Page 12

Darko—

We walk outside the front door of The Cherry Bomb and into the darkness of an early dusk.

Rock pauses to light a cigarette, then calls a prospect. “Bring the van to The Cherry Bomb. Haul your ass.” Then he disconnects.

“We got an address on this motherfucker?” I ask.

Rock talks around his cigarette. “Gigi gave Utah a couple of addresses. One’s his apartment, the other’s his office.”

“What’s this guy do?” I ask.

“He’s an accountant, but Gigi said she thinks he’s dealing drugs on the side. When she found that out, she dropped him like a hot potato. Guess he didn’t like that,” Memphis replies.

“Green River Falls. Anybody heard of this apartment complex?” Rock asks. When we all shake our heads, he lifts a chin to Utah. “Pull it up.”

He does, and we peer at the satellite image on his phone.

“Looks like it's gated, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Entrance doors are on the exterior, so no interior hallways and cameras to navigate. He’s on the second floor.” Rock points to the balconies. “We can’t get in the door; maybe we can get in the balcony.”

“Here’s a thought,” I say. “We bring Gigi, and when he sees her through the peephole and opens the door, we rush him.”

Rock nods. “Maybe, but I hate to put her through more trauma.”

“She’d probably love to see him get his ass beaten,” Utah suggests.

“But then she’s involved.” Rock takes another drag of his cigarette.

“She’s already involved,” Memphis says.

“We bring her, she becomes a witness,” Rock says, shaking his head.

An engine roars up the road, and we all turn to see the black van. It’s almost on two wheels when it makes the turn into the parking lot and skids to a stop in front of us.

“That was fast,” Rock mutters, tossing his cigarette and yanking the front door open.

The prospect grins. “Well, you did say haul ass , boss.”

Five minutes later, we’re coming up on the complex. The prospect takes one slow pass, then pulls over.

The place is nice and out of the way. There’s a hill, and it will be easy to scurry up and over the wall.

We’ve got all kinds of supplies in this van, and I spot an orange safety vest and hard hat. It’s one we swiped from the gas company.

Rock twists in the passenger seat. “You got this, VP?”

“Yeah, ol’ man. I got this,” I tease, shrugging out of my cut. I pull up the complex on my phone and check to see the amenities. “Fantastic. They’ve got gas stoves.”

“Who the fuck gives a shit?” Rock growls.

“Because I’ve got an idea.” I grab the vest and hard hat and pass them to Utah. Then grab a roll of duct tape and stuff it in my pocket. “You’re going to knock and tell him there’s a gas leak.”

Utah slips them on, grinning. “Good thinking, VP.”

Memphis passes out gloves and knit hats to us, and we exit the vehicle.

Once we’re over the wall, we skirt the few cars in the lot and find apartment 226. Standing at the base of the stairwell, I survey the place, then lift my chin, and we head up.

I move to the apartment across from his and rip off a piece of duct tape, then cover the peephole.

Memphis takes one side of our target’s door, and I take the other, our backs pressed to the wall.

Utah knocks. “Gas Company.”

We hear a voice from the other side. “Yeah?”

It’s a woman’s voice, which throws us, and Utah’s eyes shift to mine. I lift my chin and nod.

“We’ve got a gas leak in the building, ma’am. You need to evacuate.”

The door opens a crack with a chain bolted, and a woman peers out.

“A gas leak?”

Utah boots the door, and it flies open.

She screams, stumbling as we all rush in. Utah slams her into a chair, and I toss him the duct tape.

The dipshit is on the couch, making neat lines of cocaine on a mirror on the coffee table, but he drops the razor blade and crab-crawls over the back of the couch, trying to make his escape down a hall.

Utah darts after him, ramming him into the wall and leaving a dent where the dude’s skull was.

He falls to the carpet, holding his head. “Who the fuck are you? What do you want?”

Memphis hauls him to his feet, and I punch him in the face until he’s bloody and my knuckles ache.

“Not so much fun when it’s your face as the punching bag, is it, asshole?” I growl, shaking my hand. I lift a chin, and Utah beats on the moron for a minute, then hauls him to his feet and pins him to the wall, while I get in his face.

“Hear you’re dealin’ drugs on Royal Bastards’ turf. You know what we do to guys who invade our turf?” I ask. “It involves an oil drum and concrete.”

He pales under streaming blood.

“Think he’ll fit, or will we have to cut his legs off?” I ask Utah.

Utah plays along. “Shit, man. Means the chainsaw is gonna get all bloody again, and I just fuckin’ cleaned it.”

“I didn’t know this was anybody’s turf. I’m just tryin’ to make a little side money. I swear,” the dickhead whines through a broken nose, spitting a mouthful of blood.

I put a hand around his neck and squeeze. “We own The Cherry Bomb. Those girls who work there are ours. You do not touch what’s ours. You do not fuck it. And you sure as hell do not break it.” He chokes for air, and I continue. “Next time I have to deliver this message, you won’t be breathing when I leave, understand?”

The guy nods, his eyes bulging out of his face and his skin turning blue before I release him. He slumps to the floor, unconscious.

I approach the girl, who is now bug-eyed and squirming, duct taped to the chair with a strip over her mouth. I bend, hands on my knees, bringing my face level with hers.

“I’m gonna pull this tape off and ask you a question. You are not going to scream. Do you understand?”

She nods, and I rip the tape off.

“How do you know this asshole?” I ask.

“I just met him, I swear. He promised to get me high if I fucked him.”

My eyes take her in. She’s young and pretty but thin, and I wonder when she’s last eaten. “You workin’ the streets?”

She shakes her head. “I ran away from home. Got no place to go.”

“What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Brooklynn.”

“How old are you, Brooklynn?”

“Nineteen.”

“Wanna try again?”

“Seventeen,” she revises her answer.

“When do you turn eighteen?”

“Next week.”

“You tellin’ me the truth, Brooklynn?”

“Yes. Are you gonna kill me?” Tears fill her eyes.

“No, sweetheart, we’re not gonna kill you.” I straighten, considering my options. “You need a job?”

She nods. “I don’t have anywhere to live.”

“When you turn eighteen, I can get you a job waitressing or dancing at The Cherry Bomb. It’s a strip club. Heard of it?”

“Yes.”

“In the meantime, you want a job cleaning our clubhouse?”

“Clubhouse?”

“Comes with a place to sleep,” I offer.

“Will I have to…?” Her eyes go between the three of us.

“No strings. You want to do a brother, that’s up to you. So, what’s your answer? Yes or no, kid?”

“I’d take it, doll,” Memphis says. “He doesn’t usually make an offer like that, and it’ll get you on your feet.”

“All right.”

“What about the coke?” Utah asks.

I kick the glass coffee table, and it flies all over the room. “Come on.”

We walk out, leaving the dickhead unconscious but still breathing, which is more than he deserves.

We move downstairs and find a security guard approaching.

“Hey, who are you?”

“Go,” I say, and we all run toward the wall, the guard running behind us, trying to talk on a walkie talkie.

When Utah sees that, he whirls and charges the guy, shoving him to the ground, and the next thing I know, they’re battling over the walkie talkie.

Utah pops him in the mouth, and before I can warn my brother, the guard pulls out a taser and hits him with it.

I kick the guard in the face, and he’s out cold.

Utah is flat on the ground from the jolt, twitching.

Memphis kicks the taser away, and he and I drag Utah across the lot, the girl following. I heave up on the wall and signal the prospect through the windshield of the van to get the fuck over here.

He leans forward, spots me, and rushes over to help, while Rock slides into the driver’s seat and pulls closer.

We get Utah and the girl over the wall and loaded into the van, and when I slam the door, Rock peels out.

“What the fuck happened? And who the hell is this chick?” Rock snaps, his eyes on us in the rearview.

“Security guard tased him,” I say, my breath sawing in and out of my lungs.

“The chick is Darko’s charity case,” Memphis says, chuckling. “He’s a real do-gooder.”

Rock twists to look at Utah on the floor of the van. “He okay, for God’s sake?”

“He’s fine.” I smack his face a few times. “Come on, Utah. Sit up.”

“Jesus Christ, that fucking hurt,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

“Well, that could have gone better,” I say.

Utah leans against the wall of the truck, rubbing his chest. “What are you complaining about, VP? You got to see me tased, didn’t you?”

I huff a laugh. “That did kind of make my day. You were flopping like a fish.”

“Son-of-a-bitch,” he mutters, rubbing the spot where he took the charge.

“You gonna be okay, brother? You want me to have Doc meet us?” Rock asks.

“I think I’ll be okay, Prez.”

Rock drives us to The Cherry Bomb, and we climb out.

He stops Utah as he slowly exits. “You drive the van. The prospect can take your bike to the clubhouse.”

“I’m okay.”

“I don’t want you riding until I know that for sure.” He lifts a chin to the girl. “And take her with you.”

We slip our cuts on and head inside.

Lizzie is sitting right where I left her.

Gigi turns, her eye black and purple, even through all the makeup.

Lizzie takes in my cut and swollen knuckles. “Oh my gosh. What happened? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just a little accident,” I lie.

“You went and beat up that guy, didn’t you?” she asks, bold as brass.

Rock takes a seat at the bar and signals for a drink.

The bartender comes over with a shot glass and a bottle of his favorite bourbon.

“Set ‘em up,” Rock says, nodding to his men, and the bartender lines us all up with a drink.

Rock lifts his glass. “Bastards, one and all.”

“Bastards.” We all lift our glasses in salute.