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“Who would do something like that?” Ice asks, looking a little queasy.
“That’s the part that scares me the most, Prez. There’s only one man I’ve heard about who does some seriously fucked-up shit like that here in the States. They call him Cook, and he’s a hired killer for the mob … usually. But he has been known to take on outside jobs, including the domestic kind where a wife wants her man killed and shit. The man has a fucked-up moral compass in how he takes on jobs. Thought you should know since now he might be in our territory.”
“What I want to know is why he’s called Cook,” I tell Screech.
He unfolds one of his arms so he can run his hand over his chin. “That motherfucker is crazy, Coal. He was dubbed Cook because, get this shit, he cooks his victims. At least, that’s what I heard through the grapevine.”
Ice suddenly says, “Enough about gossip. I don’t want this psycho in our area. Screech, I want you to give me all the information you can dig up on him. Then I want you to use your contact at the police department to get us photos and reports about the crime scene. We can’t show up on sight while the cops are still in play, but we can get started here. We need to tell the guys to be on the lookout for wacked-out shit like this. Time to put our ears to the ground and our asses to work.”
This is what we do. We run a few legit businesses in Alibi and After Midnight, our strip clubs. We are even equal opportunity employers, making sure we have a male and female strip club. Then there is the underbelly to what we really do. The Regulators MC is a front, sort of.
See, we are a band of brothers, like any other motorcycle club. We have a hierarchy. Ice is our prez, and I am the VP. I will take these men’s backs at any given time, as they will do for me. Then again, I would do it without the patches on our cuts or the titles we carry.
Ice, Hammer, and I were in the Army together. Green Berets, we were part of a Special Forces team. Shooter, another man from our team, along with Boomer, they settled in North Carolina and ride with the club they found home in with the Hellions. They handle club life their way, while Ice, Hammer, and I formed the Regulators as our Black Ops cover.
Uncle Sam, the government, they have different segments throughout the world where they need to have people of a certain skill set step in and do jobs they can’t do while remaining under the radar. Lucas Young, another man from our team in the Army, works in another government agency similar to ours under the command of Jaxon Wall. His Ex Ops team typically takes jobs wherever and whenever they are needed, whereas we keep to the South Beach area as much as possible since there is so much cartel and drug activity here.
The Regulators, we have a certain pass in life, a get out of jail free card, as long as the missions we take are either issued by the higher ups that be or something we deem to be a safety issue in our territory. A trained killer, yes, that’s most definitely a safety issue.
A man with a reputation for killing. A man who goes by the name “Cook.” My stomach churns thinking about it. Sick fuck.
~Paisley~
“Do you want help out with this, Mrs. Martinez? I can call someone to help ya,” I ask the little old lady who comes in on the third of every month to get her groceries. She takes a cab here, and instead of letting the cab wait, she will stand out front with her cartful of groceries and wait for another one.
“No, sweet Paisley, I can get it, sugar.” She smiles at me while her hand trembles around the grip of her cane.
I let out a small huff when I glance back to see I have a line of four more customers behind her. I’m the only register open, so I can’t send them away. Usually, if I’m not busy, I take my break and wait out front with her. Then, when the cab comes, I give a twenty to the driver and ask them to help her unload the groceries when she gets home. Today, I can’t. This means, if the wrong driver comes, they will make this eighty-year-old woman toss her own groceries in the trunk, and then not help her when they arrive at her home. Anxiety fills me that Mrs. Martinez will have to struggle in this Florida heat.
Slowly, she gets her things together after paying and pushes her cart outside. I begin to ring up my next customer, only paying attention to their belongings.
