Chapter 24
BOLT
Three days later, all gears are in motion, workable for the most part, with plenty of room for change. No matter how many ways Manny showed us the diagram of the Williams’ mansion, or how in detail Nicoletta described the property—none of us have ever been there.
“I may have been shot, but I haven’t been sidelined. You need me on this, just the way you needed me at Riviera.”
I lean over to tie up my boots. “Forget it.”
“If you just let me come along, I can guide you,” Nicoletta says for the fifth time.
“And for the last time, that’s a hard fuck no.” I wave my hand over her. “Today is the first day you’ve been outta bed, and there’s no fuckin’ way I’m bringing you on a night mission that could very well go to hell.”
“Fine.” She crosses her arms and winces.
I point to her. “Exactly my point. You can’t even make a simple movement without pain, and I’m gonna let you sneak around in the dark.”
“Let me?” Nicoletta’s eyes bug out.
“Bad choice of words, but the answer is still no.” I motion to her laptop. “Manny has it set up so you can watch everything from there while we communicate through our earpieces.”
“There’s not gonna be too much to see. Aside from you guys, no one should be there.”
“You’re still gonna be a big help guiding us in and around.”
“I suppose,” she concedes ‘cause I ain’t budging on this decision.
“I have to say, you really are pulling off the spy vibe.” She motions to my black jeans, t-shirt and the black face mask I’m holding. “Kinda sexy.”
“Don’t look at me like that, or I’ll never leave.” I glance at my phone. “Time to hit it.” I lean down, giving Nicoletta a deep kiss.
When I pull back she grabs my arm. “Be careful.”
“Always.” I give her a cocky grin. “Nothing to worry about. especially since your father’s still a guest of the LAPD.”
Out in the back lot we all pile into the SUV. No shit-talk, no bullshit. We’re not even wearing our cuts tonight. We’re all quiet and focused on the job to be done.
Two hours later, Ricky lets us off on the north side of the Williams’ property where the hedges are the highest, then he goes around the block, out of sight, to wait.
“Just past the hedges bordering the property,” Nicoletta says through my earpiece, “is a gravel path and then a low stone wall.”
“Copy.” I lead, with Diesel, Smoke, and Blood behind me.
“At the end of the stone wall, you’ll see an iron gate,” she adds. “The latch is unlocked.”
“Got it, we’re heading inside,” I relay.
We easily enter the gardener's shed, and the musty scent of fertilizer, old wood, and money surrounds us.
Smoke and I click on our penlights. The intense beams sweep the space —shovels, rakes on tool hooks, stacked terracotta pots, bags of mulch, fertilizer, a riding mower with a cracked seat pushed against the wall. At the far end of the shed, is the potting bench. But no duffel bags.
I sweep the light again. Slower.
Still nothing.
In my ear, Nicoletta's voice: “Bolt?”
“Still looking,” I reply.
“She said under the potting bench.”
I crouch under the bench, running the light over the floor. A plastic tarp. No bags.
Blood, Smoke and Diesel are searching the other side of the shed. I lift the tarp. Nothing.
“Don’t see them,” I say. “Still searching.”
The others give me a blank look, then Smoke leans in. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”
Silence on the line, then Nicoletta says, “Pull the tarp away from the floor.”
I crouch down again and tug at the tarp. It’s heavy with dirt and discarded tools. I yank most of it away.
“Now I’m looking at a dirt floor,” I say into the void.
“Brush the dirt away,” Nicoletta instructs. “You should find a door in the floor.
"Say that again."
"There's a trap door. I remember Edith telling me the original construction had a root cellar under the shed.”
I brush the dirt away enough to see a metal hoop protruding out of the dirt floor.
“I found it.” I motion to the others, and we lift the long wooden bench out of the way.
Smoke runs his penlight over the area, and the large hoop shines up at us.
"There," I whisper.
“She probably hid the bags,” Nicoletta says in my ear.
I huff out a breath. “Would’ve been nice if she mentioned that.”
“Welcome to my mother,” Nicoletta replies.
The seam, encrusted with dirt, was barely visible. A square, approximately thirty inches by thirty inches.
Blood leans in and pulls at the hatch, but it doesn’t budge. I look around the shed for something to pry it open while Smoke and Diesel brush away more of the dirt.
I find two metal spades. I hand one to Blood, and we get on either side, with Diesel pulling on the metal latch. We wedge the spades in as far as we can, but the fuckin’ thing is stuck from age and dampness.
“Bolt?” Nicoletta’s voice is sharp, alert.
"Talk to me," I say.
"Main gate camera just picked up headlights." A pause — short, filled with tension. The kind that means information is arriving faster than it can be processed. "A vehicle. Moving up the private road.”
“Police?" I ask.
"No lights. No markings.” She pauses again. “The gate just eased open. They’re pulling around the driveway.” Another beat. “My father and another man got out of the car.”
“What’s going on?” I bark. “I thought he was still in custody.”
“Must’ve gotten out on bail.” A beat. “They entered the house.”
“Fuck!” Blood hisses.
“Keep eyes on them,” I tell her.
“They’re going through the kitchen,” Nicoletta says in my ear.
Smoke finds a shovel. “Let’s get this done.” He wedges it under the door alongside Blood and me. “On three. One, two, three.”
The door pops open, sending Diesel on his ass. I yank it all the way back, then shine my light over five large duffel bags.
“They’re in the service corridor,” Nicoletta whispers.
I reach in and drag the first bag out. Then I hoist out the other three, but the fifth one is just out of my reach. I pull back and eye the opening. It’s gonna be tight. Plus, I hate the fuckin’ dark.
“You have to get out.” Nicoletta’s voice is tight. “They’re in the wine cellar.”
“I gotta go in for the last one.” I shine the light into the hole, then lower myself until my feet hit the dirt floor.
I lean down, nab the fifth bag, and push it through the opening. Bracing both hands on either side of the hatch, I push myself up and through the opening.
“Move now! They’re right outside the shed.”
I scramble onto my feet and hoist two of the bags over my shoulder. Diesel, Blood and Smoke grab up the others just as the door from the wine cellar swings open.
Overhead lights flood the small space.
“Stop, right where you are.”
I slowly spin around to the smug face of Clark Williams—and another guy holding a gun.
“Bolt?” Nicoletta whispers.
Williams eyes the duffel bags. “I see you found my secret hiding place.” The smug grin gets wider. “But you can put them down now.”
I shift my gaze to Smoke as we lower the duffels to the ground.
Williams looks at the other man, then back at us. “In case you don’t know, this is the attorney general, what people call the Top Cop.” He waves his hand at us. “And this, gentlemen, is the end of the line.”
“Bolt, what’s going on?” Nicoletta screams in my ear.
“Take off the masks,” the AG orders. “Nice and slow.”
“Bolt, answer me!” Nicoletta yells.
I remove my mask, shutting off my earbud at the same time. I need to stay calm, and Nicoletta’s fear is amping me up.
“I really do hope you try to resist arrest,” Williams snarls. “A great excuse to get rid of all of you.”
The AG lowers the gun a few inches as he moves closer to us. He zones in on the club logo on Smoke’s t-shirt. “You’re with the Royal Bastards,” he states.
Smoke nods. “We all are.”
The AG lowers the gun to his side and turns to Williams. “Forget it.”
“What are you talking about, forget it? These men are criminals. They’re obviously stealing from me.” Williams waves his hands around. “They humiliated me in front of hundreds. Because of them, I was arrested.”
The AG shakes his head. “The only reason I went along with this was because of the money.” He motions to the duffel bags at our feet. “But even this isn’t worth having them as enemies.”
“What are you saying?” Williams blusters. “You’re afraid of these thugs?”
“Damn right. All the chapters in California carry a lot of weight. Influence I can’t afford to ignore.”
William’s flails his hand at us. “But they’re out of Tijuana.”
“Doesn’t matter.” The AG turns toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Williams yells at his back.
“Looks like our rep outweighs yours.” Smoke steps to Clark. “So, I suggest you get the fuck out of our way.”
Smoke nods, and we hoist up the duffel bags, then head for the outside door. There’s a scuffle behind us as Williams tackles the AG from behind and wrestles the gun out of his hand.
My hand flies to the gun in my waistband. I raise it two seconds before Williams.
“Go ahead, fucker,” I taunt. “Give me a reason to blow your fuckin’ head off.”
William’s eyes are wide and wild. “Give me back my money.”
“Nah, fucker.” I back away from him. “This is Nicoletta’s money. Small fee for all the shit you put her through.”
The AG flanks Williams. “Clark, put the gun down.”
It’s enough of a distraction for us to turn and barge through the metal gate. The sound of gunshots follows us down the stone path, past the hedges as we run in a fast, low line with the bags tight against our bodies.
“Bring the car. Now!” Smoke barks into his phone.
We sprint down the side lawn and reach the curb just as Ricky is coming around the corner. The passenger door flies open, and we all jump in, flinging the bags into the cargo well, then slamming the doors behind us.
Ricky spins the car around as the entire property gleams with lights behind us. He points away from the estate and heads for the freeway.
“What the fuck was Williams doin’ there?” Diesel pants out.
“Must’ve gotten out on bail.” I glance in the side mirror. The estate's exterior floodlights flash on simultaneously, bathing Clark Williams, standing alone on the lawn, under the hard white light.
As the SUV moves through the sleeping streets of Pacific Palisades, the estate falls away behind them. In the cargo hold, five duffel bags sit in the dark, containing a condemned man's secrets and a living woman's future.
I pull out my phone.
Nicoletta picks up on the first ring. “What happened? Are you all right?”
"We're out," I say.
“And the money?”
“Safe with us.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?” she asks again, her voice weak with stress.
“Rest up. I’m on my way home.”
Home. I don’t think I ever used that term for my apartment over The Tropics—but with Nicoletta there waiting for me, it is home.
I swipe away the call and rest my head against the seat. Exhaustion is hitting me hard too.
“His face looks just as I pictured it.” I take a long pull on my beer as Nicoletta runs the footage over again. The satisfaction of seeing Clark Williams alone and desperate on his front lawn is priceless.
“He has the smugness of a man who’s not used to losing—except this time.”
I move closer to Nicoletta on the couch as we watch Clark Williams stomping back into gardener's shed.
We don’t have sound, but it’s not hard to imagine what he’s yelling as he flails his arms around in a frustrated, manic rage. Flower pots are smashed, bags overturned, tools thrown.
“Maybe now,” Nicoletta says, “he’ll know a little bit about feeling desperate and powerless.”
“I’d like to agree with you, but people like him will just blame somebody else. Never owning their shit.”
Nicoletta stops the tape. “This scene in front of the AG couldn’t have helped him much.”
“Hopefully, he’ll finally get what he deserves.”