Chapter 4 Vapor
I cut the engine on my hog and park it behind a thicket of swamp roses. The others pull in behind me, parking in a tight formation. We circle around the thorny bushes and walk toward a boat dock at the edge of Black Snake Bayou. Earlier, one of the prospects scouted the area to find the best approach.
Silently stepping into the boat, we take our seats and grab oars. Normally, I’d use an airboat to get from one part of the bayou to another, but they’re too loud. It would give us away. That’s the last thing we want.
As we paddle through the dark water, a shiver runs down my spine. The bayou is a hauntingly eerie place where time seems to stand still. The murky, stagnant waters are choked with twisted cypress trees draped in ghostly Spanish moss, their gnarled roots clawing at the muddy banks. The boat scrapes over a lump in the water. Hopefully it’s not a gator.
Ice glances at me. In the pale moonlight, I can barely make out his features. His forehead crinkles as his eyes dart from side to side. Everyone else is also on high alert. We still don’t know why we’re here.
The air is thick with humidity and the stench of decay, punctuated by the occasional croak of unseen creatures lurking just below the surface. Mist hangs heavy, obscuring the path and distorting shapes into menacing silhouettes.
When we reach a fork in the river, Diablo whispers, “Left or right?”
“Right. Keep to one side until we find something.”
“What are we looking for?” Tank asks in a hushed voice.
“Anything out of the ordinary.”
“What about that?” Tank points.
As we come around a bend, an old, weathered shack appears. The sagging structure’s wooden planks are warped and blackened with age and moisture. The roof, patched with rusty tin sheets, creaks with every gust of humid wind. Dark, grimy windows stare out like soulless eyes, obscured by grime and cobwebs, giving no hint of what lays within. A rickety porch, barely held up by rotting beams, juts out over the water, where a matching rickety wooden dock disappears into the thick mist.
“Should we check it out?” Fang asks softly.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to dock here. Find another spot where we can hide the boat.”
“Aye aye, captain,” Bones jokes.
After locating a safe place to tie up the boat, we file out, trying not to splash as we slip into the water. Wading toward the shore, movement off to my left catches my eye. Two glowing eyes peer at us from just above the water level. A gator.
“We’ve got company,” I murmur.
The others clock the creature and move slightly faster without panicking. Any sudden movement could set the animal off. Then we’d have to shoot it, and anyone else slinking through the bayou would know they’re not alone.
I don’t release my breath until I’m on land. Mud slides underneath my boots, slowing my pace. The slurp of sound isn’t much, but in the silence, it’s unnerving.
The shack reappears. A single, dim light flickers inside, casting long, dancing shadows through the gaps in the walls. It seems to pulse like a heartbeat, a beacon in the oppressive darkness.
As we move closer, I get my first glimpse of the interior. A solitary wooden table sits in the center of the room. It’s cluttered with strange, unidentifiable objects. Along one wall lies a series of shelves filled with jars of murky liquids and odd specimens.
“What is all that shit?” Tank asks in a low voice.
“Voodoo shit?” Diablo turns to Bones, our resident Voodoo expert.
“Maybe. Hard to tell from here.”
A rocking chair in the corner sways ever so slightly, as if moved by an invisible hand. My heart stills. I don’t exactly believe in swamp spirits and ghosts and shit, but I also never want to meet one.
“Should we check it out?” Ice asks.
Before I can respond, the silence is suddenly broken by a low, haunting buzz carried on the wind. It is impossible to tell where it comes from. The ever-present buzz of mosquitoes goes silent. The bayou seems to hold its breath, as if waiting for something.
In the distance, water ripples and shadows seem to move with a life of their own. A boat.
“Shit, hide,” I whisper urgently.
We rush into the darkness, not stopping until we’re far enough from the water that neither man nor gator can spot us, but close enough to see the men approaching the shack.
Four men, their silhouettes stark against the dim moonlight filtering through the Spanish moss, sit in the boat with a purposeful stillness. As they approach the dilapidated shack, the leader, a broad-shouldered man with a muscular build and a neatly trimmed beard, stands up, revealing a gold chain that glints briefly in the pale light. His cold, piercing eyes scan the surroundings with a predator’s gaze, ensuring no unwanted witnesses lurk in the shadows. Beside him, a younger man, wiry yet strong, with tattoos snaking up his neck and onto his face, keeps a firm grip on an assault rifle, his expression one of hardened resolve.
A small boat cuts through the dark, murky waters. Two men, equally imposing, move with a practiced efficiency as the boat nudges against the rickety dock.
The first man to disembark has a stocky figure with a shaved head and a scar that runs from his temple to his jaw. His heavy boots thud against the weathered wood, which creaks under his weight.
The second man is dressed in the same swamp camo tactical gear as the first. The rifles hanging across their chests indicate they’re ready for a confrontation.
A third man, older, with a weathered face and dead eyes, follows. His demeanor’s calm yet alert. A gold ring glints on his finger as he adjusts his rifle. Typically, a ring on that finger is a symbol of a higher ranking member within the cartel. My guess is he’s the one in charge of whatever’s going on.
Together, they approach the shack. Their movements are synchronized and silent. Each man exudes a palpable aura of danger and authority, but their purpose is as shadowy as the bayou itself.
Another, significantly louder, larger boat races around the corner, forcing small waves to lap along the riverbank. Four more men stand at the rear of the airboat, while five young girls huddle toward the front. I highly doubt they’re taking a tour at midnight.
“They’re being trafficked,” Tank murmurs.
“No shit,” Ice whispers back.
“Eight of them and six of us. I like those odds,” Diablo mutters.
“You three, circle around to the other side. We need to take them all out at once, before they have a chance to hand off the girls.” I wait until Ice, Bones, and Tank slip deeper into the brush before turning to Diablo and Fang. “When the others are in place, we move.”
My heart thunders as I wait for the birdcall from Ice. We’ve done this dozens of times before, but there’s always a chance shit can go tits up in seconds.
I pull my piece from my cut. It’s already locked and loaded, ready to kill. My fingers itch to pull the trigger. These fucks won’t know what hit them.
The call of a yellow-crowned night heron cuts through the air. One of the cartel’s men snaps his head up, listening. A second later, all hell breaks loose.
Gunshots blast, sending the pungent smell of cordite into the air. Three men drop immediately. The fourth is down a split second later.
The girls scream and run into the trees. One trips over a gnarled root, but another turns back to save her. She grabs her fellow captive’s hand, and they race off together.
“Go after them,” I tell Fang. “We got this.”
Fang rushes after the girls, leaving the rest of us to deal with the last four men.
I lose track of one of the guys but manage to bring down another. Two more go down as Ice and Tank emerge from the trees.
“One went AWOL,” I yell.
“I got him,” Diablo growls before taking off into the swamp.
“Let’s help Fang round up the girls. They bolted when we started shooting.” I lead the way as Ice, Tank, and Bones fall in behind me.
Fang’s got two girls by the hands. “Estas segura con nosotros.”
“Quién eres?” one asks.
“Estamos aquí para salvarte,” Fang says, trying to reassure them that we’re the good guys.
“Where are the others?” I demand.
“Couldn’t catch them.”
“They’ll die if we don’t find them tonight.”
“You go that way,” Diablo points at a faint trail through the bushes. “I’ll try over there.”
“Meet back at the shack. And hurry. We don’t know if the cartel has anyone else out here watching their backs.”
I follow the trail through the darkness, shocked to stumble onto a road. Headlights cut through the night.
“Fuck!” I dive into the bushes, hoping they didn’t spot me.
As a nondescript white van rolls past, I wait. When its red brake lights flash, I slowly pick my way closer. Two cartel men climb out of the van. They must be the transportation for the girls.
“Dónde están esos pendejos con las chicas?” the first asks before spitting on the ground.
“No lo sé pero odio los pantanos,” the second replies.
My Spanish isn’t fluent by any means, but I know enough to guess they’re waiting for the girls to arrive. Well, they’re about to be disappointed.
Before I can warn my guys, the crack of branches signals their approach.
“Hola, José. Eres tu?” the first man calls. When he doesn’t get a response, he grounds out the cigarette he just lit and grabs a rifle from the front seat. He whispers to his buddy, “Cuida mi espalda.” Watch my back.
The men head into the brush toward the sound of breaking branches. A sound abruptly stops.
I call out the bird signal in an attempt to warn the others. Ice responds with his well-practiced croak. I feel like we’re playing a fucked up version of Marco-Polo with deadly consequences.
The cartel men must have reached the shack because they’re suddenly shouting. We don’t have much time before they go looking for us.
All of my men seem to materialize out of the night at once. They’ve each got a girl in hand. Five total.
“Get them in the van,” I whisper.
“Solves the transportation problem,” Ice says, yanking open the side door. He pushes the girl he’s holding toward the door, “Entra!”
Her huge eyes go even wider when she looks inside. “No!”
“Why the fuck not?” Ice demands before glancing inside. “Well, fuck.”
“What?” I circle around to take a look.
The walls are lined with soundproof padding, stained and tattered. Intended to block out the screams of anyone trapped inside. Sharp, gleaming tools hang from hooks on a metal rack, each one carefully selected and well-worn from use.
A faded, bloodstained tarp covers the floor, its edges curling up to form a grim basin. An array of duct tape, zip ties, and chains lay scattered on a makeshift workbench alongside a flickering flashlight.
Personal items from victims—a watch, a necklace, a torn piece of fabric—are pinned like trophies to a cork board, a chilling testament to the van’s dark purpose.
The air’s thick with the smell of fear, sweat, and something far more sinister, an almost tangible reminder of the horrors that had unfolded within this mobile chamber of death. I don’t blame the girl for refusing to get in. Still, we don’t have time to fuck around.
“Fucking tie them up if you have to,” I snap.
Ice grabs the girl and drags her kicking and screaming into the van. So much for staying quiet. The other guys do the same, hogtying the girls who struggle to escape. Everyone except for Fang and I climb into the back. I take the driver’s side while Fang rides bitch.
The dumbfucks left the keys in the ignition. I start the van and throw it into gear, peeling out as the two men rush out onto the road. They raise their guns and volley a hail of bullets at us. The van must be bulletproof because they ping off the metal effortlessly.
As I race around the corner, the men give chase. The road’s too narrow and potholed to go fast enough to outrun them. Fang rolls down his window and points his gun toward the back of the van. He fires off several shots, forcing the men to slow down.
I glance in the rearview mirror, taking my eyes off the road for a split second. In the same moment, one of the cartel men manages to shoot out a tire.
Suddenly, the van careens off the slippery road, its tires screeching as it plunges into swampy water with a resounding splash. The impact sends a cascade of murky water over the hood. The dark, fetid liquid quickly seeps in through the cracked windows.
Inside, everyone in the back is thrown against the walls. Their screams are muffled by the rising water. Panic sets in as the van sinks deeper, the swampy mire pulling it down like quicksand.
Frantically, I fumble for the door handle, but the pressure from the water makes escape impossible. The van’s about to become a cold, dark tomb as its headlights flicker before dimming completely. I’m about to die in the one way I never expected, trapped in a watery grave.
“No fucking way,” I snarl, raising my boot to kick at the front window.
The glass continues to crack until finally giving way. I swim out, completely unable to see. Feeling along the side of the van, I find the handle for the sliding door. At first, it doesn’t budge, but with one final yank, it springs open.
I pull myself into the van. Only a couple of inches of air is left, but it quickly disappears as water floods the van. I suck in a breath before blindly grabbing for anyone’s hands. I grab two small limbs and pull them out of the van. The girls kick toward the surface.
Bones and Diablo work to get everyone out. By the time everyone’s free, the van’s completely submerged.
Coughing and sputtering, we swim toward shore. Gunshots ring out from inside the tree line. Water splashes near us.
“Fuck.” Diablo pulls his gun up and points toward the flashes of gunfire coming from the cartel men. He shoots into the darkness. A cry of agony rings out followed by another. “Got ’em.”
“Make sure they’re dead,” I order.
“On it.” Diablo climbs out of the swamp like a creature from a terrifying Creole ghost story. The rest of us follow suit.
After I account for everyone and all five girls, I guide everyone toward the road. The girls have given up on fighting. They walk beside us as if they’ve each been assigned to one of us.
Two more gunshots ring out. I freeze until Diablo yells that it’s clear.
We find him standing over the two men who drove the van in. He double taps them to make sure they’re dead.
“A boat’s the only way out now,” Fang says.
“Back to the shack,” I say, leading the way.
When we get to it, I walk around to each of the fallen men to check his pulse. Only one is still alive, but barely. I put him out of his misery. Can’t leave any witnesses to tell the cartel what went down.
“Should we take the airboat?” Tank asks.
“You know how to drive one?”
“Yeah.” He grins.
“Get us the fuck out of here,” Bones says.
We usher the girls onto the boat. I take a seat and hold tight to the girl sitting on my lap. It fucking kills me that this is someone’s daughter. If I could revive every one of those men and kill him again, I would. There’s no telling what they’ve already done to these girls. There isn’t enough vengeance in the world to make up for the pain they’ve caused. At least now, they can’t hurt anyone ever again.
“We need a ride when we get to the bikes. Can’t take the girls on them,” Ice says.
“Why not?” Bones asks.
“Can’t risk them causing a crash.”
“Good point. Call one of the other patched guys and get him down here with the cage,” I say, referring to our SUV.
“On it,” Fang says.
“Your phone still works?” I ask.
“Waterproof.” He smirks. “You really think I’d carry shitty tech into a swamp?”
“Guess not,” I chuckle.
We don’t have to wait long before another patched guy shows up in the SUV. We can’t load the bikes into it, so we’re going to have to ride back on them.
“Think he can handle the girls by himself?” Tank asks.
“Ride with him. We’ll come back for your bike later,” I say.
“Uh…” He glances at his wheels like I’m asking him to leave his baby behind, which, I kind of am. “Sure thing, Pres.”
“We’ll make sure it’s safe until we can get you back here to get it,” I promise.
After getting the girls in the van, I turn to Tank. “If we get separated or anything goes south, stay away from the clubhouse until I call you.”
“Got it.”
I slam the SUV door closed and pound my palm on the door to signal them to leave.
“Guys, I think I got a serious case of swamp ass,” Bones grumbles.
“Ya think?” Ice snaps.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I say, swinging my leg over my hog.
As we ride back toward the clubhouse, I’m on the lookout for anything amiss. I almost can’t believe what just went down, and it makes me wonder how the hell Blue knew about it. None of the men seemed to be expecting us, so I don’t think it was a trap at all. They would have been better prepared had they known we were coming.
Also, the girls wouldn’t have been there. They wouldn’t have risked losing their merchandise to a motorcycle club. We didn’t leave any evidence behind, but the cartel will suspect us. They won’t have proof, but I have no doubt they’ll be looking for the girls.
We’re going to have to get them into our underground network as soon as possible. If we can locate their families in Mexico, and if they weren’t the greedy bastards who sold the girls in the first place, then we’ll try to reunite them. But if their families were involved, we’ll find better homes for them in either Mexico or the U.S. It’s up to the girls to choose.
But right now, I’ve got other shit on my mind. Like Blue. Why would she pass me this information? Was her father involved? What about her fiancé? I need her to tell me everything she knows, as well as why she dragged me and my club into this.
I’ll have to find a way to talk to her at Saturday’s gala. I want answers and she’s the only one who can give them to me.