Chapter 7
Shane Tuscadero checked his watch, growing bored, the cool high-desert air starting to seep into the van. He said, “It’s closing
in on midnight. If he was going to come this way, he’d have done so by now.”
The man in the passenger seat said, “Chill out, Pinky. If he’d left the station, we would have known.”
Shane bristled at the nickname, given because of the character Pinky Tuscadero in the old Happy Days show. He preferred Tusk, but somehow couldn’t make that name take root in the club. If any other member had uttered Pinky,
he might have swung a fist, but he couldn’t with Flynn.
As the founder and current president of the Nomad Motorcycle Club, Flynn looked the part, with a temper to match. Bald-headed
with cauliflower ears, his knuckles were scarred from a lifetime of fighting. He’d earned the title of president the hard
way, coming from California as a patched member of the Hells Angels. Shane had no idea how he’d ended up in Utah, but Flynn
had been the one to create the Nomads for the express purpose of turning the club into a full-blooded Hells Angels chapter.
Shane said, “Maybe we got the day wrong. Maybe it’s tomorrow.”
Flynn said, “We’ll know when dawn breaks. Until then, we stay.”
Shane said nothing else, glad that at least he had the shelter of the van. The other members of the club had ridden motorcycles,
exposed to the nighttime cold of the Utah high desert.
There were three of them lounging on the ground outside the van, all waiting on the call and each with his own mission.
One to draw a set of Stinger spike strips across the road, and two to chase down the car on their motorcycles, neutralizing any threats inside once the strip had done its damage to the tires.
Shane and Flynn would follow in the van for the transfer of their target.
Shane said, “How much are we getting for this?”
Flynn said, “It’s more of a trade. We tote this guy across the border to the Jalisco boys, and the guys I’m working with will
pay us street value for a load of apache. We don’t need to distribute or anything. Just get the load across.”
“What’s Jalisco want with this guy? He a cartel big wig or something? Like El Chapo?”
“No. He’s an Arab, from what I know. He’s not even in the system. The government has had him for ten years.”
“An Arab? Like a terrorist?”
Flynn grew aggravated, saying, “I didn’t ask for his rap sheet. I was asked to help and made the deal.”
Knowing he was risking Flynn’s temper, Shane pressed ahead anyway, saying, “Who asked for the help?”
“California.”
Shane knew that meant the Hells Angels headquarters. He said, “What’s Jalisco want with an Arab?”
“They’re just facilitating. It’s another group. A broker from Europe. Same guys who are buying the apache.”
That perked Shane up. He’d worked meth and fentanyl, but only at the local level. He’d never dealt with anything greater than
a middleman in Salt Lake City, and here was Flynn talking about a “broker” in Europe.
“Europe, huh? How’d you find those guys?”
“How do you think? Hells Angels chapters in Germany had worked with them before. Actually did some hits for them. They talked
to California and brokered the deal. Since there aren’t any chapters in Utah—yet—California asked for my help.”
That was beyond Shane’s imagination, a term out of the movies that he’d never considered real. “Hits? Like killing someone?
For money?”
Flynn’s mouth curled into a grin at Shane’s amazement. He said, “You got a problem with killing, Pinky?”
“Hell no. I got my ace of spades patch. Just never did it for hire. Never even heard of it for real, outside of sicarios down
south.”
“Well, they did it. Or tried to do it. I don’t know, but the guys in Europe paid well either way for those taskings, and they’re
going to pay well for ours.”
“So this guy’s getting smoked? Is he working with the DEA or something?”
“No idea who he worked for, but he’s not getting smoked by us. They asked for him alive.”
“Maybe they’re going to make him suffer in person. Those Jalisco guys are loco.”
Irritated, Flynn said, “Doesn’t matter either way. We’re getting paid to deliver him. That’s all. What they do after is their
business.”
Shane sat in silence for a moment, then said, “So they’re buying a load of apache at street value? All we have to do is our
usual with Jalisco and then turn over the entire load to them?”
“Yeah. That’s it. Like I said, this little side trip is well worth it. We’ll have a year’s worth of profit from one trip.
Enough to stake whatever we want to do with the chapter. Buy a headquarters, show California we’re ready to roll.”
“A year’s worth? How much fentanyl are they willing to buy?”
“A tanker truck full.”
“Tanker truck? An entire tanker truck? You’re shitting me. That’s enough apache to serve the West Coast.”
Shane made a connection in his mind and said, “So that’s why you had Taco get a commercial driver’s license.”
“Yep. And you’ll be his shotgun. The contact is on the American side at the customs holding area. All we have to do is get
it across, then take the entire thing to a linkup for payment. One giant drug deal.”
“Wait, wait, you want me to go into Mexico? That’s not my thing. I’ve never been there, and customs is the biggest risk. I’ll
drive it to the broker, how about that?”
“You’re not going into Mexico. That’s Taco’s job.
You’ll pick it up in the trans-load facility on the US side of the Nogales crossing.
Anyway, the broker has an in with a fertilizer manufacturer.
Comes and goes across the border all the time.
Already has the paperwork as a legit transfer.
All we have to do is pick it up on the Mexican side and drive it to the American side.
Taco will handle that part. He’s from Nogales. ”
“Who is this mysterious broker? Has he done this before?”
Flynn glanced at him, then looked out at the men lounging on the ground. Shane said, “What, you trust me to drive the apache,
but don’t trust me knowing who I’m going to meet?”
Flynn said, “They’re Arabs. Some Turkish syndicate. They pipe most of the heroin in Europe.”
It was another twist Shane didn’t see coming. “Arabs? What the hell are we doing working with ragheads?”
Flynn glared at him and Shane felt the temperature rise. He backed down, saying, “Okay, okay. Your deal, I get it.” He paused
a beat, then changed the subject, hoping to cool the temper flaring in his boss. “Want me to give Taco a call? Check in?”
Flynn glanced out the window again, saying, “Yeah, go ahead. Make sure that fucker didn’t fall asleep.”
Shane dialed his cell phone, hearing, “Yeah, what’s up? We breaking this down tonight?”
“No. We’re staying. Just looking for an update.”
“Same thing as before. The lights are on inside the station, but nobody’s moving. Maybe today wasn’t the day.”
“Flynn says we stay until morning, so keep an eye out.”
“Wait, wait, I got movement. Back of the facility. Headlights just came on.”
“Is it the prison van?”
“No. It’s a pickup truck. Civilian, no paint, no rockers.”
Shane looked at Flynn and said, “He’s got a pickup, but it’s not an official sheriff’s vehicle.”
Flynn said, “See how many are in it.”
Shane relayed and put the phone on speaker, waiting. A minute later, Taco said, “Two men in the cab. That’s it.”
Flynn said, “Follow them as planned. If they take 143 into the national forest, then we stop ’em.”
Shane said, “What if it’s not them?”
“Then someone’s going to have a bad night for nothing.”