“I can’t freaking wait to see the Fifty Shades movie,” she said as we hurried down the hallway.
As I adjusted the book bag on my shoulders and attempted to catch up to her, I rolled my eyes. I didn’t care about some ridiculous movie about billionaires and airplanes. Red rooms of pain and laters baby weren’t for me. I dreamed of a real bad-boy. One I couldn’t introduce to my parents. I wanted the type of man they couldn’t make a movie about. Not unless it was rated X.
Finding one who liked smart-assed skinny girls would be the trick.
Chapter Two
AXTON
Otis looked over his shoulder as he reached into the refrigerator. “A hundred is a hell of a lot to get gathered up in the next three weeks, Slice.”
I glanced up from my notes and pressed my hands into the edge of the table as I flexed my forearms. I knew I didn’t need to flex on Otis, but it had become habit when someone questioned me. Throwing my size around was second nature, and I was a rather intimidating son-of-a-bitch to most people, Otis included. As he twisted the lid off the bottle of beer and tossed it into the trash, I began to stand from my seat.
“Well, that’s what they asked for and I sure as fuck can’t change it. So, what’s your recommendation, Otis? Give ‘em fifty? Seventy? Fuck that. We’ll look like a bunch of incompetent twats. Get a hundred of ‘em found. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you have to run an ad on Craigslist that says AK-47’s wanted: will pay top dollar, find a hundred of ‘em and get ‘em in here,” I said as I tapped my finger on the notepad sharply.
“In three weeks?” he asked as he sat down across from me.
I nodded my head and lowered myself into my chair. “Yep.”
“God damn, Slice, that’s a huge order. We ain’t got any AK’s right now. Jesus. I’ll get Hollywood on it, we’ll see how it goes.” He paused as he raised the bottle to his lips.
I shook my head from side-to-side. “No, we won’t see. Not on this deal, you’ll make it happen. Corndog gets out in six weeks. And these guys are serious players. They’re Sureños. More specifically, if I even need to say it, a bunch of ‘em are from Calle 18, mostly from Los Angeles. These motherfuckers are all about respect. They’re not an MC, but they operate under the same principles and they even have fucking bylaws. If you’re in the gang and fuck something up, they don’t shun your ass, they kill you. If we do this deal and it goes as planned, we’ll be set with these bastards for good. If we don’t, Corndog loses his credibility in the joint. Hell, they’ll probably kill him. These sons of bitches don’t fuck around. They’ll cut a motherfucker’s head off just for principal. Hell, I’ll do about anything to some prick if I don’t like him, but cut off a head? Yeah, I’m thinkin’ not.”
He pressed his beer bottle onto the table, lowered his head, and peered over the top in my direction. “You mean those MS-13 motherfuckers? This is who you’re talking about?”
I nodded my head, shrugged, and grinned. “That’s them. The notorious MS-13. You know those poor motherfuckers started down in Salvador or somewhere. The fucking cops don’t even fuck with ‘em, they just let ‘em run dope. Poor sons of bitches don’t have any money down there, so they turned to dope. Now, they’re the entire reason we can’t go to Mexico and drink coconut flavored drinks with little umbrellas in ‘em on the fucking beach. Well, not if you’re white anyway. They’re cutting off heads of their own people in the street. Fuck that, I’ll stick around in the good old US of A.”
He stood from the table and faced the door. After a short pause, he turned to face me and pressed the web of his hands into his hips. “For fuck’s sake, Axton. I hate this shit. We make a good damned sum of money selling guns to everyone else who buys ‘em from us. And those MS-13 fuckers are some crazy assed Mexicans. They’ll kill an entire family just to prove a point. Do we really need to do this?”
I stood, cleared my throat, and spoke with a tone of authority. “We may not need to for money, and we sure as fuck don’t need to for credibility, but we’re gonna do this for Corndog. Did you forget what he’s done for us? For the fucking club? Huh Otis? And since when was it your fucking place to question me?”
He stood silently, narrowed his gaze, and slowly raised his hands to his face. It was a habit he’d had since he was in his early teens when we first became friends. If he was getting ready to agree to something he didn’t naturally agree with, or when he was preparing to make a move, he always raised his hands to his face first. As he encompassed his temples in his palms I smiled, knowing if I had him on board mentally, this deal was in the bag.
Otis was a rather large man by anyone’s standards, and outside of a one-on-one meeting with me, he didn’t take shit from anyone. Our club was large enough that we had small cliques within it of fella’s that ran together, but Otis sided with no one except me. He stood alone and he stood tall. At 6’-7” and 275 pounds of muscle, he wasn’t someone to argue with. If Otis said to do something, the men never questioned him, they simply moved in the direction he pointed. His size alone was one reason he was the club’s Sergeant at Arms. Well, that and the fact he was as mean as a fucking snake. Keeping order in the club and protecting or defending the members was as easy as breathing for Otis.
“I didn’t forget, and I wasn’t questioning you, Slice. I was thinking. Fuckin’ Mexicans? And MS-13? Son-of-a-bitch. Yeah, I’ll get Hollywood on it. I’ll have a hundred AK’s in two weeks, and that’ll give you some wiggling room. Hell, even if we’ve got to steal ‘em, I’ll have ‘em in time,” he said as he lowered his hands and pulled his chair from the table.
As I heard the door hinge creaking, I immediately stood from my chair and faced the doorway. As it slowly swung open, I saw Cash standing in the narrow opening between the door and the frame.
“Hey Otis, I got a question,” he said.
“Does that fucking door have a sign on it that says come on in?” I growled.
Cash shifted his gaze from Otis to me. “Sorry, Slice. I needed to ask…”
You stupid little cocksucker.
Before he finished speaking, I interrupted him, “I asked you a fucking question, Prospect. Does that God damned door have a sign on it that says come on in?”
Cash slowly shook his head from side to side.
“God damn it, Prospect,” Otis said as he began to stand.
I extended my arm and raised my hand in Otis’ direction to silence him from continuing. A Prospect needed to understand we had rules in place for a reason, and they need to be followed at all times. If he couldn’t follow orders during a simple twelve-month initiation, he damned sure couldn’t be trusted to stand up for the club and its brethren under any and all circumstances afterward.
“Hold up, Otis. I asked this simple minded little prick a question. Now answer me,” I barked.
“No, it doesn’t have a come on in sign, Slice,” Cash responded.
I shrugged my shoulders and continued to stare in his direction. “But it does have a sign on it, doesn’t it?”
He closed the door momentarily and slowly pushed it open again. As he opened the door, he peered around the wooden frame toward where I stood. “Yes, Slice. It sure does.”
I inhaled a long breath and raised one eyebrow. “Tell me what it says.”
“Knock before entering,” Cash said softly.
“Big red and white motherfucker, gets your fucking attention kinda like a God damned stop sign, huh? Being big and red with huge white letters and all?” I asked in a sarcastic tone.
He nodded his head.
“It’s pretty fucking hard to miss, unless you’re a stupid fucker or blind. And you know what? I ain’t lookin’ to add any dumb asses or cripples to this club. You’re never gonna make it, kid. Now fucking knock,” I growled.
The door closed. Three sharp taps immediately echoed into the room.
“Go the fuck away, we’re in a closed door meeting,” I shouted as I sat down.
As his steps faded down the hallway, I turned toward Otis and sh
rugged. He had vouched for Cash, who grew up with a bike between his legs, and was a friend of Otis’ family. I called him a kid, but he wasn’t young. He was thirty years old and an auto mechanic, having him around would bring some benefit to the club, but everyone had to pay their respects and prove themselves through twelve months of being a Prospect. Cash certainly had his shortcomings, and not knowing when to keep his fucking mouth shut was one of them. I was often able to see what others couldn’t, and although everyone seemed to warm up to him quickly, to me he seemed weak.
Maybe that’s why I was in charge.
“I know you vouched for that little prick, but the kid’s got diarrhea of the jaw. I don’t trust his little ass any further than I can toss him,” I said as I turned around to face Otis.
“I know you don’t. He’s got six more months, though. He’s still learning the ropes,” Otis explained as he lifted his beer bottle.
I shrugged my shoulders. “He’s thirty fucking years old, Otis. He acts like an immature kid.”
“And another thing about something you said a minute ago, right before shit-for-brains interrupted us. Joking or not, I need to make this clear, you’re not stealing any guns, we straight on this?” I asked.
He nodded his head. “Yep.”
Six-years prior, Corndog had purchased fifty Beretta 9mm pistols. Unbeknownst to him at the time, they were stolen. After selling a few of them, a customer decided to use one in a murder. Local law enforcement traced the firearm back to Corndog, and questioned him on the sale of the weapon and the location of the remaining stolen weapons.
He didn’t budge. He lied, stating he found them on the side of the road. Had he provided the information to law enforcement regarding where he obtained them, he could have walked away without so much as a slap on the hand. The club’s exposure on the crime was nil. The asshole who sold him the weapons was the one who stole them, and he was the person the cops wanted. Ninety-nine out of a hundred men would have given the thief up and walked free.
Not Corndog.
In fact, he refused to tell anyone in the club who sold them to him. He looked at it as something he needed to take care of himself. I always believed after he was prosecuted and sent to prison, he’d say something to one of the members, but after four and a half years, he stood firm on his promise to resolve it himself. Corndog was an old school biker, with old school biker values. In his opinion, he made a mistake by buying the weapons and not knowing they were stolen. He felt as if he had jeopardized the safety and integrity of the club by being under investigation. In his mind, this was something he needed to resolve on his own, and after settling it, he’d without a doubt walk back into the clubhouse as if nothing ever happened. Many of the newer members could learn a lot from him in matters of protecting the club.
Now in prison and almost done with his five-year sentence, he had made a deal with a Mexican prison gang to supply guns to their outsiders on the street. Small groups of Mexican gangs had cropped up in the Midwest since the latter 1990’s, and most originated from southern California. Drugs were the primary focus of these gangs, and they didn’t interfere with our ability to do what we needed to do, so we allowed the drug traffic to proceed without any issues.
Most MC’s in this day and age made the decision not to mess with drugs; as the risk is far too great. If caught and convicted, a kilo of cocaine under the RICO act would provide every member of the MC a thirty-year sentence. This was damned sure a chance the Selected Sinners Motorcycle Club wasn’t willing to take. Not on my watch.
Our club chose the Midwest due to the soft state gun laws. Our first chapter developed just south of Wichita, Kansas. The second chapter formed in Oklahoma City five years later. Three years after that, a chapter in Austin, Texas followed. We were of the opinion as long as our focus was legal firearms, prosecution would be by state officials, and not federal. Federal crimes and MC’s didn’t mesh well, and typically a member of a MC would have the RICO act punishment tacked onto his sentence if he committed a federal crime. The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, or RICO as the Feds called it, was developed to thwart organized crime. A criminal didn’t have to do anything extra to get the additional time on his prison sentence, all he had to do was be in a gang and commit a federal crime. The Feds considered an MC a gang. We knew as long as the crime committed wasn’t a federal offence, we’d never have to worry about the Feds knocking on our door. A state crime for firearms was typically a twenty-four to sixty-month sentence in prison. A federal crime with the RICO act attached was typically ten times that amount.
So, in the Midwest we had become an extremely powerful presence. Semi-automatic assault weapons, high capacity pistols, and riot shotguns were our focus. Machineguns, silencers, short barreled weapons, and sawed off shotguns were federally governed, so we stayed away from them.
Keeping up on the federal and state gun laws was my job. Having the local cops on our side didn’t hurt matters, and we strived to keep the club out of legal trouble with our gun business. Staying out of jail in general was next to impossible, but outlaw motorcycle clubs weren’t known for abiding by the law.
The Selected Sinners were no exception.
“If I’m going to get this order filled in two weeks, I better find Hollywood. Got anything else?” Otis asked as he tossed his bottle in the trash.
I pointed toward the trash can and pulled against the rubber band wrapped around my left wrist. As I released it, snapping it into my wrist, I spoke. “Take that stinkin’ motherfucker to the shop. I don’t want to smell it. And that’s all I got, Otis.”
He shook his head and leaned over the trash can. As he pulled the empty bottle from the trash he turned to face me and rolled his eyes. Slowly he began to saunter toward the door. Otis did everything slow and easy until it was time to throw down in a fight, and then everything turned to lightning speed. I always imagined him saving his energy for such occasions. To watch him leisurely make his way through the day was almost exhausting.
“Better yet, smack that Prospect upside the head with it first. Maybe you’ll knock some sense into his stupid ass,” I said with a laugh.
“Cut him some slack, Slice. He’s a good kid,” Otis said as he reached for the door handle with his free hand
“He may be a good kid, but I have my doubts that he’ll make a good Sinner,” I responded as I looked up at our motto posted on the wall.
The Devil Looks After His Own.
“We’ll see,” Otis said as he walked through the door.
“Damned sure will,” I huffed.
Damned sure will.
AXTON
Our club was located in a town twenty miles south of Wichita. We’d chosen the particular town because it was close to the action of the larger city, and easier for us to conduct business without constant scrutiny from local law enforcement. Winfield was small at 13,000 people, but a fifteen-minute ride from the largest city in the state, boasting 375,000 people.
We did our best to toe the line in the city, and the local law enforcement looked upon us as a blessing instead of a curse. Frank Downtain was the city’s Chief of Police, and he had two underlings to assist him in watching over the city. Winfield wasn’t as adventurous as other large cities, but having the club operate from there was easy. Truly a step back in time, living in Winfield was almost as if we were in the 1950’s.
Frank was in his mid-forties, overweight, and underpaid. As with most small town cops, lining his pockets with a little money went a long way. As soon as we arrived in the city, filtering money Frank’s way began, and it hadn’t stopped. Having been in the city almost ten years, we’d developed a relationship allowing him to do his job, and us to do ours. We made every effort to keep our actions civil in the small town, and he looked the other direction if we ever needed him to. To keep matters palatable to both parties, we attempted to minimize our exposure to criminal activity under Frank’s watch.
For ten years, everything worked well. From time-to-time, Fran
k had the club resolve issues he couldn’t iron out under the limit of the law. It came as no surprise, and provided support of my belief that laws are meant to be broken every time we were asked to assist him in something he wasn’t able to do under the watchful eye of the City Attorney or the State Court.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Frank and I shared a booth in the local Mexican restaurant. The only two patrons in the restaurant, we had the luxury of speaking freely. We often chose the establishment for mid-afternoon meetings for the privacy alone. I shoved another forkful of Chile Pork Verde into my mouth, chewed it slowly while I stared at Frank, and as soon as I swallowed, began to speak.
“Fuck, Frank. Child pornography is a federal crime. Why not call in the Feds?” I asked.
I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and waited for him to respond. After looking over both shoulders, he leaned into the table as much as his beer belly would allow him to. After shuffling his elbows into place and raising his hands to his chin, he looked up. Still somewhat concerned about his little issue with a local photo collector, I fished in my bowl for another piece of elusive pork.
“Alright. I’ll tell you the whole story,” he whispered.
I lifted the empty fork from my bowl, rolled my eyes at the lack of pork, and grinned. “Wouldn’t expect otherwise, Frank. Hell, you and I been doin’ this for a bit, haven’t we?”
He nodded his head. “I know, but it’s embarrassing. It makes me look incompetent and inexperienced. It’s fucking paperwork. This was going to be a good bust. Someone turned scumbag in, and we investigated it in-house. I could have called the Feds, but I don’t like those guys any more than you do. The Feds are a bunch of arrogant pricks. You know they always stick their badges in your face and tell you they’re on the scene and head back to the station like you’re some dip-shit and don’t know anything. Personally, I have no use for them. I just wish this would have gone smoother,” he paused and rubbed his temples with his fingertips.
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