Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rags rode down the street, swerving to avoid a pothole.
Tank, Puck, and Chas followed behind. The setting sun’s rays bounced off artificial flowers taped to a metal light pole.
Beside them, a few helium balloons drooped, withered by the elements.
A poster board with a printed photo of a smiling young man marked the makeshift memorial.
It reminded him of the empty bottles of Jack and cans of Coors left at the graves of fallen brothers whose lives had been cut short.
He turned the corner and spotted the two-story building where Julie was supposed to meet the man for the payoff. He motioned to the others, and they slowed.
“Is this it?” Chas asked, riding up beside him.
“Yeah. I remember when this area was where all the city transplants put down roots. Look at it now—it’s a dump.”
Chas nodded. “Once the shit element moves in, the whole place goes to hell. Those fuckin’ slumlords don’t give a damn about anything but making a buck.”
The area in West Pinewood Springs had once been filled with pristine townhomes and two-story contemporary homes, a contrast to the Victorians, Craftsman bungalows, and Queen Anne-style homes in the older part of town.
When things went downhill and properties fell into disrepair, slumlords and shady investors bought them up, looking to flip them for quick cash.
The buildings that didn’t sell soon became a place for the displaced, the addicts, and the lonely.
They stopped in front of a building with peeling green paint, plywood covering the first-floor windows. It looked abandoned, but Rags could feel a dozen eyes watching them.
“I’ll stay out here and watch the bikes,” Puck said, his hand resting on the Glock at his hip.
The three men nodded and walked up the broken sidewalk toward the entrance.
“Want some weed? It’s the best around,” a man said, opening his palm.
Rags glanced at the small ziplock baggies. “How much?”
The older man took a step back, glancing over his shoulder. “One hundred.”
“You’re selling this shit for a hundred bucks?” Tank said, stepping forward.
“Eighty. It’s good stuff.” The man looked over his shoulder again.
“Where’d you get it?” Chas asked.
“From someone. It’s good stuff. I’ll sell it to you for seventy. Can’t go lower than that.”
Rags nodded and pressed the bills into the guy’s hand. The man snatched the money, handed over the baggies, and hurried down the sidewalk.
“When we get back, we’ll check what the competition’s pushing on the streets.” Rags shoved the baggies into his pocket.
“What the fuck did you buy?” Puck asked, walking toward them.
“Some weed. We wanna see the grade. I got a feeling it’s low-end shit,” Chas said.
“Me too. Now let’s go inside and see if this asshole I’m paying off is the one cutting into our business,” Rags said.
The three bikers climbed the stairs, each of them resting a hand on their Glock. Before Rags could push the door open, a young man stepped out. His white Deftones T-shirt hung off his scrawny frame like sheets on a clothesline.
“Hey,” he mumbled, slipping past them.
“Where are you supposed to meet this guy?” Chas asked.
“Julie said Room 203.” Rags nodded toward the stairway.
He turned the knob and stepped inside, Tank and Chas right behind him.
A balding man sat stiffly behind the desk.
Dressed in blue suit jacket and tie, he had a flash of gold at his wrist. Pale blue eyes sat in a round, ordinary face with a pug nose.
His jaw slackened, color draining from his face as he stared at the three bikers.
His gaze darted toward the middle drawer.
In one fluid motion, three guns cleared leather, the metallic clicks echoing through the small room.
“I wouldn’t do that if you wanna keep breathing,” Rags said, voice low and steely.
The man froze. He stared at the three barrels leveled at his chest, then slowly raised his hands.
“Who are you? I don’t have any money,” he stammered, sweat darkening the fabric beneath his arms.
“What’re you doing in Pinewood Springs?” Chas asked, his Glock still trained on him.
“I’m a businessman,” the guy replied, lowering his hands.
“Keep them on the desk where we can see them,” Rags growled.
“Sure.”
“What’s your business?” Tank asked.
“Uh… loans. I help people out who don’t have good credit.”
“How many customers you got in town?” Tank took a slow step back.
“Uh… not many. I do business around the country. I come and go.” Sweat trickled down the side of his face.
“This is bullshit and you know it.” Rags shifted in place. “We can keep playing questions, or I can start hurting you nice and slow, one bullet at a time. Your choice.”
The man’s eyes bulged. “What do mean? I’ve told you what I do.”
“Who do you work for? There’s no fuckin’ way you just wandered into a town in the Rockies to start a business. You’re a stranger. So let’s start over. Who do you work for, and how many customers you got in town?” Rags rocked back on his heels.
Then he heard it. It was so faint that he wasn’t sure. There was the slightest scrape from a dark corner behind him. The way Tank and Chas tensed, he knew they heard it too. The guy behind the desk kept rambling, but the bikers already knew.
Someone else was in the room.
All at once, Tank pivoted toward the sound while backing up quick.
Bending his knees, he dropped into a low, stable stance.
At the same moment, Rags grabbed the loan shark by the collar, hauled him upright, and shoved him in front of him like a shield.
Chas yanked out his chain and padlock, crouching low.
“Who the fuck’s in the room?” Rags snarled into the man’s ear.
“No one’s in here,” the man whispered.
“Wrong fuckin’ answer.” Rags tightened the shirt collar against his throat.
“I can’t breathe,” he gasped.
“You can breathe just fine. But if you keep lying, you’re a dead man.”
“Show yourself, you fucker.” Tank’s hard voice bounced off the walls.
The room went silent except for the loan shark’s ragged breathing.
“There’s three of us and one of you, so the odds of you walkin’ outta here alive aren’t great,” Tank said, eyes locked on the dark corner. “But we can guarantee the fucker at the desk dies first. And you? You’ll either join him or be so fucked up you’ll be lucky if you ever make it outta rehab.”
“They’re serious,” the loan shark croaked.
“Fuck yeah,” Chas muttered while Rags grumbled in agreement.
“We don’t want any problems with you guys,” the hidden man squeaked.
“Too late, you already got them.” Rags slammed the loan shark against the wall. “If you and this asshole wanna end this, you got less than a minute to decide. After that, it’s fireworks time.”
“I’m counting.” Chas smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I don’t want no trouble,” a high-pitched voice said.
“You already got it. Don’t make it worse. Show yourself,” Tank growled.
“The longer we wait, the more pissed we’re gonna get,” Rags added.
A tall, lanky guy in his late twenties stepped into view.
“Hands up!” Tank yelled.
The second the guy raised them, Tank was on him, patting him down. Chas crossed the room and slammed the butt of his Glock against the side of the younger man’s head.
“That’s for being a stupid shit,” Chas said.
“Does he got a piece?” Rags asked, still gripping the moneylender’s collar.
“Yeah. Nine mil.” Tank leaned close. “Good thing you didn’t do anything stupid with this, ’cause you wouldn’t have walked outta this room.”
“I wasn’t gonna use it,” the guy muttered.
“Yeah. Sure.” Tank shoved him forward. “Get your fuckin’ ass over there and sit down.”
Rags threw the loan shark against the desk. Holding his throat, the man collapsed into the chair, sucking in air.
Tank moved back toward the corner. “There’s a door here.”
“Is that how you snuck in to spy on us?” Chas asked.
The younger man shook his head, his shaggy brown hair falling into his face.
“I know I checked out the room when we walked in,” Tank said, crossing the office.
“We all did,” Rags replied. In their world, it was instinct.
“Why’d you sneak in here?” Chas asked.
“I usually do if it takes Benny too long to collect,” the young man muttered, looking down at his hands.
“And then you threaten people with your piece or rough ’em up?” Rags asked.
“Something like that.”
“You work for this dude?” Chas pointed his gun toward Benny.
“Yeah. I need the money. I got kids… and another one on the way.”
Rags turned toward Benny. “I’m asking one last time who you work for. Think real hard before you answer, because I’m itching to put a bullet in you.”
Benny dabbed his glistening scalp with a tissue. “I do some stuff on my own, I swear.”
“And the other stuff?” Rags pointed his Glock at Benny’s hand. “There’s no damn way you just happened to land in this town.”
“Satan’s Heretics,” Benny mumbled.
“Who the fuck are they?” Chas asked, glancing between Rags and Tank.
“You work for them?” Tank kicked the chair leg.
The younger man looked up. “No. I just work for him,” he said, nodding toward Benny.
“Who are these assholes?” Rags asked.
Benny sighed. “They’re a motorcycle club like yours.”
“They’re not in Colorado unless they’re some wannabes like the now defunct Devils Reign,” Chas said.
“Where are they located?” Rags asked. “And, just so you know, I’m getting bored dragging information outta you.”
“And when he gets bored, he gets fuckin’ mean,” Tank added.
Benny straightened in his chair. “Texas. Bridge City.”
Rags glanced at Tank’s and Chas’s stoic faces, who he knew were thinking the same thing he was: Texas? What the fuck?
“Did you work with the Devil’s Reign?” Rags asked.
Benny slowly shook his head. “No. I never heard of them. I’m only collecting for Satan’s Heretics.”
“Where else are you collecting in Colorado?” Rags said.
“Mostly here. Sometimes in Silverton and Alpine Hills.” Benny wiped his face again.
“How many people in Pinewood Springs you already collect for them?” Rags asked.
Benny fidgeted in the chair. “Four.”
“Who?” Tank gritted.