Chapter Three: Business
The sound of insistent banging coming from the front door wrenched the former enforcer from sleep. Cops, Sonia's groggy mind warned her; she had lived on the opposite side of the law for far too long to think that kind of assertive knocking could be anyone other than the authorities. And she had assaulted a man with a shovel and destroyed his property last night. Chances were he and his brother were the tattlers. Those rat bastards are gonna pay for this when I post bail.
Sonia pulled herself up in bed, looking toward the clock through bleary eyes that slowly came into focus. It was a little past noon. She'd slept through the alarm and was five hours late for work.
Well, if I don't get arrested, I could use another day off, Sonia thought as she arose from the mattress, pulling on her silk, purple house robe.
She left the bedroom and crossed the living room as the banging went on and on, the door rattling on its hinges. "Alright already! Christ." She grabbed the knob and pulled the door open, but it was not the smug mug of one of Sandy Shores' deputies that she found herself looking at. Instead, it was the vicious visage of the man who'd come to her 'rescue' yesterday. She'd already forgotten his name. Something with a T. Travis?
The man was dirty from head to foot, covered in sand and dust and blood. Red also spattered his face, giving it an even more savage look. He didn't appear to be injured, aside from what were obviously self-inflicted 'meth sores' and the bruised track marks up his left arm, certainly nothing that would shed the amount of blood soaked into his shirt and jeans.
"You send another local misogynist to meet his maker?" she greeted.
He blinked at her, confused. "What?"
Sonia gestured at his clothes. "It's obviously not your blood."
"Oh, that." He waved it away as if it were nothing. "Just a minor incident involving a crowbar and a handful of hillbilly fucks who thought it was clever to accuse me of having an incestuous relationship with my mother - a baseless, false accusation." He growled that last part at her in anger, as if she were the one to make that offensive charge.
"Okay..." She didn't know what else to say.
"So, anyway..." The man slid forward into the threshold, resting a blood-speckled forearm against the door jamb as he leaned further into her space. "I was thinking, I wanna get to know my new neighbor better. So you and I are gonna spend some quality time together."
Sonia was beginning to suspect his persistent invasion of her personal space was his idea of a cowing tactic. A waste of time. Since being driven into her current situation by her former boss' promise of retributive death, she refused to be intimidated by anyone else. "We are?"
That was not the response Trevor wanted, which he made evident by twisting his face up in disapproval and narrowing his dark eyes. "And why the fuck not, huh?"
Sonia considered the question. She didn't see any point coming in for work since she was already well past late and would only have a three hour shift left. That, and she hated shitwork, no matter how many would-be, handsome, leather-clad robbers it could throw at her. Even handsome robbers got boring after a while. Having yet to find anything even remotely entertaining to do in this town, Sonia supposed 'spending quality time together' might at least eat up some time. Hell, who knows, it might even be fun. "Yeah, okay," she finally answered. "Why the fuck not? I don't got any pressing obligations at the moment."
Displeasure easing from his countenance, the man clapped his hands together in an eager manner. "Fantastic. We got ourselves a date then."
Sonia assumed he was turning a phrase and didn't actually mean that kind of date. "Right. Well, I'm gonna go get dressed. It'll only take a-"
Trevor swiped a dismissive hand through the air. "You look fine to me. Let's vamos."
Sonia made a face. "In case you failed to notice, I'm wearing a house robe, and not much else."
His eyes slid down her body as if those words were an invite to do so, a corner of his mouth curving into a crooked, licentious smile. Yesterday Sonia hadn't really taken much notice of those eyes, other than that they were dark, but up close now she saw they were the deep brown of freshly tilled earth with an unusual, eerie luminosity in them. "Oh, I noticed," he said, voice lowered to a suggestive purr. "The less clothes, the better; they're only gonna get in the way."
"I'm not going out in public like this," she insisted for the last time and turned away from the door.
"Fine," Trevor called after her with a tone befitting a bitter child who has just been denied a treat. "Be fuckin' quick about it. Ain't got all day for you to primp and preen, princess."
Sonia made a face at the mocking 'term of endearment' as she headed off for the bedroom. "Right, because your schedule is obviously so full. Make yourself at home, I guess."
In the bedroom, Sonia closed the door and set about rummaging through her suitcase for something to wear. She hadn't gotten around to putting her clothes away yet, and it would probably be an age before she would; she tended to be forgetful sometimes. She didn't exactly have anywhere to put her clothes in any case, as the furniture that came with the house was sparse. There were closets, but she had an intense aversion for small, enclosed spaces. Once her first paycheck came in and the government paid her at the end of the month, she would finally be able to start getting some work done on the house, and those closets were going to be the first thing to go.
Sonia picked out a black bra, a plum-hued tank top and pair of jeans to wear. Once she was fully dressed, she ran a brush through her dark chestnut hair, then collected from her suitcase the only weapon she had been able to slip past the Marshals, the switchblade with the mother-of-pearl handle that her parents had presented to her on her twelfth birthday; an unusual gift for a preteen, but she'd had peculiar, unconventional parents. She also retrieved the gun she'd confiscated off the biker yesterday, tucking it into the front of her jeans. Never know when I'm gonna need it.
Grabbing her pack of Redwoods and her lighter off the nightstand and shoving them into her hip pocket, Sonia headed out of the room. She found her guest lounging on the couch, dirty boots propped up on the once-clean coffee table, munching down one of her favorite energy bars while he scratched at his crotch. Well, he's a barrel full of charm, she thought, then noticed the mess of food wrappers scattered across the floor in front of the couch and frowned.
"Jesus God, man. I leave you alone for a few minutes and you've eaten all of my energy bars and made a mess of my living room floor."
Trevor shrugged a shoulder. "You did tell me to make myself at home."
Sonia was not amused by that, if the look on her face was any indication.
The man crammed that last bite of energy bar into his mouth, tossed the wrapper on the floor with the rest, then pushed himself up from the couch, dusting crumbs off his shirt. Sonia wondered why he even bothered. "Let's fuckin' go already; I ain't gettin' any younger."
She rolled her eyes and headed for the front door. Outside on the stairs, she noticed an old, faded red Canis Bodhi parked in her driveway and cast a glance over a shoulder at the man. "That's your beater, I take it?"
Trevor got an offended look. "Oh, nice. Really presumptuous and judgmental of you to take one look at her and assume she's a piece of shit."
"It's just a car. It's not like I insulted your mother."
"Fair warning," he replied, his voice dipping to a hazardous growl. "You ever insult my mother, I'll rip your fuckin' heart out. Anyway, my Betty ain't 'just a car'. We've been through a lot of shit together; she's an old, reliable friend, so show her some fuckin' respect."
"Betty?"
"Yeah, Betty." He eyed the woman, critically. "You got something judgmental to say about that, too?"
She shrugged. "I just didn't take you for the type to name his transportation."
Trevor grunted. "There you go, making presumptions again."
Sonia shot him a scathing look. "Is this gonna be a thing now? I make one minor misjudgment about 'Betty' and you're gonna hold it over my head?"
"What a silly question! Of course I am. It's my way of helping you correct your faults - I'm a considerate friend like that. I mean, face it, sweetheart, you're not exactly aging gracefully. When that face and body finally succumbs to the ravages of time, all you got going for you is your personality." He pushed past her down the stairs, heading for the truck. "And nobody likes a presumptuous, judgmental twat."
Sonia was unmoved by the insult, seeing as how he had little room to talk. "People in glass houses..." she muttered, following him down the stairs.
The passenger door gave a squeak as she pulled it open and climbed into the seat. The man slid in on the driver's side and turned the key in the ignition. The engine gave a clean, throaty roar of life, proving that ol' Betty the Bodhi wasn't a rust trap after all.
"So, what's the plan?" Sonia asked.
"Plan?"
"You're the one who suggested we...'spend quality time together'. I assumed you had a plan."
"A plan!" he scoffed. "Where's the fun in that? We're gonna wing it!"
Trevor put the truck in reverse and backed out of the driveway. Then they were shooting off up the road, bouncing over bumps and cracks and holes in the asphalt. Sonia reached for the safety belt...only to discover there wasn't one.
"So, uh..." she started for the sake of conversation. "What is it you do around here? Job-wise."
"Oh, what don't I do! You, my sweet, have the honor of being in the presence of TPI's prestigious founder."
"TPI?"
"Trevor Philips Industries. We specialize in meth cooking, arms trafficking, adult entertainment...aaaand some other shit, but I won't bore you with that. The important thing you need to know is meth and guns are the hot commodities in this county, and yours truly controls both markets."
Trevor, Travis. I was close enough. "Are you usually this frank about your illicit business endeavors? I mean, I could be an undercover cop or fed for all you know."
Trevor produced a nasty smile. She didn't think that face could look any worse until then. "Good thing for you you ain't. I can smell those turds from a mile away, and you don't smell like a turd. " He leaned over and, to her utter discomfort, sniffed her. "In fact, you smell heavenly!"
Sonia scooted closer to the passenger door. "I'm gonna request that you never smell me again. It's kinda cre - Shit!" Sonia slapped her hands down on the dashboard, bracing herself as the truck came to a screeching halt to avoid a clunker of a Voodoo inching along a cross street, thick, smoky exhaust fumes trailing from its tail pipe.
"Get the fuck out of my way!" Trevor yelled at the driver, scowling. "Can't you see I'm on a fuckin' date here!"
I wish he'd stop calling it that, Sonia thought, starting to get a little concerned that he did indeed think it was a date.
Through the Voodoo's open passenger window, the terrified driver could be seen gaping in their direction. "I'm tryin', Mr. Philips! I'm tryin'!" the man assured.
Trevor growled like a rabid dog. "You ain't trying hard enough, you turd!" He yanked a pistol from the waist of his pants, pointing it out the open driver's side window at the Voodoo, and shot a few rounds at it. "Move, move, move!"
Sonia watched in mild amusement as the driver cried out in alarm, ducking down in his seat and putting the pedal to the metal. Well, that's one way to clear a human obstacle.
Once the car moved off, the madman drove onward, holstering his gun in his pants as he pushed his truck to the reckless speed he preferred.
Sonia pulled her pack of Redwoods out of a pocket, body alerting her to the fact that she hadn't had her daily dose of nicotine yet. "Uh...do you mind if I...?"
The man shrugged. "Puff as you please. When you're done, you can puff on my boy. I mean, we are dating now."
Goddammit, I knew it. Sonia stuck the stick of tobacco between her lips and lit the end. "No, we're not," she said, blowing the smoke out and offering a cigarette to him absent-mindedly.
Trevor waved it away. "Not really my thing. And yes, we, in fact, are. I made that perfectly clear when I said 'we got ourselves a date'. What did you think I fuckin' meant?"
"I thought it was a turn of phrase," she answered. "I thought you had the common sense to realize we just met, and therefore couldn't possibly have any reason to date."
"But there was chemistry when we met; sparks flew!"
"The only thing that flew was blood...from that man's head you brutally cracked open."
"A head I brutally cracked open just for you."
Sonia had nothing more to say on the matter; they'd already been over that once.
They drove around for a while, Trevor regaling her with tales of his criminal exploits. Had Sonia not been forbidden to speak of her former life, she could've told him quite a few of her own stories. That WITSEC rule was just another barrier between her and everyone else, but a necessary barrier that would keep her alive. Though she doubted this man had ties to any Las Venturas mob families, she still couldn't risk giving details that might lead the droves of gangsters that now wanted her dead to her location.
This is pointless, she realized. Getting to know anyone in this town, trying to make friends. All I can do is feed them lies. And Sonia hated it. She was a flawed human being, a great deal more flawed than most. She had prided herself on her only virtue, her honesty, but Lupo had taken it from her by distrusting her; he'd backed her into a corner and her only way out was to enter WITSEC and testify against him. Her former boss had sworn revenge in the courtroom, but he'd already gotten it. She'd lost a life she had worked hard to gain, and now she was losing her sense of self too.
I'm just the ghost of the person I once was. Maybe I would've been better off in prison.
"Are you even listening to me!?"
Sonia blinked, not realizing she'd tuned the man out. "Huh?"
Trevor scowled. "I'm over here telling you about the greatest heist in American history, and you're over there staring off into fuckin' space!"
"Sorry, had something on my mind." Sonia gazed at him, curious. "You're talking about the Union Depository one, right? Happened a little over a year ago? I heard about that on the news. Anyone who doesn't live under a rock must have, considering it was all media outlets were talking about for weeks. I hear the authorities still have no leads on who the robbers are."
The man grinned. "You're looking at one of them, sweetheart."
Sonia stared at him for a long moment, studying that terrible face for a lie. She found nothing there but smug pride. Still, she found it difficult to believe he had any hand in that robbery. "Come on. You?"
"Are you implying I'm a fuckin' liar!?" Trevor steamed, looking all kinds of offended and angry.
"By the way the news described everything, that heist seemed to be taken with a subtle approach. From what I've seen so far, you're not exactly subtle."
"Yeah, well, that approach was my backstabbing, soft turd of a best friend's decision, not mine. Anyway, doesn't matter. We pulled off the biggest score of our careers and made fuckin' history. You're dating a legend, my dear."
"Assuming you're telling the truth-"
"Go fuck yourself!" Trevor burst, gripping the steering wheel like he might rip it off the column at any moment and beat her to death with it. "I don't lie, least of all about myself and my greatest accomplishments!"
"As I was trying to say," Sonia continued, unmoved by the outburst. "Assuming it is the truth, you made off with a shit-load of gold, which I'm a little confused about. I mean, you can do anything you want, go anywhere you want with that kind of lucre, but you choose to live out here in this shitty desert, running some meth and gun show. Why?"
""Cause it's always been a dream of mine; Trevor Philips, international drug dealer!" he answered. "And this 'shitty desert' suits me. It ain't fake like the city is." He threw a hand out at the desert. "It's all genuine, unrefined desolation and desperation and depravity, just like me. The air's cleaner, everybody's an asshole to your face, and there ain't a fake tit within fifty miles. What's not to love?"
Sonia laughed, prompting a look that was half disgust and half amusement from the man.
"Good Lord, that laugh! Horrible. Sounds like a strangled goose."
The insult didn't dissuade her amusement. "You know, I'm surprised you're up for grabs, Trevor. Any woman would be lucky to have a man as charming and sophisticated as you."
That made him grin. "Nice to know we can finally agree on something, cupcake."
Sonia shook her head. She couldn't tell if he was unable to read the sarcasm in her remark or if he was deliberately playing ignorant to be an ass. But in the next moment, Sonia caught sight of something in the passenger side mirror and it ceased to matter.
A team of six bikers rode up close behind them, and they weren't moving out of the lane to pass them by. The two bikers leading the band were close enough that she could see they were both holding a pistol in one hand, the other steering their Revenants. None of the men looked happy. She figured it was safe to assume these bikers weren't out for any joy ride, but were out on business. And she had a feeling that business involved one of them. "Trevor?"
"Yes, butterfly?"
Well, at least he didn't refer to me as a pastry this time. "There's a gang of armed bikers on us."
"Oh, I know. They're only gonna do something suicidal...like try to kill us." He sounded rather casual about it, as if being pursued by a gang of angry, armed bikers was an everyday occurrence for him. Sonia wouldn't have been surprised if it was.
"Oh, good," she said with a dry tone. "I mean, this can't really be considered a date if we haven't been shot at or killed anyone by the time it's over."
Trevor got a rather stirred look. "Never thought I'd see the day. I've finally met my soulmate!"
It's official. "You don't understand sarcasm very well, do you?"
"I understand it's the lowest, most nauseating form of wit."
And with that, Trevor rounded the steering wheel to one side. The Bodhi swerved into oncoming traffic, the other drivers on the road veering off and braking to miss it, blaring their horns, shooting the finger and shouting insults through open windows. Having been given no warning of the abrupt change in direction, Sonia was thrown sideways into the man's lap before she could brace herself, which was far too close to his person than she would've preferred to be.
Trevor didn't miss a beat, "Since you're down there, sugar, you might as well suck me off."
"I really don't think you need that kind of distraction at the moment," she responded, pushing at his thigh to get herself upright in her seat.
"Distraction? Don't be ridiculous! Blow jobs are like meditation!"
The truck sped right through the desert, skirting around piles of sun-bleached boulders and plowing through cacti and Joshua trees, and an unfortunate coyote, prompting laughter from the maniac driver. A glance back and Sonia saw the band of bikers pursuing them. One of them riding in front aimed his pistol over his Revenant's handlebars and with a shout of "You ain't gettin' away from us, Philips!", he let loose a few bullets. Sonia ducked down in her seat as they rattled against the back of the Bodhi. Well, at least I know which one of us they're after.
"Nobody, and I mean nobody, shoots up my Betty!" Trevor yelled. "You're gonna fuckin' pay for that, you prick!"
"Why are these bikers trying to kill you?" Sonia asked from her slumped down position.
"We're in competition, princess; their pathetic excuse for an MC runs an arms trafficking operation." And as an afterthought, he added, "And there may have been a little incident involving me, a plane loaded with bombs and a not-so-secret storage facility where they keep most of their hardware...and there also may have been a lot of bikers in it at the time."
"Is that all? I can't imagine why they'd want you dead for that."
He glared. "That's enough of the fuckin' sarcasm! Look, they're the ones who decided to run guns on my turf. They should've expected it."
"And what did you expect, Trevor? That they shrug off the bombing and go about their day?"
"If they had any brains, they would. Look, I got it handled. So just sit there and shut the fuck up!" he shouted as another round of gunfire was loosed from at least three of the bikers. Two bullets whizzed into the windshield, making web-like cracks in the glass, and the driver's side mirror burst into fragments.
"Stop and nobody's gonna get hurt!" one of the bikers riding along side the truck called out. "We just wanna have a little friendly chat!"
Friendly chat, my ass. Sonia yanked her pistol from the waist of her pants and leaned out the passenger window, aiming the gun at the biker. "Have a little friendly chat with a bullet, you hairy fucking ape!"
She squeezed the trigger and the biker's head jerked back, his throat erupting in a shower of red. The body tumbled from the Revenant and the motorcycle rolled on riderless for a brief moment before it lost control, spilling over and skidding through the sand. It wasn't long before another biker rode up to take his now-dead brother's place, shooting off a few rounds that clattered into the side of the truck and forced Sonia to seek cover low in her seat again. As the bullets kept coming, a second and third biker rode up along the left side. The one in front aimed his pistol at the rear tire and fired. The rubber popped and the Bodhi swerved violently, almost colliding with the biker still shooting up the right side.
"Goddamn fuckin' cunt!" Trevor raved as he fought to control his errant vehicle. The slippery sand and dirt and uneven terrain weren't helping.
The biker's pistol cracked a second time and another tire blew out. Still on a fitful course, the loss of more traction sent the truck into an uncontrollable spin and the back right side of it slammed against a stark-white boulder with an alarming, metallic crunch. Driver and passenger were jostled about in their seats, but were fortunate enough not to bang their heads.
Trevor didn't waste any time, yanking out the pistol he kept tucked in his pants and aiming it off through the driver's open window at the two bikers coming to a stop a few feet away. The first shot sent them scrambling from their Revenants for cover, the second took one man in the thigh, and as he stumbled and fell, a third bullet tore into the side of his head. "Having fun now, you cockjuggling bastards!?"
Sonia leaned against the passenger door and leveled her gun at the biker trying to flank the right side of the truck. Adrenaline rushed through her veins and she could feel the pulse of her heart in her ears as she eyed the pistol's sights and steadied her hand. The gun thundered and the biker's head recoiled, ejecting blood.
The other two bikers who'd already found cover behind a boulder came out long enough to get off a few rounds, most of the projectiles striking into the Bodhi. One thumped into the passenger headrest, forcing Sonia to duck low in her seat. "Fuck, that was close." Only then did she realize Trevor was gone, the driver's door left open in his wake. She felt a moment's worth of cold rage, thinking he'd fled and left her to fend off his enemies by herself. Some fucking gentleman he turned out to be. If I get out of this alive, I'm gonna find him and shove my pistol up his- Then she heard a taunting shout coming from behind the side of the truck.
"Come on, you pathetic twats! Take me out!"
The man rose up from where he was keeping cover the moment the wave of enemy projectiles ebbed, watching and waiting for one of the bikers to expose himself from behind the boulder.
Sonia used the brief moment of calm to get out of the truck, keeping low behind the side and her gun trained to the left among the sun-bleached boulders there, where one of the two leading bikers had fled for cover. The one Trevor had shot was laying not far away, dead in a pool of blood.
It was mostly quiet for a stretch, the only sounds the wind sweeping across the arid land and the low rumble of traffic coming in off the Senora Freeway a few miles away.
Sonia caught movement behind the boulder and fired, the emphatic crack carrying out across the desert. There was a small burst of blood as the biker keeled over from behind his hiding spot, flopping down in the sand, unmoving. She'd gotten him in the head.
A clamour coming from behind the boulder a few yards west of the truck followed the man's death; the two remaining bikers were arguing with each other.
"We had them outnumbered! Now it's just us! Fuck this, man! This was your stupid fuckin' idea and I ain't dyin' over it!"
"Well, how the hell was I supposed to know the prick was gonna have backup!?"
"You would've at least considered that he might have if you'd ever think shit through, you fuckin' moron! Can't believe I let you talk me into this!"
"I did think shit through! I kept tabs on this asshole for weeks and never once saw him with that bitch!"
"Well, apparently, you didn't keep good enough tabs!"
"Fuck you!"
"No, fuck you!"
Then there was a moment of silence, soon broken by Trevor's raucous laughter, as he now glimpsed the bikers. The two men had broken back from cover to flee the situation, trying as best they could to put distance between them and the threat. "Fuckin' cowards." Grinning, Trevor set after them. "Hey, come back! What about our friendly chat!?"
A shot sounded from behind him. One of the bikers cried out, his leg giving, and tumbled to the sand. His buddy cast a look over a shoulder, then spun around and ran backwards, aiming his pistol at the man and woman chasing him down. "Fuck off!" he shouted as he panned the gun left, then right, then left, unable to decide which target he should try to take down. Then he came to the realization that it didn't matter; if he killed one, the other would kill him. "Fuck!" He fired and fired and fired, panning the gun wildly in some last ditch effort to hold the pair off as he continued to flee backwards.
Sonia cut her course right to avoid the gunfire, darting across the dry terrain like a marathon runner headed for the finish line. A bullet grazed her arm, but in the heat of the moment, she hardly noticed.
Trevor merely stopped in his tracks and trained his pistol on the biker, a few projectiles striking into the sand a couple of feet ahead of him and flying errant around him. The pistol popped and the bullet flew true, striking the biker right through the forehead. The dead man's gun and the dead man's body fell to the sandy earth.
Sonia observed the one biker still left alive, the guy she'd shot in the leg. He crawled through the sand for his fallen pistol. She jogged over and brought a foot down on his hand before it could reach his weapon. She took note of the 'prospect' patch on the back of his leather vest, then glanced around. The other bodies laying prone had that same patch on their backs as well. She didn't know much about motorcycle gangs, but she knew prospects weren't full-fledged members. They would've never been sent on a mission to take down the boss of a rival organization. That must've been what those other two had been arguing about before; they'd gone behind the MC's back and took on this task by themselves, perhaps in an effort to impress and earn their way into the club, or perhaps the destruction of the warehouse and death of respected members left them blinded by a desire for vengeance.
The man on the ground turned his head as far as he could to look at her. "Come on," he begged. "Just let me go. This wasn't my idea!"
"It wasn't mine, either. I couldn't give a shit about your beef with Trevor," she said. "It had nothing to do with me, but you and your idiot biker buddies never considered that, did you? You shot at me, threatened my life, and that was your last mistake." She leveled her pistol at his temple.
The man's eyes grew wide. "Wai-"
The gun cracked once.
Circling the sky above the scene, a vulture responded with a grateful cackle.
Brice Murphy watched the woman as she inspected her new lab. Her name was Alice Regan, and she wasn't what he had expected. In her mid thirties, the woman had a head full of curly brown hair, hazel eyes behind silver, square-framed glasses, and a face full of freckles. When Brice had 'liberated' her from her former and now dead employers, she had come along with him willingly, accepting the situation with the finality of one who knows there is no other choice. The woman had an innocence and mousy desperation about her. He liked that; they were traits that would make her easy to control.
"What do you think?" he asked.
The woman looked over the lab glassware set up and ready to be used on the table in front of her. "Well, it's a bit cramped in here, but it's a discreet location. Properly ventilated, and this is good equipment." She lifted a twenty-two liter globular flask off a heating mantle, examining it. "A Bubbling 22. These things go for almost five grand on the street. One can produce a little over one hundred thousand doses of meth." She eased the flask back onto the mantle and waved a hand at the others sitting there." And you've got five."
"I was under the impression you could handle mass production," Brice said. "Considerin' you worked in a goddamn super lab."
"Well," Alice replied, her voice soft and timid. "I had help; a few assistants back at the old lab, but you...kind of shot them all in the head."
Brice sighed. "Then I'll find you new assistants."
Alice bit her lip. "That would require more lab space. I mean, as I said, it's a bit cramped in here with all this equipment. More people will only make it doubly cramped."
"You got two choices, Alice. You can cook on your own with a bit of elbow room or you can cook with your assistants rubbin' up against you. Either way, you will be cookin' in this trailer."
"I imagine you'll want the product ready in a timely fashion, so I think it would be wise to go with option two. I don't mean to complain or anything, it's just that I'm new to working in a smaller environment. Your set up is actually really impressive."
Brice smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. "You seem to be confused, Alice. I ain't here to impress you. You're here to impress me. Understand?"
The woman swallowed and nodded, glancing away from his cold eyes.
"Good, then get to work on impressin' me. Small production for now - two pounds. I want it ready by tomorrow afternoon."
Alice fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, frowning. "Tomorrow afternoon?"
Brice narrowed his eyes, folding his large, tattooed arms over his larger chest. "Is that a problem?"
"Uh...no." She attempted a smile, but it was hardly there. "I am supposed to impress you."
"Good girl. You have my number. Call me when it's ready."
The woman nodded, then turned away from him, reaching for the white chemical protection suit and full-face respirator waiting for her on a nearby table.
Brice opened the door to the trailer and stepped out into the fierce afternoon sun. He stood there for a moment, staring off at the pale desert that opened wide before him. Then he lifted his face to the sun, shutting his eyes against its searing brightness. The touch of heat and wind on his skin felt like a lover's caress. He loved this place, always had. It was almost a shame he'd had to turn that trailer into a meth lab. It sat alone out here, away from towns and the main roads. It would've been a nice place to live.
Geographically, it was the best place to cook meth. The surrounding hills further hid the trailer from view and being already barren land, there would be no adverse effects on the environment from the toxic fumes of production. A mass of plant life suddenly dying off would've risen quite a few eyebrows in this day and age of 'eco-consciousness'.
Brice headed off for the Huntley parked nearby, his brother Rick sitting on the hood, smoking a joint. Scowling, he stopped before him and reached out, snatching the half-smoked doobie from his brother's hand and throwing it to the ground where he proceeded to crush it under his shoe.
"Da fuck, B?" Rick complained, frowning. "That was good shit!"
Brice set his younger sibling with a stern look. "We're about to go propose an alliance with the Devil's Sons - a significant move for my business - and you're gettin' high? What the fuck happened to you? Fifteen years ago, you never would've fooled around like this before important business. You would've been suited up, head on your shoulders, ready to go."
"It's just weed, B. Chill. Ain't like I'm gettin' high off smack."
"Just weed," Brice snapped. He stabbed his brother in the forehead with a finger. "But it still fucks with this, don't it? We're goin' to walk unarmed into a room full of armed men, we're goin' to attempt to persuade these men and the rest of their gang to partner with us, and neither of us knows what to fuckin' expect." He grabbed Rick by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward. "You were always the calm one, Rick. You think fast on your feet and you've talked us out of a lot of bad situations in the past. So, if shit goes south, I need you to be in your right fuckin' mind."
"Okay, man," Rick said, staring at his brother's eyes. "I hear you. I ain't gonna smoke no more when we gotta take care of bidness. And I'm good, barely buzzed."
Brice released him and held his hand out. "Let's go. I'm drivin'."
Rick slipped off the hood and slapped the car keys in his brother's palm.
It was mostly a silent drive to Harmony, save for the rap music playing low in the background and Rick's effort to chant along with the lyrics. When the tiny town came into view, Brice wasn't surprised to see that everything was the same as it had been fifteen years ago; same size, same handful of businesses, same solitary traffic light. He and Rick had lived in Harmony for a few years after their shitty parents met their gruesome demise at Brice's hands. They'd both been young then, Brice on the cusp of adulthood and Rick only twelve. When Harmony lost its appeal, they moved on, never staying in one place for too long. Grapeseed, Paleto Bay, even down in Los Santos for a while; anywhere but Sandy Shores, where they were born and raised, where their parents were killed and they were too afraid to return for fear they would be arrested for their murders. They'd even spent a year living in the Chiliad wilderness, a time Brice still looked upon fondly. While his place had always been in the Senora Desert, he had appreciated the solitude of the mountains. Being away from everything had taught him and his brother a bit more about survival.
"Towns like this never change, do they?" he remarked on Harmony.
"It changed some," Rick said, slapping his hands on the dashboard to the beat of the music. "Remember the old Motor Hotel? Somebody grabbed that shit up, turned it into some apartments a year ago. Most of them bikers live there. Shit, I think only bikers live there. Only people I ever saw when I was scopin' out their clubhouse for you a while back, them and their prostitutes. Their clubhouse's right next to those apartments."
"Chances are the bikers are the ones who bought the motel property," said Brice. "Probably as a front for their real businesses. And speakin' of that, we need to find a way to launder our illicit money when it starts comin' in."
Rick got a smug look. "I hear you. Been scopin' that out, too. The Colombian peso exchange scheme worked like a charm for us back in the day, but everybody's doin' that shit now, got the feds onto it. So, I was thinkin' we go old school, simple but sure - funnel our drug money into a cash-intensive business. Lot of businesses around here went south durin' the recession, so you got plenty of commercial property up for sale. The market's on an upswing and the Alamo Sea's gettin' popular as a tourist destination, so now's the time to buy. We scoop up one of those old gas stations or convenience stores for sale to start off, then when both businesses really get rollin', we scoop up another to funnel more money into."
Brice looked at him and smiled. "I owe you an apology, Rick. I thought you'd turned into a slacker, but you've been one step ahead."
"Only things that's changed 'bout me is my taste in style and music. I still got the brains for this business."
Brice nodded. "And the money launderin' part of it is yours, Rick. You've always been good with that shit."
"Just like the old days!"
"Not yet, but it will be. Soon."
"Unless you get caught with two pounds of glass again," Rick said, grinning.
Brice scowled at him. "You're fortunate we're blood, asshole."
The bar the Devil's Sons used as a clubhouse was right next to the motel-turned-apartments, as Rick had said. It was a small, pitiful place that had once been a gas station if Brice's memory served. According to the chipped, red paint on the wooden sign that hung down from the ledge of the roof, the establishment was called Pandemonium. The front door was painted black with a red P wreathed in orange flames in the center and the few windows the joint had were tinted dark, offering no glimpse of the interior. The parking lot was small and crowded with Revenants, the sun glaring off their chrome.
Brice pulled the Huntley into the lot and found a spot to squeeze into. The brothers exited the SUV, the thump of rock music sounding from the bar as they approached the door. When Brice opened it, he understood why the place was called Pandemonium.
The ruckus of music, chatter, drunken laughter, and the aggression from the three brawls taking place was deafening. The room was veiled in a thick haze of smoke and smelled of cigars, sweat, and leather. In one corner of the establishment, two bikers were in the midst of a game of billiards, a handful of spectators looking on. In that same corner, a man flipped knives at a dart board with a picture of the current United States president on it. Opposite them, a young blonde woman wearing only a g-string and a smile ground seductively on a pole set up on a platform surrounded by a group of hooting men. Across from the front door was the counter, crowded with bikers who were already drunk or well on their way there. A few had a scantily clad woman perched on their lap, a beer in one hand and a tit in the other. Equally clad serving women with full trays balanced on their palms squeezed through the cramped arrangement of tables and chairs in the center of the room, ignoring the numerous hands that groped at them.
Brice made his way for the counter, stopping only once when one of the brawlers let out a fierce roar and charged by him with a chair raised over his head. There was a loud crack and a sharp yelp as it smashed over the back of the man's opponent. A rumble of cheers went up.
"Shit, man," Rick said, his voice drowned under all the hellish noise.
Brice elbowed in at the counter, ignoring the gruff looks from the bikers. The bartender, a pot-bellied, bald and bearded man covered in tattoos, gave him a scrutinizing once-over. "I'm here to see Clyde Dougan," Brice said.
The bartender looked him over again, then nodded his head to a corner of the room. "Over there at the table."
Brice pulled back from the bar and walked over to the indicated table where five men dressed in black leather sat, playing cards. Eyes followed his every move, but he had never been one to get perturbed by anything, let alone something as trivial as staring. He stopped at the table and studied the men. The leather vests they wore had the Devil's Sons flame patch on the back and a smaller one on the front, and every last man was ranked. The one who wore the 'president' patch was a big guy, much like himself, covered in a myriad of tattoos, most of them motorcycle, club, or hell-related. His head was shaven and his jaw was covered in a thick growth of red beard that hung down just past his throat.
"Clyde Dougan, I presume?" Brice addressed him.
The man looked up from his cards. His eyes were ice blue and a jagged scar cut through his left cheek. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Brice Murphy."
"Brice Murphy," Clyde echoed with a frown. "And who the fuck is Brice Murphy?"
"A man with a mutual problem, and a solution."
Clyde slapped his cards down and sat back in his seat, pulling at his beard. "And what problem is that?"
"Trevor Philips."
The MC president's brows rose, but he said nothing for some moments, merely studied the man standing before the table. Then he pushed out a vacant chair toward Brice with a booted foot. "Have a seat, Murphy."
Brice took the chair, Rick coming to stand behind him. "From what I understand," Brice began. "Your MC is in the arms traffickin' and prostitution business. You own the latter in this county, but Philips controls the former. I'm sure you'd like that to change."
Clyde sat forward, arms resting on the table. His icy eyes bore into Brice. "You come saunterin' in here, accusin' my club of solicitin' women and runnin' guns? I don't know where you got that shit from. We're just a bunch of guys brought together by our fierce love for American motorcycles and the wide open road. Now, I think we're done here."
Brice grinned, as he had expected this. "I ain't a cop or fed, if that's what you're thinkin'."
"I ain't ever heard of you, ain't ever seen your face before. How the fuck do I know you ain't a cop or fed?"
"You don't, no more than I know you ain't a cop or fed. All we got is each other's word. You ain't ever seen my face before 'cause it's been behind bars for fifteen years. You ain't heard of me 'cause my reputation died out when I got thrown in Bolingbroke. That's where I met your cousin Jim; he was my cellie. Good man, but has a bad habit of gettin' himself into trouble. Made himself quite a few enemies inside, but also a friend who went out of his way to protect him. I told him about what I wanted to do with my life when I got released. He took an interest in it, said it might even rouse you since we have a similar goal and a common obstacle. He suggested I speak with you."
"Yeah? And what's your interest, Murphy?"
"Meth trade. Before I got locked up, I ran a big operation. This county's production, distribution...I owned it. Philips controls it now and I want it back, just like your MC wants to own the arms traffickin' trade. That's our similar goal and our common obstacle."
"So, what are you proposin'?"
"A partnership. This asshole has remained in business 'cause he was fortunate enough to have fools for enemies, fools who didn't have the common sense to join forces. His weakness is his lack of manpower; all it would've taken to bury him was a simultaneous attack on both sides of his operation. If we join forces, that's exactly what we're gonna do."
Clyde sat back in his chair again, pulling at his beard hairs as he considered the proposal. "Interestin'," he said at last. "I'll tell you what, Brice fuckin' Murphy, I'll have a little chat with Jim. You check out, we'll talk more."
"Fair enough." Brice turned a bit in his chair, holding his hand out to Rick. His brother handed over a pen and a scrap of paper, which Brice scrawled his cell number on and slid across the table to Clyde. Then he rose from the chair, holding his hand out to the man. "Call me when I check out. It's been a pleasure."
Clyde reached out and grasped his hand...then yanked Brice forward, rising a bit from his seat. The two men were almost nose to nose. "You don't check out, I'm gonna get real fuckin' suspicious 'bout who you are again. Then you and I are gonna have a big fuckin' problem."
Brice smiled. "I predict Jim will have nothin' but nice things to say about me. Maybe he'll regale you with the tale of how I saved his life. As I understand it, when one of your brothers owes a life debt to someone, it becomes the club's debt, too. He owes me, and so do you. That is if you truly are loyal men of your word."
Clyde's face split with a nasty grin and he laughed, a deep, booming sound. "You got some balls, Murphy, I'll give you that."
"All men do. Mine just happen to be obscenely large and made of steel." Brice looked around the table of bikers, nodding his head. "Gentleman." Then he took his leave of them, Rick trailing along after him.
Clyde eyed them as they left the establishment, then fished around in a vest pocket for a set of keys. He dropped them on the table before one of the patched members, a thirty-ish man built like a tank. "Take the truck. Keep an eye on Murphy. If he even takes a shit, I wanna know about it."
