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Tyler looked at me in shock. “Why the hell did we come all the way out here just to watch some pig get in his car and drive off?”
I cranked the engine and shouted, “Sometimes you need an overwhelmin’ show of force to be convincin’. Shock ‘n awe, and all that.”
He pulled the Unhappy Toddler look again. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s why I do the thinkin’ around here,” I said, and patted his mutton-chopped cheeks. “You just keep lookin’ pretty for me.”
Then I gunned the engine and led my pack outta town.
167
Lou
This was it. Time to get paid.
We roared up on the gasworks at a few minutes before eleven – over 40 of us, including the dimwits Jack had tried to warn earlier in the day. Tex was the only one sitting this one out, on account of his fucked-up shoulder.
Lou, he’d said, watch out – Jack’s comin’ for you, and he’s loaded for bear.
Let the motherfucker come. It’d be the last thing he ever did.
I wasn’t too concerned about him fucking up the deal with the Santa Muertes, though I did have Sloane on speed dial just in case.
I figured there were a couple different ways things could go. Either Jack would show up with the DEA in tow, in which case I’d call Sloane and let her and Rodrigo shoot it out with the Feds while I took off with the cash. And maybe the meth, if I got lucky.
The other option is Jack wouldn’t show at all, in which case I’d call Sloane over to ‘negotiate’ with Rodrigo, and the Santa Muertes could slaughter the Bastards on the spot and pick up Arizona as part of their territory.
Either way, I should walk out with three and a half million dollars.
I had the MC park several hundred feet from the gasworks, with all their bikes in a line. I drove my Harley twenty feet farther out than the rest of them, then got off and lit a cigarette. Gunner was driving a pickup truck with the three barrels of meth in the bed, and he pulled in behind the other club members.
Down the highway, sixty individual headlights flared in the darkness.
“Get ready – but be cool,” I called out to my men.
The motorcycles pulled off the highway and slowly rode over to us. Rodrigo was in the lead, followed by the ugliest collection of tatted-up Mexicans you ever saw. They slowed down and stopped about a hundred feet away.
I figured we’d start with a nice little charade to begin the evening.
“Rodrigo,” I called out, all friendly-like. “Where’s Hector?”
Rodrigo responded in kind and played it to the hilt. “Your fuckin’ presidente Jack Pollari killed him – AND Loco!”
The Santa Muertes on the bikes snarled and grimaced like they were out for blood.
My boys were decidedly freaked out by the news. I could see a few edging for their guns out of the corner of my eye.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa – I kicked that cocksucker out of the Riders two weeks ago!” I yelled. “You know that, Rodrigo!”
I walked away from my Harley, out into the no-man’s zone. I figured it showed I wasn’t afraid – and that I was willing to put myself on the line for the deal. Another cute bit of theater for the crowd.
“In fact, Jack fuckin’ attacked four of my guys today, tryin’ to get revenge! Shot one of ‘em in the shoulder. Ain’t that right, Indiana?”
Indiana was quiet.
I turned towards him and put an edge in my voice. “I said, ain’t that right, Indiana?”
“Yeah… yeah,” he mumbled. Didn’t sell it at all.
