11. Smitty #2
After a few keystrokes, Mercy turned one of the monitors so we could see the screen. Seconds later, the footage started rolling. There wasn’t much traffic, so it was easy to spot Stone’s truck sitting at the red light.
Mercy moved to the next frame where a blue Mercedes came into view.
Another click, and he points to the screen. “You can see here where their window comes down.”
Then, another click.
The image was grainy, but the flashes coming from inside the car were unmistakable. “They opened up on Prez before he even knew they were there.”
“They were wearing masks.” Drifter crossed his arms and grumbled under his breath. “Bad enough they blindsided him, but the cowards did it without showing their damn faces.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ace snarled. “We’ll find them.”
“He’s right. We’ll find ‘em, but they aren’t making it easy,” Mercy replied.
“Had no plates, and the car was stolen from a parking garage down by the mall. It was called in early yesterday afternoon.”
“Damn.”
The room fell quiet. This wasn’t just some random hit. It was planned, and it was planned well. Whoever had done it wasn’t just trying to send a message. They were trying to bury a man and his club. Mercy turned the monitor back around and sighed.
“Got nothing solid yet.” Mercy leaned back in his seat. “I’m pulling cameras from businesses along the route and other street cams. I just need to catch a glimpse of them before they put on the masks.”
Drifter’s eyes narrowed. “You think you’ll be able to track them down?”
“Can’t make any promises, but I’m not giving up until I do.”
That was all he said. No cockiness. No promises. Just flat-out confidence. It was what the club needed. It was what Stone needed. Drifter knew that as he gave him a nod. “That’s what I needed to hear.”
I watched the two of them, both knowing exactly where this was headed before anyone else said it. Drifter broke the silence when he warned them, “War’s coming.”
“No, brother.” Ace looked at him dead in the eye. “It’s already here.”
They continued talking for a few minutes longer, and then Ace told Drifter they had rooms ready for us at the clubhouse. Drifter thanked him and told him we’d be back in the morning. We headed out to the truck, and since he knew the way, Drifter drove us over to the clubhouse.
It was well after midnight before we finally pulled through the gate. It looked different from ours, smaller and more rustic, but it felt the same. A heavy mix of cigarette smoke, bourbon, leather, and aftershave lingered in the air, and it made me feel right at home.
Most of the guys had gone home for the night, and those who were still there had already called it a night. One of the prospects showed us to our rooms, and I was quick to kick off my boots and climb into bed. I pulled out my phone and was pleased to see that I had more messages from Brooke.
Brooke:
Do you remember those peanut butter and banana sandwiches?
Me:
The ones I used to make? Because yours were terrible.
Brooke:
Yes. I’m talking about yours.
Me:
Yeah, I have them all the time.
Brooke:
I've tried making them for Anslee, but they were never as good as yours.
Me:
You always used fresh bananas. They have to be at least a little brown.
Probably didn’t smash them enough either.
Brooke:
I don’t know.
They just weren’t right.
Me:
I'll make you one the next time I see ya.
Brooke:
I’m going to hold you to that.
Me:
You bring the cookies.
Brooke:
You have yourself a deal.
Me:
It's late.
You should be asleep.
Brooke:
Only if you promise to do the same.
Me:
Deal.
I was still staring at the screen when another picture appeared. Brooke was sitting in a rocking chair, and Anslee was asleep on her chest. She had one tiny hand curled around the collar of Brooke's shirt. I didn't realize how long I'd been staring until the screen dimmed.
I put the phone on the nightstand, and I barely remember closing my eyes before sleep finally caught up with me. The next morning, I woke to the sound of Drifter pounding on my door. “Yo, Smitty.”
“Yeah?”
“Get up. We’re leaving in ten.”
“Seriously?” I rubbed my hand over my face and groaned, “What time is it?”
“You don’t wanna know… Now, get up. We got shit to do.”
Five minutes later, we were back in the truck and pulling through the gate.
It was earlier than I thought. Hell, delivery trucks were just starting their routes, and there was still fresh dew on the ground.
Drifter didn’t seem to care. He simply pressed his foot against the accelerator and started through town.
I thought we were headed to the hospital until he turned off on a side street, and then another. The nicer neighborhoods disappeared behind us and were replaced by city blocks where time had taken its toll.
Houses leaned against themselves like they were too tired to stand. Porches sagged under the years of neglect, and windows were covered with plywood or blankets. Chain-link fences had more rust than paint, and graffiti covered brick walls hadn’t been touched in decades.
Abandoned cars rested on cinder blocks, and trash littered the streets.
Hell, even the streetlights looked like they were barely hanging on, and while it looked a bit sketchy, Drifter seemed completely unfazed.
In fact, he drove like he’d made this same trip a hundred times, weaving through the narrow streets without checking his GPS or slowing to get his bearings.
“Where we going?”
“You’ll see.”