Play Dirty: Devil's Mustangs MC (9 page)

CAL

The engine roars underneath me, and my body lurches forward with a force that feels like it’s going to tear the skin from my skull. I hear the rest of my crew start their machines up as the noise blazes into the orange and pink night. The leader from the front of the pack looks past his shoulder towards me as I touch my hand to my head, signaling it’s time to ride.

Our black motorcycles spread over two lanes of traffic as we drift past sitting cars heading home from their workweeks. I’m in my position in the back as the tail gunner, so it’s my job to make sure everyone is staying in line and manning the right position. Even during the daylight hours and in front of all these civilian nobodies, our club is at risk from attack from the Coyotes.

Since that night when the Coyotes attacked, everyone’s been on high alert. We’re riding tighter than ever before, traveling in packs of five or six and wearing our colors as proudly as ever. Normally, I do this Friday run myself, maybe bringing along one or two of the young guns and a couple of potential pledges to show them the ropes. But Jager doesn’t want me out there by myself. I’m too much of a precious commodity.

That, or they don’t trust me anymore. It’s hard to tell. Though the Coyotes managed to only murder one of our own and maim one of our bitches in the house attack, they have infiltrated us by dividing up the group. In one corner are the old guys like me who are loyal to Jager and his more laid back reign over our territory. Then, there were the younger ones, the ones itching for an all-out war between us and the Coyotes.

Being on the wrong side could be deadly in a shit ton of ways. It could mean getting my sweet position taken away or, worse, being taken down by some snot-nosed little shithead with a chip on his shoulder -- one of who is riding right beside me as I scan the highway. Ryan is eying me with more disdain than the night of the Coyote attack where he caught me finishing off on Michelle.

But I know better. I’ve been with this club since I was born. I don’t just wear the colors – I bleed them. My daddy bred me to be the man I am today, to be the Mustang I am today. And if he taught me one thing, it’s to keep my head low and do my job well. Today, I’ve got plans that should keep anyone from underestimating me or my ties ever again.

Today, we’re headed back to Chris’s repair shop, where I was just a few weeks ago. He had let me in on a tip off of where our missing rider’s body had gone. But something tells me this isn’t the whole story.

Even though I have been riding past his shop almost every day and seeing the lines out the back for our supplies, he’s sending me less and less money. And not only that, I am starting to see young guys -- like the two I took out on my last visit -- frequenting his shop wearing what look to be Coyote colors. In other words, this ride ain’t just going to be one of my regular check-ins. This is going to be rough -- for somebody.

The boys peel off to the exit, and I count the numbers ahead of me, making sure everyone is in line. This exit is the last stop before Coyote territory and stepping one foot over is grounds for being shot on sight, at least while the war is going on. Isaac out front senses the danger I’m feeling as he slows down, his engine purring at the stoplight, and we all follow -- all except for Ryan, who is revving his ancient, beat-up bike like it’s a battle cry.

It doesn’t matter how quiet we are able to make ourselves. Chris has heard us from down the highway. When I get off my bike, I see the two hired help plus two more men stand by the office entryways. Their arms are crossed tight over their chests as they block the inside from our view.

This is my job, my guy, so I take the lead. I call out past the men standing us down to where I know Chris is just out of my eyesight, “Chris, you lousy motherfucker, tell these dumb sons of bitches to back the fuck off!”

The two new men laugh heartily to each other as they point at our group of six. The other two, the ones I’m acquainted with, have more terrified looks on their faces. They know the consequences of daring to try to match up with me. They know what’s about to happen.

I take a few steps towards one of them and peer over his shoulder. In the darkness of the repair shop, I can make out a man standing over a large, black metal box with a huge padlock on it. He pushes it underneath a car as he takes a large deep breath in and stands. “What do you want, Cal? It ain’t our time to pick up the cash yet. I’ve got nothing for you.”

I gesture to the four cars waiting in the back of the shop. There are passengers inside counting money, itching their palms, and sweating profusely. Junkies. “By the looks of your business, I’m going to say you’re doing just fine. Where’s the cash?”

He studies me with one eye, straddling his body to the side, “I don’t have your money, Cal. You can’t force me to turn over something I don’t have. That wasn’t in our contract.”

I hear the scuffle of gravel behind me as Isaac comes storming from his spot on the flank. He shouts at Chris, “Who do you think you are, you little piece of shit? You’ve got our money, and you damn well know it. And if you’re holding our money, we don’t have a contract. No protection. No deals.”

Chris throws his arms up, motioning to his men. They step back, grabbing bats and car tires. My men do the same but with switchblades. No one moves as each of us wait for the first sign of aggression. I call out towards Chris who is walking into his office, “We know who you’re working with, Chris! You must be a goddamn fool if you think you can deal to the Coyotes with Mustang coke. And mark my motherfucking words, as soon as I dispose of these two little bitches, I’m coming for your ass next!”

One of the largest of the two newbies looks at me and laughs. “Oh, Grandpa!” he shouts as he swings his black metal tool towards my head.

I duck, missing it by centimeters. I plunge myself at his stomach and chest, my blade just missing his skin. He flies backwards into the ground as I pummel my fists into his face. Blood pools near his ears as I feel his chest start to slow beneath the weight of me. Weakly, I have mercy on him, and I stand up to observe what I’m left with. 

All around me, I hear the shouts of my men, wild, guttural, maniacal. This is what they came to do; this is what they live for. Blood, destruction, mayhem -- it’s all part of their calling card. Isaac and Ryan work the bruised and battered body of the other new henchman while our other two enforcers-in-training have it out with the two younger boys. I watch in horror as the smallest guy manages to slam his bat into one of our men in training. He looks up, his mouth full of blood, and the bastard winds up to take another swing.

I dart after him, managing to grab his arm before he can land another blow. I take his bat and toss it way out of sight. I’m about to land a fist to his gut when Ryan runs up, his small pocket knife pointed upwards, driving it into the boy’s side.

Ryan screams, “That’s what you get, son! That’s what you get!” He falls to the ground, clutching himself by the waist. I can see the red oozing out of him through his fingertips. Ryan grabs me by the shoulders and spins me around.

The four men are done, and the garage is completely unguarded. I whisper to Ryan, “I’m going in, but Chris has guns in there, at least he did the last time I paid a visit. Go cover me.” I slink in through the garage doors, my boots treading lightly on the smooth concrete. The last thing I want to do is get ambushed by Chris. It’s better to know your killer than be surprised, so I call out to him in his hiding place, “Chris! This is your last fucking chance. You give us our money, all of it, and we let you go. We spare your sorry ass. You already crossed us once when you tried to take me out a few weeks back, but now you’re dealing with the Coyotes. That’s not gonna bode well for you.”

“Fuck you Cal! The Coyotes are protecting me now, you stupid fuck. You touch me or their business, and you’re going down!” He’s shouting at me from somewhere to my left.

I spin around and see it: the black hole of a gun. I duck quickly behind a car, just barely missing the first shot. He shoots another, this one landing on my shoulder, cutting through my leather jacket. The searing pain from my shoulder wounds hits me instantly as I slump back down to my hands and knees. I try to inhale, concentrating on Maddie. If I’m going to die here in this shitty little shop by that double-crossing bastard, I’m not going to be thinking of him. I’m going to be thinking of my daughter. In my head, I whisper a goodbye to her as I hear Chris laugh to himself. I shut my eyes tightly---

…

…

Click. Click. Click.
I hear the sound of a man pulling a trigger over and over and over again. I can hear Chris’ breathing pick up as he stands in complete and utter disbelief. He slams the handgun onto a wooden surface before darting off. I listen helplessly as I hear him pass me and then hop into one of the cars near the back of the shop. It speeds off, the tires squealing and screeching.

I use the car I’m ducking under to stand to my feet. I notice how absolutely useless my arm is as I remove my jacket. The leather is sticking to the wound, but I manage to peel it off and tie my bandana around it. This will have to do until I can have the club’s doc take a look at it.

In the distance, I hear the familiar roar of a motorcycle rev up and take off after Chris. He’s not going to catch him, at least not during the day. But at least he’s trying. The rest of my men are still patrolling out back, searching for Chris’ hidden stash of weapons and drugs.

I don’t join them. Instead, I walk slowly towards a large tank of gasoline and fill up a couple of red plastic containers. I head back towards the end of the garage where Chris just sped up and I splash the first canister on the ground and on one of Chris’ antique hobby cars. The crude, chemical smell tinges my nostrils as I pour the second in Chris’ office and in the front of the building.

When I’m finished with the canisters, I go back to the tank of gasoline and twist the nozzle on the siphon to the left and then set the hose down on the floor. The puddle of the clear liquid grows quickly as I walk through it towards the front entrance.

Ryan is outside smoking, talking to one of the junkies. The men in the car are laughing as Ryan points towards the garage and at the pile of the four bodies still lying on the ground outside the shop. My stomach turns as I try to process this scene. Ryan should have been there. He and the others should have had my back like I asked. But instead he’s having a chit-chat with these coke heads?

I’m more than angry as I pound my boots in his direction. He turns to see me grasping my hand to my shoulder. He shakes his head disappointedly as he says, “You let that bastard get away.”

I stop inches from his face, staring him down before I bark back, “Yeah, Ryan. Today he fucking got away.” I pull him towards me using the collar of his jacket. “Go do your own fucking job, and then we can talk about who let who get away. You understand me?”

Ryan nods a few slow times before I let him go. He hops towards his bike, leaving the other three men waiting for my orders. I point towards one of the enforcer trainees, “You got a light, kid?”    

The young boy quickly feels the pockets of his blue jeans before pulling out a bic lighter, “Yes, sir!”

I point back towards the building, instructing him, “Go light it up, kid.”

“What? Light it up?” He stares at me unsure of what I am saying is real. This kid hasn’t even gotten his feet wet before us Mustangs probably told him to be an accessory to murder and now arson. I feel for him. Hell of a start.

I take the lighter out of his shaking hand and pass it to one of the other trainees, a young gun who’s been around for longer. He’s part of Ryan’s legion, so I know he’s more up to this type of job. His wicked grin before walking fast towards the garage proves my theory to be correct.

But as I watch him click the lighter on, something dawns on me. I run towards him, holding his arm as he attempts to throw the flame inside. “Wait a minute kid, there’s something I need to get.”

I run back into the garage, the heavy scent of gasoline filling my nostrils, causing me to gag. I eye the cars one by one till I see it, tucked under the back of one of a red Chevy truck lowered to the ground without its wheels. I duck down and grab the black metal case, the one I saw Chris hide before he went off. Whatever he was trying to keep from us was in this box, and I’m not going to let this burn down with the rest of his building.

Once I’m safely out with the box in my hand, the enforcer throws the lighter into the garage. Within seconds, there’s a
whoosh
sound followed by a storm of heat. From a distance, I watch as a skeleton of a car bursts into flames, taking the same red truck with it. It only takes a minute or so before the entire place is crashing to the ground in a heap of ashes, rubble, and fire.