Ash: Devil's Crucifix MC (47 page)

"So, I would like you to consider that just because me or Sydney want something, doesn't mean we should have it. It may not be healthy for either of us if you give us every sexual fantasy we dream up. You've seen what we are like together — spit wads is just the tip of the iceberg. You're who we need, when we need someone we trust deeply. We both trust you explicitly. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

She tried to adjust her thinking, and then said slowly, "You're saying that since you trust me, if I say it's good, or ok, then you believe me — even if you think it might hurt you later... like watching me fuck your friends in our living room." After some more thought she added, "And sexual fantasies never include the aftermath. They're just libido urges. They turn us on, so we think we want them, when the actual reality might be unhealthy and even hurt."

Neil nodded, and said, "Exactly."

Sydney added, "Neil's right. We go off the deep end with shit so fucking fast, especially when we're together and talking about you. Our fantasy life is boundless Shayla. You can't fill them all. For one thing, you don't have a twin, so right there two or three hundred fantasies are out the window already. We love you, and we'll love you after you say, 'no', too. We'll probably even be grateful you did say no."

Shayla leaned back on the couch and looked at both of them, from one to the other. "Most of my life, even up to the day you finally asked us out Neil, my world was a defending 'no'. No, I'm not going to give you my number. No I'm not going to call you. No I don't want a relationship. No, I don't want to meet your mother. No, I don't want you in my life. Now I finally have a place I can say yes, and it feels so good to do so. But you're right Neil, sexual fantasies don't hold relationships together."

Neil leaned over and kissed her, "Good. Now, why don't you two get dressed and go learn how to shoot a gun?"

"Are you trying to get rid of us?" Sydney asked with suspicion saturating her voice.

"Yes, now get," he said and stood up, went back to his boxes and carried them into the studio.

"What's in the boxes?" Sydney called after him, getting up from the couch and cautiously following toward the studio.

"Party favors. And no, you can't see. These are for macho he-man bikers," the told her.

"Ah," Sydney said, coming back to take Shayla's hand and lead her upstairs to get dressed. As they climbed the stairs Sydney whispered, "He has to sleep sometime."

Chapter 23

When Neil left the house earlier, leaving girls necking on the couch — where he found them when he came back — he had several puzzles on his mind. Every indicator suggested that Anton had no idea where they had run off to, or if they had run off at all.

The woman he looked up to as much as he looked up to Amanda, had some confusing boundaries when it came to sex and pleasing him, or Sydney — actually, what was confusing was the obvious lack of boundaries.

The plan to give Anton something else to worry about, proposed by Shayla was solid, efficient and brutal — he just didn't know if he could be that shark-like and still look at himself in the mirror. Wouldn't a bullet to the brain be more humane?

Sydney seemed far too excited about his proposed family-home-porno-videos.

And lastly, the girl's 2014 Ford Mustang Shelby GT 500, was far too nice of a car. It was so nice that he was actually considering owning a car, something he had never done in his life — a couple of pickups, but never a car.

When he reached his safe-house in north Miami, he made a quick mental list of all the items he wanted to grab out of there, and then went inside, working quickly and efficiently to fill the boxes he had in the hall closet with general items of war, and concealment: masking paper, drywall texture, tape, paint, an M16 with 40mm grenade launcher, ammo, grenade bandoleer, ten ounces of cocaine, two thermite grenades, five 9mm Beretta pistols, twenty 9mm Beretta clips, laser sight, and ten thousand in cash.

When he first heard the news about the phone call, his decision was that even if it was a hoax, he was preparing for war. He should have set the house up when they first moved in. He had plenty of days he could have spent a few hours positioning arms and ammunition. Something deeper than procrastination or his surface excuse of mixing and preparing for the tour, kept him from preparing his house for battle and survival — it also kept him from looking into the reason too closely.

From all he heard, Anton's left hand was fractured and broken in no less than six areas, with one finger so badly crushed it was likely he would lose flexibility in the digit permanently. Sydney did a number on him there — but it served him right for slapping around the woman Sydney loved. Sydney, Neil decided, could be ultraviolent. She had a long fuse, which was a blessing, but when she went off, bodies would fall and mountains would be moved.

Anton also had three bullet holes in him. Two in the left shoulder, which would also result in limited use and flexibility in that area, and one in his ass, where Neil shot him while Anton tried to hide behind a car door. None of these wounds were healed yet. All three were made with jacketed slugs — armor piercing — cop killers." What this meant for Anton is that they did have a chance of healing completely, since a jacketed slug will pierce a body, with little resistance. Hollow points, for example, blow out chunks of flesh from the exit wounds. Even regular old lead slugs can be messy. By comparison, jacketed slugs create some clean, low damage holes in the human body.

All three shots went right through Anton, and from what Neil heard, they all exited with little aggressive damage. Still, they are holes in the body, going through flesh and bone, and were going to take some time to heal.

Since Jason died in the line of duty as Anton's driver, Anton hasn't been able to coerce a new driver for himself. He's had to hire a professional — non-club-member — meaning his days of chasing down adversaries with a gun hanging out the window were basically over.

Anton hasn't been able to get around much after their last encounter. The hole in his shoulder was certainly traumatic to the already wounded flesh, but the hole in his ass, going in one 
gluteus maximus
 cheek, and right out the other, was more than simply traumatic — it was embarrassing. Sitting with any dignity at all, was a serious problem, so he was spending most of his time at home, and dealing with people using the Skype communication program.

Anton put out a $20k bounty for the girl's new address, clamming that they were now working for the Highwaymen and he had solid evidence of their treason. So far, no one has collected this bounty, and if Anton had their address, he would have retracted the reward as quickly as possible — he wouldn't want to be in the position of paying out that kind of money twice for the same information.

From what Neil's brothers were telling him during their late night get-togethers, no one in the club was interested in helping Anton find the girls. The general consensus was that this was a personal matter now, between Anton, Shayla and Sydney. In fact, the more Anton attempted to recruit club support the more apathy he received.

Neil decided, on the way back to the house, that the likelihood of Anton knowing where they were at, with all of these things in mind, was slim. Still, betting your life, even on a slim margin, was never a good bet.

Once back, and after a little heart to heart with Shayla, he felt better about her point of view. He had been concerned about her being self-derogating. Watching his two wives leave the house heading for the gun-range, he believed that she was simply lacking in experience — that she had an over developed, and unfocused sense of submissiveness and loyalty. She seemed to grab a hold of his suggestion with gratitude and new purpose, which set his mind at ease.

There were many women who hung around the club, who would gladly perform sexual acts for their men — as in servicing friends or entertaining for parties and runs. Having such a woman as a wife never interested him, though sometimes he felt he was in the minority. Shayla offered so much more. His reliance on her cool head and clear thinking was growing with each passing day. Perhaps she could also perform as some of these other women did without feelings of deprivation, but why risk all that she was for a few erotic stimulations?

Once his wives were gone he got to work installing guns into hidden holsters under the couch, love-seat and large chair in the living-room. He considered putting one under the dining room table, but decided against it — his sisters might discover the weapon, and he didn't alarm them or his wives. He did put one into a holster he nailed to the wall in back of the downstairs closet, and another inside a lower kitchen cabinet.

After this was done, he cut out a section of drywall beside the front door and put the M-16, loaded and ready, into the hole. Then he covered the hole. After applying the texture and repainting, he inspected his work, and decided they wouldn't never notice it unless the paint wasn't dry by the time they got back.

He just finished cleaning up, when he heard the Shelby engine pull up outside. Checking the time, four hours had gone by. He pulled the boxes, paint and other materials into his studio, and stashed them into the closet, and then went to the kitchen to start dinner. 

Chapter 24

Anton Selick was, by his own definition, a self-made man. He lived by that code. He believed that his self-importance was both justified and well earned. He rode with the Knights for sixteen years before becoming the club's president. His ruthlessness and drive was well known and feared. His goals for bringing the Knights into a higher level of power and territory were viewed by most of the membership as being not only desirable, but a long time coming.

Jacques, the previous president, acted too cautious, hesitated too much and from where Anton was looking, he cost the Knights much more than he ever brought in. Their territory not only didn't increase during his tour, they lost ground. Being stagnate was an unforgivable sin to Anton. In fact he saw it as a capital crime in a leader of men, but to lose ground — that was simply too much to bare. So Anton had no second thoughts when he pulled along-side Jacques on the highway, blew out his bike's back tire with a shotgun, sending Jacques into a uncontrollable slide, and then ran him over with the van. That Anton was then elected into the office of president was fortuitous, and not unexpected, but not the goal of removing Jacques. Anton simply couldn't sit by and watch his club, which he loved dearly, fall to shit under Jacques' spineless leadership for another day.

There were other ways he could have dealt with Jacques, but his solution was clean, direct and final.

Within the first month of taking the reins of leadership, Anton doubled their cocaine sales. Never before in the history of the club, had such an increase of revenue befallen them. There was plenty of work, and lots of territory to reclaim. The membership was happy, money poured in, life was good.

Not everyone believed his changes were good, but those who voiced such views were in the minority. His goal of taking over the Steel Highwaymen, not just their territory, but the whole club, was met with greater resistance, but not enough to deter him from continuing to takes steps in that direction.

And then, things began to fall apart. Men got arrested. The Highwaymen made several retaliations, targeting drug drops and taking product. The club's two strip clubs suffered under multiple raids for prostitution. Then, those two cunts decided to jump ship.

Anton realized, in the grand scheme of things, Shayla's and Sydney's rebellion was minor — all things considered. The bottom line, really, was timing. Everything else going on could be looked at as part of the environment; raids happened, men got arrested, and sometimes competitors won the day — but the cunts were personal.

Shayla and Sydney were the club's best movers, true, but they were much more than just coke pushers. They were, in many ways, the promotional team of the entire club. They were the glitz. They threw outrageous parties, they entertained exactly the right people. They were geniuses at putting a face on the Knights -- the face of power, prestige and romance. When two girls like those high-class pieces hung on you as if Apollo were your ugly half-brother other women bought into it, and showed up at parties too. He didn't understand how that worked, but like hundreds of other things, he didn't need to. It worked.

At their parties, major deals were realized. They were the perfect hostesses for brokering agreements with current partnerships and wooing new alliances. They were, in fact, the only diamond given to the club by Jacques. When people discovered that they were with the Knights, it gave the club clout.

Then, they decided to stop. Just fucking stop. Everything going on could have been mitigated with the right spins, except them. When they cut back on their sales, going only for their stables and regulars, they not only took away four to five kilos of sales a week, they also took away an effective business environment. Clients and partners 
expected
 the entertainment provided by Shayla and Sydney. Losing them was like cutting off the club's cock.

If everything else wasn't going on, perhaps he could seek out and recruit, what basically amounted to, a new public relations team. As it was, it was worse than losing any member or group of members. The perception was that the cunts were turning their backs on him; declaring that the Knights were no longer a power.

He doubted that the cunts actually understood their political importance — they were fucking party pussies. Prime pussies, but still just fucking cunts — and he wasn't about to make the mistake of confessing their importance.

Now, on top of their rebellion, Neil, one of his best men and a serious son-of-a-bitch, with a ton of respect in the club, backed the cunt's play. It was like being thrown into ice water just before orgasm. It was completely unexpected. It was bad enough that the cunts were pulling the rug out from under him, without a patch-holder like Neil giving his support.

From that point, things just went wrong, again and again. Now he couldn't even sit in a fucking chair!

Being the president, he forgot something. Something basic. In fact, he forgot what got him here. He thought that a political problem required a political solution, instead of remembering that politics only worked between reasonable people. Jacques was not a reasonable person, and Anton didn't hesitate to deal with as required. When the Gomez brothers went to the Highwaymen, he didn't hesitate to deal with them in the same manner.

He hesitated with the girls. He let their importance to the club blind him to the danger of allowing them to get away with it — daily. Every day they were allowed to live, their threat and importance grew. Neil, was now the same level of threat. Just living — doing nothing else but breathing — he was undermining Anton's leadership. Hell, he had drug runners refusing deliveries on a regular basis now. Their sales were less now than when he started!

The cunts and Neil both, had to be dealt with. Which was why he was on Skype talking to Simon Grimm.

"I have a job for you. Something that is in line with your expertise." Anton told him, laying on his stomach in bed, looking at Simon's light colored, featureless face. The man was about as unremarkable as a man could be.

Simon leaned forward in the screen and for a moment Anton was sure the little mole rat was going to hang up, but then he passed and said calmly, "I was contacted by Juan, and Anthony. Are there details they would not have given me?" Simon asked him.

"Perhaps the level of urgency," Anton told him.

"Everyone who wants someone else dead, believes it to be urgent," Simon told him with a bored voice. "You do not have addresses? From what I gathered, you are not even sure if they are still in Miami."

"True," Anton admitted, because what would be the point of downplaying his position to an assassin?

"Fifty-thousand each," Simon told him.

"Fifty-thousand? I was told that you were expensive, not unreasonable," Anton told him.

Simon shrugged and said, "Then we have nothing to talk about." Then began to reach for his keyboard.

"Wait," Anton told him.

"Yes?" Simon said, with that same bored voice.

"Fine, fifty each," Anton told him.

"I'll give you my bank transfer information then, and after you have paid, then send me to this same address, all of the information you have on the targets," Simon said, as if having Anton agree to pay him $150k was no more important than the choice of a breakfast cereal.

"You expect me to pay you up front?" Anton asked.

"Your credit is shit," Simon told him. "I know you can't use club funds for this. I know that your personal funds probably can't cover this as well. So, yes, definitely. Even if your credit was perfect however, and you could show me the cash in your hungry fist right now — I demand upfront payment. Afterward, I will not discuss the matter with you. They will be dead. There will be nothing to discuss."

Fuck,
 Anton thought to himself. The bastard was right. He couldn't use club funds for this, and he didn't have $150k to pay up front.

"Is there a problem?" Simon asked, only mildly curious.

"Let's start with one. If that works out, then I'll pay you for the other two at the same time," Anton tried.

Simon shrugged again, and damn if he didn't look like he was about to yawn as well, "Certainly. After all, my reputation and references are pristine. Which one?"

"Neil. Neil Jackson. He'll be with the girls, I'm fairly sure," Anton told him.

"Fine. And if you decide not to follow up, do not worry about it. I understand that sometimes, plans change. No harm, no foul," Simon assured him.

"I think it's too late for alterations or profitable changes. This is damage control," Anton admitted.

Simon gave him the banking information to make the deposit into Simon's account, which he did right there while Simon waited. Once Simon agreed that his bank had the transfer information, Anton then sent the computer document with all of the information the club had on Neil.

"Good," Simon told him. "It will probably take about a week. Maybe less."

"I've been looking for four weeks now," Anton told him.

"I doubt they are hiding," Simon told him, and this time he did give a little yawn. "He's shot you three times now, yes? Retired from your membership? He's not afraid of you. I doubt he thinks about you at all."

You mother-fucking-son-of-a-bitch
, Anton thought, but there was something in the man's manner which kept him from voicing this outrage. "I hope you are right," he managed to say.

Simon's lips gave just the barest hint of a smile, "Then our business is concluded until you deem it time to progress to the next two."

The Skype connection closed.