“Listen up, puta,” Buzz Hair says as he moves over to the couch and stares down at me with steely gray eyes. “You behave and nothing is gonna happen to you. We,” he lifts up a knife I hadn't realized he was holding and gestures between me and the other guys, “are caballeros. Gentlemen. So, you are gonna call up el alcalde and tell him the deal. You understand me?”
It takes me a second to translate that. El alcalde … mayor? Great.
I nod because, come on, what else do you do when the bad guy tells you his plan? You nod and cry and promise and agree—and then the second his back is turned, you plan and scheme yourself the fuck out of there.
The Saldaña Cartel needs to make sure the Trinidad Police—and especially the two FBI agents—are busy tonight, their attention focused anywhere else but at the Alpha Wolves Compound.
I feel like I'm going to throw up as Buzz Hair hands me a script and informs me that if I deviate a single syllable from that piece of paper, that he'll shoot my finger off and keep Royal's sister's ring for his esposa.
I believe him.
The phone is in my hand, my fingers dialing my dad's cell phone number as I try to puzzle my way out of this situation. I'm only going to get one shot at this. One. If I blow this, I may as well dig my own grave. Seconds away from hitting send, I hear the sound of a car moving down the dirt road toward the house.
My blood chills and I assume it's the cartel's reinforcements or some more Mile Wide guys, but then I notice the stiff tension in the men around me.
“Get her down to the basement,” Buzz Hair says a split second before Machine Gun Guy grabs my gag and jerks it up to my lips, clamping his fingers hard around my bicep and drawing a gasp of pain from my lips. “Son of a bitch,” the man mutters as I'm dragged, stumbling on bound ankles, my feet so numb I can barely stand. “It's the fucking policía.”
Down the hall we go, past the rows of plants in black pots, the heat lamps buzzing above them, the walls and ceiling covered in silver insulation.
A knock sounds at the door and a moment later, I hear Agent Shelley's voice.
“This is Special Agent Heather Shelley with the FBI; we'd like to ask you a couple of questions.”
Three feet until the basement door. Two feet.
I let my knees collapse, the sudden shift in weight giving me a split second to turn my head and let out the loudest, shrillest scream I can muster. The sound tears my throat to pieces, shattering it like ragged glass and yes, I'm gagged, but that doesn't stop all the sound. A shrieking pierce tears through the fabric and echoes in the silent hallway at the same moment Machine Gun Guy hits me in the side of the head with his gun.
Stars explode as my temple blooms with pain, my body sagging beneath me as the man adjusts his hold on my arm and drags my comatose body towards the basement door.
“This is Agent Shelley; we need backup at 761 Forty-four Creek Road; this is a code three.”
Shots fire from inside the house, straight through the door, the sound echoing around my scrambled brains as I scream, this time out of reflex. What have I done?!
The cement steps of the basement loom and then the door is slamming shut behind us.
Our big break comes moments later, courtesy of the police scanner.
“This is Agent Shelley; we need backup at 761 Forty-four Creek Road; this is a code three.”
Code three. Urgent crime in progress, sirens, all due expediency.
“Forty-Four Creek,” Glacier says, snapping his tattooed fingers at me. “There's a shit ton of grow houses buried up in those trees. If Mile Wide's using one of those to hold Lyric, we might have a chance. It's not too far from here. About … twenty miles maybe?”
I nod my chin at him as Smoky passes out a deadly arsenal to me and the boys. We've called in everyone tonight, from the prospects to the old-timers. Nobody sets foot in our fucking territory, shoots up our old ladies.
I ignore another call from the mayor on my mobile and watch as Glacier pulls up a map on his, showing me the address that Agent Shelley mentioned on her radio call. He's right; it's not too far from here. If we are barking up the wrong tree so to speak, this won't take us far off target. Thing is, I'm having a really hard time believing that this shooting at the store and the urgent plea for backup from the FBI agents in town is a coincidence.
“Gun up and let's go. If we leave now, we can get a head start on the cops. With all this business at the grocer, the department's going to have to rely on backup from Eureka. It's gonna take 'em time to get here.”
Without waiting for a response, I head outside, straight to my 66 Bobber and climb on, jamming my helmet in place and listening to the overwhelming growl of bikes around me. The men at my back are loyal, armed to the teeth, ready to take back our territory.