I’d seen him. Wearing khaki chinos and a ribbed white tank top, his muscular arms dangled at his sides. The many tattoos that peppered his body warned Mexican officials of his affiliation with the Tijuana Cartel. In the United States, he looked like every other Hispanic gangbanger.
I knew otherwise.
He was the devil himself. Negotiating with him wasn’t an option. One of Angel’s many thugs, violence was his only means of resolve, and conflict resolution was his job.
I swallowed heavily. “Please,” I pleaded. “It’s been four years. I’m here, he’s there. That’s how it needs to stay.”
His skin-tight shirt did little to hide the outline of a pistol that was tucked into the waistband of his pants. He rested his hand against it and shot me a glare. “Te vas conmigo.”
There was no way I was going with him. Angel would make sure I didn’t escape this time. If I somehow managed to do so, returning to my family would be impossible. The border was crawling with Border Patrol Agents.
At a loss for words, I stood there, shaking.
He tilted his head toward the truck. “Vamonos.”
The sound of motorcycles in the distance brought with it a glimmer of hope, but the possibility of the men returning was miniscule. One in a million. Maybe worse. Comparable, I decided, were the odds of me escaping the night unscathed.
Headlights pierced the darkness behind El Pollo. Two at a time, the motorcycles cleared the top of the hill. Upon seeing the eight headlights, relief got tangled in my throat.
They pulled into the parking lot one by one and rode between me and the man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill any—or all—of them if they opposed him. Reno came to a stop right in front of me.
He lifted his leg over the seat of his motorcycle and removed his glasses. Wearing his helmet and a look of embarrassment, he sauntered toward me.
“Left my phone inside,” he said, his head hanging low. “Can you let me in, so I can get it?”
I glanced at El Pollo and then at Reno. The bitter taste of fear rose in my throat. I swallowed against it. “Sure.”
In a daze, I turned toward the door.
Upon entering the dining area, I began my breathless plea. “Ohmygod I can’t believe this is happening,” I sputtered. “I need help—”
As if he hadn’t heard me, he brushed past me. I paused, and then stammered to find the words to continue.
Reno picked up his phone and turned around. “Guy standing beside the truck?” he asked without looking up from his phone. “With the all the homemade tattoos?”
“Yes.” I nodded frantically. “He’s crazy. Insane is more like it.”
His remained focused on the phone. “Is he your ex?”
I frustrated me that he found his phone more interesting than the life-threatening dilemma I was in. Sidetracked or not, there was no way I could survive the night without his help. He was my only hope.
I needed to convince him to intervene. The only way for him to understand—and to trust me—was if I told him the truth.
“No, he’s not my ex. It’s complicated
. I broke up with my ex more than eight years ago.” As the words passed my lips, tears welled in my eyes. “After we broke up, he kidnapped me, beat me, and threatened to kill...I can’t go back. I just can’t. There’s not anything that…you can’t understand. No one can. Imagine…it’s…he used a broomstick to…I’m not going. I’ll die…I’ll kill myself before I go back…That man…the guy beside the truck? He’s planning on kidnapping me and taking me back—”
He lowered his phone and looked up. “What’ll happen if you tell him you’re not going?”
“If I said that?” I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. “He’d beat the hell out of me and toss me in the back of the truck. If I ran and managed to get away? He’d find me, eventually. Then, he’d torture my family…the sick son-of-a-bitch. He’d make me watch. After that, he’d kill them and kidnap me.”
He steadied my shoulder with a firm hand. Upon realizing I was scared to death, he released me. “Lock the door behind me and stay in here until I come back, okay?”
I nodded. “Okay.”
He strolled toward the door as if he didn’t have a worry in the world, messing with his phone the entire way.
“He’s got a gun.” I shouted. “And, he’s not afraid to use it.”
Still typing on his phone, he hesitated, and then turned around. “It ought to be a fair fight, then.”
“What are you going to do?”
He shrugged. “Convince him that leaving is in his best interest.”
“What if he says no?”
“I’ll give him a long list of reasons to change his mind.” He turned toward the door, took a step, and then glanced over his shoulder. “If I make this little problem go away, you’re coming with me.”
“What do you mean, coming with me?”
“Going for a ride on my bike.”
It seemed like an odd time to be asking me on a date. I was so tense I felt like I could vomit at any minute. Reno, on the other hand, looked like he was going on a casual stroll.
“You don’t mean,” I stammered. “Are you meaning…You’re thinking, like, on a date? Do you have any idea what’s getting ready to happen? This isn’t going—”
“I don’t go on dates,” he replied. “Heartbreaker. Remember?”
I wasn’t worried about him breaking my heart. It was already broken.
Permanently.
I swallowed my nervousness. “If you make them go away,” I said. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want?” He grinned and turned toward the door. “I’ll hold you to that.”
164
RENO
I shoved my phone into my front pocket and meandered toward my motorcycle. The man with the tattoos was leaning against his truck.
I set my helmet on my seat and opened my saddlebag. Most men carried foul weather gear, an extra helmet, a change of clothes, and tools on their motorcycles. I was a Special Forces Staff Sergeant who specialized in knowing how to blow things up. My saddlebags were filled with weapons, explosives, and a raggedy leather jacket I’d had since I was in high school.
I removed my pistol from the holster.
The restaurant was located two miles from the highway in an area that was primarily industrial. There were no homes or traffic in sight. Even so, shooting a gun in the parking lot at midnight would raise the eyebrows of anyone within earshot of the sound. A silenced pistol would make the same amount of noise as a man opening a can of beer.
With my hands hidden inside the saddlebag, I screwed a silencer to the end of the pistol’s barrel. Once it was fitted, I made eye contact with Crip and raised my brows.
While inside the restaurant, I’d sent a group text, explaining the issue we were facing. Considering Crip’s status as a combat-experienced former Navy SEAL, I expected him to assist me in encouraging the men in question to leave the premises.
“Pee Bee!” Crip hollered, pointing toward Pee Bee’s motorcycle. “There’s a snake under your fucking bike!”
“Ho-lee-fucking shit!” Pee Bee bellowed. “A snake?”
Pee Bee sounded like he was auditioning for a Hollywood B-rate movie. It wasn’t the help I’d hoped for, but it was going to have to do. I glanced toward the truck. The tattooed man and his comparably dressed sidekick were looking at Pee Bee’s bike, hoping to catch a glimpse of the non-existent snake.
I pulled the pistol from the saddlebag and pointed it at the chest of the man with the tattoos. “Tu pistola en el suelo,” I demanded, walking in his direction as I spoke. “Solo dos dedos. No tu manos.”
Put your pistol on the ground. Use two fingers, not your hand.
When a man exposes himself to the possibility of dying on a regular basis, he becomes immune to the human nature to flee. I’d faced death so many times that doing so was as natural as walking into a bar.
I aimed the barrel of the pistol at the tattooed man’s chest and walked in his direction.
With a “fuck you” look plastered on his face, he glared at me through thinning eyes. Obviously, it wasn’t the first time someone pointed a gun at him.
I had news for him. If I shot him where he stood, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d killed a man.
I gestured toward the outline of his pistol with the barrel of mine. “Tu pistola, pendejo,” I said through my teeth. “Solo dos dedos, or te matare.”
Put your pistol on the ground, asshole, or I’ll kill you.
His eyes thinned.
I stopped fifteen feet shy of the two men. As my eyes darted back and forth between them, the tattooed shithead did what I hoped he wouldn’t.
He reached for his gun with every intention of using it.
I fired two shots into his chest. Then, without further thought, I shot the man at his side.
Their bodies fell where they stood. With my eyes fixed on their blood-soaked shirts, I cleared my throat. “Can a motherfucker get some help over here?”
“God damn it, Reno,” Baker complained from behind me. “Was that fucking necessary?”
“He grabbed the motherfucker with his hand, like he was going to use it.” I alternated my aim from one man to the other. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Baker complained. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
I didn’t have to turn around to know that he was rubbing his temples with the heels of his palms. Everything that didn’t fit into his perfect little world gave him a migraine headache. Killing people in the parking lot of what was discussed as being our “new Mexican restaurant” wasn’t part of his life’s master plan, I was sure.
“Hey, Crip,” I shouted. “Secure their weapons and make sure there isn’t anyone else in that truck, would ya?”
“Sure-fucking-thing, Boss.” He opened the door of the truck, leaned inside, and glanced around. “Truck’s clear.”
I stood with my weapon trained on the men. Crip checked their pulse and then looked at me like I’d pissed on his petunias. “As you might imagine, they’re both deader’n hell,” he snarled. “What in the fuck are we going to do now?”
Crip had killed more gangbangers than the Border Patrol and DEA combined. “Act like you’ve never done something like this.”
“I’ve never killed someone after dinner on a fucking Tuesday.”
I shoved my pistol into my waistband and shot him a glare. “What the fuck’s the day of the week got to do with anything?”
“There’s nothing stressful about a Tuesday,” he replied dryly. “It ought to be the least violent day of the week.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Do I look stressed out?”
“Not particularly, no.”
I nodded toward the two dead men. “Do either of those two looked stressed out?”
“I think they’re far beyond being stressed out.”
“Tuesday or not, that tattooed fucker was gonna shoot me. I shot him first. You’d have done the same thing.”
He looked the bodies over and then forced out a long sigh. “We could
claim they were trying to rob you, and that it was self-defense.” He nodded toward the men behind us. “We’ve got seven witnesses.”
“Fuck that,” I spat. “I’m not talking to the cops about shooting these two dip-shits. They’ll find a way to turn it around, they always do.”
“What do you suggest?” he asked.
“We’re gonna load em up and haul ‘em to your shop. You can burn ‘em in the big fucking oven of yours.” I peered over the top of the truck, toward the freeway. “We need to get these fuckers in the back of that truck before some drunk pulls in here hoping to get a late-night enchilada dinner.”
“Peeb! Cholo! P-Nut!” Crip shouted. “Let’s get these two fuckers loaded in the back of this truck.”
I looked the truck over. It was a decade-old black Ford four-wheel-drive. There was no lift kit, flashy chrome, or other accessories to draw attention to its existence. The bed was covered with a fiberglass cover painted to match the truck. My guess was that they used it to haul illegals over the border, or to haul dope.
While Pee Bee and Crip carried the first body to the back of the truck, I got the keys from the ignition and unlocked the bed cover. Upon opening it, I stared at the contents in disbelief.
“Fuuuuck,” I said under my breath.
Holding the dead man’s wrists in each hand, Crip paused. Pee Bee kept going and almost tipped him over.
Crip gave Pee Bee a shitty look.
“Shoulda said somethin’,” Pee Bee complained. “Instead of just stopping. This little fucker’s heavier than he looks.”
Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set) Page 87
