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“Don’t care what’s in there, just unload it so I can get back to Searchlight and get paid.”
Mamba had seen his fair share of artillery and at ten at night with a two-hour ride back he had even less interest.
“Ahh, c’mon, I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
Mamba blew out a breath. Humor the fucker and get gone. “Yeah, sure.”
He followed the meth-head to the back of the van. The guy inserted a key, flipped the lock and swung the double doors open like a game show host.
Mamba’s eyes widened. At first he thought the dim lighting was playing tricks on him. Then he choked as the fetid smell hit his gut. His stomach pitched and bile rose in the back of his throat. He gripped the open cargo door and turned to meth-head.
“Good looking, right?” His toothless smile like a jack-o-lantern in a horror movie.
“What the fuck?” Mamba hissed.
“Should get a pretty penny once they reach San Francisco.” The slimy tweaker nudged Mamba’s shoulder. “Maybe I’ll break a few of them in first.” He cackled around his words. “Maybe you wanna stay and join the party. Next driver ain’t due for another hour. Plenty of time for us to all get acquainted.”
Mamba stepped back as nausea hit him hard, then his brain spun with knocking out this loser and driving these girls to freedom.
“What’sa matter, you don’t like fresh pussy?” The tweaker’s voice rose.
Mamba slipped his hand inside his waistband and gripped his gun as he stepped to the tweaker.
“What the fuck is taking so long?” A deep voice rumbled behind him and Mamba spun around to see two guys his size armed with automatic rifles pointed directly at him.
“Quit bullshitting and get this done.” The guy reached into the van, grabbed one of the zip-tied girls by the wrist and dragged her out. Then he ordered the others to follow as he herded them at gunpoint toward the back door of the bar.
The other guy slammed the doors of the van shut and turned to Mamba. “Take your ass back to Nevada.”
Mamba backed away sickened by what he saw and powerless to do anything about it. He had no doubts these guys would shoot him where he stood if he tried to intervene. Anybody who could be involved in this kind of torture wouldn’t give two shits if an outlaw biker lived or died.
Mamba knew how this went down. Use different cars so it’s harder to trace. Most times, the cars came out of junkyards who were in on the scam. No registration, stolen license plates, riding at night on desolate highways and roads. Transporting humans wasn’t as easy as drugs, guns, or money. The traffickers had to keep them alive if only barely, plus they changed the drop-offs weekly, as not to raise suspicion.
He slid into the driver’s seat of the van as they dragged the defenseless girls into the bar. He drove out of the lot, found I-15, and pointed the van east. The ride back to Searchlight was plagued with visions of preteen girls zip-tied, barely dressed with their mouths duct taped in the sweltering van. Their sorrowful eyes pleading for help.
Mamba’s life bordered on brutal. He’d seen life’s cruelties, learning early on how to fight for what he wanted and how to survive, but he hated seeing such harsh brutality against innocent victims. Sure, as enforcer, he’d pulled the trigger against men his own size, enemies who threatened himself or his club, but never this—he’d go back to Searchlight, but no way he’d take Marita’s money. He’d work twenty-four hours a day before he’d take money for doing that job.
One thing, he could bring back firsthand information to Cobra about who was doing the human trafficking. Of course, he’d have to listen to his prez ream him out and rip him a new asshole for getting involved with Marita, but it would be worth it if it saved those girls or other girls.
He finally pulled into the The Frontier at midnight. They must’ve had a tracker on the vans because right on cue the muscle head reappeared and made his way over as Mamba pushed the door open.
“Marita’s waiting for you.”
Mamba handed him the keys and silently walked across the lot and into the dingy bar. Three guys sat hunched over the bar staring at the TV on the wall as Mamba trudged to the back room. He knocked once and entered the cramped space.
“Everything’s where it should be?”
There were so many things wrong with that question. Obviously, she’d already been in contact with her connection in Barstow, but her casual attitude fucked with him.
“You didn’t tell me I’d be transporting girls.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
“Fuck, yeah. I don’t wanna be involved in that kinda shit.”
“The outlaw biker has morals?”
“When it comes to women and children, yeah!”
