Tank: Apaches MC (20 page)

“What’s happened, boss?”  Rafael stares at me under the pale streetlight. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

I pull him by the jacket towards the side of the road and quickly explain my call with Abe and Sierra. When I finish, he runs his hands through his thinning brown hair nervously and pulls out another cigarette. “Jesus Christ” is all he can manage to say. “You’re not going to actually go out there, are you? I mean, that’s suicide. And while that girl’s gotta have a great rack and pussy to get you like this, no chick is worth dying for.”

I don’t even hesitate to answer. “This one is.”

“Fuck.” He places the cigarette in his mouth and turns it over with his lips. He turns back to the riders from Guzman’s crew who are all waiting impatiently by their cycles and cars. He lowers his voice to a low growl as he asks me, “What are we going to do about these guys then? We bring them back to headquarters, they’re gonna attack as soon as they think you’re out.”

I hadn’t thought about that. If Guzman was really working with Abe and the Aztecs on this messed up plan for revenge, he was going to use his own team of inside men to take out what’s left of the Apache hierarchy. The deeper we get in this shit, the more I see we need to shovel out.

I look down at the old, beat up watch on my wrist. It was my father’s, one of the only things I have of him. It’s nine forty-five, and suddenly everything seems to be moving much quicker than I had planned.

“We’re going to have to return the guys to their leader and get them back on my side”

“How in the hell do you plan on doing that?” Rafael scratches his head impatiently. He knows that the easiest solution would be to kill the riders and leave Sierra to the wolves. But he isn’t going to question me like that. As much as I have questioned other men’s loyalties in the past, I could never doubt that Rafael would be on my side and ready to ride when I gave the orders.

I swallow hard as I answer, “I’m going to give him exactly what he wants.”

I raise my arms towards Guzman’s men and walk towards them shouting instructions that we were riding to Guzman. Each of them look to the next, as they try to sort out what I am trying to pull. Finally, the smallest of the men steps off his bike and strides next to me. His voice growls as he says, “
Muchacho
, we do not take orders from you. Guzman said to stay in the States with you, no?”

I grab the man by the collar of his gray t-shirt and, with all my might, body slam him to the dusty ground. His head reverberates against the cement, as he looks up at me with wide, terrified eyes. I reach behind me and pull out a gun faster than the rest of his friends can. The man lifts his arms up in defense and the rest of his crew follow suit, their guns going back in their holsters and pockets.

I shout loudly at him as he cowers, “Guzman’s not here, is he,
muchacho
? And if I remember correctly, Guzman ordered you to do what I say while he wasn’t around.” The man looks down and away from me, giving his power up. “Now tell your men to ride to Guzman’s headquarters. And if one of them disobeys me, I’ll personally see they are buried in the same grave they just dug up.” 

He spins, as I back off, and twists to standing. In Spanish, he shouts my orders again, but this time, the men move. Their engines rev and the first two head out into the darkness towards the Southern border. Rafael follows the back on our own bikes, weaving our way through the light traffic of men and women coming back home to Mexico from their jobs in the States. As we near the border, we see the homes get further apart and replaced by the lights of the fences and guard posts in the nearby distance. 

Guzman’s men ride right through border patrol with a wave. It doesn’t shock me. The cartels have control over both sides, and at night, it’s easier to slip through with a well-placed dollar in a man’s hand. We, of course, have our own guy waiting at the post. He ushers us through as we attempt to catch up to the rest of the riders nearly a half mile ahead.

We finally tag one of the slower ones, as they make their way into the central district of Juarez. The group slows, as they pull alongside street vendors with their food carts, women dressed in brightly colored dresses, and children hawking goods to tourists. It all slows down as we enter a shanty neighborhood with green metal roofs and tan plaster siding. There’s not a soul on the street, save for a few men dressed in black long-sleeved shirts, carrying large AKs over their shoulders. The men nod to Guzman’s crew, as if they are allowing them to pass. When we follow slowly behind, I spy them speaking into talkies and phones, warning the next man ahead that we had arrived.

Rafael is riding even slower now, as we pull into a gated compound. A metal, barbwire fence closes behind us with a long rattle and moan. And I watch as Rafael jumps and its locks slam into place. I don’t blame him for letting down that guard and letting fear take over. It’s a crazy plan, but it has to work. I am running out of time, options, and patience for this. And every minute I’m not with Sierra, the more beatings she is taking in my name. I had to be quick.

I stop my bike and shout loudly to the men ahead. “Guzman! Get Guzman! I want to see him now!”

Everything stops when I say his name. The men loitering around the plaza look at me transfixed. The riders pull their bikes to the side, unsure of what to do. And even the men at the gate lower their weapons to their hips, as they try to make out their next move. We all wait in this hushed, communal silence that takes even my breath away.

And when no one follows my order, I shout even louder, “GUZMAN! GET THE FUCK OUT HERE!”

A door from the third floor swings open, and Guzman saunters down the side of the stairwell, fully dressed in an impeccably pressed white suit and hat. “Tank! Señor! Why are you shouting at all hours of the night? Don’t you know where you are? This is my private home, where my children sleep!”

I wait till he is all the way down the stairs and standing just a few feet before me before I reply, “Cut the crap, Guzman. We need to talk. And we need to do it now.”

His eyes sparkle in delight, as he removes his woven hat and gestures towards his ear. “Go ahead,” he says menacingly, “I’m listening, my friend.”

“Don’t you dare pull that bullshit with me, Guzman. We need to speak. Now. In private.” I don’t want to be cute or play games. I had enough of that with Abe. What I want is answers.

Guzman clicks his fingers and two men with guns strapped across their chest come running towards him from opposite ends of the plaza. In Spanish, he says, “Clear the third bedroom. My guest and I will chat there. No men.” The guards run off towards the house, speaking loudly into their walkie-talkies. He then turns back to me. “Your wish is my command.”

I dismount from my bike and follow slowly behind him. Rafael has my back until Guzman notices him. “This man cannot join us. If you want to speak to me alone, we do it without him.”

I nod to Rafael who backs off and returns to his bike. He takes out his phone and begins to type furiously on his phone’s keypad. Guzman’s men stare at him in wonderment and then return their attention back to me, marching towards the home with the large pistol in my back pocket.

The room Guzman leads me to is lit only in white candlelight. It’s empty, except for a black leather lounge chair placed oddly in the center of the room. From the way the candles dance off of their own reflections, I spot a large mirror covering half of the far wall. I walk slowly towards it, looking at myself for the first time in a long time. Even in this lighting, I can see just how tired and run-down I look…nothing like Tank the warrior. Being Sierra’s protector these last few weeks has managed to wear me down.

Around the mirror is an old ornate frame with gold leaf details. I touch it gingerly, trying to figure out just why it is here in this empty room. Guzman approaches slowly behind me, “You like? It’s an antique from the city. Nineteenth century craftsmanship. It may be imported from Spain. None of my art dealers can decide. So I put it in here. It… comes in handy.”

I feel around the edges once more before turning back towards him coldly. “I don’t want to talk about the damn mirror, Guzman. I want to know why the fuck you’re working with Abe and the Aztecs after all that we have been through and every promise that we have made. Do you not remember my threat when I saw you just a few weeks ago?”

He places his hands around his neck, as he remembers my grip around his throat. “I do. Yes.”

I walk towards him, my arms crossed tightly around my chest. He backs into the chair, falling into the seat as he follows my walk around him. “And if you’re working with Abe, which I know is true, then you also know that I have nothing to lose. That woman he has isn’t just one of my whores, and if he kills her, there would be nothing stopping me from making good on those threats.”

“And what is stopping me from just killing you right now and preventing that from happening?”

“Because you know that I’m going to beat Abe. Because you know that you lined up against the wrong guy. And because you know that Abe is crazy enough to double cross you when everything's said and done and he gets what he wants.” I walk around Guzman once more and place a hand upon his shoulder, pulling him further into the leather chair. “And you know that Abe won’t stop with just being the president and head of two motorcycle clubs. He’ll want more. He’s already scoping out the cartels here in Mexico, you said it yourself. So what’s going to stop him from taking his army of men and marching here on this poorly guarded complex?”

I pause, waiting for an answer. When Guzman remains speechless, I whip out my gun and point it towards the mirror. Without hesitation, I pull the trigger, firing ten rounds towards the wall. Guzman ducks, his hands covering his head as he crawls towards the door. I hear shouts and screams from the other side of the mirror as bits and pieces shatter in the hail of my bullets.

The room fills with smoke, dust, and ash, but I spot Guzman attempting to open the door. I reach out, whipping him back into the chair, as I hold the gun to his head. “Your men are so weak they can’t even manage to guard their kingpin.” I point my gun towards the bodies of two men sitting behind where the fake, antique mirror was. The dummy room is splattered with red streaks of blood.

Guzman’s voice is weak, shaking, and plainly uncomfortable. After a few beats, he finally answers, “What do you want, Tank? More men?”

“No. I want you to keep going with Abe’s plan. Lead him on. Play his game, you get me? And then, I want your best man, your sniper. I know you have one. You have enough guard towers here to have trained someone, maybe an ex-soldier or something. You tell him that he’s ridin’ with me tonight, and he’d sure as shit better follow every single goddamn one of my orders. And I’m not playing fucking games here either. You don’t just get me the guy. You get me the names and addresses of his family. Something goes wrong, they pay. That’s the long and short of it.
Comprende
?”

“
Sí
,” he says and nods. “Yes. I hear you.” I turn to walk away, but he calls after me, “And… what’s in it for me?”

I spin on my heel and stare a dagger towards him. “What’s in it for
you
?” I repeat incredulously.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding and stroking his chin.

I take a deep breath. “You’ll be… repaid,” I say slowly. “Handsomely. See, I get you. I get how you play the game. So you want cash? You’ll get your cash. A third of the haul for the next ten years. But I call the shots, and your men answer to me. They stay in the U.S. and ride along the border. But you’ll get what you need to pay them. We got a deal?”

“I want half,” he counters quickly. “And…and my men still report to me.”

I scoff. The little shit thinks this is a negotiation. But at this point, I need him, so I play ball. “A third,” I insist firmly, “and I’m in charge. But I’ll give two of your boys leadership and recruitment posts.” I quickly pull the gun out of my pocket and push it up against his sweating, shaking neck. “And, if you’re really good, I won’t waste you right here, right now.”

“Fine. Fine. Fine!” he shouts, lifting his hand to mine. I shake it quickly before turning away from him, as he slumps in his chair, his eyes fixed on the bodies lying helplessly in a heap before him. I watch as he stands and walks towards the frame that is still nailed securely up against the wall. He licks his thumb and wipes a smear of blood from around the edge.