Reprise (18 page)

“Tiny, what the fuck?”

“Let her go, Knuckles.” It was said from the kitchen.

She strode to the entry of the kitchen, leaning on the wall. “You are so full of shit, Harlon.”

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbled, opening the cupboard over the coffeemaker, the one small appliance still in place.

“You come back with all these apologies, then what? When you’re done here that’s it? All you wanted was to say you were
sorry
?”

No answer, and that pissed her off more.

“What the hell does
sorry
do when you walked away from me and didn’t so much as say a fucking good bye, no explanation? I’m supposed to just roll over and fuck you again?”

“Well, you did.”

Her vision ran red. There were almost thirty years’ worth of quips that she wanted to say to his face, but all that came out was the hysterical ramblings of rage she’s swallowed since she was twenty-one. “Thanks for the reminder, you piece of shit. Thanks for making sure I no longer give a shit what happens to you. Because you sure as
fuck
didn’t care what happened when you walked away from me. You fucked around with a twenty-year-old, and when life got too tragic you fucking bailed.
I
was the one left behind. Angelina was gone, and it hurt me too. But
I’m
the one that really got left behind. I needed you more, asshole!”

“Don’t say her name right now.”

Mal laughed, pushing at Knuckles’ hand as he tried to take her arm. “Why? Did you just remember how much that fucking hurt, our daughter dying?”

He slammed the coffee pot down and it smashed, and he stalked to her. His face was as dark as a thundercloud but she didn’t feel any fear. He wouldn’t hurt her physically. No, he was capable of doing better than just old physical violence.

Knuckles didn’t seem to think so. He tried to step in front of her, hands out. “Tiny, man. Come on.”

Tiny pushed him to the side like he was nothing, and he went nose-to-nose with her. “I didn’t forget anything,” he snarled. “All I remember is not being at home. Maybe I could have saved her.”

She shoved at him with both hands, barely moving him. So she was content just to hit him again. “Fuck
you
. I didn’t kill her.”

“How could you stay sleeping?”

“Fuck you!” she was crying now. “This wasn’t my fault. You always blamed me. I knew it!”

“Christ, you two!” Knuckles roared, stepping into them and pushing her back into the living room. Tiny followed them, and Knuckles spun on him. “Stop saying all this shit! You told me you don’t really blame her. What the hell is this?”

“Forget it,” she sobbed, wiping at her eyes and shoving her feet into her heels. “Fuck this. Fuck all this. And fuck you, too, Harlon.”

She yanked the door open so hard it swung in and made a dent in the wall. She didn’t give a shit. She just wanted to get to her truck and get home.

And they let her.

Chapter Fourteen

“Change of plan today,” the man in the Adidas track suit said as Tiny climbed out of his truck cab.

“Change of plan?” He frowned. “Why?”

“No need to worry,” the greasy asshole said with a smile. “Mister Guidinger knows about the change. “But this delivery has to go straight onto a ship. No unloading, so you’re taking this truck.”

Tiny did a quick glance over the moving truck the guy was pointing to. “I don’t drive trucks I don’t do the maintenance on.”

“This time you are.” The smarmy grin on this guy’s pockmarked face was gone. “This time you take this truck and drive it where we tell you to. That’s what we pay you for.”

It looked like a basic moving truck, sure. It would blend on any road, even with a contingent of motorcycles coincidentally riding close by. But changes in plan were never usually a good thing, and Tiny was already growing weary of Anthony fucking Guidinger, and this was just another tick under the
con
column.

“I’ll let the guys know,” he grumbled, then turned on his heel and headed to his brothers, who were assembled in a group off to the side on the mainland, waiting next to their bikes.

“What’s going on?” Jayce asked, reading his expression perfectly.

“Change in the job. They want me to drive the moving truck into the port and right onto a ship. No unloading.”

The collective group shuffled their feet, feeling his same trepidation. “No fucking way,” Fritter spat out. “I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I,” Tiny agreed.

Their president held up a hand. “Okay, so this sucks. Agreed. What about your truck?”

Tiny shrugged. “There’s a guy I’ve hired a few times before, lives in ‘Frisco. I could call him to pick it up. He’s got a key.”

“I think we need to reexamine our route,” Spaz piped up. “We need to find a quiet spot to...regroup. And plan.”

Jayce grinned. “Agreed. The truck stop just over city limits. That’s where we break. Tell your pal to meet us there.”

Tiny nodded, and with a quick handshake everyone went on their way. Well, everyone but Knuckles. The asshole still refused to acknowledge him since they left Cleary. He thought Tiny’d been an asshole to Mal, but that was by design. He had to do it. So while it stung the kid was angry with him he had to keep up the appearance to keep her away.

But whatever. He had bigger problems.

He explained to their Redwood City port contact that a friend would pick up the truck for them, which appeased the asshole. He called Mark, the driver from San Francisco, who turned out to be even closer than expected. He agreed to pick up the truck and meet the group at the rest area.

He did a cursory walk-around the moving van. The lights worked, the tires seemed okay, and the engine sounded fine. Still, his sixth sense was standing straight up at attention.

After another route check with his honour guard he got settled behind the unfamiliar wheel. He took the time to adjust the seat and mirrors then pulled out of the fenced yard. The mechanics of the truck felt fine, but he was still carefully pushing the engine and brakes. Once he was up to freeway speed he was pretty sure the truck was fine, though. He relaxed in the seat and turned on the radio, leaving it on the country station it’d been left on.

They reached the rest stop only twenty minutes later. The crew pulled off in the approach, and Tiny did another walk around, deciding the truck was safe.

“Think we should check the cargo?” Fritter asked, squinting at the back of the hired moving truck. Buck rolled it open, showing a wall of unmarked boxes.

“Nah. They get all touchy about that,” Jayce replied.

Tiny sighed. “The truck change was weird. They knew we were coming and when. Did the cargo change? Why wouldn’t they let us know?”

“It’s bugging me too,” the Prez admitted. “We’ll watch and see what happens.”

Mark arrived with Tiny’s truck after ten minutes of waiting. After a quick rundown of the plan and some rearranging of personnel, Fritter, Spaz and Rusty peeled off with Mark, just to make sure no one gave him any trouble.

After a talk one-on-one, Mark assured Tiny he’d be okay on the run all the way back to Markham. Tiny pulled out of the rest stop feeling a hell of a lot better.

That was until they got about fifteen miles outside of San Francisco. One minute the truck was rolling along fine, the next there was a violent popping sound—not a gunshot because he knew that sound well, but it was close—and he was swerving into the shoulder, out of control. The truck veered hard to the right and he noticed the brake lights on the bike in front of him—he thought it was Buck but he wasn’t entirely sure—and with a curse he yanked the wheel harder and stood on the brake to stop the truck hitting him. When all the squealing tires were over half the truck was down the embankment and the other end was jutting straight out on the shoulder, but not too far into the driving lane at least. 

With a long exhale he put the transmission in neutral and killed the engine, yanking the E-brake hard. He swung the door open and had to jump down to the sandy ditch to see what happened. The driver’s side was fine. He hefted up to the shoulder and checked the other tires. Obviously something blew on the passenger side.

“You alright?”

Tiny nodded at Buck’s question. He was approaching from where he’d parked his bike on the edge of the asphalt.

“What happened?”

“Blew a tire. Front passenger, I’m thinking.” He circled around the back. Traffic had slowed to move to the far lane, so that was helpful. Around the other side he saw a bike down and his stomach dropped, but then he realized it was being righted so that was promising. He rushed to help just as Jayce got there, too.

“You okay?”

Knuckles yanked his helmet off. “Fuck. I’m fine. Just hit the rough asphalt at the edge there. I let the bike go. Fucked up my paint job.”

“Tire?”

Knuckles nodded, finally looking at him. “Yeah, big hunk of rubber came right at my head. I swerved to avoid it.”

“Fuck man, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re all whole.”

“Tire’s gone!” Someone shouted behind them. Buck again, he thought. “I mean, it’s not even just flat. It’s fucking shredded.”

Tiny squinted down the road. “Any more alligators out there?”

“What?”

He grinned at Knuckles. “Strips of tire. Call them alligators.”

“Oh, cute.” Knuckles’ grin was amused, not sarcastic.  ”But no, I think there was just the one. It’s in the ditch.”

“Good.” That was the last thing he wanted: to cause another accident. “Better call for a tow.”

His cell was in his back pocket, and just as he was reaching for it there were more loud popping sounds, of the variety he 
did 
recognize. Immediately he and Knuckles rushed the ditch, sliding down the embankment and taking cover. Once in place they both reached for their pieces. 

“Well I guess that explains the change in plans,” Knuckles mused as there was a pause in gunfire.

“Shoot out on a freeway in the middle of the day?” Tiny shook his head. “What the fuck is wrong with these guys? And this is a busy roadway.”

“Think they’re coming?”

“Absolutely. They want the cargo, or us, or both.”

“Then let’s fucking get rid of them.”

He grinned and followed Knuckles’ lead back in the direction of the truck. Crawling was meant for much younger bodies than his but his adrenalin was high, his heart hammering away as it was from just the blown tire. 

“Buck!” Knuckles shouted. “Jayce!”

“We’re good. Over here!”

Far side of the truck. They kept up their wriggling until they were right at the truck front, then circled to where Buck and Jayce were already crouched, next to the front driver’s side wheel well. 

“I count five guys.”

“Pretty even,” Tiny summed up, drawing another grin from Knuckles.

“It 
would 
be if I’d stayed home,” the crazy fucker bellowed, then he was up and running for the back of the truck.

“Fucking hell,” Jayce muttered.

“Jesus Christ,” Tiny said at the exact same time.

More gunfire erupted somewhere behind the truck. Tiny and Spaz circled back to the passenger side, leaving Buck and Jayce opposite. They crouched low, guns drawn and pointed downward, moving slowly as there was shouting.

Rounds tore into the asphalt, one hit the overhead door of the truck and ripped a hole in the metal siding just behind them, but they still kept moving. At the sound of scuffling feet on concrete a body came wheeling around the corner of the truck, and the only pause Tiny gave was long enough to ascertain he didn’t recognize the man nor was he wearing Red Rebels colors. He fired twice, one round hitting the side of the ass clown’s head.  The man dropped and all was quiet again.

Too quiet for such a busy road. Traffic had stopped upstream, and as he tucked his firearm into the small of his back again he heard the sirens.

“Fuck,” Spaz muttered.

“It’s okay.  Get your weapon back in its compartment and get the fuck out of here.”

At the back of the truck he found Knuckles, grabbing a man by the ankles and starting to drag him off.

“Get on your bike,” Tiny instructed. “I got this.”

“No way.”

“Don’t worry about it. I have a permit to carry this weapon, the truck is clearly torn up by these guys. I was attacked, I defended myself.”

Knuckles set his jaw, but he paused just long enough that Tiny shoved his shoulder back to his scarred bike. “Go, get the fuck out of here.” He grabbed Knuckles’ piece from his back. “This have a number?”

“Nah.”

“Good. I’ll wipe it. Get the hell out of here.”

“Tiny—”

“Go,” he snapped, louder. His breath caught and another fucking coughing fit took over, doubling him up for a moment.

“Shit man, you hit?”

“No,” Tiny croaked, the effort bringing another round. Rather than talk he outright shoved Knuckles towards his bike then pulled his shirt out of his waistband to rub any prints from the grip and barrel of Knuckles’ Glock, then dropped it next to the man his pal had been moving out of the way.

The bikes may have been loud, but they were indistinguishable over the sirens and traffic by the time highway patrol arrived. This was San Francisco County, and he wasn’t wearing his kutte, so he wasn’t expecting a hard time right away, but when they ran his name they’d see not only his time served but his “known associates” on his record. So he’d be agreeable but intentionally dim.

Simple story. He was returning the truck to the rental place, favour for a friend. No other Red Rebels in the vicinity. And if anyone remarked on seeing bikers, there were five dead ones on the road, their bikes scattered in the ditch.
You mean those bikers, officer?

And the tire was blown, that was no lie. Maybe they were angry about the road hazard he’d thrown at them?

“Hands where we can see them!” a sharp, no-nonsense voice snapped behind him. Definitely the law.

Tiny raised both arms, cleared his throat, then shouted “I have a Ruger in my waistband, small of my back. Licensed to me. I have a permit to carry. I’m a truck driver.”

There was a pause, then “On your knees. Hands behind your head.”

He complied, letting the cop move his arms where he wanted them, the handcuffs snapping on at a polite tightness. The Luger was pulled from his pants, handed off to somewhere he couldn’t see. He’d made sure to bring his permit, so he was ready to hand that over.

A cop stepped in front of Tiny, pulling off, honest to God, mirrored sunglasses. “You care to tell us what happened?”

Tiny nodded. “Yeah. I was taking this truck back to the rental place, tire blew out. I nearly lost it, ended up here perpendicular to the shoulder. I got out to see if the ass end was hanging out in the lane, wondering how I could get the thing back turned around. It’s the front tire, as you can see. But anyways, these guys on their bikes just opened up on me. I had to get my firearm to defend myself—it was in the glovebox. I think one of them might shot one of their own men, I’m not sure. I fired off a few rounds, hit that guy at the end for sure. I think one or two might have fled after that. I honestly couldn’t tell how many of them there were.”

The cop was chewing the inside of one cheek, nodding along with his exposition. Then he looked back over his shoulder at the truck, turned back to Tiny, mouth moving in a way that might have meant he was thinking. “We have your permission to check the truck?”

Tiny nodded. “Of course. The door’s not even locked, just latched.”

The hinges squealed as two other patrolmen opened the doors, then the one asking all the questions turned back to Tiny. “It’s empty.”

No shit
. Instead of speaking that aloud he replied, “Yeah, like I said. I was taking it back to the rental place in Bakersfield.”

“You a commercial driver?”

“Yes sir.”

“What’s with the moving truck?”