Chapter 19
Songs:
This Life, Curtis Stigers & The Forest Rangers
Keep The Dogs At Bay, Seether
Wherever I May Roam, Metallica
My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark, Fall Out Boy
Safe To Say I've had Enough, Seether
*Link to YouTube playlist in chapter 1!
**Fiddling was had. All mistakes are mine.
**Translations at the bottom.
Edward
The storage unit is stacked high and deep. Boxes upon boxes line the walls, all of them marked with their contents or a date. The pile of baby things in the corner is especially daunting. If Bella has to go through all this shit on her own, it could get overwhelming.
The toolbox is a few feet inside, and I have to step over boxes to get to it. Just as Masen said it would be, the gift bag is tucked inside the deepest drawer behind the tools. Peeking inside, my eyes widen. This isn't the cut, ready-to-be-sold dime bags I expected. This is a wrapped brick of black tar. Judging by the size, I'm guessing it's a kilo and is probably worth more than my brother ever imagined. It's easily worth fifty large on the street ... maybe more.
No wonder Caius sent one of his guys to get it back.
Needing to wrap this shit up, I rummage through a box marked clothes until I find something that will work. I spread out the old t-shirt and tuck it around the brick until it's in a tight bundle, then I stuff it in the backpack I brought along. Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I head out, locking up behind me.
I ride over to Jazz's place, and knock as I walk inside, the backpack slung over my shoulder. "Jazz," I shout as I close the front door. "You in here?"
The inside of his house has definitely changed in the years since I lived with him. Gone are the neon bar lights, Harley decor, and Maxim posters of a bachelor pad. It's all been replaced with my sister's decorating style. Art pieces and sculptures cover the walls, and bright colors are everywhere I look.
"Yeah," he calls from the back of the house. "Give me a minute."
I poke my nose in the fridge but decide against trying to eat anything. My stomach is tied in knots just thinking about what may happen tonight.
"What's with the bag?" Jazz asks as he rounds the corner into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge.
"Something to smooth things over with García."
He eyes me warily but doesn't ask any more questions. "You want something to eat before we hit the road?" he asks as he cracks open an energy drink.
"Nah. I just want to go and get this done." I glance at the clock on the wall. "And we should probably get going. Mac set it up for midnight, and I don't want to make García wait. Besides, if we make good time, we might be able to get some sleep before we head out in the morning."
Jazz nods before taking another swig from his can. He sets it on the counter and steps toward the kitchen table, grabbing his cut off the chair. "Then let's do this."
The meeting place is creepy as fuck at night. The abandoned service station on this particular stretch of desert highway looks almost post-apocalyptical. The blacked-out, busted windows on the building and the out-of-date pumps tell me this place hasn't been in business for years. This place, so far from town and any kind of civilization, makes me uneasy, and I'm jumpy as hell.
"There," Jazz says, pointing off into the distance. The headlights coming our way cut off as they near, leaving only the light of the full moon to shine down on us.
The car stops, and the passenger gets out and opens the rear door. García steps out, straightening his jacket before stepping toward us.
"Cullen," he says, his accent thick and his tone irritated. "I was a bit surprised to get your call. I have been worried our business relationship was ... in jeopardy."
"Not at all." I look beyond him, seeing his driver and two other armed men watching us. I meet García's sharp gaze. "Our relationship with your organization is very important to not only my father but also the club. Unfortunately, we've run into quite a few hurdles in recent weeks."
"Yes, I heard about your brother. Mi más sentido pésame."
My throat tightens at the mention of Masen, but I swallow past it. I need to keep my emotions in check around this man. "Gracias."
García nods, folding his hands behind his back. "What other hurdles have you run into? Is there some reason we might not be able to continue to do business together?"
I look over my shoulder at Jazz and at the men standing guard before turning back to García. I jerk my chin. "May I speak to you away from prying ears?" I ask lowly.
He nods, and we walk away from the other men, toward the road.
"You are familiar with the Kingsmen?" I ask as we walk alongside one another.
"Si, I am."
"They're the ones responsible for my brother's death. They've also threatened to encroach on our territory"—I stop and turn to face him—"which, in turn, would pose a problem for you."
His jaw tightens. "Yes, that would be very bad for business."
I nod. "It would."
"What do you plan to do about it?"
"We're planning to shut down their operations."
He raises a brow in question.
"If I'm not mistaken, that could leave an entire area ripe for the taking."
"That it could."
"If you were to move into the area, we will continue to supply your men, in exchange for your continued cooperation with keeping your traffic far away from our town."
"Of course. It has been beneficial for both of us over the years."
"I also have something for you," I say, pulling the backpack strap off my shoulder. "A show of good faith, you could say."
The men watching from a distance tense, grabbing for the weapons hanging from their shoulders and taking a step toward us.
García raises a hand, calling them off. "Está bien. Quédate donde estás."
Watching the men return to their posts, I pull the bundle out of my bag and hand it over. "The street value of this should cover some of the losses you've had to take waiting on the club to get your next shipment."
He weighs it in his hand, his questioning gaze meeting mine before he unwraps the bundle and tears into the plastic. He takes a sniff. "Si, this should cover some of my losses. I had to take an offer from a local supplier, and his stock was not as ... reliable. It is good to know I can still count on you and your club to hold up your end of our arrangement."
I nod once and stick out my hand. "We will be in touch in a few days. Once we clear the way, be ready to move in on Volturi's territory."
García's grip is firm as he shakes my hand. "I will be looking forward to the call."
The ride back to the clubhouse is ... tense. Jazz hasn't spoken to me since García and his men left, and knowing my brother-in-law, he's pissed at me for not including him in my talks with our business associate.
Even when we roll into the lot as the sun rises, he says nothing when he gets off his bike and storms inside. I huff a breath and shake it off. Jazz can be as dramatic as my sister sometimes, and that's saying a lot. But he'll get over it ... eventually.
I walk straight through the main room, bypassing a stop in the kitchen, and head for my room. Stepping inside, I close the door behind me and remove my cut, tossing it over a chair. I toe off my boots and grab my phone from my pocket, shooting off a text to the prospect who should be sitting outside my house.
Quiet night? - E
Less than a minute passes before I get a reply. Nothing to report. All is well, E. - P
I plug in my phone to charge, strip off my shirt and jeans, and fall into my bed, quickly drifting to sleep. All too soon, the call to hit the road comes in the form of someone banging on my door. With a groggy head, I hit the shower, doing my best to wake up after the few hours of sleep I managed to get.
After strapping on my holster and checking my weapons, I pull on my cut and step out into the hallway. When I reach the kitchen, Jazz is standing at the coffee pot, waiting for it to finish brewing. I step around him, grabbing an empty mug. For several moments, we stand in silence, the last gasps and gurgles of the coffee maker the only sounds in the room.
"You ready for today?" I finally ask.
He doesn't acknowledge me, keeping his back to me as he pours himself a cup.
"So, that's how it's gonna be?"
Again, he says nothing, walking out of the room.
"Whatever," I mumble as I pour my own.
There's a box of day-old donuts on the counter, so I snag one, shoving it in my mouth and gulping down my coffee before heading outside. Jazz follows silently behind me. Trigger and Hawk are already gone, but everyone else is loading shit into the van.
"Glad to see you two could join us," Pop says, a smart-ass grin on his face.
"It's not like we weren't out last night conducting actual business," I bite back.
"Everything go okay?" he asks as he pulls on his gloves.
I nod, my eyes following Boomer as he carefully loads his special brand of fireworks into the back of the van. "Everything was fine." I look back to Pop. "He'll be waiting to hear from us. He's interested in moving in once Volturi is out of the area."
"I thought he might." He swings a leg over his bike and reaches for his brain bucket. "Could complicate things for us."
"How?"
"I'm not sure I like the idea of our supplier and our buyer being that close ... geographically."
"But if it means he keeps up his end of the bargain and keeps his shit away from our town—"
"I know. And we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."
Everyone saddles up—Pop, Mac, Jazz, Boomer, Tracker, Tank, and me—leaving Buzz to drive the van behind us. One by one, we file out of the lot and hit the road. The sun beats down on us, and the afternoon heat ripples the road ahead.
The plan is to ride north, stopping just outside Tucson to wait for the call from Hawk. Then we'll move in, setting the fuses and blowing their operation sky high. The hardest part will be waiting for Volturi and the others to show themselves.
But I'm not leaving Tucson until that fucker is dead.
We take State Route 80 north until we can't, eventually getting on the interstate. But we get off I-10 when we reach the outskirts of South Tucson. Pop leads us down surface streets, snaking our way toward town. It's a hell of a lot farther out of our way, but it means staying off the radar.
We don't want Volturi to know we're here before we have the chance to pay him a visit.
When we reach our temporary destination, we all pull our bikes behind the building, keeping them out of sight from the highway. The roadside motel is small, and the room we rent barely passes for clean, but it's a place for us to wait for news from Hawk and Trigger.
I plop my ass in a chair at the tiny-ass table and send Bella a text to let her know things are going as planned.
Stopped for a while. Waiting on a call. Let the prospect know if you need anything. - E
I'm good. Just worried about you. Be safe. - B
Jazz continues to ignore me, and it's beginning to piss me off. I even get a questioning glance from Pop, which I respond to with a shrug. There's no need to bring more drama into it. When the clock ticks well past evening, someone orders a few pizzas. When we finish them off, everyone starts to get restless as we wait for the call.
It finally comes a few hours after the sun sets.
"Hawk says they took out two of them outside some titty bar by the airport a few hours ago," Pop says to all of us. "They had a tail for a while, so they're sure Caius knows about it. Should only be a matter of time before they hit the road. If we hit them now, it'll bring them back to their warehouse." His eyes scan the room. "You all ready for this?"
With excited agreements echoing all around the room, we each grab a bulletproof vest out of the large duffel and put it on. Then we pull on our dark hoodies before loading up in the van.
"You ever gonna tell me what that private pow-wow with García was all about?" Jazz whispers from his seat beside me.
I look over at him, raising a brow. "So, now you're talking to me?"
"Cut the shit. What was all that about last night?"
"I was just smoothing things over with him." I don't look at him. Instead, I focus on checking my guns, making sure they're loaded and ready. My leg bobs in nervous anticipation for what we're about to do.
"But what the fuck was in the bag?" His pointed stare and insistent tone set my teeth on edge.
I turn my head, meeting his stare with my own. "A gift, and that's all you need to fucking know. Drop it," I bite out.
He crosses his arms over his chest and sits back in his seat, his eyes never leaving me. I don't have much time to worry about what Jazz is thinking, because the van rolls to a stop a few hundred feet from the entrance to the nearly-abandoned industrial park.
"Do I need to get us closer, Carl?" the prospect asks from the driver's seat.
"No, this is good. Less chance of being seen. We can stick to the shadows and get in and out."
Quietly and carefully, everyone pours out of the van, Boomer grabbing the bag of essentials for tonight's mission. Careful not to pass under any of the streetlights, we inch our way closer to Volturi's warehouse with light footfalls. A few men are guarding the shipping entrance, but they're preoccupied with something one of them is showing the others on his cell phone.
Pop points to three of us—Mac, Jazz, and me—and passes his thumb across his neck. Understanding what he's asking of us, we all reach for the blades hanging from our belts.
In a coordinated effort, the three of us slink around the corner of the building and come up behind the distracted, useless guards. With a single pass of our blades over their throats, we take care of them silently, giving us a better chance of doing this with no one being the wiser.
Dropping the men to the ground, we step over them and walk right through the open delivery bay door. All of us tread lightly through the space, careful not to make too much noise. We have no way of knowing if there are more club members lurking around.
The warehouse is bigger than I expected. Maybe somewhere in the neighborhood of ten thousand square feet. Shelves covered in what looks like auto parts boxes fill the floor, and crates are stacked up along the walls, just waiting to be filled with garbage and shipped out.
We split off and work our way from the outside in, checking the warehouse aisle by aisle to make sure we're the only ones here. As we get closer to the back of the building, the overwhelming and pungent smell of vinegar hits my nose.
What I see when I round the last corner is what we expected. All the equipment used to cut and process the tar into shit they can actually sell on the street is spread out on the tables.
"Set it up here, Boomer." Pop turns to face our resident explosives expert. "And make sure it's enough to bring down the whole fucking thing."
Boomer grins and pulls the bag from his shoulder, getting to work on setting the explosives. Mac and Tracker help him lay the wires and make sure shit is in the spot that will do maximum damage. The rest of us stand guard so he can do his thing. I'm antsy as fuck as I wait, my whole body vibrating with volatile energy.
This will be the beginning of the end for Caius Volturi and his club, the end of the threat to our club. But more importantly, it'll be the end of the threat against Bella and Sam. When this is done, we'll all be able to move on with our fucking lives.
"All set," Boomer says nearly a half hour later as he packs away his tools. He slings his bag over his shoulder. "I just need to set the timer and we can blow this fucking place."
"Excellent," Pop says, slapping a hand to Boomer's shoulder. "Let's burn this motherfucker to the ground."
Knowing the clock is literally ticking, we all hurry toward the bay door. Boomer is the last of us to make our way outside, checking his work one last time and setting the timer.
"We have three minutes," Boomer says, and it's all the encouragement we need to haul ass.
We stick to the same path we took on our way in, and when the van comes into view, I'm ready to sprint toward it. Tank must catch sight of us, too, because the van's engine fires up, signaling it's time to get the fuck outta here. The side door opens, and the prospect's head pops out.
"You fuckers ready to go?" he asks.
"Almost," Pop says as he turns to the rest of us. "Do we want to stick around to make sure it's done?" His eyes flash to me. "You want to see this through, don't you?"
"Abso-fucking-lutely."
We all turn to look toward the dark sky in the distance as Boomer checks his watch. "Should be just about ... now."
Not a moment later, the night explodes in a burst of orange and yellow, flames shooting into the sky and smaller explosions sending barrels, crates, and other debris into the air.
"Ho-ly shit," Mac says, whistling. "We better get the fuck outta here. With the size of that fire, it won't take long for TFD to show up."
"Yeah. Let's load up, boys," Pop says, climbing into the front passenger seat of the van, with the rest of us following suit.
Everyone inside the van is ... wired, knowing they'll soon get their chance to pick off the Kingsmen when they crawl out from under their rock. But no one says anything about taking out Caius. It's an unspoken agreement that if I get the opportunity, the asshole is mine. While everyone around me talks about what they're going to do to celebrate once all this is over, I stay focused on the road ahead of us. Not a moment too soon, Tank pulls into the lot behind the motel.
"We split up," Pop says. "Mac and E, I want you to head over to their clubhouse and wait to see if any of them are still hanging around. I'm sure once they get the call about the warehouse, it'll be fucking chaos. Tracker and Boomer will go back to the industrial park and wait. Jazz, Tank, and I will bypass the highway and circle back to town. We'll hit them from behind when they're heading back in. If they're wearing their colors, take them out. Any questions?"
Everyone shakes their heads.
"Good. Let's go get this finished."
We start our bikes and file out of the lot, the three groups splitting off to go in different directions.
The Kingsmen's clubhouse is a hole in the wall, which is unexpected. You'd think that with all the money Caius is bringing in, they'd have better digs, but that's not the case.
The building is run down, the roof in obvious need of replacing, and the fence surrounding it rusty and sagging. But before I can add to my mental list of what repairs their building needs, a half dozen or more Kingsmen come pouring out through the front door, most of them heading straight for their bikes.
One after the other, they straddle their rides. A handful get their bikes running and tear out of their lot toward their burning warehouse, but a few others are lagging behind. When the last of them finally pull out of the lot, I look over my shoulder at Mac and nod.
It's time.
Once they get far enough down the road, we start our bikes and pull away from the curb. They're so focused on getting to the warehouse, they don't even notice us getting closer ... until it's too late.
Mac is the first to take a shot. Even riding, his aim is dead on, hitting the first Kingsman in the back of his helmetless head. The result is immediate, and the rider slumps forward in his seat, his bike careening off the road.
Being at the back of the pack and practically unseen in the dark, it takes several moments before the other riders realize there's a problem, but when they do, we have the advantage.
We pick off the riders one by one. A couple more headshots and a couple to the back, we manage to bring down all but the two at the front of the pack. When they realize they're fucked, they kick their bikes into fourth and pull back on the throttle, doing their best to get away from us.
But we don't back down.
Downshifting, we catch up with them, and when we get close enough to see who it is at the front, I'm more than a little disappointed. It's not Caius leading the charge, but I didn't expect it to be. He's more than likely on his way north after being called back for the fire. It's the club's Secretary, Marcus, an old-timer fuck who's been around as long as the Kingsmen have been in the area.
As I lift my gun, Marcus manages to turn and hastily take his own shot. It whizzes past me, slicing through the material of my hoodie at my bicep.
"Son of a bitch!" I grind out, gritting my teeth. The sting is bearable, but probably only because of the adrenaline rushing through my system.
With a shaky but sure hand, I raise my gun and fire. And when my bullet hits its intended target, I get satisfaction in knowing I'm disassembling their club one long-standing member at a time. Mac takes care of the last one, an enforcer I'm not familiar with, and we roll past the carnage, ready to get back to the motel. My arm throbs, but I tighten my grip, holding the bars steady as we ride back to the motel. Even if they're not back yet, they should be soon.
"You okay?" Mac shouts as he pulls up beside me. "You're a little stiff."
"I'm fine. Fucker managed to graze my arm."
"You think you can make it back to the motel?"
"I'll be fine."
When we reach the motel, we park out back once again. Mac pushes his way past me into the room. "Prospect, you brought the first aid kit, right?"
"Yeah. Why?" he asks, opening a duffel on the bed.
"E got a chunk scraped off his arm," Mac says as he takes the kit from the prospect's hands. "Thanks." He turns back to me. "Get that shit off so I can see what the damage is."
"Would you stop?" I say, batting his hands away as he reaches for my shirt. "I never knew you wanted to see me strip so bad, Mac. Rose know you swing that way?" Hissing, I pull my shirt over my head and my arm from my sleeve. "Damn, that hurts."
I look down at the red and angry flesh, and even though it hurts like a motherfucker, it's really not that bad.
"You gonna be able to ride back?" Tracker asks from his spot across the room.
"I'll be fine." I turn my head and watch as Mac cleans out my wound and wraps some gauze around my arm. "But somebody tell me they got Caius. He wasn't with the group we chased down."
"We didn't, but we don't know what happened with the others. Carl and the rest aren't back yet," Boomer replies.
Almost two hours pass before we see Pop, Tank, and Jazz. When they walk through the door, Mac is busy changing the soaked gauze on my arm.
"What the fuck happened?" Pop asks, marching straight for me.
"It's nothing. Just a scratch."
"A scratch, huh? You try telling your mother that." He scrubs a hand over his face. "So, how did we do?"
"We sat at the gate and picked them off as they rolled in," Tracker says, his smile wide as he leans back in his chair. "It was like shooting fish in a barrel."
"And when the hell have you ever tried to shoot a fish in a barrel?" Boomer asks him.
"It's just an expression, asshole," Tracker argues, sitting forward like he's about to take a swing at Boomer.
"Would you two cut it out?" Pop says before turning to us. "How did you two do?"
"Fine. We took out seven of them. Marcus was the only one I recognized. But we didn't see Caius. Did you get him?" I ask him.
The expression on Pop's face tells me the answer before he even opens his mouth. "No. He wasn't with them. And I thought for sure he would be. But there isn't much left of his club, so when he does surface, we'll be lucky if he doesn't come for us."
"Let him. And if he doesn't, I'll hunt him down myself if I have to," I say, the challenge clear in my voice.
"Not like that you won't. You'll be lucky if you can make it back home before that shit starts to really hurt," he says, pointing at my arm. He shakes his head and exhales a long breath. "It's not worth it. His club is done, his warehouse is burned to the ground. He's got nothing left. If anything, it's going to take some time for him to regroup. And who knows, maybe we'll get lucky and he'll cut his losses and disappear."
Mac finishes wrapping my arm, and I pull my torn, bloody hoodie back over my head. "Yeah, well, desperate men do desperate things, and I'm not willing to bet Bella's life on a maybe. I don't think Caius Volturi will give up that easily."
The sun is rising when we get back on the road, and all of us are quiet as we load up. But we don't waste any time. The ride back feels longer than the ride there, and I'm left to dwell on what could be next for us. The closer we get to home, the more I realize Bella's still not safe. And if she thinks she's going home before Caius is dead, she's got another thing coming. She'll have to stay with me until he surfaces, whether she likes it or not.
I smirk just thinking about how pissed she's going to be. But before I can imagine watching her get all fired up, a familiar blur of neon green and black flies past us. Newton's bike comes close enough to mine that I have to swerve to avoid clipping his tire when he cuts me off.
"Motherfucker!" I scream, pulling the clutch, kicking it down into fourth and rolling back on the throttle ... hard.
The fucker's Ninja is no match for my ride, and I catch him in less than a mile. I get past him and roll the throttle forward, slowing him down while my brothers file in alongside him, forcing him off the road.
When he's finally on the berm and forced to a stop, I stop and hop off my bike, marching straight for the fucker. "You think it's funny to try and kill one of us? Huh, asshole?" I ask, shoving both my hands against his chest and pushing him toward the guardrail.
He's scrambling to remove his full-face helmet. When he finally manages to pull it off, he yells at me as he tries to swing it in my direction. "Don't you fucking touch me, Cullen!"
He misses me by a mile, and now that his head is exposed, I don't waste a second of the opportunity. With adrenaline from tonight still pumping through my veins and all the rage I've felt over the last few weeks—over Masen's death, his betrayal of not only his family but the club, Bella being hurt, and Caius-fucking-Volturi and the Kingsmen—I let it all spill out of me, and Newton is an easy target.
Trying to curl into a ball with his arms crossed over his face, he does his best to ward off my blows, but I don't relent. I land punch after punch to his face, his kidneys, his gut. I take out all my frustration on him, the ache in my arm all but forgotten as my anger surges through me.
"You like to play God with widows? Firing them when they need their shitty jobs to feed their kid?" He falls to his knees before rolling to his side and curling into a ball. I kick him in the ribs a couple times as he lies in the fetal position, crying. "How do you like feeling helpless, huh? You're the lowest kind of scum, you know that?"
Breathing heavily, I crouch down beside him and grab his jacket, gripping his chin and turning his head to face me. "I heard you told your buddy that you were waiting for Bella to come crawling back to you for her job. That's not gonna happen, asshole. She'll never talk to you again. If I have it my way, you'll pack your shit and leave town." I shake him and then pull him up off the pavement so our faces are mere inches apart. "There's no place for you here. Do you understand me?"
He nods but won't look me in the eyes.
"I mean it, Newton. You're going to request a transfer or whatever the fuck you need to do, but I don't want to see your ugly face again. And if I hear that you've been harassing Bella, I'll come find you and so help me God, you'll regret ever looking at her. You got me?"
Again, he nods.
"Good." I drop him, and his head hits the asphalt. "Don't make me come find you."
I stand and turn around, meeting the amused faces of my brothers.
"Feel better?" Mac asks.
I huff a breath and take a few steps toward my bike. "Much. Thanks for asking."
"You didn't do any favors for that arm of yours," Pop hollers from behind me as he gets back on his bike.
Instead of responding, I start my engine. "Yeah, well, I still feel better," I mumble to myself. "Prick had it coming."
Translations:
Mi más sentido pésame - My deepest condolences.
Está bien. Quédate donde estás - It's okay. Stay where you are.
A/N: Eek! I'm dying to know what you think of this one.
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Be kind.
Stay safe.
Stay well.
Lots of love
~Sunshine