Chapter 15
Hound Dog
W eston wasn’t easy to find by the time we got downtown. He was a mole that hid back in the ground, afraid to show his face.
When Fender knew that it was one of the “trusted” people, he was brewing inside. He wouldn’t show it, he tried not to hold a lot of anger, but where Fender may lack in mental anger, Shooter made up for it when it came to his anger. The man expressed it in more ways than one.
The four of us made it downtown in time before night fell.
Weston was a self-made man, doing more business for himself and putting himself in the top. He started off picking from the bottom of the barrel when the Saint’s gave him the chance when they started in the city.
It was then that safety was a thing, to not sell it to already known or suspected addicts. It was for pleasurable usage, not addictive. It was one death that we didn’t want to be held responsible for, other than our own acts.
But thankfully it wasn’t hard to find him; Shooter had surveyed the area and saw him. The crooked smile of my brother made me a lot more confident that hopefully this situation would end once and for all.
I wasn’t going to break another promise. The quicker I could make this, the better. A few tourist groups were swarming around the area, making it a cover for Weston. When the crowd of people appeared in front of Weston, it acted like a cloud of smoke as the man bolted in the other direction.
The only reasons for a person to run from us were guilt, protection from a death wish, or a fun game of primal chase. Personally, I’m a fan of the last one.
As soon as the crowd cleared, Shooter went chasing him down with Fender on his heels. B.B chuckled as him and I hung back allowing the other two to nab him and haul his ass in an alleyway. “We think Weston actually did something?”
“I’m hoping that he knows or saw who is doing this and we can tell Greene who he can actually go after.”
“Seems like a tall order.” B.B just smirks like a damn fool.
We took our time, until we saw Fender grab him by the jacket and haul him into an alleyway. As we turned the corner, Weston broke free of Fender and gave Shooter one lucky shot. Though I didn’t know if he knew it at the time, that punch probably was the signature on his death certificate.
Fender yanked Weston back to the brick wall. The corner of his mouth spewing with blood, like a mad man.
“Seems like an unfair fight,” Weston bellowed out.
Shooter got his feet, ready to lunge at Weston, wanting his own turn for a spill of blood.
“Well, you ran,” B.B chimed in. “Not a very good look for you, my friend.”
He grunted as the men pulled him back. “Tell me, Weston, you wouldn’t do anything to screw us over, now would you?”
The knife at my side was beckoning my name, to carve out the answers, to reassure everyone that questioned who was leader and ran these streets.
“Why would I do that?” Ge hissed out, he stopped struggling for a moment, twisting his head to look at me.
“A million and one reasons.” I didn’t hesitate. I continued, looking down at him, “Were you selling a couple nights ago?”
His eyes were dead, no sign of life. He was hiding something but playing it off as if his loyalties still lied with us. He slowly shook his head no. Shooter sensed his hesitation and knocked Weston’s head back into the wall. Weston let out a yelp, shaking his head back and forth.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t have a supply,” he attempted to answer. But it wasn’t good enough.
I tsked. “I think you’re lying to me, Weston, and I don’t take kindly to liars. You’re the only one that can save your own skin.”
“Best listen to him. He has been on edge lately, and is itching to get his hands dirty,” B.B cooed as he warned that I wasn’t in the mood.
Not a soul minded what was going on, someone people knew better than others. I pulled out my knife from my pocket, flicking open the blade. I stepped toward Weston’s body, pointing the knife in his face. “Last chance before I take my own methods for a ride. I’ll ask again, were you selling a couple of nights ago?”
He let out a deep whimper. “Only a small supply.”
The knife traveled along the base of his neck, trailing along his collarbone. His body shivered under the blade, the nerves settling through his skin. “Where did you get the small supply? Last we checked, we hadn’t given anything new in a few weeks,” I pointed out.
“So you’re either underselling and reporting back that you ran out, only to then pocket the rest,” B.B tauntingly said.
“Or, you found yourself a new person and are selling for someone else,” Fender finished the thought. The once calm man now tensed with his own anger of being double crossed.
Weston swallowed, debating what answer he was to give. I gave him a little more motivation to answer the damn question. The blade popped a few buttons, threatening to expose skin for easier access to slice. “Tick tock, Weston. Wouldn’t want to damage a lot.”
His body continued to shake. My patience was being tested and faded with each passing second. The sooner I could get an answer, the faster we shut it down.
The faster I can return to Melody, the safer she could be.
My knife poked harder at his abdomen, breaking the first layers of skin. His pathetic whimpers only made it easier to keep going until he sounded like he was going to cry out. “Wait, wait. Please don’t,” he begged.
“Why should I?” I growled out.
“You were the only one selling that night and a girl ended up dead,” Fender accused him, passing along the judgment.
“I didn’t do anything, I didn’t kill anyone,” Weston whined out, sucking in his stomach and attempting to free himself.
“And yet, a pretty young thing ended up dead down the street from where you were selling. So far the only cause of death is the drugs that were in her system and the drugs found around her,” Fender continued out, his own passion powering his words.
Weston rapidly shook his head, trying to convince us of his truth. Enough blood and lives had been taken, and it wasn’t any of my men. At least right now I could be confident in that.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” he kept repeating as if it was going to save his life.
“And yet you did. Answer the fucking question!” I pressed harder as blood was trickling down his skin.
He let out a loud groan, the sweat on this man was appalling. Disgraceful. But I was at my breaking point with enough people breathing down my neck like I was the one under the microscope. I had promises to fulfill to the club, previous presidents, and even the founding chapter. I wasn’t going to let them down.
Weston struggled against the guys’ hold. Fender’s hand started to tremble. A flare up was coming on, I needed to be quicker.
“Answer. The. Fucking. Question.” I gave him one last chance. Watching him squirm, panting for relief made something dark and twisty in me smile. I could be a twisted son of a bitch.
B.B’s walked closer to me, a soft hand on my shoulder shook me away.
“Easy, Prez,” he warned me, bringing me somewhat back to reality in front of me.
Weston grunted before releasing a sigh. “Someone else brought me an opportunity I couldn’t resist.”
“Start talking, rat, before I make it look like pumpkin season, spilling your guts all over this street.” I pressed the knife harder into his stomach.
“Okay, okay. Someone gave me product but it had come with an added bonus,” he began.
Greed is truly an ugly, deadly sin. Greed could touch every other sin, be the root cause of it all. There was an example in front of us.
“What was the bonus?” B.B questioned.
“Listen you have to understand, I’ve got things to take care of, the amount was going to be enough for me to do what I needed to do.” Weston tried to reason with us.
“Does it look like I give a fuck?” I sneered.
I looked to the side to see Shooter’s face twist in more anger; if the roles were reversed, we’d have a bloodier scene ahead of us.
“Someone came to me with a deal, I sell their product but it had to be in a different bag,” he continued.
“What different bag?” B.B stepped to the side of me.
He gulped. “They asked to at least sell a product with one of your bags.”
“Just one?” Fender asked for clarification.
He nodded his head. “I tried to tell them that I wouldn’t use bags. I wasn’t completely opposed to selling more if it meant more money coming in,” he started to say as the urge to twist the knife was stronger than B.B’s wake up call.
B.B cut me off before I could speak. “So you took a chance, thinking that it wouldn’t come back to you.”
Weston whimpered, “They said only one bag. They never said that they would do anything else. I swear, Hound. I just needed more money.”
Needed more money, for what? The man did pretty well to continue to live in a tiny bit of luxury. He didn’t have a wife or kids that we knew of, much less any family around the area.
“Well, let me let you in on a secret, something did happen. That one little bag landed a young woman dead and with the product in hand. You want to know what type of bag they found?” I challenged him to give me more excuses as to why.
He shook his head, whether it was true fashion that he didn’t know or it was him buying time to survive this and tell the tale.
“It was the very blue bag that you supplied her.”
“How was I supposed to know that they would go after her?”
“By not crossing us, and now, you’re going to answer for what you did!” I shouted to his bloody face. And with one punch, he was out like a light. His deadweight body slinked to the floor. It took everything in me not to gut him there.
A confession was made and that was what I had to be thankful for because I didn’t know if anything was going to work. Looked like some things needed to be handled a certain way.
Shooter and Fender stood by his body, the fucker was still breathing. At least for now.
“Had some restraint on you, Prez,” B.B said as I turned to walk away.
“He’s lucky that we need more information and he’s not buried in the Mississippi.” I growled.
“What you want us to do?” Shooter asked.
“Take him to the sheds, we’ll give him a day or two to think about what he wants to do next,” I commanded because as the sun had set I knew there was something that needed to be taken care of; a little birdie and her first flight lesson.