Man of the House(185)

Then suddenly they stopped getting closer. The bikes were idling, which meant I couldn’t hear a word the guys were saying. I couldn’t see them, either, since they weren’t in my line of sight. They were to my right, and I guessed there were at least five of them.

They were right fucking on top of us.

But nothing was happening. We kept waiting, probably waiting for the dealers to get there with the cash. The bikes just kept running and nothing happened. They didn’t find our guys, and none of us jumped up early.

Fifteen more minutes and then I heard the cars coming, not as loud as the bikes, but loud enough to announce themselves from a distance. I caught sight of these big black trucks, hauling up dust and shit as they tore across the desert.

Not long after that they passed out of my sight and I heard their engines die. Doors opened and shut, and the bike engines finally cut off.

“Carlos,” a man called out. “Good to see you.”

“Same to you, brother.”

I heard some footsteps and more voices, but they were too far away for me to make anything out.

Fuck, I was ready. They were all there, sitting out in the open, and none of us had been caught. I couldn’t fucking believe this was working, but they were probably too busy worrying about their own deal to look around and spot some fucking big-ass bikers covered in camouflage just waiting to kill them.

A minute passed. I could barely wait. My adrenaline was pumping, coursing through my veins, anticipating the violence that was about to happen.

Then I heard it. Two whistles, clear as day.

I rocked back, dirty flying off my body and spraying everywhere as I brought my rifle up level.

I had about two seconds to take in the scene. There were seven Mezcals, three of which were standing over near a group of white guys I didn’t recognize, probably the dealers. There were more dealers standing back by the trucks, big-looking guys, probably armed.

And then there were our boys, popping up all around them. There were only seven of us, and we were way out numbered, but the Mezcals and their clients didn’t stand a fucking chance.

Only problem was, we were spaced weirdly. The deal wasn’t happening right in the middle of our loose ring. Worse, there were some guys directly across from me.

But there was no time to rearrange.

We started firing, and all hell broke loose.

My gun felt like a hammer in my hand, summoning down death from the sky. I blasted the first Mezcal I saw, tearing his body into shreds. The other Mezcals standing around their bikes were torn to pieces by the others, and I quickly turned my fire onto the group in the middle.

They scattered and tried to draw their weapons, but too slowly. I kept firing and lit them up, tearing their bodies into bloody shreds.

Down toward the trucks, the dealers drew their weapons and actually started to return fire. I dropped to my stomach, getting down low, and fired at one of them, tearing up his leg. He dropped with a scream.

The dealers fired back, but it was a slaughter. They weren’t ready for it at all, and we had automatic weapons. The number of bullets we were pumping into them more than made up for the difference in manpower.

There was just nothing they could do. The scene was a bloody mess of screaming, dying men, and I felt my blood coursing through my body, excitement ripping through me. I lived for this, for the destruction of my enemies, the enemies of those I cared for.

I couldn’t stop myself. I kept pulling that trigger, firing again and again, tearing into their bodies, killing them. They dropped one by one, and although a couple of the dealers tried to find cover behind their cars, we got them eventually.

And as I fired, she came into my mind. Janine, her body, the way she looked at me earlier that morning, her shorts barely covering her amazing body, the sleep in her eyes. I was killing these men as much for her as I was for my club, maybe more. They were our enemies. They were the reason she was stuck in this fucking no-win situation, why I couldn’t have what I wanted.

Again and again, bullets flying, bodies tearing apart.

Finally, I heard another whistle, weak over the sound of guns blasting.

I let go of the trigger, my weapon falling silent. The Mezcals and the dealers, they were all dead. The only sound was silence, the silence of death and destruction.

“Fuck!” someone yelled. “Lavoy!”

I stood up, scanning the area. Partially across the way from me was Lavoy. He was lying on his back, not moving.

Burke was the one who had yelled, and he got to him fast, the rest of us just behind him. Lavoy was lying in his own blood, a bullet wound in his chest. He opened his mouth to gasp, to say something, but nothing came out.

He was dead a minute later.

“Shit,” Clinton said. “Fucking bastards.”