But he stood firm, and hissed: “We’re just here to have a few drinks, and play a few hands. We ain’t leavin’.”
Coyle laughed dangerously, and jumped right off the bar.
The floorboards shook as his 300 lb weight landed on them.
He landed pretty much right in front of the biker, and even though he wasn’t on the bar any more, still loomed over him.
Flashing his teeth, Coyle purred:
“Now, I went and asked nicely, son.” He reached forward, to place his arm on the guy’s shoulder, in the same intimidating way he’d done with the other biker.
But this guy brushed it off.
Coyle was still smiling – but his eyes narrowed, and that was as clear a warning as the rattle of a snake’s tail.
“I’m givin’ you boys one last chance to pack up and walk out of here,” Coyle hissed.
The biker’s friends grabbed their coats and made for the door – until their buddy turned and barked: “Hold it! We ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
But those were the last words he spoke for a while.
The biker turned back to Coyle – clearly expecting there to be more talking, and further confrontation...
Instead, Coyle just headbutted him.
You could have heard the meaty crunch from across the street. Coyle’s forehead had crushed his nose like it was an overripe tomato.
The guy went down hard – crashing to the floorboards and curling into a protective ball.
But that didn’t do him any good. The next move Coyle made was to drive the point of his cowboy boot into the biker’s face, with the force of a field goal behind it.
There was a sickening crunch, and the next thing we all saw was the groaning biker spitting out a mouthful of teeth.
Coyle looked up at his buddies – who were watching, open-mouthed and terrified.
“Pick him up,” the towering biker ordered, wiping the blood from his boot on the back of his calf, “and get the fuck out of here.”
And they did. Scooping up their groaning, half-conscious buddy, they carted him out of the bar, and were screaming off down the road before the saloon doors had even stopped swinging.
A few moments later, the bar was still.
Aside from the bartender and waitress, there now wasn’t a single soul in the joint who didn’t ride with the Knuckleheads.
Satisfied, Coyle clambered up onto the bar again – and addressed the room of bikers like a general addressing his troops.
Which was, as it happened, not so far from the truth.
“Now we’ve got that sorted out,” he laughed, jerking his head towards the puddle of blood on the floorboards, “let’s get down to business.”
Coyle towered over the room, as he announced:
“As you might have guessed, I didn’t drag you boys all the way to Fresno for the tacos. We’re here to do a job – and I’ve got a very special guest to tell you all about it.”
And with that introduction, the door to the back room, behind the bar, rattled.
The door swung open, and an older man in a leather jacket swaggered out.
I recognized him instantly – with the salt-and-pepper hair and scare on his chin, there was no mistaking Raine – Coyle’s itinerant, dangerous older brother.
Chapter Fifteen
Christi
The moment the door behind the bar swung open, I felt my heart jump into my throat.
Under the table, I squeezed Mason’s hand and dug my nails into his skin – enough to make him utter a muffled grunt of pain.
But his discomfort was nowhere close to mine.
Stepping out from behind the bar was a face I’d have been happy to never see again.
Coyle’s older brother.
Raine was shorter and slimmer than Coyle – more rangy than muscular, and nowhere near as physically intimidating…
…but those eyes.
His face was leathery, and lined – and from the center of it, Raine’s eyes burned with a malicious intensity that was truly terrifying.
I’d only crossed paths with Coyle’s older brother a couple of times, but that was already more than enough for me.
Coyle was a tough, violent leader with grit and determination.
Raine, on the other hand, had the intensity of a serial killer about him. He’d never risen to leadership because he had no desire to command this gang of itinerants.
He enjoyed the fringe benefits of riding with a biker gang more – and that bode ill for whatever it was that had brought him back here.
“So listen up, boys and girls,” Coyle grinned, from his perch on the bar. “My big brother Raine’s back in town – and boy does he have a score for you.”
He patted the wooden bar with the toe of his cowboy boot.
“Why don’t you come on up here, brother – explain it all to the boys?”
Raine nodded, and clambered up onto the bar next to his brother.
Now he was looming above us, the contrast between the two brothers seemed even more pronounced. Coyle was perched up there with the majesty of an eagle. Raine, on the other hand, looked like a vulture. Even his knee-length leather jacket looked like the black, leather wings of a carrion-feeder.
Raine peered across the room, studying the crowd of bikers.
Then his eyes fell on mine.
His hawkish lips curled, and he flashed a wink in my direction.
I turned my face away, and squeezed Mason’s hand for reassurance. Thankfully, Mason squeezed back, and that gave me the strength to endure Raine’s gaze for the few seconds it took before he turned away.
“So, here’s the story, boys,” in his gravelly voice, Raine addressed the crowd. “I’ve been working with some friends down near San Diego, and I’ve got a score lined up that’s so sweet, it’ll keep us in beer and hookers for a decade.”
There was a cheer as Raine announced that, and the assembled gang of bikers chinked their beers and patted each other’s backs in comradeship.
“We’re up here in Fresno to lift six delivery vans,” Raine explained, rubbing his hands together like Mr. Burns, from The Simpsons. “And boy do I have something for you dirty motherfuckers to fill ‘em with.”
There was another cheer from the crowd, and I just sat there riveted to the uncomfortable wooden chair.
With a thump, Raine jumped off the bar, and the floorboards shook as he landed.
“So, here’s the score, boys. Got a couple of cop friends in San Diego. Greedy little bastards – ain’t all cops?”
I froze when I heard that.
Crooked cops. San Diego.
It couldn’t be…
Could it?
But as I listened, my suspicion seemed to be confirmed.
“These two cats used to have a nice little scheme goin’,” Raine was explaining. “They’d knock over the local weed growers – give ‘em enough pressure for them to pay up, but not enough to stop operating. You dig?”
I gulped when I heard that. That sounded exactly like the two cops who’d raided my dad’s farm.
“And then these two dumb bastards pushed it all too far. Filled some poor old fuck with lead when they raided his place on a trumped-up charge.”
My heart stopped.
I mean, it didn’t really – but it might as well have done.
I felt my mouth flood with saliva, and my stomach lurch, as I realized that the two cops Raine was talking about were the same ones who’d murdered my dad – and the Knuckleheads were in on it.
Maybe not in on it – they hadn’t been part of what happened…
…but they were involved now.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d run away and endured so many humiliations in an effort to escape this situation. And now it looked like I was being dragged right back to it.
As I swallowed down the bile and tried to keep my shit together, Raine just kept talking.
“So, these two cops ice this poor bastard,” he explained crudely, no idea that the ‘poor bastard’s’ daugh
ter was sitting just a few feet away, “and now they’re stuck with two acres of medical-grade kush, and the feds are comin’ down next week with flamethrowers to torch the lot of it.”
There was a hush from the crowd, as they listened to Raine continue.
“What that means is that there’s two million dollars-worth of weed plants sittin’ in an unprotected lot, just ripe for the takin’ – and we’re gonna be takin’ it.”
“My two cop friends have arranged to ‘accidentally’ leave the cameras off, and the gates unlocked. Tomorrow night, we roll up into there and load up like we were buyin’ kale at fucking Whole Foods.”
I gulped as I heard this. My father’s farm. The acres of cannabis we’d spent years cultivating. They were going to steal it.
I was quiet for a very different reason than everybody else, but the reverential hush had silenced the entire room as the Knuckleheads listened to this scheme.
“It’ll be like taking candy from a baby – and the next week, when the feds come down with their flamethrowers, there won’t be nothing left to burn. We’ll take it all.”
“Woah,” one biker breathed, as the full extent of the plan became apparent.
“We take the kush, sell the shit out of it, and those two bum cops get a nice little payout for lettin’ us rob the place.” Raine snorted bitterly. “They’ll probably get a slap on the wrist for leavin’ the gates unlocked – but let’s be real: Their share of the dough is gonna make that a real easy pill for them to swallow.”
The bile rose again. I couldn’t believe those bastard cops.
As Raine finished his story, he looked up, towards his brother, and nodded for his approval.
Coyle gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
From his perch on the bar, the towering gang leader grinned: “This’ll be the biggest score the Knuckleheads have ever made – and our easiest. Won’t be any shooting. We don’t be bustin’ anybody’s skulls…”
“Hey!” Came a cry of mock-outrage from the crowd. “I enjoy that part!”
Coyle laughed good-naturedly, and continued:
“We’ve got a buyer up in Bakersfield, all lined up. I’ll have six of you motherfuckers drivin’ the vans. Two more per van to load up the shit. The rest of you assholes?” He grinned widely. “You all run defense while we haul the weed north. Any cops or troopers get in our way, you crank the throttle and distract them. You dig?”
There was a cheer from the crowd. Coyle beamed widely as he listened to it – basking in the adoration of his gang.
Finally, the massive man jumped off the bar – the floorboards shaking as his cowboy boots hit them.
“I’ll have Rooker come round with your assignments in the next half hour,” Coyle gave his lieutenant a nod, and Rooker began to cross the room towards him. “So, till then, don’t get too fucking drunk. Capische?”
“No promises, boss!”
Coyle laughed at the joke one of the bikers threw out, but I could spot his eyes flash angrily as he heard it. I cringed as I saw that unspoken fury – because whether it was a baseball bat to the knees, a tire-iron to the teeth, or something even worse, that disrespectful biker would probably pay for his cheap crack by the end of the night.
With the briefing over, Coyle crossed the room to where his brother was standing, and gave him a nod. Rooker was quick to join them, and they started heading towards the door.
Right past our table.
I turned away as they approached. I couldn’t look Coyle in the eye, and his brother just repelled me.
As they approached, I felt like they must have known. They must have been aware of who I was, and what my relation to this scheme was…
But even as my heart raced and the cold sweat beaded on my skin, a logical part of my brain reassured me that they couldn’t.
I was Christi with-no-last-name. A biker slut, good for blowjobs and getting you another beer. I was nothing, and nobody – just as I’d intended to be, when I came up north to ride with this gang.
They had no idea.
I knew that, and yet it didn’t stop me from squeezing Mason’s hand under the table, as Coyle and Raine approached.
They stopped at our table, looming over the pair of us.
Fuck, I thought to myself. They did know…
…but as it turned out, I wasn’t the one they were here to see.
“Recon,” Coyle barked, ignoring me completely. “Come with us. We need to talk.”
Under the table, I felt Mason let go of my hand. Immediately, I missed the warmth and reassurance.
Ignoring me – pretending once again that I was just a nice piece of ass – Mason clambered up from his chair and nodded wordlessly.
A moment later he was following Coyle, Raine and Rooker out of the bar, leaving me alone at the table.
My heart was racing. My palms were clammy. I could hardly breath.
Shit, I’d joined this gang to get away from those cops, and now it sounded like we were about to saddle up, and ride right down to meet them…
…and if they saw me?
I looked up towards the door, where Mason had left with the others.
Until yesterday, that handsome bastard had been a complete stranger. And now? I felt like I’d never needed the reassurance of another human being so badly in all my life.
And the moment I needed him… He was gone.
I made a move to stand up – but suddenly a heavy arm flopped down across my shoulders.
I turned, and saw that Big Mac had taken the seat next to me, and scooted up close enough to wrap one huge arm around me.
Breathing beer-fumes into my face, Big Mac purred: “Where d’you think you’re going, baby?”
He hiccuped gently.
“I figured maybe we could hang out some.”
I gulped.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew what ‘hang out’ implied.
Somehow, in some capacity, he expected me to drain his balls for him.
I also knew that two days earlier, I’d have taken a deep breath and just got on with it…
…but that was before.
Before hearing about these two crooked cops…
Before the thought of returning to the very town I’d run away from…
Before I’d met Mason – and suddenly found a light in the midst of the oppressive eclipse that my life had become.
I turned to Big Mac, and slid his heavy arm off my shoulders.
“I-I’m sorry baby,” I patted his arm. “I’m not feeling good.”
And that much was true.
I clambered up from the table, and rubbed Big Mac’s burly arm – looking at the disappointment on his round, fat face.
“I’m sorry, baby. Another time.”
And then I was out of there – heading for the door, and out into the warm evening air, with my pulse thumping like the engine of a Harley Davidson.
Chapter Sixteen
Mason
I’ve been called a lot of things over the years, but ‘dumb’ has never been one of them.
As Coyle and Raine led me out of that roadside bar, I knew that the crooked cops they were talking about had to be the same ones Christi had filled me in about that afternoon.
I mean, fuck. What were the odds?
As we emerged into the warm evening air, I did some math and figured the odds weren’t that remote.
The Knuckleheads were the meanest, most mercenary biker gang in California – and one of only a few capable of taking on a job like the one Raine had outlined.
They’d need the contacts to steal some vans. The muscle to load up two acres of stolen marijuana. And have a buyer to pay for it all.
All in the space of a couple of days…
Nope, there was no question. The Knuckleheads were the only operation slick enough to handle a project like that – and if these two cops were legit, they’d have known that about us all along.
That’s why they’d given Coyle a call.
“Hey!”
Coyle’s bo
oming voice snapped me from my thoughts.
“You dialin’ out there, Recon?” Coyle looked at me quizzically. “Need a coffee?”
“Nah, I’m fine,” I brushed his comment off, and followed him as he marched across the gravel parking lot. “Just been a long day…”
“Well, it’s about to get a whole lot longer,” Coyle warned. “I need your special skills, Recon.”
I wondered just what he meant by that.
Coyle lead us to the old Airstream trailer, which had finally made it up here. The door creaked as the big man wrenched it open, and then the whole trailer rocked from side to side as we climbed the stairs inside.
***
It was muggy in that old Airsteam, and the air smelt of sex and weed.
Normally, that wouldn’t bother me – but there was something about the mood that evening which was strictly businesslike – so, as we squeezed ourselves around the breakfast table, it seemed slightly weird to be doing so in a place that Coyle basically drove from site-to-site like it was his own, mobile brothel.
Anyway. I shook such thoughts out of my head, and tried to listen.
“There’s a guy at a local removal company who owes me big,” Coyle was announcing, as he squeezed his bulk into the booth. “In return for putting the squeeze on the guy he owes money too, he’s gonna leave the gate open at their compound tonight, and the keys to his boss’ trucks hangin’ up inside the office.”
“We’ll pick six drivers to walk on in there, and drive right out,” Raine continued. “Our guy there promised not to call in the missing vans until morning...”
“…and we picked his joint because none of the trucks have tracking devices installed in them.”
That was a smart move. These days, everything from an Enterprise Rent-a-Car to a Home Depot truck had GPS built right in, and even the ability to shut off a car remotely if it was reported lost or stolen.
Not so with some small-time removal company.
“We’ll drive straight down tonight,” Coyle continued. “Six different routes, with six different teams running defense on their bikes.”
Coyle leaned towards the center of the table.
“There’s an old, abandoned mall six miles out of town we can hold up in until nightfall, and then tomorrow night we just roll over to that farm, and get pickin’.”
No Way Out Page 9