Chapter 15 Catfish
CATFISH
The storage unit sits like a rusted tin box, beyond the edge of town. It’s surrounded by graffiti-tagged fencing. We wait, just out of sight, but it doesn’t look like we have anything to worry about.
While there are big overhead lighting units, none of them are on.
And under cover of darkness, me and my brothers survey the property.
Everyone is tooled up and running on equal parts adrenaline and suspicion. There isn’t a one of us who doesn’t want our money back or Wren’s security locked down.
Grudge slaps the hood of the truck, his impatience making me twitchy. “We stick to the plan we made in church. Catfish with me and Babyface. Atom, Smoke, and Taco. Then Jackal and Shade with Wraith.”
“It looks like a glorified junk shed,” Jackal says, stating the obvious.
“It’s the only lead we’ve got,” I say, feeling the need to defend Wren. “It’s our best shot at finding some answers, for now. Dummy shell accounts tied to this address.”
“I know you said to look out for any electronics,” Babyface whispers. “But I wouldn’t even hide my porn stash here.”
Smoke huffs at that.
“Focus,” Grudge says.
“Only porn I care about right now is the torture kind that leads us to cartel receipts or stolen crypto,” Jackal says, racking his shotgun with a little too much glee.
“Yeah, well, no blowing doors off until we know what we’re walking into,” Atom warns.
“Can see the headlines in the Gazette,” Wraith says. “Outlaws Blow Up Budget Storage Facility.”
“If that happens, Prez, you better start practicing your PR voice,” Smoke drawls, then flicks the ash off the end of a cigarette he’s not even supposed to be smoking. “For when all that media shows up asking for a comment.”
Grudge flips him the bird.
“He’d be the weatherman,” Taco says. “Forecast calls for ass-kicking and broken noses until three a.m. when the weather will shift to disemboweling and torture.”
“Can we focus?” I growl. My voice comes out harder than I meant, but my nerves are wound tight. Wren is back at the ranch, and while my brain tells me they’re safe, my heart is telling me I should be someplace else.
Except Wren is expecting me to deliver on my end of our skills equation.
The fourth truck arrives right on time, and out steps Butcher, our former president and current nomad. “Feels just like old times, boys.”
“There’s no chance you’ve gotten rusty, and we need to worry?” Wraith teases.
Butcher punches him on the shoulder. “Fuck you. This’ll be a piece of cake.”
It was Grudge’s idea to ask him to ride along with us tonight. There’s every chance we might need a locksmith. And there’s a bonus that Butcher knows how to break into a manual safe.
“Good to see you, Dad,” Atom says, which garners chuckles from some of the others. “Won’t tell Ember that you came out with us tonight.”
Butcher grins. “It was perfect timing. It’s Greer’s day off, and she wanted an early night.”
I look at my watch; tells me it’s a little after two.
“She know you’re here?” Grudge asks.
Butcher shrugs. “She will in the morning.”
Everyone chuckles at that.
“You’re with Jackal, Shade, and Wraith. They’ll cover your back as you head directly for the door,” Grudge says. “The rest of you, go with the plan.”
We spread out as we make our way across the property. We’re flanking Butcher. Taco, Atom, and Smoke are entering from the rear.
Ideally, we want to go unnoticed and leave no trace at the building. We don’t want anyone to know we are on to them. Which is why Grudge called Butcher.
The man kneels down in front of the lock and picks it confidently. Then, he moves to the lower lock. It takes time. Shade holds a flashlight so Butcher can see.
“Colder than a fucking witch’s tit,” Jackal whispers.
I scan the outside of the building, and there are no signs of cameras, even when I shine a flashlight up at the large, unlit lighting features.
The lock clicks open, and Butcher shoves his tools away, before putting his gloves back on. But instead of opening the door and walking through first like he usually would, he steps back and gestures for Grudge to go ahead.
“Ain’t the fucking natural order of things,” Grudge mutters as he nudges the door open slowly, the old metal groaning and protesting.
Butcher slaps his back. “It’s exactly the way it’s supposed to be.”
Shade stands with his back to the door, his eyes always scanning, probably calculating angles and bolt hole exits and whether the cracked streetlight is going to be an issue.
The club knows little to nothing about him.
He rarely shares. Hell, he rarely speaks.
As if Jackal has said everything that needs to be said, he often simply nods along.
We go in, guns raised, because the old providence that if you go in prepared, you’re less likely to find trouble always rings true.
When flashlights show the place is empty, Grudge flicks on the lights as Atom’s team arrive from the rear.
“Someone has been here, recently,” Taco says, studying a large metal table. “There are fresh marks in the dust.”
There’s a mezzanine office up a staircase to the side, and I take the stairs two at a time. If someone has been here, the safest place to hide would be up there.
When I push the door open, I see a small cot on the floor. Sleeping bag. Pillow. Some fast-food wrappers in a paper bag.
A person could be sleeping here for any number of reasons. Could be a disillusioned veteran with nowhere to stay. Could be nothing to do with my club.
But the secured laptop and weapons suggest it is.
The person is an expert marksman if the modded military rifle in front of me is anything to go by.
There’s a second case, but the weapon is missing.
There are three passports. Two American and one Irish.
All with the same image in them, each with a different name.
A white man with a messy mop of brown hair.
There’s also a pile of papers, hand-written.
“Santa’s got a new workshop,” Grudge says when he walks in to see what I’m looking at.
“We need to get out of here,” I say suddenly.
“Yeah?” Grudge asks.
“Think about it. This person isn’t here right now for a reason.
And there are two more slots in that weapons case, which tells me he has at least one with him.
My gut says whoever this is went out doing whatever they do.
They come back and see us in here, we might lose them forever.
But we need to find out how they are getting in and out so we can watch the place.
And we can’t leave a clue we’ve been here—that might spook ‘em.”
Grudge whips out his phone and takes a photograph of the three passport pages. “We need to find out who this person is.”
“Lights off,” I shout as we hurry down the stairs. “Someone is living here, and they’re armed.”
Jackal hits the light switch, throwing us into darkness.
“Question is, are they coming back tonight?” Atom asks.
“They might have already seen us,” Smoke says. “Might have seen the trucks and us walking in.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But assume they haven’t. We need to find how they’re getting in and out of the building so we can trap them in here. Butcher needs to ensure everything is locked up tight again once we leave.”
“Umm, guys, I think I found something,” Babyface says.
“What?” I ask.
He points to something written in the dust on the countertop he’s leaning against.
“Might be a coincidence, but I really doubt it,” Babyface says.
There, on the top of the counter, written in the dust like some lovesick teen, is the name Wren.
“Wren,” I say. “He’s definitely here for Wren.”
And then, I start running. Because the assailant isn’t here, and there’s a weapon missing, and there’s no vehicle outside.
My mind jumps to the only other place he could be…looking for Wren.
Grudge’s voice rises to a shout. “Take Atom, Jackal, and Shade with you. We’ll set up here, put a perimeter on this place. We’ll get him if he comes back here.”
I hear footsteps behind me, but as soon as I get to my truck, I’m getting in it and blasting out of here, no matter how many people are in the truck with me or not.
I shove my gun back into its holster as I run, the snow crunching beneath my feet. When I get to the truck, I fumble with the key fob until the truck unlocks.
Maybe it’s a blessing because it gives the others the extra second they need to arrive.
“Shotgun,” Atom shouts, then nudges Jackal out of the way of the door.
“Fucker,” Jackal says. “My legs are longer than yours.”
I ignore their bickering, my only thought is for Wren and the prospects keeping watch outside. “We need to call whoever is watching Wren tonight,” I say to Atom.
He’s already lifting his phone to his ear. “On it.”
Driving in falling snow, on already snowy roads, with one hand on the wheel and one eye on my phone isn’t a clever idea, but it’s all I can do as I try to call Wren. Not sure if it was some weird kind of sixth sense that made them give me their phone number before I left the house earlier.
It rings…and rings…and rings. No voicemail, no nothing. Just rings until the call ends.
“Where the fuck are you, Wren?” I ask. Their phone is never far from sight. I call it again, and it rings out like before.
“Dice,” Atom says. “Assume a code five. I’m calling everyone in to defend the entrances to both the club and the ranch. Need extra hands around the perimeter of my old man’s house. There may be an assault coming. It’ll be a pro. Long-range rifle, possibly.”
There’s a pause, and I wish it were anyone other than Dice because he isn’t the most reliable.
“If in doubt, protect the exterior of the ranch house. He can’t be allowed to get inside.”
I should be there.
I should be there.
It’s all I can repeat to myself. Over and over as I call Wren’s phone and hang up.
“Want to keep your eyes on the road, Dale Earnhardt?” Jackal says from the back of the truck.
Shade chuckles, but I can’t seem to get a handle on the anger boiling over. I grip the steering wheel and fight back intrusive thoughts of ripping it off the column entirely.
Intermittent explosive disorder, they said when I was a child. A key factor being that the anger was a disproportionate response.
Something I wasn’t aware of until it happened.
I take the corners as if this were a NASCAR circuit and I were invincible.
I toss Shade my phone. “Keep calling Wren.”
“Brother, we aren’t gonna be able to save them if we’re already dead.” Atom reaches up to hold the grab handle above the door.
“Tell those watching the path up to the ranch that we’re coming in hot and to open the gate,” I say, the falling snow making my vision even more restricted.
“On it,” Atom says.
I don’t pay attention to who he calls; I’m going through that gate whether it’s open or not. Protecting Wren isn’t just a job. For some reason, it’s become my calling.
It takes minutes to get to the pathway to the ranch, but the gate is open, the prospects on guard standing back from the road as I almost spin taking the turn.
Normally, I like the ride up to the ranch house, trees on one side, open land on the other.
And I’m not even sure what makes me take my eyes off the road for a second, but I see something move across the field.
With only the reflection of moonlight on snow for light, it’s a blur.
Could be a wild animal, for all I know, but I slam on the brakes. “There’s someone across the field.”
“Where?” Atom asks.
For a second, I can’t decide what to do. Keep on riding closer to Wren.
Or trust my instincts.
But whoever or whatever was moving toward the house stops, dead, for a second, then turns back the way they came.
I pull hard left on the wheel of the truck, drop down the slight embankment, and plow across the field.
“Fuck, I see him,” Atom says.
It’s hard not to notice the truck flying toward him, so the intruder, dressed in black, runs fast.
I chew up the distance between us, and he jumps a fence.
The truck jostles and bounces around as I race toward him.
“Stop,” Atom shouts. “There are huge rocks on the other side of that fence to protect it when we snow plow through there. You won’t get through.”
I skid the truck to a halt, stopping inches before the fence, and without turning the truck off, I leap out of it.
The person is fast. I pray I’m faster.
Snow crunches beneath my feet, and it’s the only sound I hear besides the whoosh of blood through my temples.
I can make this right for Wren. I can finally find out who is after them.
The distance between the two of us closes, and I throw myself onto the stranger.
My arms close around his shoulders, but not tight enough that he can’t use momentum and force to break free.
Our feet stumble, I trip, my fingers stroking the black jacket he wears.
A balaclava covers most of his face as he glances over his shoulder at me, and there isn’t any instantaneous recognition on my part.
“Show me your face, you fucker,” I yell.
He’s fast, I’ll give him that. Cold night air rips into my chest. My muscles burn as I sprint. But I can’t stop, until—
“Fuck!”
Using the slippery surface of impacted snow, he spins and nails me in the gut with the rifle he’s carrying, sending me falling backward.
Everything happens in slow motion.
The lack of balance, the thud of my back against one of the large rocks. My vision blurs for a second.
“Amateur,” the man says. But before I can ask him what he means, I hear the roar of a snowmobile that throws up fresh powder in its wake.