Making The Cut (Selective Sinners MC #1)

by S. D. Hildreth

  I stood from my seat, “Are they legal US citizens?”

  “How the fuck would I know? They’re fucking Mexicans, Avery. I doubt it,” he shrugged.

  I raised my hands to my cheeks and thought. I didn’t want to embarrass him or make him feel as if I was some smart-assed college girl. Quietly and calmly, I explained my understanding of the law, “Well, you put emphasis on the fact the firearms were legal. Selling legal firearms doesn’t make the transaction legal. If they’re not US citizens, it’s a Federal crime.”

  He wrinkled his brow and looked at me as if I were insane, “According to who?”

  I closed my eyes and thought. I had done a paper on gun laws my junior year when we were studying law. I had always been fascinated by firearms, and having recently received my concealed carry permit, my fascination with firearms was rekindled. I inhaled a deep breath, opened my eyes, and explained.

  “Well, according to the Federal Government. The Gun Control Act makes it unlawful for certain categories of persons to ship, transport, receive, or possess firearms. Transfers of firearms to any such prohibited persons are also unlawful. Eighteen USC nine twenty-two ‘G’ is the law.”

  He stopped pacing, “Fucking Feds. You sure?”

  “Positive. I did a paper on it last year. But the law’s kind of thin in some respects. There’s case law to support a person’s knowledge and intent. If you sell the firearms knowing the recipient or recipients are illegal aliens, you’re fucked. If you sell them, and the recipient is an illegal alien, and you didn’t know it before hand, you’re fine. It’s stupid, but it’s the law,” I shrugged.

  “So, as long as I don’t know, we’re alright?” he asked.

  “Yeah, it’s grey. But yeah,” I nodded.

  Holy shit, this is exciting. Illegal gun deals with Mexicans. If they’re the guys who wear the plaid shirts buttoned at the top, khaki pants, and have tattoos on their necks, that’d be even more exciting.

  He turned his palms up and shrugged his shoulders again, “Well, fuck. I didn’t know that. It’s good to know. I appreciate it. I guess I didn’t realize a Criminal Justice degree required you study law.”

  Pleased I could offer something, I simply stood and smiled.

  He pulled his knife from his pocket, flicked out the blade, and began picking at his fingernails, “Well, I don’t know shit about these fuckers. And I guess I don’t want to. Hell, they may all be US citizens, but I won’t ask. So, what do you think? You in or you out?”

  As he looked down at his hand and drug the blade of his knife under each fingernail, I studied him. Standing there with one knee slightly bent, wearing jeans, a white wife beater, boots, and his biker vest, he was hot as absolute fuck. The thought of him doing illicit gun deals only added to it, making him even more attractive to me. He was a true bad boy in all respects. Fuck yeah, I was in. I considered trying to make a deal with him; possibly negotiating a summer full of motorcycle rides, letting me suck his cock, or having him bend me over the park bench and giving me some biker cock in trade for my translation services. After a moment, I came back to reality. With Axton, doing this for him with no expectation or type of agreed upon payment would go much further.

  With him, it was about earning respect.

  I decided maybe I’d split the difference and play with the words I’d used earlier, at my apartment. After all, I did win the stand-off in the doorway after I said it.

  I pushed my hands into the back pockets of my shorts, and twisted my hips, “You tell me what you want, Axton. I’ll do it. I told you that. It’s pretty simple. You want this? You need me to do it?”

  He folded his knife, clipped it into his jeans pocket, and stared at me. Without looking down, he reached for the rubber band, and snapped it twice really hard.

  Fuck yes. I knew it. Stand there and think about fucking me, you gorgeous bad boy biker.

  As he rubbed his thumb into his wrist, he responded, “Well, I wouldn’t have fucking asked ya if I didn’t.”

  “I’m in. Fuck yes, I am. Anything you need, Axton. And don’t think I’m saying that in a naïve schoolgirl kind of way. But if you need it, I’ll do it. I don’t know why, but I will. And what you said before about keeping this between us? Yeah, we don’t need to go over that again; I have your best interest at heart. So yeah, I’ll do it, and I’ll keep it quiet. When is this going to happen?”

  He smiled his shitty little smile, “Saturday. Nine o’clock at night, in the barrio in Wichita.”

  “Sounds good,” I grinned as I twisted my hips back and forth.

  He turned away from me, and began to walk away. After a few steps, he turned and looked over his shoulder, “You eat yet?”

  “Nope,” I lied.

  “You like Pho?’ he asked as he got on the bike.

  I had eaten Pho in Wichita with Sloan several times. According to her, it was the only cure for a hangover. There was nowhere to eat it in Winfield, however.

  “I Pho-king love it,” I chuckled, “but there’s nowhere in this town to get it.”

  “You got a curfew?” he laughed as he flipped the switch on the handlebar with his thumb.

  “Nope.”

  He pressed the button and started the bike. As the engine began to roar, he hollered over his shoulder, “Get on. Let’s go eat.”

  I twisted my hips again, curled up the corner of my mouth in a half-assed smile, and pulled my hands from my pockets.

  Whatever you say, Axton. Whatever you say.

  AXTON

  We pulled the Ryder rental truck into to the poorly lit parking lot. A single street light illuminated the far corner of the parking lot which was approximately 200 feet square. The three other lights in the corners appeared to have been shot out at some point in time. The concrete bases for the parking lot lights remained, but the poles and the wiring were either removed or stolen at some point in time. Considering the neighborhood, my guess was they’d been stolen.

  “Looks like the place, huh Slice?” Otis breathed as he slowed the van to a five mile an hour roll.

  “Yeah, at least there’s only one truck. I wonder where they’re going to put these motherfuckers?” I asked as I attempted to focus on the truck positioned under the lamp post.

  Thankfully, they had parked under the light. Regardless of who they were, it made me feel more comfortable they had good intentions. Otis had a .45 caliber Colt 1911 in a holster under his left armpit, and I carried a Glock .45 caliber. Luckily, the weather had cooled almost twenty-five degrees from the previous week, and the jackets we wore to conceal the guns didn’t look out of place. I didn’t expect they would anticipate us doing a gun deal for sixty grand without being armed, but out of what little respect I had for these guys, concealing the firearms was a small show of faith.

  Avery sat quietly between Otis and me, and stared straight ahead. As we rolled alongside the truck, it was obvious two men in what appeared to be their late twenties or early thirties were seated inside. Both were clearly Mexicans.

  “Remember, stand on my left, so I can hear you alright. I can’t hear that well out of my right ear. Let me try and do this deal, and if they don’t speak as good as we need them to, I’ll just tell you what to tell them, and you tell me what they say in response. Understood?” I asked.

  She hadn’t said three words on the entire forty minute trip from Winfield to the north side of Wichita. Now, truly in the middle of bean town, we were in a parking lot a mile from any other real civilization. Without a doubt, they had chosen this location due to the lack of vehicular traffic and the lack of law enforcement patrol. Cops really didn’t come to this part of town unless they were called.

  “Understood,” she responded.

  “You alright?” I asked.

  She clutched her purse with her right hand, and responded, “I’m good.”

  “Showtime,” Otis said as he put the van into park.

  As Otis opened the door and stepped out, I did the same. The two men stepped out of the truck, and the
driver smiled, revealing a gold tooth. Both men appeared to be unarmed, dressed in wife beaters and what seemed to be freshly pressed khaki pants. The driver had a number thirteen tattooed on his left temple. The passenger had a large MS-13 tattooed on his neck, across his Adam’s apple. Incapable of being able to deny any gang affiliation, they were both were covered in what seemed to be either prison tats or something one of their members did in the garage.

  “Jew must be Otis and Slice. They call me Chapas and theeese is Gato. Who’s the girl?” the driver asked in a thick accent.

  Well, fuck. Seems you speak English just fine.

  “She’s my interpreter. El Palõn said you didn’t speak English very well,” I nodded.

  “He don’t speak English for sheet. I work in this sheet-hole seety. I don’t have no choices,” he grinned as he tossed his head toward the passenger.

  The passenger stood stone faced and stared.

  Avery stepped to my left side and stood quietly. I inhaled a shallow breath through my nose, surveyed the lot for any movement, and opened my arms in a gesture toward the driver.

  “Well, we’ve got your inventory in the van. Ten crates of ten. They’re packaged for movement without any damage. It’s sixty grand even, best price you’ll find on the street. Let’s do this deal before anyone decides to come up here and see what we’re doing. So, we good?” I asked.

  The driver nodded his head once and whispered to the other man. The passenger turned and walked to the truck, opened the door, and removed a small Mexican blanket rolled into a rectangular bundle. I watched intently as he unfolded the blanket and pointed at bills which appeared to be wrapped in cellophane.

  I nodded my head.

  He folded the blanket over the money and handed it to Otis.

  “So, jew fuckers cold, or just wearing your coats to hide your pistolas?” the driver chuckled.

  “You want me to answer that?” I laughed.

  “No, eets all good,” he nodded.

  “Pull jore truck around to my truck and we’ll unload these fuckers,” he said as he nodded toward the van.

  “Otis, back that fucker up to his tailgate, make it tight. We’ll slide those fuckers in there and get the fuck out of here,” I said under my breath.

  “Got it, Slice,” Otis responded.

  I gripped Avery’s upper arm and guided her to the side. Otis started the van and slowly maneuvered it within a few feet of the rear of the truck. After the driver lowered the tailgate of the truck, I guided Otis back until the back of the van and the truck were almost touching. I unlocked the sliding door of the van and slid it upward.

  The driver slapped his hand against the bed of the truck. The passenger jumped inside like he’d been trained. I laughed to myself as I made a mental note that he must have been the Mexican equivalent to a Prospect.

  “You want to open one of these?” I asked as I motioned to the crates.

  “No eets all good. El Pelón says jore homie Corndog is good people. If El Pelón is good, I’m good. Jore not going to fuck us eenyway,” he grinned.

  “We’re in the gun business. I sold these fuckers cheap to build a relationship with your boss. Hopefully, we’ll do more business,” I said as I hoisted myself into the rear of the truck.

  I pointed beside the Mexican’s truck, “Just stand at the front of the truck and smile, Avery. We’ll be done in a minute.”

  She smiled and nodded her head without speaking. I was surprised at her demeanor. She didn’t appear to be nervous, nor was she overly talkative. The thought of having an outsider in the middle of this deal made me initially feel uncomfortable. The fact she was a woman made me even more uneasy as the day approached. But now that we were almost done with it, I was pleasantly surprised at her ability to remain quiet, not be annoying, and stay out of the way.

  “Otis get back here and help me,” I grunted as I slid a crate toward the rear of the van.

  As Otis peered inside, I explained, “I’ll slide ‘em to the back of the van, you slide ‘em to him. He can have his partner pull ‘em into the bed of the truck.”

  “Got it, Slice,” Otis nodded as he jumped into the van.

  We unloaded nine of the crates. Surprisingly, they all fit in the back of the truck. As I reached for the last wooden box and began to pull it to the rear of the van, I heard a vehicle. It was tough to tell from inside the van, but the exhaust was loud, and it was accelerating rapidly. For a moment I considered it may be on the adjacent road that led to the parking lot, but I didn’t need to speak Spanish to know the jabber from the two Mexicans in the back of the truck wasn’t one of joy.

  “Fuck!” Otis said as he reached the back of the van.

  Standing at the front of the dark van with my face covered in sweat, I couldn’t see shit. I hustled to the rear of the van to get a glimpse of what was going on, and my vision became perfectly clear. A completely different Mexican was pointing what appeared to be a Street Sweeper shotgun into the back of the van.

  He began screaming shit at us in Spanish.

  “Don’t move, Otis. This beaner’s got a fucking Street Sweeper. That cocksucker will cut us in two if he starts shootin’,” I said sternly as I raised my hands slowly.

  This was a fucking set-up.

  Without responding, Otis took two steps toward the rear of the van and raised his hands to his sides. The Mexican continued to scream.

  Obviously you have no fucking idea who you’re fucking with, do you boy?

  AVERY

  What seemed to be a very simple transaction had immediately turned into a huge mess. A truck with two Hispanic males came screaming into the lot, and while it was still rolling into place, one jumped out and held a gun on the two men in the back of the truck. The driver jumped out as soon as the truck stopped, and jumped out with a gun. Now he was screaming into the back of the van as he waved the gun into it. Otis and Axton were in the back of the van, and I was standing toward the front of the truck; alone and scared half to death.

  It was as if I didn’t even exist. No one was paying attention to me.

  My purse was draped over my right shoulder. In my purse, as always, was my loaded Glock 9 millimeter pistol. The instructor of the concealed carry course drilled the importance into my head of using the weapon as a last resort in a life or death scenario only. This was clearly one of those situations. It didn’t make things any easier. The two Hispanic males were focused on the men in the back of the truck the men in the back of the van.

  “El dinero. Dónde está el dinero?” the man screamed into the back of the van.

  He wanted to know where the money was.

  Maybe they’d take the money and leave. That was probably wishful thinking.

  “Dónde está el dinero?” he screamed again.

  Scared beyond comprehension, I quickly glanced at the van and then toward the truck. The robber at the truck stood quietly on the ground with the gun aimed at the two men who were standing in the bed of the truck on top of the crates of guns. The man standing at the van was shaking the gun and appeared to be extremely nervous.

  “El Pelón te matará, pendejo,” the English speaking Hispanic whispered to the man on the ground with the gun.

  The bald man is going to kill you.

  “Cállate!” the man with the gun shouted.

  Shut up!

  I couldn’t see into the van, but it was pretty obvious neither Otis nor Axton were able to pull their guns.

  “El dinero o la vida,” he screamed as he shook the gun toward the inside of the van.

  He was saying, your money or your life.

  He’s going to kill Axton.

  The one advantage of the Glock pistol was the absence of a safety or any lever that would have to be messed with prior to pulling the trigger. The internal safety is part of the trigger mechanism, and simply required the gun be pointed and fired. No pulling levers or making distracting noises like on television or the movies.

  “Ahora!” the man screamed into the back of the
van.

  Now!

  The man at the van with Otis and Axton was apparently done trying to negotiate. He wanted the money now. Someone must have tipped him off about the deal going down. I wished I could see Axton or Otis, but I could not. The man at the back of the truck stood quietly with the gun pointed at the two Hispanic men in back. It was obvious they were after the money, and nothing else. The man at the van raised the huge gun to his shoulder as if he was going to shoot. Even if Axton wanted to, he couldn’t give him the money; Otis put it in the front of the van. Hell, Axton had no idea what he was saying anyway. If I didn’t do something immediately, this was going to end, and end badly.

  If you are in fear for your life or for the life of a loved one, and you have no other alternative…

  I knew if I did anything, I had to do it quickly. I was all of fifteen feet from the back of the van, and I was the same distance from the truck. The man at the back of the truck had his back facing me, and the man at the van had no idea I even existed.

  The man at the back of the van lowered the shotgun a little and screamed, “Ahora!”

  The English speaking Hispanic made eye contact with me. He was able to see me, but the man with the gun was not, as his back was to me. As I pulled my pistol from my purse, he nodded his head slightly. God I hope this works. I took aim at the man behind the van, and fired one shot. As the bullet struck him in the side, his body twisted, and he fired the shotgun into the parking lot. As his body absorbed the shock from his gun firing, he fell to the ground.

  The English speaking Hispanic immediately grabbed the barrel of the gun the man was pointing at him and was attempting to twist it from his grasp. As I twisted and took aim at the man’s back, he screamed from the back of the truck as he fought for possession of the gun.

  He nodded his head toward me as he pushed the barrel of the gun upward and away, “Shoot theese motherfucker!”

  Scared and without much thought, I fired a shot into the back of the man standing at the truck. Immediately, he fell against the truck and then flopped onto the ground. I turned toward the van. The man I had shot was on the ground moaning.