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“We ready to do this?” Cobra checked his gun, then returned it to the holster inside his cut.
The others nodded as they checked their own weapons. Nick patted the six-inch, black handle switchblade he’d kept on him since his teens. Cobra already told him he didn’t want him involved unless necessary. He wanted to handle this bikers against bikers especially since the Rats where disrespecting their agreement by setting up shop in Serpent territory. Nick understood. Most of the shit back in Brooklyn had to do with turf wars and respect, but he also believed in being prepared.Nothing said you were serious like a stiletto blade pressed against some fucker’s throat.
The pebbled sand crunched under their feet as they advanced on the shack in the dim light of early morning. Dark enough for cover, but bright enough to see. Cobra and Joker approached the front door of the cabin, exchanged a look, and did a silent countdown. Then, Joker booted the flimsy wood, seconds before they barged through the dilapidated shack guns drawn.
The open space housed a kitchen off to the side with a splintered countertop, rickety stools, and ancient appliances. Battered couches and mismatched chairs lined the walls. Rattler and Mamba stormed through the other two rooms, and the sound of rustling bodies and women’s screams erupted. A few minutes later, they frog-marched three guys out of the bedroom in various stages of undress. The women frantically tried to cover themselves as they huddled on the couch while the Rats glared defiantly at their captors.
Rattler, Mamba, and Boa made fast work of duct taping them to the barstools around the kitchen counter.
“What the fuck, Cobra?” a bulky guy bellowed as Rattler finished taping his ankles to the chair. “The sun ain’t even up yet.”
“I like to get the shittiest parts of my day out of the way,Curtis.” Cobra glared at the leader.
“Phantom,” the Rat corrected between clenched teeth. “I go by Phantom.”
Cobra and Joker exchanged a look. “You fuckin’ guys never learn do you . . .Curtis?”
Boa pushed aside a thick plastic covering leading out the back of the shack. “Looks like they got all the works for their very own do it yourself meth lab.”
“Isn’t that interesting.” Cobra sneered at Curtis. “Don’t you know that shit can blow you up if you don’t do it right?”
“What the fuck you want?”
“I want some answers to some very interesting questions.” Cobra jerked his thumb at Nick. “He owns Club Wicked. The club you trashed two nights ago.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that.”
“You sure?” Cobra shot a glance to Joker at his side pulling on a pair of black gloves.
“I told ya, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
A second later, Joker landed a crushing blow to Curtis’ face.
“Fuck you,” Curtis spat through bloody lips. “I ain’t telling you shit.”
“Maybe I should explain something, Curtis.” Cobra jerked his chin at Nick. “This guy is connected in Brooklyn, as in the mob, and they’re not very happy with fuckers like you coming in and smashing their club up, so I suggest you tell us what went down.”
Curtis eyeballed Nick. “You think that pretty boy scares me.”
Joker huffed out a harsh laugh as him and Cobra stepped to the side.
Nick slipped his hand in his pocket, pulled out the switchblade, and flipped it open. “Back in Brooklyn we handle shit a little different.” Nick grabbed a clump of Curtis’ hair and jerked his head into an unnatural position.
“Now, why don’t we start over.” Nick laid the cold steel blade on the underside of Curtis’ jaw. “All I have to do is flick my wrist.” He pressed harder and a thin trickle of blood covered the sensitive skin.
Curtis’ beady eyes widened, then flicked from Cobra to Nick. “Put the fuckin’ knife down.”
“Not until you tell me something I wanna hear.”
“It wasn’t our idea. We just took the job cause we needed the cash.”
“Still not helpful.” Nick held up the knife stained with Curtis’ blood. “Keep spitting bullshit and you’re gonna be choking on your own blood.”
“All right, all right. This guy, Johnny Russo, came to us with a job. Willing to pay big and all we had to do was trash the storeroom of Wicked.”
Just as Nick suspected. Fuckin’ pussy.
“He came to you directly?” Cobra asked.
