Blood Brothers

by Dusty Sharp

  I erased the draft email message.

  So I had an appointment at the Del Taco in Jurupa at 1:15. I needed to hurry so I wolfed down the now lukewarm Hot Pockets and headed out the door.

  Marcus was standing at the order counter when I walked into Del Taco. He looked over, gave me a subtle nod, stepped up to the cash register, and ordered a Number 4 with extra red sauce. He stepped away without paying. I shook my head and told the clerk to get me a Macho Combo Burrito and a large iced tea. Those Hot Pockets hadn’t quite filled the void. I paid for both of us, then went and sat down across from Marcus.

  “This fucking cloak and dagger shit’s getting a bit played out,” I said as I slid into the seat across from him. He looked at me like I was from Mars.

  “What the fuck you doin’ sit’n right across from me man? You know that ain’t cool bro. Ain’t I taught you nothin’? You s’posed to sit kitty-corner or across the aisle or somethin’. Bitches be seein’ us!”

  I tried not to laugh. “What bitches?”

  He swept his arm out dramatically, apparently to indicate all of Southern California. “All bitches, nigga! Fuckin’ gubmint, narcs, any of yo’ motorcycle ridin’ freaks. Ain’t like it’s normal to see a handsome young black man hangin’ out with some long-haired white trash Godzilla like you! Shit gets noticed.”

  I looked around, twisting in my seat to take in the mostly empty room. “We’ll be fine. There’s only a high school kid and a couple tweakers in here.”

  Marcus scowled. But he seemed resigned. He always started out like this, thinking he was in a James Bond movie or something. I have to hand it to the kid, he was a genius, and sure as hell came in handy sometimes, even if he took the spy shit a bit too seriously. My cousin Hank had put me in touch with him a few years back, when I’d needed some technical help on something. He’s come in handy ever since. If it boils down to ones and zeros, he can master it. “So what you rouse me outta my beauty rest fo’ dis time? Said you needed a Face 2 Face, As Soon As Fuckin’ Possible.”

  I was about to answer when the clerk called out our order number. I went to grab our trays and sat back down.

  “I need you to do something for me,” I said, digging the thumb drive out of my pocket.

  Marcus looked up from squeezing a packet of Del Scorcho sauce onto a grilled chicken quesadilla, and asked “What’s on that?”

  “Some video files—it ain’t porn, keep your dick in your pants. But its some sensitive shit. I know I can trust you.”

  “Whatchoo want me do with it?” he said, smacking his lips on cheese grease and taco sauce.

  I reached across the table and dropped it into his shirt pocket so he wouldn’t get Del Scorcho all over it. “I need it encrypted and placed on a secure server. I need a deadman switch on it. Anything happens to me, it gets broadcast.”

  “Aight,” he said, nodding. “Ain’t no thang. I can set it up today. I’ll send you a dark web IP address. You’ll need to log into it every four hours with the codes I’ma send you, or it triggers the switch and sends yo shit all over hell.”

  “Make it every 8 hours. I got too much shit to do, to fuck with it more often than that.”

  “Aight. You the boss.”

  “And make sure Hank’s on the recipient list if its triggered.”

  “No problem. How’s that fool doin’ anyhow?”

  I thought of the text I’d received that morning. “Pretty good, I suppose. I haven’t talked with him in a while. Seems he’s up to something up there in Frisco though. Sent me a text this morning all excited about something. How come you haven’t taken him up on that job offer yet?”

  “Bitch, you know I don’t work for the man! I am the man.”

  I laughed. I could see Marcus struggling not to smile too.

  “You tell that ol’ boy I said wassup,” he said. I was amused at Marcus calling a man twice his age, founder and CEO of several large tech companies, “boy.”

  I looked at my Macho Combo burrito, still unwrapped. Somehow I’d forgotten my appetite. “You want that?”

  “Aw hell yeah,” Marcus said, and slid the enormous burrito over onto his tray.

  I rose from my seat. “Alright then. Thanks a bunch Marcus, I got shit to do.”

  “Don’t thank me, bro, you know that shit ain’t free.” He was right. Marcus was a hell of a resource, but he wasn’t cheap. I’d send half of a Bitcoin to his wallet later that day. The payment wasn’t for the work. That part was easy for someone like Marcus. The payment was for his confidence.

  “Nothing’s free,” I agreed, and held out my fist. He bumped it with his own and gave a nod. Then I turned and walked out the door.

  Nineteen

  I headed back to the house to try to grab some shuteye. It was a little after two in the afternoon when I turned onto Burlwood Street. I pulled the FLH up onto one of the two concrete strips that served as the driveway, and parked it along the side of the house in front of the detached garage.

  It was blessedly cool in the house, as I tend to run the AC around the clock during the summer, if I’m home. As I walked inside I felt a sense of calm. I had come to a conclusion. I didn’t quite know what I was going to do next, but on one thing I was clear. I was done with all the bullshit—Rattlers, 601 Posse, Tillman, the whole nine yards. I just needed to figure out a way to make an exit that wouldn’t get me killed, while also bringing down Tillman’s slave ring. Sounds like a tall order, right? I’ve had tougher.

  I set an alarm for 5 o’clock, stripped to my skivvies and laid down on the bed. I was out almost instantly.

  The alarm went off at 5 but I was already up, scratching my ass in front of the mirror in the bathroom. I was looking at my reflection, wondering how I’d gotten so damned old. Most of us can remember a time when we dreamed about what we would do when we grew up. Running around a schoolyard at ten years old, or cruising down the main drag of your home town at 16, “growing up” seemed an eternity away. You dreamed of successes in education, business, love, whatever. It seemed your destiny—that all of that would come to you in time. And that time was the only thing that mattered. Keep your nose to the grindstone long enough, you’d get everything your heart desired.

  But one day you look up and realize that all that time had come and gone.

  As I studied the crows feet at the corners of my eyes, the gray strands that were now threatening to overtake the black ones in my beard, the tired patina of experience in my faded blue eyes, I knew it was all bullshit. At 48, I was still looking at the world in terms of what things would be like when I finally grow up. What the fuck does that even mean, anyhow, being “grown up?”

  You’ve reached a certain age? I’m 48.

  You own a home? I own two. Plus a couple of commercial properties.

  You’ve mastered a trade? Several.

  You’ve fought for your country? Check.

  You’ve taken a life? More than I can count. Some that I’m proud of, others not so much.

  You’ve achieved financial independence? I ain’t rich, but I pay my bills.

  You’ve found true love? Haven’t done so well on that.

  You’ve made a positive impact on the world? Well…

  I pulled on a fresh pair of Levi’s, a belt, and my favorite Bocephus T-shirt. The fabric was getting a little thin, and my beer belly stretched ol’ Hank Jr’s face a bit out of proportion. But it was a classic and I couldn’t seem to bring myself to taking it out of the rotation. I sat on the bed and pulled on my size 13 Danner boots, lacing them up tight.

  From the top drawer of the night stand I grabbed my current throw-down piece, a well-worn subcompact 9mm pistol. It was from the club’s stash of untraceable weapons, probably taken off some dealer or coyote, the serial numbers filed off. I pulled it from the leather concealed carry holster it was tucked into, ejected the magazine to confirm it was loaded, then put the whole thing back together and slipped it into my waist band behind my back, pulling the hem of my shirt down over it.

  F
rom the dresser I picked up my wallet, heavy with the sharpened steel blade concealed within it, and the attached wallet chain. I slipped it into my back pocket and clipped the other end of the chain to a loop on my belt. My folding knife had been sitting on the dresser next to it. An Emerson tactical with a Tanto-style blade. This I clipped into my front pocket.

  Finally, I lifted the Loveless Chute Knife from the night stand where I kept it when I slept, within quick reach. I gripped the smooth green canvas Micarta handle with one hand, and the molded leather sheath with the other, and gave it a slight tug. The knife released with a subtle click, revealing the polished stainless blade as it slipped from the sheath.

  “I want you to have it,” my Dad had said, the day he gave it to me, when I told him I’d been chosen for the 82nd Airborne after basic training. They’d sent me home for a few days before shipping me out to Jump School at Fort Benning. That must have been around ‘87 or ‘88.

  That knife was one of my old man’s most prized possessions, and passing it along to me was no small gesture. “This thing was designed for paratroopers,” he’d said, “that’s why they call it a ‘chute’ knife.” It had been made by Bob Loveless, an old friend of dad’s there in Riverside, who was a famous knife maker. Dad told me that Loveless had made the first one for a CIA operative who frequently dropped in behind enemy lines in southeast Asia, back in the 60’s and 70’s. The design stuck, and had become one of the signature patterns from Loveless and other fine blade smiths.

  Dad had held the blade up in front of me, turning it so the light played off its perfectly polished surface. “See the sharpened edge on the back side of the blade?” Dad had asked. “If your chute tangles and you need to cut cords in a hurry, you’re not jacking around with the wrong side of the blade.”

  “What about that un-sharpened section?” I’d said, pointing at the blunt edge that extended about half way down the back of the blade. “Why not sharpen it all the way?”

  “Strength,” dad said. “That keeps the metal thick in case you need to pry something with it—keeps it from breaking. And, I’m not sure if they intended this, but I’ve found the flat surface useful for banging on it with a hunk of wood or something, when you’re trying to split small logs for kindling.”

  Dad flipped the knife over with a practiced flick of the wrist, presenting it hilt-up. “The canvas Micarta handle isn’t as pretty as stag, bone or exotic wood. But its stronger than all of them, will never crack, and feels natural in the hand.” He offered it to me, and I took it in hand, gripping it.

  “Feels natural, don’t it?” dad said. And it did. Like an extension of my own hand.

  I’d left the Chute Knife in my locker for most of my career in the 82nd. They issued us all the equipment we needed. I was always conscious of seeming pretentious among the guys by carrying such a finely crafted blade instead of the standard issue ones everyone else all had. But years later, after I’d joined Special Forces, I began to carry it regularly. It became an indispensable part of my load-out.

  I’ve carried it every day since then, even after I left the service, right up through my years with the Rattlers. Only I’d taken to carrying it concealed, strapped to my boot, under my right pant leg. It was a bit larger than the typical “boot knives” made by Loveless and others for that purpose, but I had long shanks and it fit me OK. And I could carry it there in public without folks going ape shit over a guy walking around with such a pig-sticker hanging from his belt.

  I finished strapping the sheath to my boot and was pulling the cuff of my jeans down over it when I stopped what I was doing. I looked over at the desk chair, where my vest was slung over its back. After a moment, I pulled the pant cuff back up and drew the chute knife from its sheath. I walked over to the chair, grabbed the vest, headed into the kitchen and sat down at the breakfast table. I unfolded the vest and smoothed it out on the table, it’s back facing me with all of my Rattlers regalia on display. The large, coiled rattlesnake emblem dominated the center patch. A curved “RATTLERS” patch was above it, and “RIVERSIDE, CA” was embroidered into the bottom rocker. I slid the point of the chute knife beneath the edge of the center patch, and sawed it back and forth slightly as I worked it forward, cutting through the stitches that attached it to the vest.

  I thought of all my buddies in the Rattlers as I cut those patches off. Some long gone, some still in the club. I thought of my old man, who had given so much of his life to the MC, which had in turn provided him with a sense family and purpose after coming home from ‘Nam. I thought of how it had done the same for me after returning from my own wars. I thought of Tillman as I cut the “601” patch from the vest. How he had taken me in under his wing. And how I’d slowly awakened to the stench of corruption that emanated from him.

  When I was finished, the vest lay in tatters, the frayed ends of cut threads outlining unfaded sections of black leather where the patches had been. The patches now lay in a pile. I gathered them up, folded them over and stuffed them in my pocket. I dropped the tattered vest into the garbage can as I passed through the kitchen into the bedroom. I found a nearly-new, unadorned vest hanging in the hall closet and put it on, then headed out the door.

  Twenty

  The Rattlers clubhouse is located on the back lot of a ready-mix plant in the industrial section of Riverside, between the plant’s maintenance building and a boneyard of broken-down trucks, tractors and aggregate processing machinery. The clubhouse itself is well-suited for such use, situated as it was in a somewhat private location with all of the necessary amenities. The cinder-block building housed a large social quarters with a bar, kitchen, meeting room, a couple of flop-rooms, and storage space.

  I rode past the ready-mix plant at about a quarter to six. The mid-summer sun was still high but dipping toward the west, and most of the crew at the plant were busy shutting off and washing down the equipment for the night. As I came around the maintenance building I saw there were only about a half dozen bikes parked at the clubhouse.

  It was still early, which was good, as there weren’t many brothers around to witness or complicate what might happen next.

  I recognized all of the bikes. Tillman, Sunny, Bishop and Bataglia were all here, all 601’s. Frosty’s bike rounded them out, which surprised me.

  I opened the door to the pummeling double-bass drums of Metallica’s “One”, thumping through the clubhouse’s sound system. As I stepped into the room, James Hetfield laid into a chorus about the agony of an active mind trapped in a useless body.

  Frosty was bent over the pool table, cue stick in hand, one eye shut as he lined up a shot. Bishop stood nearby, chalking his own cue stick, while Bataglia was at the bar pouring a Jack and Coke. They all turned to look as I walked in.

  “Where the fuck you been?” Bataglia said over Kirk Hammet’s blazing gutar solo.

  “Your mom’s house, getting my helmet buffed,” I answered, not slowing my gait. I caught Bishop laughing out of the corner of my eye as I turned toward the hallway that led to the back rooms. “Boss in?” I called, not waiting for an answer.

  I burst into the meeting room without knocking, and closed the door behind me, quieting the music to a muffled drone. Tillman was seated at the head of the table. Sunny was standing at the counter at the back of the room, pouring a glass of liquor. They both looked up as I entered, neither surprise nor alarm showing on their faces.

  “Austin!” Tillman said. “Glad you’re here! Sunny, pour Austin a Scotch.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said, shooting a glance at Sunny. “I’m not staying.” I turned my attention back to Tillman, pulled the rolled up wad of patches from my pocket, and tossed them on the table in front of him. They came unfurled a bit, the “601” patch landing face-up, closest to Tillman, who was looking down at it in disbelief. The room fell silent. Even the music from out in the social quarters seemed to have disappeared. I’m not sure whether “One” had finally ended or my focus had just tuned it out. But at that moment it was just me and Ti
llman, no other sound, no other distraction. Even Sunny, who was in the room with us, seemed to have faded out of the picture for the moment.

  Tillman finally looked up at me. “What is this, son?”

  “I’m done,” I said, simply.

  “Done with what? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m out, Tillman. Done with the Rattlers. Done with 601.” I looked around the room. “Done with this place.” I nodded toward where I knew Sunny was standing, “done with him and all the rest.” I took a step forward and leaned in, my hands on the top of the table as I looked into Tillman’s eyes. “And I’m done with you.”

  At that moment I knew for a fact that Tillman didn’t have a clue I’d been at his compound down in Fallbrook. Probably didn’t even know yet there had been a security breach. All I saw on his face was complete and utter surprise, mixed with a smidge of hurt. This really had come out of left field.

  “Boss?” I heard Sunny call from across the room. He hadn’t moved yet but I could hear tension in his voice.

  Tillman’s hand went up, in Sunny’s direction, in sort of a “hold on” gesture. But his eyes never left mine. I watched as they changed, as the expression on his face morphed from surprise to confusion, and finally to anger. The color was rising up out of his shirt collar, traveling up his neck to his cheeks, turning his face red . His pupils contracted and eyelids twitching as his gaze burned into me. When he finally spoke, his voice was even and controlled, though the venom was unmistakable.

  “I brought you into this goddamn club, son. I’ve looked after you like you were my own, since your old man passed. Your brothers have had your back countless times. And this is how you repay us? By walking out? Just like that?”

  “I ain’t repaying you for shit. I’m just going my own way. I come to realize my own interests and yours—I mean the club’s—aren’t the same. And it ain’t been a one-way street Tillman, and you know it. I’ve put into this thing way more than I’ve gotten out. Not to mention saving your ass a few times. So yeah, I’m walkin’ away. No hard feelings.”