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“I’m with Gabriel, why? What’s up?”
“You two get your asses to the club now, and come straight to the basement,” He spits out before hanging up.
Standing up, I look at Gabriel. “Sounds like there’s a situation.”
We lock up the shop, before climbing on our bikes, making our way to the clubhouse.
Fifteen minutes later we’re making our way down the basement stairs. We see one of the prospects guarding the door. He gives a chin lift and lets us by. Opening the door, I see a man tied to a chair. Jake is sitting in another chair directly in front of our tied-up friend, and Quinn is leaning up against the wall on the other end of the room.
“Hey, Prez. What do we have here?”
“Caught this motherfucker snooping around our warehouse. Prospect found him trying to break in through the back door. Knocked his ass out and called me.”
“Is he talking?” I ask.
“Nope, doesn’t seem to speak any English.”
Our eyes cut over to Gabriel. This is where he comes in.
Jake stands up, moving his chair out of the way, as Gabriel steps in front of the idiot who had the nerve to fuck around on our property.
“Nombre? Name?” Gabriel asks him.
The man spits at his feet, earning him a punch to the mouth, splitting his bottom lip.
“Nombre?” he asks his name, again.
“No te estoy diciendo mierda. I’m not telling you shit,” the man spits out.
“String him up!” Jake orders.
Quinn pushes off the wall, walking over to help me. There is a large wood beam that spans the entire length of the basement about ten feet off the floor. Grabbing some rope, I toss it over the beam while Quinn grabs the now struggling man. I thread the rope through his already tied hands and walk behind him to pull until his feet barely touch the floor. Then I wrap my end of the rope around an anchor bolted to the floor.
Visibly shaking, our nameless friend is starting to realize he’s fucked with the wrong club. Gabriel comes back over after removing his cut and t-shirt. This pussy looks like he’s about to piss his pants.
Suddenly, the man shouts out. “Mi Nombre es Manuel, por favor. Please, my name is Manuel.” He starts talking in rapid-fire Spanish, back and forth with Gabriel.
“He says, Los Demonios sent him. They found out where our warehouse is and Manuel here was supposed to call them once he broke in. They promised him a cut if he did it.”
“Those mother-fuckin’ cocksuckers think they can steal from us?” Prez roars.
We buy guns from the Russians and store them in our warehouse across town. Then every few months we run them to the Canadian border, selling them to a couple of low-level Asian street gangs. That’s how the club makes a good chunk of its money.
Now we’ve got Los Demonios sniffing around our dealings. Jake looks over to Gabriel giving him the sig
nal.
“We can’t let him live. You fuck with the club and there are no second chances. Make an example of him.”
With a nod, Gabriel unsheathes the knife he carries at his side, and in one swift move slits Manuel’s throat.
We stand there and watch the life drain from his face.
“I want his body dumped at those sons of bitches’ compound. Let this be an example as to what happens when you fuck with the Kings.” Jake rages.
“Quinn, get the prospects in here to clean this shit up. Gabriel, you’re with me. Let’s get this shit done.” I bark out.
An hour later we approach the Los Demonios clubhouse after loading Manuel’s body in the back of the van. Looks like there’s a party. We can hear loud music, and a few people are strolling around outside. Doesn’t look like they have anyone at the front gate. Stupid fucks.
