Chapter 11 Vapor
As I pull up to our club’s autobody and repair shop, I can’t help but smile. I fucking love this place. The building itself is a renovated warehouse with brick walls painted in a deep, midnight black, accented by vibrant purple trim. The garage doors are vintage, roll-up style, each painted with intricate murals depicting different styles of bikes.
A couple of vintage motorcycles are parked in front, polished to a shine and gleaming in the sunlight, hinting at the craftsmanship that happens inside. The shop’s entrance is framed by two old gas pumps, painted in bright red and yellow, repurposed as decorative pieces that add to the nostalgic vibe.
Above the entrance, a large, retro-style neon sign glows with the shop’s name, “Voodoo Wrench Garage,” in bold, gothic letters, accompanied by a voodoo doll motif. That was Bones’ idea. He seems to think it will keep people with evil intentions out of the place. So far, it’s worked, not that I believe in all that.
I’m about to walk in when Broussard finally calls me. His ringtone is the Imperial March, which seemed fitting when I set it. I let it ring a couple of times before answering.
“Vapor.”
“Are you ready to make the drop?” Broussard asks, getting straight to business.
“Name the time and place.”
“Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. Midnight tonight.”
“It’s closed to the public. Renovations,” I tell him.
“Precisely why I’m choosing it.” I can hear his sardonic smile even if I can’t see it. “My men will be there.”
“You’re not coming?” I frown, not liking this one bit.
“You can trust my guys to pick up the money. I never go myself.”
That’s so he won’t be connected to the transfer directly. Makes sense, but I still want him there in person. I don’t trust him at all, especially after what Blue told me.
“I’d rather give it to you directly. Since it’s the first drop,” I quickly add.
“Everyone I work with trusts me.”
“Right. If we’d been in business for a while, I wouldn’t even question it. But we haven’t. You must be able to see where I’m coming from. Would you hand over eighty-five grand to some random men on your first deal?”
The line is silent so long that I check to make sure the call is still connected.
“I suppose not,” Broussard finally says. “I’ll be there with my men. But just this once. After that, you either trust me or we end our arrangement.”
He ends the call before I can confirm anything. Whatever. I’ll be there.
After stuffing my phone back in my cut, I walk through the open door. Motorcycles in various stages of repair are scattered throughout the garage, each on its own raised platform.
Some bikes have their engines disassembled, parts meticulously laid out on workbenches, while others are mid-reassembly, with tools and manuals nearby. The scent of motor oil and metal permeates the air, mingling with a faint hint of incense.
Workbenches line the walls, cluttered yet organized with an array of tools, spare parts, and half-completed projects. Pegboards hold neatly arranged wrenches, screwdrivers, and other essentials, each tool showing signs of frequent use. Shelves are filled with manuals, jars of bolts and screws, and various components, all within easy reach.
The floor, a mix of concrete and scuffed tiles, is clean but bears the marks of countless repairs—oil stains, tire marks, and the occasional scuff from heavy machinery.
In one corner, a worn leather couch and a couple of mismatched chairs offer a place for mechanics to take a break. A radio on a side table blares rock music, but there isn’t a soul around.
Where the fuck is everybody?
I head toward the office door and find it unlocked. When I swing it open, I find Vicki the Hickey on her knees in front of Tank, sucking him off.
“Oh, shit,” Tank pushes her away and stuffs his dick back in his pants.
“How many times do I have to tell you, no fucking on the job?”
“We weren’t screwing,” Vicki says, wiping saliva off her chin.
A tight black tank top accentuates her curves, revealing a hint of a tattoo on her left shoulder—a delicate, intricate design of a crescent moon entwined with vines.
Her denim shorts are frayed and sit low on her hips, showcasing long, toned legs that end in a pair of worn, lace-up boots.
Her blonde hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, framing a face that is striking and expressive, with deep, captivating green eyes accentuated by a touch of eyeliner.
Even though she’s definitely not my type, I can see why Tank’s obsessed with her. Still, they need to stop fucking or sucking during work hours.
“I need to talk to Tank,” I tell her in a tone that implies she needs to get the fuck out.
“I’ll go get us some drinks.” She gives Tank a long, tongue-filled kiss before smirking at me and leaving.
“She’s only been here like five minutes. I swear,” Tank says, getting to his feet.
“Is my bike done?”
“Yeah, Pres. First off, I replaced the old spark plugs since they were pretty worn out. Then I cleaned and tuned the carburetor to make sure you’re getting the right mix of fuel and air. Swapped out the air filter for a high-performance one. The brakes needed some attention, so I installed new brake pads and bled the lines to ensure smooth stopping. Finally, I adjusted the chain tension and lubed it up for a smoother ride. She’s purring like a kitten now, ready to hit the road.” He grins, knowing I’ll forgive the Vicki thing because he’s got my bike running great.
The kid’s not stupid. He knows where my priorities lay. I really don’t give a fuck if he’s railing Vicki during business hours as long as he gets his shit done on time.
“I just talked to Broussard,” I say. “The drop’s set for tonight. I want you there a few hours early to scope shit out. Bones and I will be meeting Broussard at midnight.”
“Where?”
“Lafayette Cemetery No. 1.”
“Uh… So, you want me to make sure it’s just ghosts, and nobody else is lurking around?” He grimaces.
“There aren’t any fucking ghosts there,” I tell him, shaking my head. “What are you, three?”
“Nah, man, I don’t like cemeteries.” He shivers.
“Why not?” I ask, wondering if it has something to do with whatever happened to him before we met. I know he’s got some dark shit in his past, but he’s never revealed the details.
“I’ll be there.” He meets my gaze, but I can still see a hint of fear in his eyes. It has nothing to do with Broussard and everything to do with the drop location. I want to ask him what that’s all about, but I don’t have time to play shrink.
“If anything looks off, text me. I’ll have it on vibrate.”
“Will do, Pres.”
“I’m counting on you. I’ve got total faith in you, otherwise I wouldn’t have let you be patched in.”
“Thanks, man.” Tank grins and slaps my shoulder.
Vicki’s six-inch fuck-me heels click on the concrete floor in the garage, signaling her return. She stops outside the office door. “You guys done yet?”
“Yeah,” Tank calls.
She opens the door and hands her man a dripping bottle of Ghost in the Machine, a local beer. My mouth waters. I could use one myself.
“Got extra in case you wanted a drink.” She winks at me before pulling a second bottle out of the four pack, handing it to me.
The wink isn’t flirtatious, it’s more like she’s trying to let me know she’s paying attention to what I enjoy, too. She knows who’s in charge and must realize that a little symbolic ass kissing can go a long way. Smart chick. I like her for Tank.
We pop the tops off the beers while Vicki sets the remaining bottles on the desk. I take a deep swig before wiping my mouth. “Good shit.”
“It’s his favorite,” Vicki says, smiling at Tank.
They look like teenagers in love even though they’re both in their early twenties. It’s kind of cute, in a girly way. As much as I want to hang out just to cock block him for a bit, I’ve got shit to do before I meet with Broussard.
“Don’t get cum on the chair,” I call over my shoulder as I leave the office.
Vicki’s giggle spills out into the garage.
As I head out, I toss my empty bottle into the trash can. I roll my newly repaired bike out of the shop past the one I borrowed from another club member. He’s going to swing by and pick it up later.
When I get back on the highway, wind whips through the hair hanging out from underneath my helmet. There’s nothing better than the freedom I feel while I’m riding.
After all this shit with Broussard is done, I need our road captain to plan a run. Something fun for the end of the summer. Assuming we’re all still alive by then. I don’t trust Broussard at all. We’ve got to be ready for anything tonight. I only have a few more hours of daylight, but there’s a lot I want to accomplish before sundown.
***
The moon casts an eerie glow over Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 as I cut the engine of my Harley. The sudden silence is almost deafening after the roar of the ride. I swing my leg over the bike and step onto the uneven cobblestones, the faint scent of jasmine mixing with the musty odor of decay.
The ancient, wrought-iron cemetery gate creaks open under my touch, groaning like an old man waking from a long sleep. The heavy backpack I’m carrying is weighing me down, but it won’t be long before I hand it over to Broussard.
I push on, my boots crunching on gravel as I make my way deeper into the shadows. Tombs rise around me, silent sentinels in the night. They’re above ground, like miniature houses for the dead, their whitewashed walls reflecting the moonlight in an almost ghostly manner. Some are adorned with statues of angels, their faces worn and solemn, while others are cracked and crumbling, revealing the dark void within.
Everywhere, the names of the departed are etched in stone, a testament to lives long gone. The stillness is oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a great horned owl.
I move further in, past rows of tombs, each one a reminder of the fragility of life. The shadows play tricks on my eyes, and I find myself glancing over my shoulder more than once, half expecting to see a ghostly figure trailing behind. Even though I don’t believe in them, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.
The air grows colder. A shiver runs down my spine. I’ve faced down rival gangs, stared death in the face more times than I can count, but there’s something about this place that sets my nerves on edge. It’s probably just because I don’t trust Broussard. That’s got to be it.
I come to a stop in front of a particularly grand tomb, the name engraved in bold letters above the entrance crumbled to the point where it’s illegible. I can’t help but wonder about all the people buried here. What their lives were like. What killed them. I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the night air.
This place is more than just a resting ground for the dead. It’s alive with memories, with the whispers of those who once walked the streets of New Orleans. And tonight, it feels like those whispers are growing louder, calling out from the shadows, reminding me that the past is never truly gone. It’s always there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to rise again.
Fuckin’ Tank and Bones. Their superstitious crap is rubbing off on me.
Shaking the jitters away, I move past the tomb toward the center of the graveyard. A cigarette flares to life. The momentary brightness reveals Broussard’s face. Another man stands beside him, stiff and alert. It’s exactly midnight and so far, everything is going according to plan.
Instead of bringing Bones with me, I decided to send him with Tank to scout the area. They’re lurking somewhere nearby, watching. I’m sure Broussard ordered his men to do the same thing.
I drop the backpack at my feet, the thud of it hitting the ground sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness. I intentionally chose an amount higher than the money we recovered from the boat so Broussard wouldn’t see the connection.
“Eighty-five grand,” I say, my voice low but steady. I unzip the top, revealing the stacks of $100 bills neatly bundled and filling the bag to the brim. “Want to count it?”
“Not here.” Broussard gestures toward the man by his side. “I’m surprised you came alone.”
“Why wouldn’t I? If we’re going to work together, we need to trust each other.”
“True.”
His associate crouches down, inspecting the contents of the bag. Moonlight catches the edges of the bills, making them almost glow.
“Eighty-five thousand, just like we agreed,” I say, keeping my eyes locked on him, ready for any sudden movements. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, every instinct on high alert.
He takes a bundle and flips through it with practiced ease, nodding in satisfaction. “Looks good, boss,” he says, standing up and slinging the backpack over his shoulder.
I clench my jaw. This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with scum like Broussard, but I know better than to relax. The weight of the gun tucked into my cut is somewhat reassuring. I could probably reach it before they drew on me.
“Recently, it came to my attention that the cartel lost some of its cargo,” Broussard says, studying me intently.
“What kind of cargo?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Women.”
I want to correct him because those kids we rescued weren’t old enough to be considered women yet. Fucking bastard. But I keep my mouth shut.
“Why are you telling me about this?” I ask, adding a hint of impatience to my tone, as if he’s wasting my time.
“You’re a smart man with your own resources. I thought maybe you’d heard something on the street.”
“Nothing about some missing women.”
“Have you ever been to Black Snake Bayou?” he asks casually.
“Can’t say that I have.” I scratch my beard. “Why?”
“Someone ambushed a bunch of the cartel’s men. Killed every one of them. Double tapped, in some cases.”
“That sucks.”
“Hmm.”
“If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Please do.”
“Have you considered the mob?” I ask casually.
“Why would you say that?”
“Officially, they don’t exist in NOLA anymore, but we both know they’re still here. If I’m not mistaken, they’re also one of your clients.”
“I never discuss my business associations.” Broussard’s smile seems even more sinister as shadows play across his face. “But I doubt they were involved.”
“Why?” I might be pushing my luck, but I want to target them to take the attention off us.
“Trust me.”
“Well, if you find out who did it, let me know. Now that we’re associates, we should share relevant information. If someone’s stealing another organization’s inventory, I want to know about it.”
“Of course.” He eyes me for several seconds before seeming to accept my ignorance. “I’ll be in touch once I funnel the cash into your accounts.”
“How long will it take?” I ask, because it’s an obvious question. Truthfully, I don’t care what he does with the cash. Most of it wasn’t ours to begin with. Still, I want him to keep up his end of this because it could get us closer to finding a way to eliminate the cartel forever.
“A few days.”
“Good.”
Broussard turns to leave but instead of walking away, he stops and glances back at me. “Tell Tank and Bones that they really should be more careful about revealing their stakeout locations. I’ll let it slide this time, but don’t fuck around in the future. You have no reason to suspect I’m anything other than a businessman. I’m giving you the same courtesy.”
My gaze darts around, but I don’t see my guys. They’d better still be alive.
When I look back at where Broussard and his associate were standing, they’ve disappeared into the darkness. I quickly pull my phone out of my cut.
Bones already sent a text. Fuck that guy. He has men hiding all over the cemetery too.
Meet me back at the clubhouse, I reply.
Got it.
I don’t blame Bones and Tank for being caught. Broussard’s been in business long enough to have developed a deep sense of paranoia. Hopefully I was able to get the spotlight off the club and onto the mob. The cartel has many enemies. We’re just one possibility. The mob’s another. But there are more.
Any one of them could have stolen those girls and taken the money. Broussard’s just grasping at straws. Fishing. He didn’t catch shit tonight, but he’s not an idiot. I’ve got to be careful about what I say to him. One slip up and I’m dead. And now that I’ve found Blue, death is the last thing I want coming for me.