Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set

by Scott Hildreth

  Crip glanced at Baker. “Jesus. Is this fucker for real?”

  “He declined a scholarship to MIT,” Baker said. “Fucker’s a walking Google.”

  “Well, Brainiac, that’s all fine and fuckin’ dandy.” Crip closed the lid to the kiln and padlocked it. “But I don’t know what temperature our little pressure cooker gets up to.”

  “Roughly thirteen hundred degrees, Celsius,” Tito declared.

  Crip cocked an eyebrow. “According to who?”

  “The manufacturer’s label states it’s a cone 10,” Tito replied. “Cone 10 kilns operate at two thousand three-hundred-and forty-five-degrees Fahrenheit, which is roughly thirteen hundred degrees Celsius.”

  Crip shifted his eyes to Baker. “Might get irritating listening to this fucker after a bit, but I can see where he’d come in handy for some shit, huh?”

  Baker laughed. “He’s handy for some things, yeah.”

  “Thanks, Baker,” Tito said with a laugh.

  Tito’s heart was as soft as a teddy bear, but he had the temperament of a badger. His dry sense of humor and willingness to challenge Cash on any and everything made being in his presence entertaining.

  “Are we done here?” Baker asked.

  “Unless you want to stick around and watch him bake, I think we’re done,” Crip responded. He glanced through the doors of the clubhouse, toward the outside parking area. “Want to tell me why the three of you are rattling around in a cage on a sunny Sunday afternoon?”

  “Cash and Reno took his truck to the IHOP off the 5,” Baker said. “We’re picking them up there.”

  Crip cocked an eyebrow. “Want to tell me why the five of you are rattling around in a cage on a sunny Sunday afternoon?”

  “We’re headed to a job,” Baker said. “It’s a five-hour drive.”

  “Banks are closed,” Crip said with a laugh. “You fellas doing liquor stores now?”

  I chuckled. “I’ll retire before I’m reduced to that.”

  Crip extended his hand. “I’ll stop asking.”

  I shook his hand. He glanced at the kiln. “You want me to dump that shit it an urn, or just sprinkle it out in the ocean amongst a school of dolphins while the sun sets?”

  “Pod,” Tito said. “Groups of dolphins are a pod.”

  Crip shot Tito a glare, and then glanced at Baker. “Yeah, he’d get real old real fuckin’ quick around here.”

  “Until you need to hack into the FBI’s mainframe,” Tito said. “Then, he comes in real handy real fuckin’ quick.”

  “FBI?” Crip’s eyes narrowed. “No shit?”

  Tito grinned and offered his hand. “I appreciate the help. Let me know if you ever need anything. I mean it.”

  Crip shook it. “I’m sure at some point I’ll need something.”

  I didn’t know Crip very well, but for some reason, I believed he was probably right. His club, eventually, would get themselves into some serious shit. When that time came, lending a helping hand would be least we could do.

  143

  Ally

  Manipulating a locked safe isn’t as difficult as one might think. With proper knowledge of a safe’s inner workings and a sensitive set of fingertips, a poorly-trained safe cracker could manipulate a conventional safe in no more than a few hours.

  Normally, it took me fifteen minutes.

  I was on the last number. With the care and precision my father taught me, I turned the dial ever so slowly. The tip of the fence connected with the drive cam’s contact point.

  Yes!

  Slowly, I turned the dial in the other direction. The fence connected the other contact point. A chill ran along my spine. It was the equivalent of feeling a piece of dust under one’s ass when sitting on a sofa. Some had the knack, and some didn’t. My heart raced. I paused and wiped the sweat from my brow with my free forearm.

  I was there.

  I wiggled the dial back and forth until the fence fell into place with a click!

  I twisted the handle. It snapped into the open position. I paused. I lifted my chin and gazed at the ceiling.

  I love you, Daddy.

  The sense of accomplishment I obtained from opening an “impenetrable” safe by using nothing more than a delicate hand and a mind filled with knowledge was unexplainable.

  A heightened sense of elation filled me. I pulled against the door’s handle. The two-inch-thick chunk of steel swung open, revealing just what Ghost had indicated.

  My heart thrashed against my ribs.

  Holy. Shit.

  Contrary to the preconceived notions of most people, money doesn’t take up much space. Ten thousand dollars is a stack of hundred-dollar bills a half inch in height. Consequently, eight stacks of bills six inches high is a million dollars. The money could easily be picked up and placed in a plastic Target grocery bag, along with a gallon of milk and a dozen apples. It seems illogical, but it’s true.

  I stared at the neatly stacked bills. Each was bound by a yellow band marked $10,000. I quickly calculated the height, depth, and width.

  A little over seven million dollars.

  Goose had once asked what my biggest job was. The answer was staring me in the face.

  The entire safe’s contents would weigh roughly a hundred and fifty pounds. Although I knew I should have an ample amount of time, I divided the money into four equal stacks and quickly carried them to my car. After making certain no traces of my visit had been left behind, I closed the door to he safe, turned the dial, and locked it.

  On the drive home, one of Goose’s other questions came to mind. How I justified stealing from those I stole from.

  Although many would perceive my night’s “victim” as being nothing more than another one of SoCal’s quirky citizens, I knew better. Deep down inside—at the core of his very being—he was nothing short of a monster. A monster who now had no means of financing any further operations.

  As Bob Dylan’s Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright played on my cassette player, the corners of my mouth curled into a smile of accomplishment.

  I wore that smile all the way home.

  144

  Goose

  Tension was at an all-time high. One man short, Baker was forced to be our driver. Normally the calm, cool leader of the group, being behind the wheel had whittled him into a mass of exposed nerves. While I stood and nervously waited, Baker walked in circles. Tito pecked at his throw-away smart phone. The faint glow from the phone’s screen pierced the darkness and illuminated his face with an eerie shade of blue.

  Tito looked up. “Two thousand, two hundred, and forty pounds.”

  Pacing the floor like a caged wolf, Baker paused and gave Tito a look. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered. “There’s no way we can get this son-of-a-bitch loaded. We’re going to have to cut into it.”

  “It’s got two layers of steel,” Tito explained, alternating glances between his phone and Baker. “Fire retardant filler in between. The filler is similar to concrete. We’ll need to cut the outer layer, chip away the filler, and then cut the inner layer. The only concern on cutting through the inner layer is that we could burn the contents.”

  “Cut the outer layer, chip away the concrete, and blow two small holes in the inner layer,” Baker said. “We’ll poke the camera through one hole and use the other for light. After we determine what’s inside, we’ll decide how to cut the inner layer.”

  Being in someone’s home caused me more grief than robbing a bank. Although a bank job had countless unknowns, it was fast-paced. Everything simply happened. The occupants and employees of the bank acted, and we reacted. There was no time to think.

  Waiting as someone cut into a safe while standing in an unknown person’s closet left me feeling vulnerable. The entire process took an hour—or longer—during which time I was so tense I felt like I could vomit at any moment.

  Baker’s pacing was making matters worse. Much worse.

  “I’ll cut it,” I said. “Hand me the rig.”

 
Doing the work would take my mind off the potential of being caught. Of a homeowner coming home and trying to protect his belongings.

  Baker spoke into his mouthpiece as he strode past. “Baker to Reno. We good?” After a short pause, he continued. “We’ve got to cut through two layers. Might be an hour. Keep your head on a swivel.”

  Tito handed me the plasma cutter.

  Although I was slowly coming to terms with Ghost’s death, not having him on the job was a tremendous burden. Our work required that areas of expertise be covered by their respective talents. Baker’s talent wasn’t driving. It was thinking. Planning. Organizing his men.

  I slipped on the goggles, grabbed the plasma cutter, and knelt in front of the safe. Depending on the thickness of the material, it could take an hour to cut a hole large enough to slip my hand through.

  The “Bakersfield job” had been on the books, and on our minds, for some time. Ghost’s death—and the feeling of necessity to dispose of the cop’s body—postponed our moving forward for some time.

  I didn’t need the money from the job. I was driven to perform by other forces. The thrill of it all was a good part of it. The complexity of the job was another. The more difficult a job was, the more satisfaction I received when we accomplished it. The simple jobs provided minimal satisfaction, the complex ones provided much more.

  A botched job was like a kick in the nuts.

  Supporting my brothers was the biggest driving force. I knew many of them relied on the money as a means of financial support. Reno often gambled away a few hundred thousand dollars over the course of a drunken weekend in Vegas. Cash somehow managed to spend his on who knows what. Tito invested his. Baker gave his away to the less fortunate.

  I kept mine in cash, locked in a safe. One day, when the desire to continue left me, I’d retire on an island somewhere.

  Hopefully with a sneaker-wearing smart-mouthed brunette at my side.

  “Keep me posted on time,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Will do,” Tito said.

  I focused on the arc from the plasma cutter’s tip as it cut through the steel. At the pace it was going, we were going to be at it for two hours or more.

  I thought of Ally, and what my life was likely to become. I’d been in a relationship before, for all the wrong reasons. Although I’d spent recent years fearing commitment, I didn’t have any regrets for taking that step with Ally.

  We had far too much in common for our relationship to fail.

  “Fifteen!” Tito barked.

  I was a quarter of the way finished with the first cut.

  Fuck.

  Sweat dripped from my brow onto the wooden floor. “Cash, get this fucking smoke out of here,” I said through my teeth. “That’s why we brought the fucking fan.”

  “Cash is patrolling the back yard,” Baker said.

  Cash normally did the grunt work. Having him patrolling the back of the compound made about as much sense as having me pilot an aircraft.

  “Well, grab the fan,” I barked. “It’s fucking hot, and I can’t breathe.”

  “Quit smoking,” he retorted.

  I stopped cutting. “Fan, or you can get Cash to do this. I’ll patrol the fucking yard.”

  He forced a sigh. “Fine.”

  The fan cleared the smoke from the room but did little to calm my nerves. With Cash’s attention span, it was highly likely he was chasing lizards instead of being on the lookout for police.

  Ghost was the best driver a club could wish for. He had eyes in the back of his head, which gave him a sixth sense when it came to driving or being on patrol.

  “Thirty!” Tito exclaimed.

  Once again, my mind drifted to Ally. A remote island. Her in a two-piece swimsuit. Me with a cup of coffee, a bottle of beer, and a cigar a mile long.

  I’d have a porch that overlooked the beach with an outdoor kitchen suitable for feeding large groups. The aroma would have the island dwellers jealous of the meals we ate.

  “Forty-five!”

  A few minutes later, I’d finished the cut.

  “Fifty-two,” Tito said. “This is going to be a long night.”

  With aching knees, I stood. Slowly. My sweat-soaked shirt clung to my arms and chest. I pulled it away from my skin and stood in front of the fan for a moment. “Get that concrete chipped away. I’m going to walk this off. That hardwood floor wreaked havoc on my knees.”

  Tito looked at Baker.

  Baker glared. “I’m not going to do it,” he declared. “Get busy, little man.”

  “Where’s Cash when you need him?” Tito asked.

  “Doing Ghost’s job,” I fumed. “Half-assed, I’m sure.”

  I stepped into the massive master bedroom and paced the floor until the pain in my knees diminished.

  If Tito’s estimate of our night’s proposed take was close to accurate, I’d soon forget the pain I endured. My only hope was that someone didn’t happen upon us before we’d finished the all-night project.

  Unwilling to complicate matters worse, I assisted Tito in chipping away the insulation material that was sandwiched between the safe’s two layers of steel.

  After an hour of pounding at the dense material with a hammer and chisel, I was exhausted. The floor was covered in debris. It looked like someone had demolished an entire driveway and dumped the remnants onto the floor.

  I checked my watch. It was almost four am. If things went well, we’d be out an hour before sunrise.

  “I’ll blow a couple of holes in this fucker,” I said. “And we’ll have a peek inside.”

  I burned two one-inch diameter holes in the inner section of steel, hoping the arc from the plasma cutter didn’t ignite the cash stored inside.

  Excited for the revelation, I raised my right hand. “Give me the scope.”

  Tito handed me the flexible camera. I poked it through one hole and pressed a flashlight against the other.

  I switched on the camera’s monitor. As the screen illuminated, my heart sank.

  “What have we got?” Baker asked.

  I tossed the monitor to the side and stood. “See for yourself. I think my eyes are going buggy.”

  My stomach knotted into a tight ball.

  Baker looked at the monitor for an instant. He turned the flashlight on and off. “Motherfucker!” he tossed the monitor onto the floor. “Mother-goddamned-fucker!”

  “What?” Tito asked.

  Baker’s fist slammed against the side of the safe. “The fucker’s empty.”

  “What do you mean, it’s empty?” Tito asked.

  “I mean, the fucker’s empty.” Baker stood. “Have a fucking look.”

  Tito knelt in front of the safe and reached for the monitor. In seconds, he stood. “Holy. Shit.”

  “This place is a fucking mansion,” Baker complained. “It’ll take us a week to search this motherfucker. But, that’s what we’re going to do. From one end to the goddamned other.”

  “Sun will be up in an hour,” I said.

  Baker spun around. “So, what do you fucking suggest? We leave? It’s fucking here somewhere.” He looked at Tito. “Right?”

  “All the information I have points in that direction,” Tito said.

  “Search this place from one end to the other,” Baker said. “North to south.”

  A subsequent search of the premises revealed absolutely nothing. No jewelry, no money, and nothing of value, short of appliances and the occasional television set.

  We met in the kitchen. “We’ve got about ten minutes,” Tito said. “Then, the sun’s going to start coming up.”

  “God damn son-of-a-fucking-bitch,” Baker seethed. He gestured toward the master bedroom. “Load everything up.”

  After loading the SUV, Baker got into the driver’s seat and buckled up. His hands were shaking as if he was in the final stages of a neurological disease. “I’m so fucking mad,” he complained. “I don’t even know if I can drive.”

  “I’ll drive, Boss,” Cash said.
r />   Baker looked at me.

  I shrugged. “We didn’t steal anything. I don’t see the risk. All we’ve got to do is point this fucker south and set the cruise control.”

  Cash and Baker switched seats. With Cash in the driver’s seat and me riding shotgun, we pulled out of the garage and into the long, winding driveway.

  “When we get back, I’m going to sleep until tomorrow,” I said. “I want this fucking nightmare to be over.”

  “Same goes for me,” Reno chimed. “I been pacing that fucking yard for damned near five hours. Asshole’s been puckered tight all night. For nothing.”

  Landscape lighting illuminated the palm trees that lined each side of the drive. I gawked at the sight. It was as if we were entering one of SoCal’s many well-landscaped theme parks.

  “I hate rich people,” I murmured. “This fucker has half a million in fucking trees.”

  “I hate the motherfuckers, too,” Cash agreed. “Especially this one. We should have torched this place.”

  “I might come back and do it next week,” Baker said from the back seat.

  “I’ll blow the motherfucker to Kingdom Come,” Reno said. “Be fucking glad to.”

  We exited the drive and entered the neighborhood’s access road. We’d gone no more than a hundred feet, and headlights illuminated behind us.

  “Cop!” Reno shouted. “Six o’ clock.”

  My asshole puckered. “What?”

  “You sure?” Cash asked.

  “It’s a fucking cop,” Reno shouted.

  “Fuck!” Cash said. “His lights aren’t flashing, Bake. What do I do?”

  “Play it cool,” Baker said. “Like you’re headed out for an early morning cup of coffee.”

  “If you’d have been fucking watching,” I said through my teeth. “You’d have seen his ass park there. He’s been waiting on us.”

  “Who the fuck you talking to?” Cash asked.

  “The only dumb fuck that was on patrol, Dumb Fuck.”

  He glared. “Fuck you.”

  “Shut the fuck up, you two,” Baker insisted.

  I clenched my jaw and glared.