Chapter Twenty-Three
On a darkand moonless night, at three thirty in the morning, a black pickup truck pulled behind the Climax Lounge. In the cab was a small container of commercial fertilizer—ammonium nitrate—and diesel oil that had been mixed earlier at the clubhouse.
Army, Eagle, Chains, and Goldie had stolen the fertilizer from a storage area on the Granby Farm about forty miles from Alina the night before. The lack of security and the pathetically small padlock on the storage room door made the theft almost too easy.
Army was adept at making bombs. He’d been an Explosive Ordnance Disposal—EOD—technician while he’d been in the military. During his eight-year stint, he’d served both in Afghanistan and Iraq, handling bombs built in factories as well as those built by individuals. When he’d come back from the war, bitter and used up, he found solace in the Night Rebels MC. The men there understood his pain, his hardness, his hatred. They shared a common bond of insurgency against authority, and Army’s forte in bomb making was an asset the club welcomed.
Muerto drove the black pickup on the quiet streets. On a weeknight, the town normally rolled up at about ten o’clock, making covert operations much easier to pull off. The plan was simple: disengage the security system if there was one, break into the club, place the bomb inside, and detonate it from a safe distance. Army had used a blasting cap and detonation cord, with a coffee maker timer. He’d attached the speaker of a cell phone to a relay that applied the current needed for the detonation cord. When the cell phone rang, the current to the speaker would actuate the relay, which would then energize the cord. The spark would set off the bomb, and the strip bar would be destroyed.
Not wanting to damage other businesses in the area, the container used had enough power to shake down some walls, but it was the fire it would start that would burn the place down to the ground. And if Sheriff Wexler acted the way the Night Rebels suspected he would, he’d delay putting out the fire until the building was irreparably damaged.
Jigger and Brutus had been scouting the place all night to make sure no one was in the building; the goal was to destroy it, not kill anyone. If Satan’s Pistons retaliated, however, all bets were off and war between the rival MCs would ensue.
Pulling over to the curb on the backside of the building, Muerto killed the engine. He and Skull got out of the truck and made their way to Brutus and Jigger, who stood in the shadows of the bar.
“You figure out how to disengage the security cameras?” Muerto asked as his eyes darted from the various ones in the parking lot.
“The cheap fucks don’t have them connected,” Jigger said.
“What a bunch of losers,” Muerto said. “Makes our job a helluva lot easier.”
Army and Eagle came over. “We good with the security system?” Eagle said.
“Lazy, cheap fucks only have the cameras for show,” Brutus said. The men chuckled.
“We ready to move?” Army asked as he glanced around the dark streets. The men nodded, then quietly went back to their respective posts.
Muerto moved the pickup into the parking lot, right up against the back doors, and jumped out of the truck. In less than ten minutes the back doors swung open, and he motioned for his brothers to bring the container into the building. Without talking, they moved quickly and stealthily, and in less than fifteen minutes, they were out of the building and driving away. As they turned down a dirt road, Muerto heard the blast. It wasn’t a thunderous, showy boom, just a small rumble echoing in the darkness. The brothers made their way to the clubhouse where they would burn their gloves. Diablo would take the truck to Junkyard Blues and have it crushed the following day.
And life would go on.
***
The headlines intheAlina Daily Journalread “Massive Blast Destroys Strip Bar,” and a picture in full color showed the Climax Lounge burning, plumes of black smoke billowing out of the windows and roof.
Muerto drank his coffee and scarfed down his eggs and bacon as he read the article. “It says that ‘Wexler and the fire department have concluded that a gas pipe broke, causing the blast. We’re fortunate no other businesses sustained any damages in the area. And it’s also lucky that the explosion occurred after the bar had closed so no one was hurt. From the looks of it, the club is severely damaged.’ Fuckin’ right it is. When we do shit, we do it right.” Muerto shoveled in another forkful of food.
Sangre and Skull, sitting with Muerto, laughed. “We can always count on good ol’ Wexler as long as we’re doing his work,” Sangre said as he tugged the paper away from Muerto.
Muerto pushed his chair back from the table. “I keep telling Steel we need to charge the badge when we clean up shit on his watch.”
“There’s no way Wexler’s paying us a visit after saying that ‘gas pipe broke’ shit. But the important thing is that the Satan’s Pistons will know this was a message from us to stay the fuck out of our territory. And if they don’t like it, they can come for us,” Skull said. Several members in the large room agreed and chanted, “Death to Satan’s Pistons.”
Muerto nodded. “Those fuckers better stay in Arizona. I gotta get to the pool hall.” He jerked his chin at his brothers and went out into the bright August sun.
When he entered Balls and Holes, Brandy, Jaime, and Zach were all talking about the explosion at the Climax Lounge. Several patrons had moseyed up to the bar and joined in on the discussion.
“I don’t believe the gas pipe breaking story for one minute,” Brandy said.
“Why not?” Muerto asked her.
“The place was a dive. I’ll bet anything that after they do a full investigation, they’ll find out it was arson. The owners probably wanted the insurance money.” Brandy beamed when several people agreed with her.
“Don’t you think the sheriff would’ve not said anything if they suspected arson? I mean, I would think a broken gas pipe is pretty easy to spot,” Jaime said, and the same people who agreed with Brandy agreed with Jaime.
“It was a dive anyway, so it’s no big deal,” one of the customers said. “It was nothing like Lust.”
“What do you think, Muerto?” Jaime asked.
