Silas
“Fuck,” A black tinted van passes in front of me without making a damn turn signal. “Road hog cocksucker.”
Somewhere between point A and point B, people become regular dicks here on the I-15 in Littlefield, Arizona. That’s probably because the place is the nowhere in the middle of two massive somewheres. With its population of fewer than a thousand people, Littlefield sits close to the Nevada-Arizona borders, between Las Vegas and Mesquite to the southwest, and St. George, Utah to the northwest. The area is informally called Biker Canyon amongst most motorcycle clubs in the area. It’s a bitch to get anywhere from here, but I prefer my tiny, isolated piece of desert paradise. Except for the fucking road hogs. I skim my eyes across the lines of the road before drifting to check my six.
Another black van pulls out of nowhere behind me. The engine roars as the tires screech, and the van bucks forward, nearly clipping the back of my chopper.
I tighten my fingers around the motorcycle handles, bracing myself.
Something isn’t right. Two identical vans cluster-fucking my piece of the highway.
Adrenaline shoots through my veins as I scan up ahead on the two-lane road for an exit if things get ugly. Right now, I’m starting to feel like the meat in a fucking black van sandwich. I’m not in the mood for this shit. The muscles on my forearms bunch up, tension building as I prepare myself for the worst. Despite the dryness in my throat, I swallow and clear my throat. The van ahead slows to a crawl and at the same time, the one behind starts riding my ass. I curse again. There’s a steep wall of red desert rock to my left, and a guardrail to my right to protect motorists from a sharp curve in the road. Nothing that leaves any leeway for a getaway.
Can’t speed up.
Can’t slow down.
Can’t move out of the fucking way.
I guess I’ll go with option D—ride these fuckers out.
I focus on the road, concentrating on keeping my distance so I don’t wipe out and become biker roadkill. The van behind me lays on the horn for a solid minute. I throw up the finger. Whoever is screwing with me, it doesn’t look like they’ll stop anytime soon, not until I’m a blood-soaked skid mark on the pavement. What the hell do I care if they got a bit mad in the process? They’re the ones who fucked with me first. The van behind me leaps forward, nearly knocking into the back wheel of my bike. I speed up and keep to the left.
Another jerk forward from the van behind and I see my slim window of opportunity up ahead. A damn longshot but I have to try, now that my temples buzz and my heart is pounding out of my chest.
Fuck the odds.
I’m fucked I don’t take a chance. I might as well go out on my own terms. Steering out of the curve, I keep my eyes on the back van with the help of my tiny rear-view mirror. I speed up to the one in front, closing in until I’m a few feet from their back bumper. Just as I expected, the van behind me comes in for the kill. I dodge to the left and through a gap in oncoming traffic until I’m on the small strip of shoulder next to the rock face.
The dumbass driving the van behind has no time to adjust and no space to maneuver across the highway to get to me. Even if the guy anticipates it, he can’t drift that clunker across the lane without taking out his own vehicle and a few other motorists and their vehicles in the process. He manages to swerve to the right and pounds hard on his brakes to avoid hitting his friend ahead. It’s a hoot watching them scramble and counter-steer to avoid each other.
I kick out dust as I fly past both of them on the opposite shoulder. Now that the coast is clear, I take in a long breath. I just got within an inch of becoming roadkill. The questions echoing in my head now is, who wants to kill me, and can they give me a little credit instead of slapping together such a fucked up plan to put me down?
Los Diablos?
The Mongols?
Fuck, it could be anyone.
Maybe next time, because I sure as hell ain’t dying today.
The adrenaline’s still pumping, it feels like I’ll be high on it for the entire rest of my ride into town when I take the overhead pass that spills into the outskirts of North Las Vegas near the motor speedway. It’s probably a good thing to be amped up too. With this meeting about to happen, I can use the extra kick. After hanging a right, I reach an incline where I can see the large, fancy residential development of seven brick-and-glass condo buildings in the distance. My stop is the third building. I’ve never been inside, but there’s a first time for everything. Crisp, early evening desert air bites into my lungs. The wind whips into my face as if to say, get it together, motherfucker. I can’t argue with it.
This new client wants me to come alone. He’s only getting his way because he’s highly recommended. I could have brought my VP, Cole, with me if I really wanted to. It’s standard protocol for every first meeting. But taking Cole away from his old lady after their wedding less than a month ago isn’t right. I’m going it alone tonight. It isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.
Pulling out my phone at the red light, I check for updates from my executive that may have come in while I was on route. Nada. Whether that makes me less antsy or more paranoid is up in the air. Still, no news is good news.
I’m still on time, which isn’t bad, considering that van attack. With a sharp right that has the back wheel working overtime to grip pavement, I turn into the parking garage of the condo complex. I pick a spot near the elevator on the fourth floor of the parking structure and do a quick double-check of my pockets. Money, phone, keys, and a tiny slip of paper with the coded location of several wooden boxes of AK-47s. It’s all here, and my trusted sawed off is tucked in the storage compartment of my ride. Heading across the small catwalk separating the parking garage from the condo, I take the elevator down to the main floor before striding into the fancy as fuck lobby. Maybe if I sell enough guns, one day I’ll be swinging around my money bags at a place this posh.
“Excuse me. Can I help you, sir?” The short man at the front desk smirked. He’s standing next to the bell like the one guests ring at a hotel counter in movies, and quickly sizes me up with a judgmental stare. It’s a snobby, condescending expression to tell me that I stick out like a sore thumb without using crude words. I hate the man instantly.
“I’m here to see Mr. Giovanni,” I bark back, for no reason other than to confirm the bellman’s suspicion that yes, I’m a low-brow dangerous motherfucker.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware Mr. Giovanni was expecting visitors.” The man smoothes a hand down his suit before clicking a few buttons on the laptop in front of him. “Indeed, I don’t see anyone else on the approved visitors list for the day, sir.”
The preppy asshole stares at me as though it’s settled.
Fat fucking chance.
