Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  “I’ll make an announcement next time,” Crip said in a snide tone. He shifted attention to me. “What’s back there?”

  I stared at what appeared to be at least fifty kilos of cocaine. I wasn’t in the drug business, but I guessed the value on the wholesale market was $1,000,000 or more. Whoever was on the receiving end of the transaction was going to be pissed off, that much I was sure of.

  On top of the cocaine, a black canvas bag sat.

  “I’m guessing someone is going to be madder’n a wet cat,” I said. “There’s a million bucks’ worth of dope and a duffel bag back here.”

  Crip released the dead man’s wrists, dropping him to the asphalt with a thud! “Fucking great.”

  While Crip peered over my shoulder, I poked my knife into one of the cellophane-wrapped packages. I dug the tip of my finger into the densely packed powder and then poked it into my mouth.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Crip asked.

  I winced at the taste. “That’s what they do on TV.”

  His arched a brow. “What the fuck is it, Einstein?”

  I tried to spit the taste from my mouth. “Cocaine.”

  “Good work, detective,” he said with a laugh. “You sure as fuck didn’t need to eat that shit to find out what it was.”

  My mouth went so numb that I couldn’t feel my lips. I had about as much experience with cocaine as I did in going to the moon, but I didn’t have to be an astronaut to know the drugs were uncut, and expensive.

  Cholo pulled the duffel back out of the back of the truck. “It’s got maybe two grand in it,” he said, rifling through it. “Change of clothes, a notepad, and a pistol.”

  “My guess is they were on their way to sell this shit,” Crip said. “Someone is gonna be pissed off as hell.” He gave me a shitty look. “Who are these two fuckers?”

  I glanced toward the restaurant. Carma was nowhere in sight. “Load ‘em in the back and shut that cover. I don’t know who they are,” I said, forcing out a sigh as I spoke. “But I’m gonna go find out.”

  165

  CARMA

  My entire body tensed at the sound of pounding on the front door. Either El Pollo wanted in, or Reno was successful at getting them to leave. If the latter was true, I wondered how long it would be before the two men returned.

  I hated the thought of forcing my family to flee Chula Vista but if El Pollo knew where I was, so did Angel. I pushed the kitchen door open just a little and peeked through the crack. Reno was standing at the front door. A sigh of relief shot from my lungs.

  I rushed to the door and let him in.

  He didn’t have to say a word for me to realize something went wrong. I’d seen happier people at a funeral.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  He glanced around. After satisfying himself that we were alone, he looked right at me. “We’ve got a situation,” he said. “A really awkward one.”

  “We?”

  He nodded. “The two of us.”

  I peered over his shoulder, toward the parking lot. The men were gathered around their motorcycles. Nothing seemed awkward. In fact, Pee Bee looked like he was telling a funny story.

  “Can you be more specific?” I asked.

  “I had a situation in the parking lot with your two friends,” he replied. “I need to know who they are. Why they’re really here.”

  “First of all, they’re not my friends. The one with the tattoos is here to kidnap me,” I said. “It’s not the first time he’s done it. Believe me. I don’t know who the other one is. Why? Are they gone?”

  “How well do you know him?” He wrung his hands together. “The guy with the tattoos?”

  I took another look into the parking lot but couldn’t see the truck. Pee Bee’s story continued. He was stomping across the parking lot with his arms outstretched, like a zombie. Everyone was laughing.

  Contrary to Reno’s serious nature, everything must have gone better than I thought. Well enough that everyone was happy. Everyone but him, anyway.

  “I’ve known him since I was seventeen,” I said, shifting my attention from Pee Bee to Reno. “I know him a lot more than I want to, that’s for sure. Is he gone?”

  “Who is he?”

  “He goes by El Pollo—”

  His face contorted. “The chicken?”

  “I don’t know what his actual name is. That’s all I’ve ever heard him called.”

  “Got any ideas why he would have a bunch of dope in the back of his truck?”

  El Pollo had been trying to find me for years. I guessed that after receiving word from someone as to where I was, he caught a ride over the border with one of Angel’s drug mules who was on his way to make a delivery.

  “He’s a drug dealer,” I responded. “More or less.”

  “More or less?” He laughed like I’d told a joke. “There’s fifty kilos of cocaine in the bed of that truck.”

  I wasn’t surprised.

  It was time to tell him the rest of the story. I offered a consoling look, hoping it might lessen the aggravation. “My ex was Angel ‘El Alacrán’ Ramirez.”

  “El Alacrán?” He gave me a side-eyed look. “Not the drug kingpin that’s all over the news? Not that El Alacrán?”

  I nodded sheepishly.

  His eyes bulged. “So those two friends of his are Tijuana Cartel?”

  I gave the same nod. “Not friends. Stop calling them friends.”

  He covered his face with his hands and growled.

  I felt terrible for not telling him beforehand, but there was no changing it now. I waited nervously for him to calm down, sneaking looks in the parking lot every few seconds to ease my nerves.

  When the growling stopped, Reno lowered his hands. “Here’s our current situation—”

  “Our situation?”

  “Yep. You and me.”

  I peered into the parking lot. Pee Bee was making a motion with his hand like he was swinging a hammer. The truck was still nowhere in sight. I wondered where El Pollo was, and what Pee Bee was talking about.

  Reno cleared his throat. “Are you paying attention?”

  “Sorry. I was watching Pee Bee.”

  His eyes thinned. “How the fuck you know his name?”

  “Other than you and the guy with the tattoo on his hand, everyone’s got their name’s sewn on their vests. It’s kind of hard to miss.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “How badly do you want El Pollo and that other turd out of your life?”

  “More than anything.”

  He drew a breath through clenched teeth and then let it out. “I hope you mean that.”

  “I do,” I said. “I need them to go away forever, but the more I think about it the more I know that’ll never happen. They’ll be back. Sooner or later.”

  “They won’t be back.”

  No matter what he did to convince them to leave, they’d be back. In fact, it probably wasn’t safe for me to return to work. My head began to spin at the changes I was going to go through in the next few days. My mother and father were going to be extremely disappointed. I wondered what the weather was like in southern Oregon. Rainy and cold, I decided. Not ideal for me, that was for sure.

  “Yes, they will,” I argued. “They’ll keep coming back, until—”

  He cleared his throat. “After tonight, they won’t be back.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because,” he said flatly. “They’re both dead.”

  My heart stopped beating. My ears rang. I looked around the dining room, scanned the parking lot and then looked at him. “Really? Dead? Like dead?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh my God.” I swallowed a lump of fear. “Thank you. You have no idea how relieved I am. What happened?”

  “Chicken Man tried to shoot me,” he replied. “Luckily, I shot him first.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.” He tilted his head toward the parking lot. “They’re as dead as disco.”
/>   Relief washed over me. I’d seen remnants of El Pollo’s violent tirades for years. At Angel’s insistence, he had tortured and killed dozens of men. There was no place on earth for a man like him. If he was dead, the world was a better place.

  Period.

  He cocked his head to the side and gave me a funny look. “Why are you smiling?”

  I blinked my eyes a few times, bringing myself back to the reality of the situation. “Three reasons, I guess. One; because, if you’re serious, that’s the best news I’ve ever heard. Ever. Two; I’ve never heard that phrase. Dead as disco. I thought it was funny. And, three; you make me feel safe enough to smile.”

  “I’m fuckin’ flattered,” he said dryly. “But we’ve got a serious situation on our hands.”

  His gaze dropped to the floor.

  Beyond him, Pee Bee was swinging the hammer again. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the show. El Pollo’s death didn’t bother me, but I knew what kind of monster he was. I wondered how the men in the parking lot could be laughing and having fun following the death of someone they didn’t know.

  After a moment of thought, Reno looked up.

  “I’m a decorated war vet who is in possession of a legally registered handgun,” he explained. “When we were getting ready to leave the premises, those two fucktards tried to rob Pee Bee. I pulled my gun from my saddlebag, demanded that they drop theirs, and they refused. In fact, that Chicken dude tried to shoot me. Luckily, I killed him before he killed me. If I call the cops, they’ll come here, interview everyone, and declare it self-defense. They’ll let me go and haul those two turds to the morgue. I’ve got seven witnesses to corroborate my story, and that’s all that matters. But. The cops are going to ask a lot of questions. Not only from me, but from you.”

  “I can’t talk to the police,” I blurted. It was time to admit who I was. Having Reno look down his nose at me was the least of my worries. “If I do, they’ll have me deported.”

  “You’re an illegal?”

  I gave an embarrassing nod. “I am.”

  “So, you don’t want me to call the cops?”

  I wouldn’t think being rid of El Pollo would create so many problems, but it had. I was back to being deported to the country I’d fled from. The situation was awful. “I uhhm. I…are there any other options?”

  He cocked his head. “Like what?”

  I shrugged. “Get rid of the bodies?”

  “If we get rid of the bodies, the situation I spoke of goes from self-defense to murder.” His eyes thinned. “You’re asking a lot from me.”

  “Can you guys just go, and leave them here? I’ll see if my dad can come help me. Between him and my brother, I’m sure we can get it taken care of.”

  He laughed. “You dad’s going to help you get rid of the bodies?”

  “I think so. He despises the cartel as much as anyone. It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived in fear of them for their entire life.”

  He covered his mouth with his hand and gave the matter some serious thought. While the wheels in his head were spinning, I wondered how receptive my father would be to burying the two bodies. Realistically, I decided, not very.

  The thought of doing it by myself scared me. Not as much as going back to Mexico, but it scared me, nevertheless.

  Reno lowered his hand. “You don’t want the cops here?”

  “I really don’t. In the end, it’ll be the same as if El Pollo hauled me to Mexico in his truck. I’ll still be in Mexico, and Angel will find me. Sooner or later. You have no idea how bad it is with him. I can’t even begin to explain it.”

  “I tell you what. I’ll take care of the bodies, but I’m going to need your help.”

  “I’ll do whatever you need me to,” I assured him.

  “You’re going to watch my bike.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “Huh?”

  “I’ll drive the truck and my buddies will follow me. I’ll have to leave my bike here. I don’t want anyone fucking with it, so...” He glanced around the restaurant. “I’ll be parking the fucker in here, and you’re going to watch it until I get back.”

  I expected much more. Like helping him burn the bodies or using a chainsaw to cut them into pieces. If Mister Hernandez saw the motorcycle in the dining area, I’d have some explaining to do, but nothing compared to him finding two dead bodies in the parking lot.

  I offered a smile of appreciation. “You’ve got a deal.”

  “You’re going to owe me when I get back,” he said, undressing me with his eyes as he spoke. “Big time.”

  166

  RENO

  Before I went to war, I would have considered myself a thrill seeker. Not to the point that it was unhealthy. Just enough to be recognized as being slightly more adventurous than average. When I returned from war, I was a much different person.

  Trying to live a normal life after nearly ten years of being shot at was impossible. The thrill of war kept my adrenaline level at an all-time high. Upon returning to the mundane free world, I yearned for the rush that war provided.

  Deemed unfit to continue to fight by a team of psychiatrists determined to prevent combat vets from ever reaching retirement, I slipped into depression. After learning a colleague from the military was starting an outlaw motorcycle club in Southern California, I left Texas and pointed my Harley toward the west coast.

  His name was Nick Navarro. He was a Navy SEAL who saved my life when I was overrun by Taliban soldiers in Afghanistan. Disappointed with the treatment of returning war vets, he felt starting an outlaw MC was a way to thumb his nose at the government.

  When I arrived, I found out his club was still in the inception stages. I couldn’t wait for him to write bylaws and recruit men. I realized if I didn’t feed my adrenaline itch, my depression would become unhealthy. The twenty-two suicides a day that war veterans were committing suddenly made sense.

  To save myself from becoming a statistic, I turned to fast-paced crime. It wasn’t a conscious decision I made, it just happened.

  My first crime was robbing a shit hat that I witnessed rob a 7-Eleven. While he was running to his car, I tackled him. Then, I took his money, his gun, and his pride.

  The monster in me was fed. Satisfied that I could survive in the slow-paced world of day-to-day life, I rode my motorcycle up and down the coast, taking the salty air into my lungs and enjoying the picturesque views.

  A week later, I sat in my living room with the barrel of my gun in my mouth. For me, the only answer was to continuously feed the monster. So, I robbed payday loan center. The place was filled with people hoping to either get a loan or pay their weekly installment on a loan they already had.

  Every one of them took exception to me taking their money.

  After barely escaping by the skin of my teeth, I decided I needed to upgrade my crimes to something a little less risky and a little more rewarding.

  I chose to rob a bank. My first was haphazardly planned, but very rewarding—mentally, at least.

  I decided to rob another. I spent two days establishing employees’ routines, shifts, and patterns. While doing so, I noticed someone else doing the same. That was the day I met Ghost.

  He was parked in a Mc Donald’s parking lot, across the street from the bank. Sitting in the most gorgeous 1965 Ford Falcon I’d ever seen, he was taken by surprise when I told him he needed to find another bank to rob.

  “You a cop?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “But unless you’re planning on robbing this fucker before tomorrow, you’re going to be a day late and a dollar short.”

  He laughed and invited me to take a seat beside him.

  We laughed about his poor reconnaissance skills and my poor bank robbing skills. Afterward, we had a few beers while discussing our futures. As fate would have it, he rode in an outlaw motorcycle club that specialized in robbing banks.

  The rest, as they say, is history.

  Committing crimes with the Devil’s Disciples proved to be exa
ctly what I needed to keep my adrenaline level elevated. The men became my brothers. A decade quickly passed. The criminal activities of the six-man club satisfied my urge for a rush, but we weren’t a conventional motorcycle club. I felt the desire to ride with an MC that was more focused on riding than committing crimes.

  So, I began weekend rides with Navarro’s MC, the Filthy Fuckers. Through my involvement with both groups, my needs were met, entirely.

  Now, with two dead bodies to get rid of, I was pleased that I had the Filthy Fuckers’ clubhouse at my disposal.

  Everyone else had gone, leaving Crip, Pee Bee, and me to get rid of the bodies. A few months earlier, Crip purchased a large kiln for the sole purpose of turning bodies to ash. His repeated run-ins with local factions of the MS-13 gang produced numerous dead bodies, and it was the best way he’d found to eliminate the evidence, entirely.

  I peeled off my rubber gloves and tossed them into the kiln. “Good thing those two fuckers were short. If they were regular-sized, they’d have never fit in there at the same time.”

  “We’ve fit a couple normal-sized people in there at once,” Pee Bee said, closing the lid of the kiln. “But you’ve got to chunk ‘em up.”

  I gave him a look. “Chunk ‘em up?”

  “Yeah.” He made a motion like he was swinging an axe. “Cut ‘em in pieces that you can stack on top of one another.”

  “I don’t mind burning these two assholes, but hacking ‘em into pieces?” I shook my head. “I’d have left that to you.”

  “They don’t give a fuck,” he said. “They’re dead.”

  “You don’t think their soul’s give a fuck?” I asked.

  Crip folded his arms across his chest. He alternated glances between us. “Don’t!”

  “Don’t what?” I asked.

  “Don’t get into a philosophical conversation with that idiot right now,” he growled. “It’s three in the fucking morning. I’m ready to call it a night.”

  Pee Bee folded his arms over his chest, mimicking Crip. “Fuck you. I’m not an idiot.”