Warning Shot
Page 10
Hand still covering the phone beside me, I nodded. “I know.”
“And the longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The interior of the car is small and cramped. A Chevette last made more than thirty years ago, it is a two-door model, the twin bucket seats up front the sole seating inside. Behind them, the bench comprising the second row has been stripped away, making for an oversized cargo area beneath the rear hatch.
A space that - if the matted fur and smell of dog piss inside is any indicator - was used for hauling animals.
As a whole, it is a ride that is far less than ideal, but given the circumstances and the truncated timetable, was the best Byrdie could hope to do.
Since waking in the desert this morning, his face plastered to the sand by crusted blood, a handful of competing thoughts have roiled through his mind. Places to aim the anger he feels, ways to lash out at the recent events that have plagued him.
The most obvious place to begin is with Ringer, a man whose betrayals started years before. Since the instant he ascended to the top spot of the Wolves, Byrdie’s life has taken a downward trajectory. In one short span, he went from being groomed for the preeminent seat to being forced to ride shotgun. An afterthought.
Or even worse, a cautionary tale about how fast one’s fortunes can shift.
All of which culminated this very morning, Byrdie being ousted from the thing that means the most to him. A place not only to belong, but the very way he identifies himself.
In the rear of a McDonald’s parking lot outside of Lemon Grove, Byrdie flicks his gaze to the rearview mirror. He sees the scowl on his features as he works his mouth around, his disdain for Ringer strong enough to become palpable. Bitter on his tongue, he tries time and again to dispel it, each as unsuccessful as the time before.
Lifting the paper cup in his hand, he draws on the straw, pulling in the chocolate milkshake held within. Feeling the combination of sweet and cold slide across his tongue, it provides relief for only the briefest of moments.
The sole form of sustenance his mangled jaw can handle right now, it slides down easy, the bitter taste of betrayal flooding back in on its heels.
For more than two decades, Byrdie has ridden under the vest. Long enough that the line between where it ends and he begins has completely blurred. So much so that he now feels exposed without the brand of the Wolves spread across his back, his name and rank stitched atop his breast plate.
Only barely does he recognize the man reflected back in the mirror, his entire adult life stripped away in the course of one sucker punch and a few cheap blows once he was on the deck.
Wrapping his lips around the straw again, Byrdie breaths loudly through his nose. Pushing out all the air in his lungs, he draws up on his drink, filling his jaws with the chilled liquid.
Allowing it to sit for a moment, the cool of it settling over his swollen gums, he swallows it down in one gulp, a visible bulge moving the length of his throat.
Upon waking in the desert this morning, his first thought was to go directly after Ringer. To merely hop on his bike, point it toward The Wolf Den, and go seize what was rightfully his.
Walk in through the swinging front doors, grab a bar stool or a beer glass or whatever else he could get his hands on, and just start swinging. Do to Ringer what had been done to him, any premise of a fair fight tossed aside.
In its place would be rage. The kind of animosity only someone that had been wronged in the way Byrdie had could understand.
The type of concentrated venom that Ringer had never displayed. A lacking that had always proved he wasn’t the right man for the post.
Not until he made it to the dollar store and had the brief encounter with the lady behind the register did a bit of prudence begin to seep in. From the interaction came the realization that as much as that might be what he wanted, appearances mattered.
In the aftermath of such a thing, he might have stood over a battered and bloodied Ringer. He may have thrust his arms in the air, proved himself the better man, but there was no way such a thing would sit well with the other members of the group. None of them would ever bear witness and even allow him back in, let alone give their blessing to his ascent into the vacant head seat.
While his need for revenge, his lust for blood, might be sated, it would be a hollow win. Short lived, it would leave him only nominally better off.
An endpoint he could not allow. He would be given at most only one chance to ingratiate himself back with the crew. A single opportunity to prove not only he was the better man, but that he offered something to the group that nobody else did.
In short, he had to hand them the one thing they’ve been searching for over the last week. The item that many would perceive as the root of his recent ouster, much more glaring than any longstanding ills between him and Ringer.
Kyle Clady.
The sound of air bubbles rising through the straw finds Byrdie’s ears as he continues to drink. Feeling his cheeks pull inward, he sucks up the last small bits of his dinner. Once it is completely empty, he tosses the cup out through the passenger side window, letting it bounce across the pavement in the back corner where he’s parked.
In order to give them Clady, he first has to find him. That’s the problem they’ve been having all week, most of it caused again by the failures of their leader.
Ringer has been content to sit and watch. To wait it out, posting up outside of obvious places, hoping Clady will show his face.
Byrdie has no interest in such a thing. Outside of a couple of brief glimpses at his house or at Linc’s, the man is a trained soldier. He is competent at keeping his head down and staying off the radar.
Not making what he believes to be any obvious mistakes.
Sitting and waiting him out is a strategy that is flawed at best. In order for them to get what they need, dictate the terms of the interaction, they need to be proactive.
They don’t just need to spot the man. They need to seek him out.
The first time Byrdie encountered Clady was at the home of the old woman in Chula Vista. Arriving well into Byrdie’s surveillance of the place, Clady and another man had strolled right up the front walk and into the house. They’d still been standing in the living room having a discussion when Byrdie made his move.
Clearly, the two sides had interacted before. There was some connection there, making the fact that nobody from that night had been spotted since all the more glaring.
Right now, Clady is in hiding. And the women are likely with him.
Finding them means finding him.
And the way to find them has to be inside the house.
Reaching out, Byrdie turns over the engine of the decrepit pile he stole a few hours before. Knowing better than to arrive on his motorcycle, that Ringer likely has Wolves still posted up outside the place, the vehicle is merely a way to get close without being noticed.
A necessary evil for him to get to a location where he can then sneak in on foot. Find what he needs. Seek out the women and Clady.
And then take them all back out to The Wolf Den, where he will reclaim what is rightfully his.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The number I was given by Inina was accompanied by the instruction not to call until after nine. She didn’t bother telling me why, the list of possibilities probably quite lengthy if I really choose to sit and dwell on it.
Perhaps the man is working and won’t be home until then. Maybe - it being Sunday - he is conducting services somewhere and doesn’t want to be interrupted.
Heck, it’s possible the guy still has one of those archaic free-minutes-after-nine-o’clock phone plans that were around back when I was in high school.
Whatever the reason is, I could not possibly care less. The fact is, Inina had already done me a favor and I was about to call and ask a complete stranger for another. If waiting until after nine to do so is what it takes to make that possible, so be it.
Not that I need to really see anything, the last week of calling the place home giving me a complete understanding of where everything situates as I pace along the front of the room. On every fifth step, I flick my gaze over to the clock, forcing my nerves to remain calm as the last few minutes tick past.
Conjuring will power I barely have left, I even manage to force myself to wait another couple of minutes, allowing the man a bit of wiggle room before snatching up my phone from the table in the corner. Grabbed on one of my unending passes through the room, my pace never slows as I call the device to life. Entering the number from memory, I press it to my face.
The green minivan might have checked out this morning, but I still don’t want to risk anybody overhearing the conversation that is about to take place.
Twice the call rings before being picked up. My pulse quickens just slightly as there is no response for a moment. Not a single sound of any kind.
Ten full seconds pass this way before, finally, a man says, “Who is this?”
Much like Inina, his voice is heavily accented. Unlike her, there is a clear wariness present. A bit of a tingle rises along my spine and up the back of my neck, ingrained responses not from feeling imminent danger myself, but instantly recognizing another that has gone through some of the same.
“My name is Kyle Clady-“
“Where did you get this number?” the man asks, cutting me off before I can provide that very answer.
A small pang of hostility rises within me. Much like the other emotions that seem to be permeating me this past week, it is never far beneath the surface. Nothing more than a perceived slight is all that is required to again cause my wrath to spike.
Drawing in a breath, I force it out slowly, reminding myself that this man has information I need.
“Inina,” I reply, only just realizing I don’t even know her last name.
“I do not know an Inina,” the man says in return. “But I do know a Bernadette. I suggest you hang up and try her.”
The call ends with an audible click. Ceasing my pacing, I pull the phone away, my jaw sagging as the screen switches from an active call back to the previous log.
Once more, the ire I felt an instant before swells, my grip on the phone tightening.
“Who the hell is Bernadette?” I mutter, a crease forming between my brows as I stare down at the screen. In the darkness of the room, it seems especially bright, my pupils contracting.
Riffling back through my head, I try and place the name. I attempt to conjure any person I’ve ever known, bringing up absolutely nothing. I then do the same for any places I might have lived, town or street names that might be employed.
Again, it brings nothing to mind.
Stepping across the empty expanse at the front end of the room, I drop myself down on the edge of the bed. Leaning forward, elbows resting on my knees, I drop the call feature from my phone and pull up an internet browser. Using both thumbs, I type the name into Google and scroll through the results, seeing a bunch of references to The Big Bang Theory and a handful of D-list celebrities I’ve never heard of before.
Pushing myself back upright, I toss the phone down on the bed beside me. Raising both hands to my head, I run my fingers through the short hair on either side of my scalp, trying to make sense of what just happened.
It was clear from the moment the man answered the phone that he was uncomfortable speaking. Not once did he offer a greeting, or anything that wasn’t a direct order.
Who is this? Where did you get this number?
Hang up and call Bernadette.
“I don’t know any damn Bernadette,” I snap, my voice rising just slightly as I stare over at the phone lying on the bed.
Most of the day, I’ve been in a semi-neutral state. After the events of last night, so many different moments over the last week, today was a day of rest. A chance to collect my breath, to focus not on the how of what happened but the why.
To let Ringer and the Wolves and whoever else stew for a minute while I try to figure out why my wife – a damned social worker – was taken from me.
With each second that passes, I can feel the shift starting to arise again. Reason is fast giving way to frustration and anger, the unending seesaw I’ve been riding finally beginning to move in the other direction.
An outcome I can’t allow. Not just yet, anyway.
Crossing back over to the bed, I take up the phone. Swiping the front screen to life, I stare at the Google search still pulled up.
I look at the name Bernadette typed across the top, fighting to decipher what the man might have meant.
“Single name,” I mutter. My voice trails off at the end, but even in that, I can hear the growing agitation.
“No last name given. No time or place added. Nothing more than this. One word, ten letters...”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The beige sedan that was sitting along the curb this afternoon is gone. In its place is a dented Datsun truck of the same color, rust pockets dotting the side of it. Sticking out of the back are a dozen or more lengths of PVC pipe, the owner of the vehicle likely some sort of handyman-for-hire.
To either side of it are like-kind automobiles. One a Pontiac Grand Am and the other a Saturn sedan, they are both at least twenty years old, the condition of their exteriors bearing out as much.
The state of their shell isn’t as much a concern to Sven as what may be inside. Walking as close to the edge of the street as the sidewalk allows, he keeps his pace slow. Using the overhead glow of the lamps lining the same residential thoroughfare he was on just eight hours earlier, he peers inside each one.
Scattered throughout them, he finds a variety of items that hint at recent usage. Child car seats and fast food wrappers. Beverage cups and discarded clothing items.
But nowhere does he see anybody watching the house across the street.
The warning that came in from Elsa Teller was about what he had expected. He’d known when he first reached out to her that the likelihood of her being able to flush out the Wolves was almost nonexistent. That was never his point.
The idea was to put her on notice. Let her know that if he was going to continue doing as he was hired to, he needed to know that he had the green light to do whatever was required to make that happen.
And that if this had been done on purpose, a method for drawing him out, hoping to eliminate him for what happened to Dr. Hoke, he was already onto her scheme.
A one and only warning that if she was in any way involved, it would not end well for her or her employers.
When she called back later and stated that they had told her they would move on but that he should keep an eye out, he was already thoroughly aware of such a thing. After seeing the men once, there was no way he would ever go near the place again without having them on his radar.
Every shadow that moved, every sound that found his ears, he would be ready for them.
At least this way, he knew they were the only ones he needed to be watching for this evening.
His gait a bit slower than it had been this afternoon, Sven moves to the end of the street. Never does he explicitly turn his head to the side, making it obvious what he is doing, though he misses not a single vehicle lining the street. From the junk-filled to the pristinely clean, he checks every last one on his way to the corner.
Hands thrust into the front pockets of his jacket, his fingers graze over a Beretta Pico on one side, a MTU16 knife with a spring-release blade on the other. Neither is his preferred weapon of choice, but both are small enough to be carried without being seen.
Together, they create no bulges in the thin nylon outerwear he dons. They present no excessive weight tugging his collar to one side or another.<
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If given his own devices, it would be something like last night. Not necessarily the excessive mess created by the garrote, but a weapon that allowed for a more intimate experience. A test that requires true domination over an opponent, physical strength and stamina being the most relevant determining factors.
Generations before, his Viking forebears had shown up on the coasts of North America with little more than axes and swords. They hadn’t had guns or longbows to stand and fire from a safe distance. Surely hadn’t employed explosives or traps to create sneak attacks.
Standing loud and bold, they had proclaimed their intentions to anybody that stood across from them.
Then, they had raised their fists, imposed their will, and carried them out.
Never before has Sven encountered the Wolves, but he’s come across enough men like them to know how they operate. The way they use sheer size, raw bravado, even strength in numbers, to take what they want.
No speed or cunning. Certainly, no skill or stamina.
All things Sven prides himself in, traits that have made him into the kind of man that Elsa Teller would venture down the sand to seek out.
Sven can feel his heart rate pick up slightly. Not through fear, but anticipation. Knowing that somewhere nearby, they are likely watching. They are seeing him walk slowly the length of the street, checking cars.
At this moment, they are probably chuckling to themselves as they call in reinforcements. They are thinking he has walked into their trap.
When in reality, it is quite the opposite.
Reaching the end of the street, Sven makes the turn. Crossing over to the other side, he begins his ascent back up toward the house he came to scout earlier in the day. The place where what he needs is squirreled away somewhere inside.
Putting himself along the outer edge of the sidewalk, he again looks into every car window he passes by. Not once does he see anything out of the norm, nor does he expect to.