Tap Out (36 page)

We stop and the bikes rumble in idle. I sit up and the gym is on my left; one of the bikers is crossing the street to the empty lot. I grab the door handle.

The bikes' throttles echo off the empty parking lot and the crew comes to the window. I can see all their faces, with Rob tucked behind them. Smart move, because here comes the biker from across the street, trotting, gaining speed, brick in hand. I pull the handle. Nothing. I pull again, harder. It stays shut.

The gym window glass shatters, and I duck as if I were behind it. The biker gets back on his hog, throttles it, and signals a whipping circle over his head. The caravan rolls. I hold the handle and watch the gym window until it's out of sight. I let go and fall back into the seat.

Dave and Marcus don't speak. If either of them saw me on the handle, they don't say. Dave follows the parade of bikers, and Marcus sits like a living shadow. I hope that my boys are all right and that after all of this I get the chance to explain. At least to Rob. Before they do more, because I know that was just a warning.

We follow the line to the storage facility outside town, and Charity's dad punches the code. The bikes roll in and when we pass the guard's station, I look over. He's watching a movie on a laptop. We cruise into the back corner and one of the guys motions to Dave to back up to one of the storage units. Dave almost cracks his mirror against the corner but manages to tuck it in. The same guy who signaled hops onto the hood and then the roof and above us I hear the spray from a can.

“Spray painting the cameras, just in case,” Dave speaks, but keeps his eyes focused out the windshield. The guy hops off and the storage door opens. I grab a handle and Dave says, “It's still locked, Tone. You aren't going anywhere.” I go to speak, to say that I was only going to help, but I understand just what he's saying. He reaches down and pops the trunk. I turn around and can barely see the black cases being placed into the car. I don't think it's meth, so what else could it be?

Guns.
It's suddenly just that obvious. I burrow into Cam's coat pocket and feel the metal there. It's not a gun. I knead it into my hand, pulling it out of the liner and into the pocket. It could be a knife. No, it's only brass knuckles.

Two more raps clack off the rear panel. Dave swings a three-point turn and the bikes fire up. We leave the facility and the security guard doesn't look up, just watches the screen on his lap. It's an action movie; cars are blowing up and shit's flying everywhere. I almost laugh at the irony. Almost. I look ahead at the red lights of bikes dotting the road, headed toward the warehouse. Not one part of this is amusing.

T
he warehouse sits like a broken tooth, but this time there are more cars parked in the shadows along its edge. The bikers park next to the other, facing out. Dave pulls in behind them and no sooner does he park than the trunk is popped and the guns are being dispersed. Dave grabs his handle and looks at me. “
Now
we get out.”

My face is swollen and seeing around the bruising is difficult. But one thing is clear, no one's giving me a gun. I hang by the trunk and the bikers load up, inserting clips, sliding extra magazines into their coats, and tucking handguns into their waistbands. Cam looks pleased with the nine-millimeter he's selected. Dave doesn't get a gun though, and neither does Marcus, so I feel a little better, just standing around like a tool. Dave nods for me to follow him. He pops the hidden section, revealing the boxes from Johnny B's. “Take one,” he says. I fumble getting my hands around the cardboard, but pull one box out and heft it to my chest. It's five times the size of the last delivery. Dave grabs another box and Marcus does the same. Then he closes the trunk. The bikers wait for us in a half circle and Chaz steps to the middle.

“All set?”

Dave says, “Yeah,” but I just nod. I don't trust my voice to work. My throat's seized up, and I feel like I might be sick.

“Good. Now, it's real simple. We've got your backs, but you must walk through those doors first. That's the deal.” He looks at Marcus. “You lead them in.” Marcus swallows but says nothing. “All right then, let's go.”

I follow Dave. Thank God for all the time I've spent in the gym forcing my body to do things it didn't want to do, because my legs are stiff and my head's screaming
No!
But I lick my lips, try to breathe under the weight of the box, and get control of myself before we get to the door. Marcus knocks and someone inside speaks, but I have no clue if it's in Hungarian or English, my head's fucked. How did I get here? The door slides back and Marcus walks in. I follow him and Dave.

The same dim lantern burns on the table, but no one is seated at it. Instead, a group of men stands behind it. Above, on what looks like the platform to a second-floor office, another group waits, while a handful of men gather in the office behind them.

“The delivery has arrived, yes?” One of the men steps forward and smiles from beneath a thick mustache.

My heart bounces from between the box and back. I could gag on the sensation, but I watch Dave's lead and set the box on the table. The mustached man pulls a knife from his pocket and says something in Hungarian, or whatever the fuck language it is, to the men behind him. Three come around and one grabs Marcus, another Dave, and the last, me. I flinch at his touch but will myself to relax and just let him do his job. The Hungarian lifts my shirt and checks around my waistband. He bends down and checks the cuff of my jeans and then stands. Marcus and Dave are being handled the same. All three men stand and say the same word in their language.

“Very good. No record.” The mustached man smiles and I get what he means: wires. They think the Agnostics would work with the pigs?

The three men resume their positions, and the Hungarian cuts into the boxes. He clicks on a flashlight, peers into both, nods, clicks his tongue, and then looks up at us. “Where is your Hammer?”

I have no idea what the fuck he's talking about, and the mention of a
hammer
makes me want to piss myself. But a voice rises. “Right here.” Chaz steps forward, extends his hand. When the fuck did he come in?

“It's been a while, yes? Good to see you.”

Charity's dad shrugs and looks up to the office. “The boss up there?”

The Hungarian laughs. “Yes. Of course. We go.” He says something again in his tongue to his men, and the bikers form a line behind us. We all watch as Chaz and the Hungarian enter the glass-paneled room. Someone from above says, “Ah, yes, so very nice,” before the door closes. Then it's just us and them.

I turn to Dave to see if we can leave, now that we've done our job, but he and Marcus are just looking ahead, sizing up the men in front of them, in spite of the fact that each has a gun strapped to his hip.

Shouts boom above us, but no one moves. There must be close to two dozen men in this room and not one coughs, sneezes, mumbles, or makes any noise whatsoever. Rushing blood fills my head, and I try to stay steady on my feet. This will be over soon, and I'll be all right. For now.

More shouts and then the door smacks open. Chaz bolts down the stairs. “Out of your fucking mind thinking I'd take that price!”

The Hungarians emerge on the steps and the two at the front have drawn their guns. As if on cue, every man in the room does the same. I'm staring down the barrel of a Glock and Chaz is still yelling. “Fuck you, István! You can fucking shoot every last one of us, you fucking pussy!” He comes off the stairs, stops, turns up to the office. “I trusted you and you fucked me like some bitch.” He turns his attention to the firing squad across from us. “You go ahead and put a bullet in me you fucking scumbags. But it'll be in my back because I'm not standing here one more second.”

I'm afraid to move, and afraid not to. Charity's dad goes through the doorway, not hesitating for a moment. The bikers make a show of dropping their weapons, tucking them away, and turning their backs. Dave and Marcus pick up their boxes and then fall in behind. I do the same and follow them. All I can picture is the guy behind me taking aim and my brain splattering across the wall. Again, I force my legs to move, but this time, slower than I want them to, because I'd gladly run over every fuck here to get out alive.

We shuffle out and nothing happens. In a moment the drugs are back in the trunk and I'm in Dave's car and the door is shut. Safe. My heart's still hammering, but my head hasn't been blown to pieces. Yet I seem to be the only one happy about this. The bikers all wear the same mask of anger. This isn't over.

“Back to the storage. We'll talk.” Charity's dad turns away. The guys load up the guns and I let my head fall back and look up at the sky, clear and star-filled. It's almost Christmas, and the night feels as it should. Cold but energized, yet not in any way I enjoy. Dave climbs behind the wheel and we drive.

“That was some fucked-up shit, right?” Marcus's voice is
so deep that it's all bass.

“I ain't seen anything like it.”

“So what you think's next?” Marcus looks back at me after Dave just shrugs.

I shrug as well. How the fuck would I know? But I get it, Marcus is fucking scared. I am too, but there's nothing I can do about it. I'm along for wherever this ride takes me. I'm just going to do what I'm told. Period. Just like the pussy I am. I stare out the window and can hear the bikes rumble. “What the fuck was the deal with the hammer?”

Dave laughs and the sound feels awkward. “
That's
what you're back there thinking about?” I nod and Dave laughs again. “Hammer is Chaz. He's old school, doesn't ever carry a gun. He likes hand-to-hand shit, and the old weapons.”

“Like a hammer?”

Dave clicks his tongue. “Yeah, and bats and pipes and the rest. But he's cracked the most skulls with a ball peen. Keeps one on him at all times.”

I shake that image from my mind as we pull into the storage facility. It's the same, but in reverse. The guys come and retrieve the guns and then place them inside the unit. Dave tells me to get out and I do, but no one speaks, just looks around, waiting for Chaz's plan. He goes into the unit and comes out with four gas cans and a caulk gun.

“Cameron, Marcus, Dave, Vo-Tec, get over here.”

My body freezes and I wait until the others move before I do, but then I join them and Cameron shoots me a look. I can't tell what the fuck he's thinking and I truly don't care.

“We just got fucked back there and it wasn't pretty.” Chaz looks each of us in the eye, and his mouth twitches beneath his beard. “So now, we need to fuck them harder. That's the way it goes. All's good till you stick it to us. Then
all motherfucking hell breaks loose.”

The men behind us grunt, as if listening to a preacher.

“Now, each of you has something to prove.
You
may not think so, but I do, and that's all that fucking matters.” He leans closer to us. “Do this right, and we'll take care of you.”

My heart gallops in my chest, my mouth goes dry, and my legs lose their strength because he didn't say what would happen if we fuck this up. I glance at Cameron and his eyes are big and bright. Dave's jumpy, but Marcus has pulled into himself, eyes hooded by the lids.

“Here's the plan. You'll get these filled.” He holds up the gas cans. “Then, you'll drive back to the warehouse and park off that side road. You know the one?” Dave nods. “Good. So then you'll go in on foot and prep the place.” He pauses and looks us over. “Be careful, István may be expecting something. But most likely he'll be getting piss drunk thinking about how he fucked up and how to make it right.” Charity's dad laughs. “Well, too fucking late for that.”

I put two and two together and do not like the results.

“Cam, you work construction, so you'll do best with this.” Chaz hands over the caulk gun. Cam takes it and looks at the brand.

“What's this for?”

“To patch up the bullet holes in your ass.”

Cam tries to laugh at the joke, but the sound that emerges is all wrong. Chaz stabs a finger at the caulk. “It's flammable. So after you dump the gas, caulk the door and then light the fucker.” He looks up and his eyes glint. “Ain't no way out.”

No one speaks. Not us and not the men around us. The
something
we have to prove involves killing a dozen men. This can't be real. This has to be some sick and twisted
fucking joke because I don't feel scared, just detached. There's no way this is happening, that we're actually going to torch the warehouse. He just wants to see if we'd go through with it, a test.

Charity's dad hands each of us a gas can. “Fill 'em up at the Shell station. We got connections there, and they don't have cameras.”

Dave and Cameron nod and I just stare at the empty can dangling from my fingertips. Chaz slaps my cheek playfully. “Vo-Tec's graduating tonight.” He laughs the same gunshot laugh, and I come to my senses. This isn't a test. He's not fucking joking one bit. But I'm not killing anyone. There is absolutely no fucking way! I am not one of these men.

Charity's dad turns to the group. “We'll toast marshmallows back at the park to celebrate.”

The men laugh and Chaz clasps Cameron's shoulder. “You've got point on this, so handle these boys. Big plans for you after.”

Cameron says something I don't hear because all I'm thinking about is how this has gone so wrong. First I got roped in, and then I just wanted to make some money, help out with the bills, maybe get the fuck out of the trailer park. I didn't want to deal and go to some whorehouse. I was willing to go along because there didn't seem to be any other choice, but now? What the fuck? I'm not going to jail. What am I going to do? How am I going to get out of this?