Chapter 12
BOLT
The next day, I’m up again before Nicoletta. Probably better that way. What do you say after finding out she conned me, then I save her, and for a grand finale, we have out-of-control monkey sex. Using each other—fucking each other, both expelling demons, and making no excuses.
I have no idea what that woman does to me, but she sure as shit does it in a big way.
Hopefully, the drive up to Imperial Beach will clear my head, or at least get rid of the twitching in my gut.
I make a quick stop at the cafe on the corner, then meet the other brothers in the back lot of The Tropics.
“This should go down easy.” Smoke leans against his bike. “Paulie says he’s got all the proof we need on video to take those suits down, but he wants us to see what’s going on firsthand.”
We all nod, mount up, wheel out of the lot and head north. The ride helps me rid some of the cobwebs in my brain.
A half-hour later, we pull into the lot of the Surf Club.
I haven’t been up here in a while, but it still looks as shitty as ever—one of the main reasons this place was perfect for storing guns and contraband.
No normal person would dare venture inside, and if they did, they’d regret it.
Any night of the week could have a stabbing, shooting, or a flat-out murder.
This place makes the dump where I picked up Nicoletta look like the best club in Vegas.
Blood, Diesel and I dismount and surround Smoke.
“Remember, we’re not here to start any bullshit,” Smoke says. “I just wanna download the surveillance footage and look at whatever Paulie keeps telling me is so important. Then I wanna set up a new schedule for the gun storage and deliveries.”
“What the fuck you think he wants to show us?” Diesel asks.
“That’s what we’re here to find out.” Smoke jerks his chin toward the back door, and we follow him in.
Goddamn place is closed this early, but it still smells like piss and stale beer.
We trudge over the threadbare carpet in the main room, then onto the scuffed dull wood of the back hallway.
Paint chipping off the walls, broken floor boards, and probably, if you look hard enough, an army of roaches living behind the woodwork.
Smoke knocks on the office door, then shoulders through.
Paulie struggles to get his large body out of the chair behind his desk.
The guy is only in his late forties, but he’s about three hundred pounds of Big Macs, French fries and ice cream, along with a ponytail halfway down his back and a scar starting under his eye and ending at his jawbone.
Definitely pissed off somebody back in the day.
“Didn’t think bikers got up this early.” Paulie laughs at his own joke, then taps fists with Smoke.
“We don’t,” Blood smirks, “unless it’s important.”
“This is important, for sure.” He lumbers back to his desk and flips open his laptop, punches some keys, and a picture flashes up on one of the three monitors hanging on the grimy walls.
Place may be a shit hole, but Paulie’s office looks like intel central with all high-tech, topnotch equipment, and plush wall-to-wall carpet.
Word is Paulie makes just as much money with incriminating videos of the shit that goes on in his bar as he does serving booze. Seems a lot of suits from L.A. like to come down here slumming. Clark Williams isn’t the only one who likes to dip his fingers into some shady shit.
The four of us stand around the monitor, silently watching as Clark Williams and his degenerate buddies go down a flight of stairs, then enter a dark key padded room. When they flip on the light, we all exchange glances.
“I’ve seen some fucked-up shit, but this . . .” Smoke shakes his head.
“How long ago was this taken?” Blood asks.
“About two weeks ago,” Paulie says. “The bastard does this at least once a month, sometimes twice.”
“And you think it was Williams who had Sammy and Hector iced?” Smoke asks.
“I don’t think. Fuck, I know. Two days before, Williams, Hector and Sammy had a big fight about him storing these girls here. Hector told him to get the hell out.”
“Un-fuckin-believable,” I mumble.
“Sammy told him guns were one thing, but this . . . hell no.” Paulie pauses.
“The next day a hired gun from an L.A. crew pops Hector right in the club, and two days after that I come in and find Sammy slumped over the desk. They fuckin’ gutted him and left him to bleed out.
I lost a business partner and a good friend. ”
We all exchange a look. “Sound familiar?” I ask.
Whoever killed Sammy and Brad Remington likes to use a knife.
“You know Sammy, and Hector didn’t back down to no one. They were all about making a buck, but not this way.” Paulie shakes his head. “In one week they took out the all the power players.”
Smoke drags his eyes away from the monitor. “I want that downloaded so I can take it with me today.”
“Sure, sure, but first you gotta help me with another problem.” Paulie heads out of the office, and we follow him to the back of the building, then take a narrow staircase to the basement. He swipes a card over a keypad to the storage room where we usually store the guns, and the door springs open.
Paulie pulls a cord from the ceiling, and a harsh light illuminates six women—no, they’re teens—huddled together. The room stinks from sweat and fear. Their wide, shiny eyes stare up at us, and swear to fuck, my stomach churns.
“What the fuck?” Smoke bellows, and the girls cower.
“Williams brought them in here yesterday. Says I’m to keep them until he’s put all the details together for the sale.”
“Shit, Paulie.” Blood shakes his head. “Why the fuck would you even do this for that bastard?”
“What choice did I have after I saw what happened to Sammy and Hector?” Paulie wipes at his forehead. “Like I said, storing your guns and other shit, I got no problem, but this ain’t right.”
“Sure the fuck isn’t right.” I step farther into the room, and when the girls shuffle away from me, I get a sick feeling in my gut.
“Supposedly, Williams has this big real estate company up in L.A., and he uses some of the empty properties to host parties. Some of these houses are vacant for months while the owners vacation in Europe, and these girls are the main attraction. They don’t have a choice.
If they don’t do as they’re told, he threatens them with ICE. ”
“From now on, this shit is gonna change.”
“Williams and all the men with him are very powerful and—”
“More powerful than the Bastards?” Blood challenges.
“Different. Like they’ve got the top cops and politicians in their pockets. Word is, they even iced one of their own when he got out of line.”
Smoke and I exchange a look but stay silent.
“They threatened me and said if I didn’t go along, they’d make it look like I was doin’ the trafficking. Shit, that’s a federal offense. If I get tagged with that, I’ll go away for a long-ass time.”
“Nobody’s goin’ anywhere,” Smoke assures Paulie.
“You do this for me, and I’ll owe you big.”
Smoke nods, and I know he’s already calculating exactly what Paulie will owe the Bastards.
“I guarantee, after this weekend, you’ll never see these guys again.”Smoke swipes at his phone, then puts it to his ear. “I want you to get one of the prospects up to the Surf Club with the van. Now.”
He swipes away the call, then looks at Blood. “When the van gets here, make sure they get on it. For now, let’s get them outta this room. It smells like shit.”
“Do they understand English?” Blood asks Paulie.
“I don’t think so.”
Smoke uses a few simple phrases he’s learned from Marisol, and the girls warily stand and move out of the room. Who the fuck knows how long they’ve been missing?
We herd them into Paulie’s office and give them water. They huddle together, whispering in Spanish while giving us quick glances.
“When the prospect gets here with the van,” Smoke says to Blood, “get them to a women’s shelter. Just drop them off; don’t go in. We sure don’t need this brand of trouble.”
Blood nods, his eyes, like all of ours, fixed on these innocent victims. It’s one thing to take down an enemy, someone equal in strength, but this is just fucked up.
After Paulie downloads all the video footage, Smoke, Diesel and I silently head out to our bikes.
We mount up, and Smoke says, “Taking down these guys just got a whole lot sweeter.”
“Fuck yeah,” Diesel and I mumble.
NICOLETTA
When I wake up, it takes me a minute to orientate myself. My sleep was plagued with gruesome dreams, including Bolt, my father, and Brad. They were disjointed and unnerving with a common theme. They all ended with a dead man lying at my feet.
I pull myself together, telling myself dreams aren’t real, but the shooting I witnessed was way too real, and it will be a long time before that memory fades—if at all.
The silence of the apartment tells me I’m alone, and when I make my way into the kitchen, there’s a bag from the same café, along with a one word scrawled on the front: Breakfast.
I take out a pastry with a sugar shell on top. I believe they’re called conchas. They look delicious, and I wonder if this is some kind of peace offering, or if they’re just whatever was left over from his order.
Since Bolt found the knife, everything has moved at such a fast pace, I can’t keep up. Bolt isn’t a man who forgives easily, and knowing his track record with women, I doubt he’ll forgive me.
My main objective must be the plan to take down my father and his accomplices. Put one foot in front of the other and move forward. If it all goes down as planned, and my father is arrested, I’ll have enough to deal with in Los Angeles without worrying about Bolt in Tijuana.
Although, I have a feeling, no matter where I am, I’ll always think and worry about Bolt.
He’s touched me in a way I didn’t expect.
A way no other man has, both in and out of bed.
He has a realism and a no-nonsense attitude I find refreshing after coming from a world where everything is fake and fabricated—including the people.