Shooting Dirty

by Jill Sorenson

  Air rushed from her lungs. She tried to speak but no sound came out. She couldn’t get oxygen in.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he rolled away from her and let go of her hair. She gasped for breath, black spots dancing before her eyes. Someone, maybe the driver, put a pillowcase on her head. Although she wasn’t fighting anymore, the man in the mask maneuvered her into a chokehold. The truck accelerated again. She couldn’t see anything. She didn’t know which direction they were going.

  She could feel the man behind her. His arm was strong, his body stocky. He had extra weight around his middle.

  He also had an erection.

  She smothered a sob of terror. These were White Lightning members. They were going to gang-rape her.

  Oh God.

  They drove on and on. The road was bumpy. Desert shrubs whipped against the side of the truck and sage permeated through the sour scent of old saliva on the pillowcase. They were traveling out to the middle of nowhere. These men weren’t just going to gang-rape her—they were going to kill her.

  Janelle started to drift, retreating to a safer place in her mind. It was the only way to endure the trauma. She let the fear wash over her instead of through her. When the vehicle stopped, she was jolted back to reality.

  The man in the mask let her go. She tugged off the pillowcase and took deep breaths, touching her sore throat. The driver was standing by the truck, watching her. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, so she couldn’t see most of his face. Her attention was focused on the gun in his hand.

  “Get up,” he said.

  She scrambled to her feet.

  “Climb down.”

  Her eyes adjusted to the gloom all around them. They were somewhere in the desert. The terrain was rugged, with rocky crags that poked against the moonlit sky. “Where are we going?” she asked, putting one leg over the tailgate.

  He watched the hem of her skirt as she climbed down. His friend followed, making the truck bed dip and creak with his considerable weight. She had no chance of fighting these men. Cooperating didn’t seem wise, but maybe she could run away in the dark. She squinted at the mountains in the distance.

  “Forward,” the driver said, jabbing the barrel into her spine.

  She walked about a hundred steps, toward what appeared to be an old water tank. It was sitting on a wooden platform about ten feet off the ground. Someone had spray-painted a sinister image of a demon with swirling eyes on the side of the tank. The man in the skeleton mask grabbed the ladder from the bed of the pickup and propped it up against the platform. There was another ladder attached to the tank itself.

  “Oh no,” she said.

  The driver urged her to continue. “You can go in there and be alone, or stay out here and entertain us.”

  She went up the ladder. He prodded her with his gun, sticking it up the back of her skirt and lifting the fabric to display her ass. His friend snickered at the show. Janelle continued to climb, enduring the indignity. They weren’t going to get inside the tank with her. This was just a convenient holding cage.

  She hoped.

  The platform was cracked and weathered. She stepped onto it with caution and grabbed the metal bars that were attached to the side of the tank. When she resumed climbing, the driver tucked his pistol into his pants and followed her up. Soon she was twenty feet off the ground, and the only place to go was inside.

  The surface of the tank was concave, as if designed to cache rain. There was a square opening in the center that appeared large enough for a person. She crawled closer to the opening and stared into the pitch-black depths, her heart racing.

  The driver had a length of rope coiled over his shoulder, like a whip. He tossed her one end and held on to the other. “Get in.”

  She stuck her legs into the opening and gripped the knotted rope. She had to get on her belly to lower herself in. Then she was dangling in space, her legs swinging. Finally her boots touched the bottom. It smelled like rust and rats.

  When she let go of the rope, it slithered upward, disappearing through the square. She could see the desert sky above, clustered with more stars than seemed possible. The hairs on her arms prickled from the chill.

  She rubbed her skin, inspecting the dark interior. There was a small drainage hole on one side of the tank. She could stick her hand through it, but not much else. Some trash littered the floor, mostly beer cans and broken glass. There were no objects to stand on, no convenient rescue supplies. She couldn’t reach the ceiling by jumping or climbing. Unless someone came to help her out, she’d die here.

  She heard a rustling sound and imagined all sorts of creepy crawlies.

  Shuddering, she stood directly under the opening and stared up at the night sky, suppressing the urge to scream.

  * * *

  Ace wanted to go on a shooting rampage.

  He left the casino, his blood pumping with adrenaline, intent on storming the homes of White Lightning members and mowing down anyone who got in his way. But he reconsidered this plan as he strode across the parking lot. He couldn’t just knock on their doors and expect them to open up. He needed a Trojan horse.

  Taking his cell phone out of his pocket, he called Wizard. The old man was Dirty Eleven’s communication central.

  “Long time no speak,” Wizard said, sounding groggy.

  “I’ve got trouble with White Lightning.”

  Wizard didn’t hesitate. “Anything we can do?”

  Ace was reluctant to recruit an army of Dirty Eleven members. He preferred to work alone, and he couldn’t wait for them to get organized. He was aiming for speed and stealth, not brute force. “I’ll let you know,” he said. “Do you have Tiffany’s number?”

  “Tiffany from Vixen?”

  “Yeah.”

  Wizard gave him the number without argument. Ace thanked him and dialed it, praying she was still awake.

  “Who is this?” she asked, her voice husky.

  “It’s Ace.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need your help,” he said, choking out the words once again. “They took Janelle.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll help.”

  “I haven’t even told you the details.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m in.”

  She was ride or die for her friend. Ace respected that. He’d been counting on it. “I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

  When he arrived at her apartment complex, she was waiting outside. She hopped in the passenger side of his truck. He hadn’t thought to tell her what to wear, but she looked perfect for what he intended. She resembled a sweet, blonde angel in jeans and a V-neck T-shirt, her face scrubbed clean of makeup.

  “Where are we headed?” she asked.

  “To a guy named Pigpen’s house.”

  She nodded, putting on her seatbelt.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Not really. He’s been in the club a few times.”

  Ace doubted Pigpen would recognize her from Vixen. Like Janelle, Tiffany had a different persona on stage.

  “Are you going to kill him?”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  Ace wanted him to talk—if he was even home—and dead men didn’t do that. He was hoping to find Pigpen or one of his buddies to pump for information. “I’ll drive by to scope the place out first. Then I’ll park down the street. I need you to knock on the door while I wait next to it, out of sight.”

  Tiffany understood the plan. “Gotcha.”

  “As soon as he opens it, you have to move. Get as far away as possible in case something goes wrong.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a gunfight.”

  “How do you know they have Janelle?”

  “Jester sent me a picture.”

 
“Is she alive?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  Ace jerked his head to look at her, startled by the question. She stared back at him. Then he returned his attention to the road, contemplative. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Janelle. He’d kill for her, but he was a natural born killer. He’d always been able to pull the trigger without blinking an eye. He’d also gotten her into this mess, and it was his responsibility to get her out. Only a coward would look the other way when his woman was in trouble.

  His woman. That was the key.

  His emotions were locked away somewhere, out of reach, but his caveman instincts worked just fine. Janelle was his woman, his possession, his property. No one else could touch her, and anyone who hurt her better be prepared to die.

  When they reached Pigpen’s ramshackle abode, Ace scoped out the scene. There was one truck in the driveway, covered in sandy dust.

  His blood ran cold at the sight. What if they were too late?

  He parked down the street, his blood pounding. “If he asks what you want—”

  She interrupted him. “I’ve got this. I won’t tell you how to kill people, and you don’t tell me how to work a mark.”

  Fair enough. Ace shut up and exited the truck, drawing the Colt from his waistband. When they reached the driveway, he inspected the pickup. There was a discarded pillowcase and a skeleton mask in the bed. The cab was empty. He nodded at Tiffany, indicating that they were in the right place. Then he crept forward and flattened his back against the side of the house, very close to the front door.

  At his signal, Tiffany stepped up to knock.

  A light above the door came on, bathing her in a golden glow. Ace’s heart hammered against his ribs. He stayed stock-still, gun raised, praying he couldn’t be seen by anyone inside the house.

  “Hello?” Tiffany said, tentative.

  The door cracked, just a little. Ace waited for Tiffany to do her magic.

  “Ohmigosh,” she said, clasping a hand to her cleavage. “I’m so glad you’re home.” She sounded half-drunk, half-ditsy. “I just got my car stuck in a ditch, and my phone’s dead. Can I use yours?”

  The door swung open and Ace moved in. The man on the other side was Pigpen. Ace clutched the collar of his shirt, pushed him against the wall and pressed the barrel of the Colt into his fleshy cheek. “Are you alone?”

  Pigpen nodded.

  “Who else lives here?”

  He hesitated. “No one.”

  That was a lie. Ace took the gun away from his face and let go of his shirt. Then he jammed the heel of his left hand into Pigpen’s nose. There was a sickening crunch of cartilage. Pigpen cried out in shock and tried to staunch the blood flow. Ace followed up with a brutal gut-punch. Pigpen dropped to his knees, wheezing.

  “Who else lives here?” Ace repeated.

  “Fuck you,” Pigpen said, his response muffled.

  Ace glanced at the doorway. Tiffany hadn’t fled the scene, like she was supposed to. She came inside and shut the door behind her, locking it. He didn’t argue, although he’d rather not endanger her further. Ace quickly searched Pigpen for weapons. Then Ace shoved Pigpen down on the ground and kicked him in the ribs, probably breaking a few. Pigpen’s body jerked from the impact. He whimpered, holding his ruined nose.

  “If you get up, I’ll fucking kill you,” Ace said. Then he strode through the hall with his gun drawn to check the bedrooms. The first one was a mess. The second was clean and neat, clearly belonging to someone whose name wasn’t Pigpen. Both were empty, as was the bathroom. When Ace returned to the living area, Tiffany was standing over Pigpen with her hands curled into fists.

  “Where’s Janelle?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Pigpen wheezed.

  She looked at Ace, who gestured for her to continue. She kicked Pigpen in the side. Not hard, but it didn’t matter. He was already incapacitated, his ribs bruised or fractured. “Where did you take her?”

  Pigpen didn’t answer. This was his strength, Ace realized. He wasn’t smart or experienced, but he was loyal. In the MC, that meant everything.

  Ace glanced around for a blunt object to convince him with. There was a crescent wrench on the coffee table, as if someone had been doing a repair. Ace tucked the Colt into his waistband and grabbed the wrench. Pigpen saw him coming and rolled onto his stomach, covering his head. Ace held the wrench between his teeth and straddled Pigpen’s back. Grabbing Pigpen’s right arm, he shoved it between his shoulder blades. Pigpen made a sound of agony, begging for mercy.

  Ace didn’t have any for him. He took the wrench out of his mouth and held it ready. “Put your left hand flat on the ground.”

  Pigpen didn’t do it.

  Ace applied a little more pressure to his right arm and his sore ribs.

  Pigpen did it.

  “If you don’t tell me where Janelle is, I’ll break every fucking bone in your body, starting with your fingers.”

  Pigpen flinched, flexing his hand.

  “You ready?”

  “Please,” he rasped.

  Ace used the wrench like a hammer, crushing Pigpen’s pinkie finger. It bent at an odd angle. Pigpen screamed in agony, but he didn’t talk. Ace moved on to his ring finger, and then his middle finger. Tiffany grimaced and turned around, unable to watch anymore. When Ace targeted Pigpen’s forefinger, he capitulated.

  “Okay,” he cried. “Fuck!”

  “Where is she?”

  “Dos Cabezas water tower. She’s inside the tank.”

  Ace knew the place. It was miles deep in the desert, close to the old railroad tracks. “Alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s with her?”

  Pigpen hesitated, so Ace raised the wrench again.

  “Chum’s guarding her.”

  “Is he armed?”

  “With a .9.”

  “Why aren’t you there?”

  “I came to get some...supplies.”

  Some dope, he meant. Fucking tweakers always needed a fix.

  “Find something to tie him up with,” Ace said to Tiffany. He searched Pigpen’s pockets. Sure enough, there was a bag of meth on him. Ace dumped it out on the carpet. Then he stole Pigpen’s phone and keys. When Tiffany returned with duct tape, Ace bound Pigpen’s wrists behind his back. The tape wouldn’t hold for long, but there wasn’t much else Ace could do, besides shoot him.

  “I’ll watch him,” Tiffany said. “Otherwise he’ll break free and tip off the guard before you even get there.”

  She was right, but Ace didn’t want to leave her unprotected. “Who else lives here?” he asked Pigpen.

  “Rex,” Pigpen said. “He works the night shift.”

  There was a baseball bat by the door. She picked it up and sat down on the couch, ready to defend herself.

  Ace gave her his truck keys with reluctance. He would drive Pigpen’s vehicle to Dos Cabezas and arrive incognito. “I only need an hour, so don’t stay too long. If Rex comes, get the fuck out of here. He’s not an easy mark.”

  She just stared at him, her face pale. She was probably sickened by what she’d seen him do to Pigpen. Ace felt nothing, not even a flicker of remorse. Pigpen’s pain and suffering didn’t register at all. None of his targets were human to him.

  “You’d better save Janelle or die trying,” she said. “You hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  She dismissed him with a wave, her eyes watery.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Babysitting Pigpen wasn’t as easy as she’d figured.

  Tiffany wished Ace had knocked Pigpen out before he left, because he was really fucking annoying. The White Lightning member cried and whined and begged her to remove the tape. His breathing became la
bored, to the point of exaggerated wheezing. He claimed that he had a punctured lung.

  Although she doubted his story and didn’t give a damn about his physical comfort, her unease grew. She’d never been involved in anything illegal before. Not this illegal, anyway. She was worried about getting caught by Pigpen’s buddies. She was worried about Janelle and her crazy-hot boyfriend.

  Tiffany didn’t deal well with anxiety.

  “Do you have any pot?” she asked Pigpen.

  “Fuck you, bitch,” Pigpen said.

  She narrowed her eyes, studying the red-tinged spittle hanging from his lips. His nose was crusty with dried blood. He was hurt, but he’d live. He obviously felt good enough to babble nonstop and insult her.

  She glanced through the dirty curtains, checking the driveway once again. The window was protected by iron bars for extra security. “When does your friend get home?”

  “Soon. And he’s going to rape the shit out of you while I watch.”

  Tiffany picked up the baseball bat and strode toward him. Hitting him over the head would shut him up.

  “Please,” he said, baring his teeth. “I’m in pain!”

  “You want some drugs, pig boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “What have you got?”

  “Oxys. In my room.”

  She glanced down the hall, contemplative. Getting him out of sight and drugging him wasn’t a bad idea. She set aside the baseball bat. “I’m going to help you up,” she said, standing over him. “You walk down the hall and into your room. If you cooperate, I’ll take off the tape.”

  He breathed through his mouth. He really wanted his hands free. They were swollen, his broken fingers poking in different directions. “Okay.”

  Getting him on his feet was a challenge, but they managed. She held his bound wrists and urged him down the hall. There were two bedroom doors, both open. Pigpen shuffled toward the one on the right. It was filled with beer cans and dirty clothes. The only window was barred. She skirted around a pizza box on the floor, nudging him toward the unmade bed.