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FURY
“Ican’t believe I’m teaming up with the effing Royal Bastards,” Officer John Carlton mutters, pinching his brow. “In what universe does this happen?”
“In the universe where we can be mutually helpful to each other.” Mack claps him on the back. “Dude, we know the cops have been trying to get at the Eagle’s Talon for a while. Don’t overthink it.”
Mack and I hadn’t seen our old high school buddy for years, until I called his precinct from a burner phone and invited him out for a beer and a friendly chat. He looks none too happy right now to be standing here out in the middle of a darkened parking lot with a bunch of outlaw bikers. But he ain’t dumb. When he heard what I had to tell him about the Talon, he couldn’t walk away from the deal.
We met to talk over a game of darts at an out-of-the-way dive bar in Newport a few days ago. “You know the Eagle’s Talon is a support club for the Bloody Scorpions,” I explained to him. “They’re more than interested in their whole club getting absorbed into the Scorpions. Well, we don’t want that to happen. And I don’t think the cops do, either.”
I had weighed my words as I talked, keeping any hint of Kat out of what I said to Johnny. He didn’t need to know there was any connection between me and Quad Bergland, let alone Quad’s sister.
“Our club just stole a shipment the Talon was planning to sell for Sinaloa. It was a major source of income for them,” I continued. “We destroyed it — I can give you proof of that. But they don’t know that. They think we’re still in possession of it. There’s no way they’re gonna let that stand without trying to get it back. That’s where you come in.”
“Why the hell would you involve the MPD?” he challenged, his eyes full of suspicion.
“The Talon has to do anything they can to get that shipment back.” I glanced over at Mack. “We want to make it so it’s the last thing they ever do. If you take the proof we give you of their crimes and work with us, you can take down the entire Eagle’s Talon. The MPD is happy. We’re happy. You probably get one hell of a raise and a promotion. And the streets are cleaner for everyone,” I concluded, dusting off my hands.
Carlton squinted. “Are you two shitting me? So you’re trying to play the good guys here? Are we ignoring your club’s own contributions to the mean streets of Minneapolis?”
Mack struck a conciliatory tone. “Ah, come on, Johnny. You know there’s a difference between our clubs. Yeah, we might skirt the law sometimes. But these fuckers in the Talon, they’re a different story. They have no honor, no code. Just greed and naked lust for power. They deal meth, they’re involved in trafficking, prostitution. They sell kiddie porn and minor girls to pedos. They pick up women off the street and drug them.”
I picked up where Mack left off. “The women they enslave have to submit to any customer the Talon wants them to. If they don’t, they’re beaten, or worse.” My mind instantly flashed to Kat, and cold fury rushed through my veins at the thought of something like that happening to her. I lean forward. “If someone doesn’t bring down the Talon now, they’ll be absorbed into the Bloody Scorpions, and that will be ten times worse for this fucking town. The Scorpions will be twice as big, twice as strong as they would be otherwise. They’ll have a real foothold here. Don’t tell me you don’t get how huge this is or what it would mean for crime in this city.”
“Fuck.” Johnny jammed a hand through his hair. “Why are you bringing this tome?”
“Because we don’t want that to happen any more than you do,” Mack said. “Maybe for different reasons, but…” He trailed off, shrugging. “You know us. You know you can trust us on this. Dude, this could make your career.”
Johnny scoffed at that.
But in the end, he agreed to work with us.
Now, days later, we’re ready to put the sting in motion. We planted false intel through a “prospect” of ours who got drunk enough in a bar to start shooting off his mouth to a couple of Talons about one of the locations where we store our own product. He was heard bragging about a “major haul of cotton candy” that the Royal Bastards grabbed out from under a rival club.
Now we’re just waiting to see if they took the bait.
The house where we’re posted up in North Minneapolis has a basement that contains a Cold War-era bomb shelter built by the crazy old coot who owned this place back in the nineteen-seventies. That coot was our man Black’s grandfather. Black’s granddad is dead, but the house still belongs to Black’s family. No one lives here right now, which makes it the perfect stash house for our club to hold contraband while we’re waiting to move it. Or so the Eagle’s Talon thinks.
It’s also the perfect location for a sting operation and an ambush. The “product” has been supplied by the Minneapolis PD.
Black, me, and Mack hang out in the house while Johnny and his men get into position. To the Talon, we’re here guarding the product. Sitting ducks, waiting to be picked off. If they were smart, they might be suspicious that this is a set-up, but I’m guessing their thirst for revenge and money will override their intelligence. The product, supplied courtesy of the MPD, is in the bomb shelter.
Johnny’s voice comes through my earpiece telling me the cops are in place. We settle into the partially-furnished living room and watch SportsCenter. It could be hours, or days, but I’m banking on the Talon being too amped to wait for very long.
My phone beeps in my pocket. I take a hopeful glance at the screen thinking maybe it’s Kat, but it’s an unknown number. I frown and put it away. Kat has wanted some distance to think things over, so I haven’t seen her in a few days. We’ve been texting back and forth some, but I don’t like not being able to hear her voice. I’ve tried to call her a few times today but her phone keeps going to voicemail. I need to check in with Franco, a newly-patched Royal Bastard who’s keeping an eye on her, to make sure she’s okay.
I don’t get a chance to make the call, though, because just then Johnny’s voice comes crackling through the earpiece. “We got movement,” he hisses.
“It’s go time,” I tell my brothers. Black, Mack, and I slide out of our seats. Grabbing my piece, I glide silently into the hallway off the kitchen and move into the doorway leading to the stairs down to the basement, killing the lights. I barely hear the muffled sounds that tell me the other two have taken their places.
Minutes later, booted feet come crashing into the place. By now I’m in the basement, and the stomping is right above my head. I can make out three, maybe four sets of boots. These guys don’t bother trying to be quiet, assuming that whoever is here can be taken out easy enough.
I’m in the shadows when the first set of boots comes hammering down the basement stairs. I take care to stay out of sight behind an old washer/dryer set, my breathing shallow and silent. The bomb shelter is a big rectangle built of concrete block, taking up one entire side of the basement. The door to the shelter is closed but not locked. The rest of the basement is pretty empty, so the Talon immediately makes a bee line for the shelter door. As he nears it, a second guy comes thundering down the stairs. Up a couple floors, there’s shouting and some crashing. The rest of the Talons must have found our guys.
The first Talon turns to the second one, who’s now at the bottom of the stairs. “The fuck is that?” asks the second one, but the first one ignores the question. “In here,” he says urgently, as he swings open the shelter door. I think I recognize his voice as Quad’s.
The second dude follows as they both step through. Seconds later, whoops of glee erupt from inside. I step out from behind the washer, careful not to make any noise. Slowly, I approach the door to the shelter, wrapping my fingers silently around the handle, I spring forward, swinging the heavy door shut before they can react. The heavy-duty Schlage self-locking flip latch I installed earlier on the outside of the door clicks closed. I shove an ice pick under the hasp to jam it locked. That’ll keep them here long enough for the cops to get to them. Jury’s out on whether they’ll be dumb enough to try to shoot their way out of a bomb shelter.
As I start jogging up the stairs, Mack shouts down to me from the second floor. “Fury! You good?”
