Chapter 7 – Zeb
Chapter Seven
Zeb
Ihate our weekly meetings. I understand why we need them, but it only reminds me of church to sit there listening to Ethan preach about profits, connections, operating costs, losses and all that other stuff.
I liked the army because they told us exactly what to do and all you had to do was follow orders to succeed.
This time, we aren’t in trouble, but that hardly means fun and games.
There’s been an escalation in the government situation and our contacts in Boston are desperate for more than simple semi-automatic weapons and handguns.
It used to be a lot easier to get grenades and tear gas over the border in San Antonio or out in San Diego, but it’s not the same.
We can feel the pinch all the way out East, especially as the federal government rounds up more people they have problems with.
It started off with the Mexicans and Venezuelans, and nobody really worried about them because we all figured they were men who had done time or were going to do time, so who really cared if they did their time over here or over there.
Maybe smarter folks than I did realized how bad it would get.
There have been rumors of the federal government kidnapping people off the streets of Boston.
Women have gone missing – American women.
Not like it would matter if they weren’t.
It’s just that the truth exposes the federal government as worse than anyone thought.
As far as I know, all women need protection from men. Hell, if the government has masked goons out on the streets kidnapping women – we now know this to be true – then the stories of missing kids and ripped apart families might be more than just rumors or fake news.
It’s easy to swallow up the lies when you live out in the country, but here in the city, you can’t avoid it.
It doesn’t feel like America anymore. I might be able to shut my eyes and focus on business, but that doesn’t change the way the world feels right now.
Aiden Murray, the leader of the Irish mafia out here in Boston, charges protection fees across most of the city to keep immigration enforcement and homeland security away from businesses and residential streets, but they can’t mobilize against the federal government without more.
More weapons. More alliances. More shit that we have to pull out of our asses if we or anyone else in this country stands a chance at keeping our freedoms.
I’m early to our meeting, which is unfortunate, because Ethan turns all his wrath on me for the fact that everybody else is late to the party.
“Where the hell is Reed?” Ethan snarls with the usual manners you can expect from him. The military would have done the Shaw boys some good since they all communicate like savages.
“Can’t say.”
“Where the hell were you?”
“Gym with Odhran. Three more Irish families from Providence with ties to the IRA are bringing forces to Boston for the summer. We have more buyers than we know what to do with – the problem might be fulfilling the orders.”
“You in the mood to keep driving back and forth out West?”
I’ve made the trip a couple times and I don’t particularly enjoy spending that much time on the road alone.
“No.”
Ethan laughs. “Well, I appreciate the honesty. Can’t say it’ll keep you off the road.”
I have no reason not to heartily agree to go back West. The more time I spend on the road, the more money I make. Not like I really have time to spend it on anything other than my apartment and my bike. I should get a dog.
The others enter the bar at roughly the same time.
Cody has a toothpick between his teeth and a black Stetson on, standing about a head taller than the others, who aren’t small men either.
Isaac walks like he’s been drinking, but he’s smiling more than I’ve seen him since Wyatt ordered him out to the East Coast.
They’re in a good mood, which I don’t understand and thankfully, neither does Ethan.
“You’re late,” he snaps at them.
“Only by half an hour,” Isaac says. “Did we miss anything good?”
“If I could send your ass out West, I would,” Ethan says.
“We’re talking supply. Let’s talk,” Isaac says, sitting at the table and tipping Ethan’s bottle of vodka directly to his lips.
“Use a glass, you animal.”
Isaac doesn’t apologize, but he pours his next shot in the glass before sliding a glass across the table to me.
I brought my own bottle of Hollingsworth whiskey, which I reveal from my cut as Isaac sends the glass over.
Cody takes a call about a bay mustang that lasts a loud and uncomfortable fifteen minutes before we get back to our meeting.
Ethan looks about ready to end his life when he picks up, “We have two more organizations that need weapons. A small group of men in Maine, bit paranoid, right-wingers, and then a home-defense militia out in Western Mass, somewhere along the south border. Can’t recall.”
“How much do they need?” Isaac asks. We’re all listening closely.
I wouldn’t mind being the one to go West. It might be a good distraction from that girl I met the other night who still hasn’t called.
She won’t call, I know, but a guy can dream.
It gets lonely out here and I don’t like the thought of a woman selling herself just to put a roof over her head. Makes my skin crawl.
Call me crazy but the only time that I see fit to take a woman to bed is when the two of us have a real connection. I might have one with Janelle. There was something when I kissed her that almost turned me into an animal.
“They’re looking to get a few boxes of pump action shotguns to distribute and resell up in the white mountains to start,” Ethan says. “We get the guns here and our connection with the Murrays will get the weapons to the buyer.”
“Should be easy,” Cody says. “Easy money and light work.”
I glare at him. Easy because he enjoys sleeping in shit motels and the adventure out there on the road. I prefer keeping to myself as much as possible.
“And after that?”
A few boxes of pump-action shotguns with similar calibre might fit on a large Dodge Ram – easy to come by from Deacon or Magnum, especially for this kind of club business.
I’m already spinning my wheels on how this will work.
Depending on where we get them from, we might have to scrub the serial numbers off ourselves.
I’ll need room for a ramp and space to strap the bike down, but the load ought to be manageable.
“Well… let’s start with the shotguns,” Ethan says grimly. “Plenty of trouble coming up with those.”
Cody suggests a place where we could come up with the shotguns.
Hollingsworth men always seem to “know a guy”.
Ethan likes the idea, but mostly because it requires volunteers and everyone knows my current situation with drugging Magnum and Damara makes me vulnerable to volunteering.
I need to get back into Wyatt Shaw’s good graces.
So I do what everybody expects.
I volunteer for the mission. Ethan doesn’t have to say much more for me to eagerly throw myself into the line of fire.
Plus, I miss the desert. I miss the open road.
I miss getting on my bike and having hours of highway to tear down without a curve or bend in sight.
I’m going to kill myself trying to find good riding space in Massachusetts.
Our meeting doesn’t end until late. I always end up signing up for the suicide mission.
Tonight’s mission makes me want to smoke and makes me question if I’m really that much of a tortured fuck-up.
It would make better sense if there was some clear way my life was different from everybody else.
I grew up just like every other Blackwood except… I’ve always had dark urges.
I heard Gideon whisper once that Ruger and I were similar, but I’ve never seen much of a dark side from the man who married a sweet teacher like Zayna, who made the best banana bread at our last Thanksgiving.
I’ve never had a woman baking me banana bread like that, so I doubt he’s anywhere near as dark and screwed up as I am.
When I finish my cigarette, I take out my phone to text Ruger that I’ll need a place to stay for a couple nights after I pick up the shotguns from our supplier in San Antonio.
Deacon won’t get back from his trip with Keyshawn until a couple days after the exchange.
As my finger hovers over Ruger’s name – my phone rings.
My phone never rings. I pick up right away and when I hear her voice, I want to be happy, except that damned woman sounds scared.
“Zebulon? It’s Janelle.”
I recognized her from the way she said Zebulon and I would make a joke out of it, except her voice sounds panicked.
“Janelle? What’s going on? Where are you?”
I hear her let out another anguished sob. My chest hurts. Whatever happened must be bad, but that’s not the only thing concerning me right now. I’ve shot people after staring them dead in the eyes before and never felt this bizarre tug on my heart.
“I need help. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, I need you to help me,” Janelle whimpers. There’s another sob and then I hear her retching, like she’s throwing up. Maybe she’s been drinking and needs a ride home, but my gut tells me it’s more than that. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I throw my legs over the back of my bike. I don’t know what Janelle needs or where the hell she is, but I know that I will scorch the entire city of Boston to find this woman and destroy whoever hurt her. Maybe somebody touched her. Fuck…
I have to leave Boston tonight – and soon if I want to make it to the dropsite on time –but I can’t leave without making sure Janelle’s alright. If I have to bring her with me to keep her safe, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
Firmly, I ask again for the information I need. “Where are you?”
Slowly, I draw my breath in and try to get her to calm down and match my slow breathing pace. She keeps crying and stammers out another effort to identify her location, stopping and breaking down in sobs before she can get the words out.
“I-I…”
I interrupt her sobs, “Angel, I need you to calm down and tell me where you are so I can tell you how long you need to wait.”
“I… I hurt someone, Zeb. I hurt someone…” She finally confesses. My body responds immediately. If Janelle hurt somebody, there would have had to be a life-or-death situation. If she’s calling me. My bike comes to life.
“How bad is it?”
She confirms my worst suspicions with her next desperate plea. “Just get here.”
She’s too traumatized to remember that I’ve asked her where to go several times and she hasn’t answered. Fuck. I’ll have to get wherever she is before the cops get there too.
“Where, baby. Tell me where.”
“I’ll turn my location on,” she says through her sobs.
I’m glad that the sound of my voice snaps her to attention.
I hang up and wait a few seconds. Thirty seconds later, a little bubble pops up on the map.
Twenty minutes away. I can do it in twelve.
For her? I’d find a way to do damn near anything.