“I don’t know what to say.” The knowledge it was Retro who’d assisted floored him. He vaguely remembered it being an Alabama club, but back then, Retro’s name wouldn’t have meant anything to him, other than a way to get Shelly into the ground as gracefully as possible. “But I can tell you the help I got was the only thing kept me sane. My own club had refused me. After holdin’ out the president patch to me one minute, then pullin’ back on the brotherhood the next? I didn’t know what to do, but after the shit with Powell dying, I knew I couldn’t call the cops in. Blood staining the bastard’s shirt from my old lady, and I’d shot him at the table, him fallin’ over backwards into his own bone and brains. Shelly dead in the bed, sweet smile on her face even as she’d started to—” He shook his head. “Retro, you don’t owe me, brother. I owe you. Kept me outta jail. Might not have been my choice of places to lay Shelly to rest, but at least she wasn’t rolled off into a ditch somewhere. That was the advice offered by Bassil back in the day, make it look like a random killing that couldn’t be traced back to the club. Thank you, man. Sincerely. Thank you.”
“Wasn’t enough, brother. Not fuckin’ near enough. But I’m gonna do what I can now.” Retro lifted a hand and turned. “Y’all need to come back in and witness. We’ve got more business to deal out, and while I fuckin’ hate it, it’s got to be done.”
Wildman glanced at the van, seeing three men standing nearby, backs to the vehicle, focus outwards. “These are some fuckin’ good men, Po’Boy.”
“Yeah, we are.” Po’Boy crooked his elbow around Wildman’s neck, tugging him sideways towards the door. “Come on, let’s see what kind of story we’ve got to hear.”
Retro was in the process of jumping up on the stage, and Wildman was surprised to see Bassil’s body was gone. Someone had scattered sand over the bloodstained wood, and it was clumping into lines and ridges, the circle impossibly large to have come from only one person. Wildman and Po’Boy stopped near Wrench along the back row of chairs, and Wildman scanned the men seated in front of them. Legs and wrists were restrained, tied to the chairs where they’d been positioned, and on two of the men, fabric bags of some kind had been pulled over their heads, making them anonymous, featureless in a way that bothered Wildman. Not my gig.
Retro stomped his foot twice, the booming sound of boot against metal rolling through the building. Head high, he looked out at the men gathered along the edges of the space, ignoring the ones who were the reason they were there. Most of the clubs had divided the space, so they stood next to those who were best known to them, IMC and CoBos the only ones who were interwoven without regard to patch.
“We’ve got news, brothers.” Fingers danced along Wildman’s waist, and he lifted his arm, snuggling it tightly around Justine as she slotted herself next to him. “And lady, because some of this impacts you.” Fingers balled into fists, Retro propped his hands on his hips, and the great gusting sigh that came from him was loud and tired. “Mostly, this is for us all.”
Tipping his chin down, Retro seemed to study the wood at his feet, then lifted his head and shot a hot glance towards where Mason stood with his men. “This rockets back to Tucker and the bastard he was.” Mason didn’t react, but Retro went on as if he had. “Oh yeah, blast from the past, brother. Dead and gone for a while now, but reachin’ out from beyond the grave right here and now. Seems he grew up in this neck of the woods. Long before Powell struck a deal, before Bassil twisted brotherly love into hate, they ran around with Tucker. You’ll remember he hooked his star to fuckin’ Lalo, may he rot in hell, and was the main threat behind my man dying two years ago. So he’s dead and gone, but Bassil wasn’t forgetting about it.” Retro pointed at the two men who’d been masked and muffled. “And neither are they. I’m done making mistakes when it comes to this kind of shit, so I’ll deal with them before we roll out of here. The rest of these assholes, well, you’ve heard it said the worst sinners are in the first pew at church, and that seems true here, as well as in the secular world.” He pulled in a harsh breath. “There’s four more here who I do not trust as far as I can fuckin’ spit, but I lack the weight of true belief I’m right. They’ve been in bed with the Monster Devils and were followin’ Bassil’s lead, but it don’t feel right, brothers. It don’t feel right. This is what it would feel like if I were convicting a son because of a father’s sins, and it don’t feel right.”
He shook his head and tossed his hair over one shoulder with a grimace. “Ain’t entirely my call, because this is all our asses. I’d like nothing more than to do a ‘scorched earth’ move, just for Einstein. But this needs a vote or some shit.” He gestured to the two with their faces hidden. “Those are mine, I’ll remind you.” He pointed at the back row of men secured to their chairs. “Most are apparently harmless pawns. They’re scared pissless and won’t be angling back into the life anytime soon, or probably ever. In over their heads, and out of their league, and just want to be able to run home to momma at the end of the day.” He leaned forwards, gaze sweeping the four men in the front row. “These are my dilemma. Feels like a catch-22 no matter which way I head, my friends. Tell me what you need to hear in order to vote a thumbs-up—” His gaze swung across the men they’d brought with them. “—or down.”
“I got questions, Retro.” Wildman took a step forwards, Justine’s fingers falling away. “Based on what you’ve shared over the past days, and what we know of those East Coast bastards. You want ’em out here, or want to take it private?”
Retro stared at him, then raked every man in the room with his hard gaze, took a deep breath, and seemed to settle his stance as if for a fight. “Ask ’em.”
“Your newfound family?” That was as close as Wildman was willing to go to say Retro’s old lady and her baggage, but he knew Retro marked his intent by the fire in his eyes. “They have a certain association with them that runs directly counter to the history of the MDMC.” He walked up until he stood at the end of the row where the four men sat in limbo. “And those are the questions I think we need answered most of all.” Staring down at the men, Wildman marked the visible tattoos each wore, unsurprised to find a mark etched into the flesh of each man’s right hand. In the soft webbing where the thumb met the body, they bore a star surrounded by five dots, and tattooed between the first and second joints of that same thumb was a stooping bird of prey worked into a ring shape, the letters VVZ underneath.
He could nearly hear the pieces in his head snapping into place. Closing his eyes, he remembered the first overheard phone call that had caused him doubt in his heart for his brother, Powell. Dug deep to pull out the name Powell and Bassil had discussed at length after the call ended. Remembered again the newly etched ink on their hands.
Wildman opened his eyes and took a step towards the stage, turning and sitting on the edge. “Thief-in-law.” Two of the men jerked in place. Their flinches were nearly unmentionable, except they’d reacted. “Scarloucci.” That earned him a hard glance from a third man. “Chulpayev.” The fourth man spat on the floor. “I’ve got my vote.” Wildman stood and lifted his hand, thumb pointed straight down. “Not worth the risk, brother.”
Metal screeching against metal sounded, and he looked up to see Hoss and Sparks dragging two chairs up the center aisle. They deposited them at the end of the row, roughly turning them to face Retro. “Reckon we found two more, brother.” Hoss pointed at the two new additions, who had the same hand tattoos, and said, “Negative reaction to our friend’s words, same as those.”
Wildman shifted, twisted, put his boots to the stage, and stood. Crowding close to Retro, he laid it out for him. “The tattoos on their right hands make them made men in the Italian mafia. That’s not done lightly or without cost, and I wouldn’t trust any of the men in this room who share the same marks. Their reaction to your old lady’s blood father ain’t good, man. Means Chulpayev is being discussed. Actively discussed. Either he’s in the middle of makin’ a move or about to have a move made on him. Either way, this is a fuck of
a lot bigger than a squabble over territory with the Mexican cartel. We should look for the black hand tattoos on their chests, as well, just to make sure there’s no fuckin’ crossover in enemies, man. Cover all our bases since we’ve got a captive audience.” He lifted a hand and settled it on Retro’s shoulder, the tension in the man’s muscles fairly radiating outwards. “Those six, though? Might be the worst of it, but they gotta go today. I will gladly stand tall and take care of it, brother. I know you understand me. I know you get it because IMC stands with the Bastards.” He took a breath, thudded his fist against Retro’s shoulder, and finished with “I have your back, brother. Always have your back.”
There’d been another six men culled from the larger group, based on ink alone. Then two more had outed themselves as Scarloucci men.
There had been an unspoken agreement of presidents-only in the building when the men were executed. Wildman had thanked God Justine didn’t argue, glad when she’d followed the example set by the other members of their party, officers and patch members alike, with her moving outside amongst the larger group without even a look back. No lingering glances filled with guilt, no admonishments of any kind. She’d accepted the need and given him what she could. Not a blessing to take another life, but an acceptance of, and clear trust in, him.
Two shots from each gun, and the twelve bodies had jerked and sagged against the ropes binding them to the chairs.
Retro had taken longer with the final two men he’d marked for more, and Wildman had stood in the circle around where he worked on them, staring, restraining as needed, and witnessing.
He’d immediately decided Retro was not someone he wanted to be on the wrong side of. The man was brutal, thorough, and inventive. Seventeen bodies had been wedged into a utility van turned food truck they’d found on the lot, and then one of Mason’s men had gotten busy rigging it with explosives—which Wildman had no idea where Myron had sourced from, but he was another man who had far more depth and darkness to him than expected. Chemicals were sprayed over every surface inside the main building as well as the food truck, supposed to do who knew what, but everyone trusted Myron at that point, so they did as he said.
Then they were rolling out of the lot. All told, only four from the Florida crew walked away from the building. Well…had been driven away, far up the coast, no phones or identification, and doped to the gills so Wildman, Mason, Retro, and the rest would have time to get back to the airport and vacate before any possibility of an alert was raised. Two vehicles angled north and east, going upstate to drop off the men who lived. Three vehicles would follow their original path straight back to the airport, carrying Einstein and his family. The rest of them headed south towards a remote area of woods Wildman prayed still stood. Myron had promised it was the same, said nothing had been done, no building in the area, no razing of the trees. Just a small copse of woods that held what once was his family.
Sitting sideways in the back seat, Wildman stretched his leg out along the bench and motioned Justine to unbuckle and slide closer. With Myron in a different vehicle, they had more room, and he wanted to stretch out as much as he could, but more, wanted his hands on her in whatever way she’d allow. She crawled across and settled herself between his legs, shoulder pressing against his side, head on his chest, and he sighed so loud Mason’s head twitched sideways to glance back at them.
“There’s not going to be much left of them.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “You okay with this, Jussie?”
“Yes.” Her immediate answer was gratifying, as was the firm tone in which it had been spoken. “God, yes. You of all men deserve to be able to bring your family home.”
“Shit, woman. You fuckin’ slay me.” He trailed his fingers down her arm, circling her wrist with his hand and bringing it to rest flat against his chest. “Feel that? That beats only for you, Jussie. I fuckin’ love you. You understand that? I fucking love you.”
“I know you do.” She nestled closer, fingertips drawing tiny shapes against his chest. “And it’s returned a thousandfold.”
***
Myron settled into the seat next to Wildman, laptop already open and a frown on his face.
“Hey, My.” Wildman glanced around, seeing Justine still engrossed in a conversation with her brother. They’d been in the air for about ten minutes, and he’d been going over the day in his mind, so Myron’s distraction was welcome.
“Busk gave me access to the security for the club.” Myron slid a glance at Wildman, fingers tapping along the top edge of the laptop screen. “At the time, I didn’t know he’d tied some personal residences into the system. Makes sense, and I do the same for the RWMC, but there’s a way to keep it separate. I plan on showing him when we get back.”
“Okay.” Wildman studied him, then addressed what obviously was the issue by telling him, “Busk set up the security at my place.”
“Yeah.” Mouth pulling sideways into a scowl, Myron shook his head. “I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Just snagged all the vids from the server and ran them through a processor I use. The AI behind it is pretty sweet in how it learns real quick what’s normal and what’s not, so property owners coming and going become background noise.”
“And anything not normal stands out for review.” He blew out a breath. “And you found something not normal at my place?” Myron nodded. He glanced behind them, seeing two rows of empty seats, as most of the men had gathered nearer the galley. “Show me.”
“It’s from this week. When Justine showed up at the clubhouse. You were at the party, then stayed a while, and then you went home late. With Justine.” Myron’s words came in choppy sentences as he tapped keys on the laptop. “Someone was in your house just before you got home.”
Gooseflesh crawled up his arms, and he remembered the gut feeling of things being not quite right. “Who?”
“No idea yet. I didn’t get enough for recognition or identification, so I can’t pick him out of a group. But I’ve got scans running on traffic cameras around the same time, hoping I can find him as he came or went.” Myron twisted the laptop to face Wildman. “Here. Watch this and tell me what you think.”
A man stood in his kitchen. Dark coat, too heavy for the season in Louisiana. Dark hat pulled low over his eyes. He brought something out from a pocket, shook it, and then crouched near the base of a wall in full sight of the door, windows, and the camera. With economic movements, he wrote something on the paneling, focused in on his actions until Wildman noted what had to be the lights of his bike swing across the kitchen windows, announcing his and Justine’s arrival. Still, the man lingered, crab walking along the wall to continue what he was doing. Moments before Wildman and Justine walked into the kitchen, the man left through the front door. The camera view changed, and he could clearly see the man deftly circumventing the alarm on his way out and then reenabling it from the outside.
“What’s he writing?” Wildman frowned. “There’s nothing there.”
“No idea. That’s all I have. There’s nothing else on your exterior system and nothing in the logs that says he brute-forced his way inside, which means he’s more sophisticated than a burglar.”
“Plus, he didn’t take anything.”
“No,” Myron agreed with a sigh. “He left something.”
“What?”
Justine appeared at the end of the row, head tipped to one side. “Hey.” She looked at the laptop screen, frozen on a shot of the man standing in Wildman’s kitchen. “What’s that?”
“Come here.” Wildman stood and lifted her past Myron, settling her in his lap. “Watch this, tell me what you see.” When Myron didn’t immediately play the video, he flicked a finger at the screen. “Run it again, My.”
The video snapped into play with the man in the kitchen, cycling through nearly the entire video before Justine sucked in a deep breath.
“You know him?”
“Coworker in the agency.” She shook her head. “Sometime…playmate.”
�
��What’d he use to write on the wall?”
“UV ink.” She shook her head. “Probably. I mean, he left the pen in the cup near the wall.” She wiggled to get free, and Wildman clamped his hands on her waist. “Wild, we need to see what message he left.”
“I’d like to know more about this person who broke into my house, Jussie.” Keeping his tone even and free from anger was hard, because, after the past two days, he’d had plans for them getting home tonight, and dealing with some fucking government asshole leaving secret messages wasn’t on the agenda. “Tell me about this coworker.”
“Greg Anderson. My counterpart on the anti-trafficking task force. He’s a good agent but uses questionable tactics at times.” Her backbone was arrow straight, shoulders back as she waited for him to question her further, but Wildman held his tongue, hoping her natural inclination to explain to him would take over. “He’s the one who introduced me to the scene, and always respected I didn’t want intercourse with him. He was over-the-top angry about the op, about me ‘going rogue’ as he put it. I don’t get why he’d be there.” She twisted and stared into Wildman’s face, and he let his gaze search hers, seeing only concern and fear there. Fear for me. “We need to know what he left for us.”
“I don’t disagree. What’s key about him leaving the pen?”
“It likely has the UV light needed to disclose the message. Cheap party tactics these days, but still an effective communication tool. As long as someone knows where to look for the message, it’ll remain unremarked unless the right light shines across it.”
“Myron, can you get someone to my house?”
“Already on it. Busk should be there momentarily.”
“Then we wait.”
A few silent minutes later, Wildman’s phone buzzed with an incoming call, and he handed it to Myron. Within moments, the video had been transferred to the laptop, so they could see using the better graphics.
Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends Page 28
