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The door opens and he’s face-to-face with none other than Bones. The motherfucker I’d love to kill for the stunt he pulled the last time we were around the Hellrazors.
Bones stares at him with open drunkenness. “Who the hell are you?”
“Your distributor,” Olivares answers. “We’ve got… you scheduled a transaction tonight.”
Bones sways in place, clearly too damn intoxicated. “The distributor? Olivares? Yeah… right. Gimme a sec.”
“Move out the way! Bones, don’t go fucking shit up!” Dirty calls as he shoulders his fellow club member out the way. Dawning lights up Dirty’s craggy, wrinkled face. “Right… the merchandise. Show me the way.”
He and Bones follow Olivares toward the truck.
Both men, a few beers into the night, seem unconcerned and off-guard of any potential threats. They wander across the wide parking lot without a care in the damn world, clueless that their world’s about to be fucked all the way up.
Olivares walks them to the back of the light duty truck and peels open the doors to show them the cargo he’s delivering.
Dirty’s red eyes widen at first, spotting the many kilos of cocaine, and practically salivating at the mouth.
Then he realizes something’s off—for starters, the weapons are missing—and there’s a guy in the back, grinning and waving at him.
Ozzie holds up the grenade and says, “Hey, Dirty. Special delivery.”
“What the fuck?” He jumps back in alarm.
In the next second, we’re on him.
On either side, we’ve got guns pointed at him. Olivares is knocked out of the way.
“Guess who, asshat?” I growl. “Told you not to fuck with us.”
“What do you think you’re—”
“Tonight’s the night you answer for the shit you’ve pulled,” I interrupt, uninterested in talk. “Oz.”
“My fucking pleasure. Everybody get back.” Ozzie hops out the truck, pulling the pin, and chucking it.
Some of us make it out the blast zone in time. Others aren’t so lucky.
Olivares, lying on the ground form where he’s been knocked over, is one of the less lucky ones. Bones is the other.
The truck erupts in a burst of flames and debris, eating up both men, setting them on fire with gut-wrenching screams of pain.
Flames that reflect in Dirty’s watery, horrified eyes.
Satisfaction at his misfortune only makes me grin wider. He’s in our custody now.
We force him back with jabs from our guns. He stumbles trying to walk backward and almost falls.
We’ve stepped into their lair, seemingly outnumbered. The other Hellrazors glare at us looking the part of caged animals just waiting for their release. The signal from Dirty they can attack.
“You think you can come here and blow up our supply on our turf?” Dirty chokes out. Color rushes to his saggy cheeks. “You’re always starting shit.”
“We’re not starting shit. We’re here to finish it.”
“You think you’re gonna what? Bully us into standing down? Fellas.” He gives a nod over his left and right shoulders.
The pack of Hellrazors in attendance flash their weapons, pulling back their cuts to show off the guns they’ve got strapped on their person.
I remain unfazed, standing my ground. “You’re all armed as expected. So are we.”
