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“IF we get Lou, the Santa Muertes, and the Richards PD,” Kade reminded him.
“We will.”
“Given our track record over the last 30 minutes, I’m not so sure about that anymore.”
“I think you’re better off with the horse doctor,” Sid said.
“Guys?” I said impatiently. “We need to make a decision.”
“It’s the kid’s life – he should be the one to decide,” Sid insisted. “Whaddaya say, kid?”
No answer.
I turned around in my seat to look back at Kade.
His eyes were closed. His face was pale white, and he was barely breathing.
“He’s passed out,” Jack said.
“Shit,” Sid muttered.
Jack looked at me. I could feel the fear coming off him in waves.
“Call the DEA,” he said.
135
Lou
When I dropped Einstein off at the Seven Veils, the goddamn pussy was shaking like a leaf. I locked him in my office with a bottle of scotch, told him to drink until he felt better, then left to go meet up with Peters.
As I drove back, I could see the smoke from the barn from two miles away. It made me fucking sick. And enraged.
God DAMN Jack Pollari. Almost a year preparation, close to a hundred grand, and all my fuckin’ plans down the drain.
I was going to kill that motherfucker. Slowly, and very fuckin’ painfully.
First thing I saw was about ten police cruisers and the shot-up pickup out front on the road. Guess Jack’d driven it down so they didn’t have to walk it on foot – especially since I think Wild Bill clipped Kade.
Good. I hoped that asshole was dead.
I passed on by and pulled up to the main house where Peters was waiting for me.
Behind him, a fire engine was spraying down what remained of the barn. They’d already put out the blown-up Harleys, and the firemen were inspecting the wreckage.
I was pissed about that, too – Jack blowing up some of my best men. Although they were a helluva a lot more replaceable than my fuckin’ meth lab.
What really stuck in my craw was how they’d one-upped me, taking out Chuck like that over at the corner of the house. I’d thought for sure I had them with that one. We’d let Chuck off at the road and he hoofed it to the house while we rode up and then stalled. Chuck was the best shot in the club. He was supposed to take them out before they knew what was going on.
Jack must have had somebody up in the hills, though, with eyes on the scene.
Motherfucker.
And where the fuck did he get a fuckin’ rocket launcher? They weren’t exactly expensive, but they weren’t somethin’ you picked up at Walmart, neither.
I swore I was going to get some answers before I tortured the prick to death.
Unfortunately, I had other problems at the moment. For one, Peters had a stick jammed about two feet up his tightly puckered asshole.
