Page 22 of Reno

Saddened by the reality of the situation, I tried to pry him from his semiconscious state. “What are you thinking?”

He appeared to have an epiphany. “What’s his biggest fear when it comes to life? Not spiders or snakes or dumb shit like that. What does he fear when it comes to his business, and in life?”

I didn’t have to think about it for long. “Two things, I suppose. In life? Someone else having me, sexually. The thought of that drove him insane. In business? His men losing their loyalty to him. Snitching or going to work for the competition.”

“What if I got word to him that his two men were still alive, and said they were now working for me instead of him? And, if I explained that you and I were together, and said he needed to back the fuck off, forget about you and forget about them? Would that get him—”

“If you said those things, he’d come here for sure,” I said, interrupting him mid-sentence. “But he wouldn’t be very happy.”

“I don’t want him happy, I want him so fucking mad he’s incapable of seeing straight.”

When Angel was happy, he was a savage. When he was angry, words couldn’t describe his demeanor. I had no doubt that Reno’s plan, if implemented properly, would have Angel angrier than I’d ever seen him. That anger would force him to react.

“If you do that, he’ll be so mad…” I shook my head. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

He smirked. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

8

Reno

Considering the Filthy Fuckers’ experience at killing drug dealers, Baker, Tito and I were gathered at their clubhouse in the hope of formulating a plan to kill one more.

Their building looked like what a Motorcycle Club’s clubhouse should look like. It was no more than a large metal warehouse with a concrete floor. A fingerprint-stained refrigerator was positioned at the end of a long workbench, and one corner of the building was filled with motorcycles that were one bottle of beer away from being ready to ride.

“Breaking the code was simple,” Tito said.

“What big revelations are there?” Crip asked.

“There were names, addresses, and telephone numbers. That’s it. I’m guessing we’ve got the numbers and addresses of every drug dealer and front business in the area, though.”

“El Alacrán’s phone number is in there?” Crip asked.

Tito nodded. “There’s several phone numbers in there with his name.”

Crip took a drink of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What if I talk to the detective, explain to him what our situation is, and ask what he thinks we should do? We could fuck around and make a mess of this quick if we make the wrong move.”

“I don’t like the idea of having a cop involved,” I complained. “Cops make me nervous.”

“Cops make me just as nervous as the next guy,” Crip said. “But this isn’t a typical cop.”

“When it comes right down to it, cops are cops,” I said. “Sooner or later, they all start doing cop shit.”

“Obviously not,” Crip argued. “He knows your little rag tag bunch robbed that bank, and he hasn’t done anything about it yet.”

“He’s got a point,” Baker said.

“What’s wrong with us setting up a buy, getting him to cross the border, and—”

“No matter how we do it, the cops are going to have to arrest him the instant he crosses the border,” Crip interjected. “That means they’re going to have to be involved from the beginning. They’re going to need to be poised, ready, and waiting. If not, that asshole’s going to be in this country doing what he wants to who he wants. I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not looking to get my head whacked off with a chain saw.”

“Me, neither,” Tito said.

“So, what do we do? Just call this cop and say, ‘hey come on down to the clubhouse, we want to talk to you about a drug dealer we’d like to get rid of’, and this guy’s going to come down here and have a beer with us and discuss it?”

Crip chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

* * *