Chapter 21 #4
“Just go check on the girl, Lancelot ,” Viking insists. “We got this. It’ll be over before you know it. This guy will take off like a bat out of hell to report back to his network that we’re fucking crazy and Bermuda County is off limits.”
Keegan lets out a stress-ridden sigh. “He’s watching the fucking door. He’s gonna see me go up.”
“Good. You’ll distract him and give us the element of surprise.
” Viking shoves Keegan in the direction of the hotel before he and I veer off to approach the Tahoe from the back, taking cover behind the building.
Once in position, Viking peers around the corner.
“Dean’s almost at the staircase. You got a knife to pry open that tank? ”
“Multiple.”
Viking scoffs. “That’s right, you’re a walking Army Surplus .”
I chuckle, extracting the bandana from my back pocket while glancing around for a water source. There’s nothing back here, not even a puddle.
“Excuse me a moment,” I say, turning my back on him to unzip my fly.
“ Really ? You can’t fuckin’ hold it for three fucking minutes? I thought you were supposed to be some kind of badass. What are you nervous or some shit?” he taunts.
“ Innovative . Just taking an extra precaution on the minuscule chance of an explosion to appease your prudent president. The saturated portion won’t burn. Better my piss than yours since I’m the one handling it,” I say, soaking the end of the fabric in my urine stream.
“Huh. Nice.”
“You realize this guy has a gun, right?”
“I’ll get the gun.” Viking removes a pair of leather riding gloves from his cut and slips them on.
“And a cell. We can’t risk him alerting the cooks at the scrapyard, or anyone else. At least not until we get back there.”
“We’ve got another location to hit after this?” The disappointment in Viking’s tone amuses me.
“If it’s any consolation for the postponement of your next meal, we will be blowing shit up there.”
He expels another disgruntled sigh. “Hurry up, Dean’s almost at the top of the steps. I’ll charge this prick and get the gun when he gets out of the SUV.”
“What if it’s in the glovebox? Or mounted somewhere inside?”
“ I’ll get the fucking gun , asshole. You think this is my first rodeo? Shut up before I change my mind and beat him to death with you!”
“Hold this while I zip up,” I joke, pretending to hand the piss saturated end of the bandana to him.
“Fuck you. Put your dick away.”
I suppress a chuckle and refasten myself. “Are you sure you don’t want to confirm that theory of yours regarding skinny dudes packing ?”
“I’m starting to think you want to show me your dick.”
“It’s your theory. I’m just willing to confirm it .”
“I’ll take your word for it. Dean’s at the door… let’s move!” Gun in hand, Viking rounds the corner, and I follow, genuinely impressed by how swiftly and silently a man of his muscular stature moves.
The guy is so concerned with Keegan upstairs, he doesn’t realize we’re behind him until the barrel of Viking’s Glock is pressed firmly to the back of his skull. He goes rigid, then slowly raises his hands in surrender.
“Don’t fucking move,” Viking growls, aggressively patting him down. He pulls a small pistol tucked in the guy’s waistband. “You got any more?” he asks, re-holstering his Glock to hold the guy’s own Beretta on him.
He shakes his head no, but Viking rips open the driver’s side door and rummages around inside.
“Got the cell… Got his bag of tricks, too.” He drops a duffel bag on the ground.
It’s zipped, so he must have tucked the cellphone in his cut.
Once satisfied on the weapons front, he orders the guy back inside the Tahoe and nods at me.
I easily pry open the fuel door with a knife, twist off the gas cap, and use my blade to shove the saturated end of the bandana into his tank.
“W-what the fuck are you doing?” the guy nervously asks.
Viking slaps him across the face. “What are we doing? We’re getting real fucking tired of running you roaches out of our county , so this guy is gonna light you up like a Molotov cocktail.”
Despite having been slapped in the face, his head swivels out the window in my direction, eyes wide as I hold up the Zippo. For dramatic effect, I light up a cigarette, then lower my hand to tauntingly wiggle the flame of the lighter near the fabric dangling from his tank.
“ Oh shit…” he whimpers.
Viking rips the guy’s head back by his short, frosted hair and rams the barrel of the gun under his chin, forcing eye contact. “If you survive this and we cross paths in Bermuda County again, I’m gonna blow your fucking head off. Do you understand?”
He attempts to nod.
“If you make it out of here alive, deliver that message to everyone you’re working with.” Viking cocks his chin at me. “Light this motherfucker up!”
“ Oh shit!” he shrieks at the sound of my Zippo pinging open again. Viking releases him and takes a step back as I ignite the bandana. “ Oh fuck !”
“You better drive fast.” Viking’s threat is still laced with his ever-present humor. “Maybe you’ll get lucky, and the wind will blow it out. You stop, and we’ll fucking empty every round into you.”
The guy violently cranks the ignition, throws it into drive, and slams on the gas so hard the tires spin and squeal on the asphalt before he barrels out of the parking lot. Viking picks up the duffel bag and slings it over his shoulder as the Tahoe’s roaring engine quickly fades in the distance.
Keegan jogs across the lot to rejoin us, holding up a cellphone. “You’re never gonna guess who’s upstairs. I’ve got Chopper coming to bring her back to the clubhouse.”
“ Let’s walk and talk , shall we?” I urge, gesturing to the gas station across the street where we left our bikes. “Time is of the essence.”
“He’s right,” Keegan agrees, and we briskly make our way back. “It’s fuckin’ Vixie.”
Viking scoffs. “Vanna’s gonna love having her back.”
“It’s temporary,” Keegan insists, but there’s a level of unease in his tone.
“What’s the issue between Vanna and Vixie?” I ask.
Keegan deliberately avoids the question and cocks his chin at the duffel bag Viking’s carrying just as we reach our motorcycles. “The drugs?”
“Uh huh.” Viking places the duffel bag between the handlebars as he mounts his bike. “Figured we’d burn it where we’re going next.”
“Give it to Legion,” Keegan orders, “If by some slim chance we get stopped, better him than us . We’ve still got plausible deniability.”
I can’t help meeting his sly grin with my own as I mount my Indian and start it.
Viking tosses it to me, and I quickly sling the strap over my head and adjust it across my chest, resting the weight of the duffel bag atop my fuel tank.
Before they fire up their Harleys, I take off out of the lot, granting myself the temporary distance and a moment to check the bag unwitnessed.
If accessible, it would be advantageous to make note of the numbers stored within the cell for my own reasons…
reasons I’d rather not disclose to them yet, if ever .
Alas, after rummaging through it, there’s nothing but baggies of crank and cash. The cell is in Viking’s cut. I manage to zip the bag closed just as the two Saviors race up on either side of me.
“ What the fuck was that ?” Keegan shouts over our roaring bikes.
“I told you, I didn’t come back to fuck around! Not my fault if you Davidson boys can’t keep up.” I sneer back at him, patting the fuel tank and earning another of his scowls. I ease back on the throttle and gesture for him to take the lead. “By all means, pres.”
J ust past the scrapyard and the BBQ joint, there’s a boatyard with a large dirt lot bordered by an acre of forest on either side.
It’s a far enough distance, if anyone is keeping watch outside those gates.
Hopefully, they’ll think we kept going. I glance down the side street as we pass and spot the van from earlier parked near the gates.
Viking and Legion follow me into the lot of the boatyard, and we shut down the bikes.
“Looked like there was just one guy in the van, but who knows. You said they deal here, too?” I glance at Legion as he dismounts his bike and grabs the binoculars from his saddlebag. He hands me the binoculars and adjusts the duffel bag to his back.
“I staked it out last night. It’s pretty low-key. Two cooks inside, one guy outside keeping watch. I don’t think they risk dealing at this location on account of the cooks,” Legion says.
“So, we have to neutralize van man,” Viking says. “Either of you have any rope?”
We both notice a sinister sneer creep across Legion’s face. “Lend me your bandana,” Legion insists, hand already out to me.
I remove the one I have tucked in my back pocket and hand it to him. “What are you doing?”
“Wait here.” Without another word, he ties the bandana around the lower portion of his face and makes his way over to the chain-link fence of the boatyard.
“Why does no one feel the need to run game plans by anyone anymore?” I sigh as we watch Legion scale the fence and disappear into the shadows.
“If he sets off some kind of alarm, we’re leaving him here,” Viking chuckles.
“I have no objections.” I lift the binoculars and try to zero in on the scrapyard up the street. “Can’t see shit from this angle. Let’s get closer through the woods so they don’t spot us.”
We trudge the few yards through low brush among the pine trees in this wooded lot, until we reach a position where we can see the van parked by the side gate of the scrapyard.
“Looks like he’s alone…dicking around on his cellphone… We’re gonna need to get that from him, too.” I hand Viking the binoculars so he can take a look.
“What’s behind this place?” he asks.
“A self-storage facility.”