BEAST: Lords of Carnage MC

by Daphne Loveling

  I step into the sub shop. The front of the store is deserted, but the sound of the bell must alert someone because I hear footsteps coming toward me from the back. A second later, a small, dark man with tufts of dark hair on either side of his balding pate comes up to the counter.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Mr. Pavel?”

  “Yes?” He arches a brow at me.

  I hand him my card. “I’m Agent Brentano. FBI. I’m following up on a tip you submitted using our online form.”

  Mr. Pavel takes the card from me and scrutinizes it, then pulls his eyes back to my face. “You’re from the FBI?” he asks, looking less than convinced.

  “Yes. I’m from the field office in Cleveland, Mr. Pavel. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  He sweeps the hand holding my card around the deserted shop. “I’m doing nothing else,” he says with a tinge of irony.

  We sit down at one of the empty plastic booths near the window. “Can you tell me what led you to submit this tip, Mr. Pavel?” I ask, setting my coffee in front of me.

  “Haven’t you read it?”

  “Yes,” I explain patiently. “But I’d like to hear you tell me everything in person.”

  “It’s the laundry business over there,” he says, pointing. “E-Z Wash Express.”

  “What about it?”

  “I think it’s a front. For prostitution. Sex slaves!” He raises his bushy brows at me, dropping his voice conspiratorially.

  He seems almost gleeful about this, despite the fact that he’s tsk’ing and shaking his head. For a moment I feel like an idiot. Is this just some crank conspiracy wacko who sees criminal activity around every corner?

  “You’re speaking of human trafficking, Mr. Pavel,” I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral. “Can you tell me what leads you to believe that this laundromat could be involved in something like that?”

  “I go into the laundromat. To see what is happening. Whether there are people there. There are so many open washers and dryers!” Mr. Pavel grows animated, his hands beginning to wave in the air. “Why so many open washers and dryers? Almost no one doing laundry!”

  “Isn’t it possible that the laundry just isn’t doing very good business?” I glance outside and nod toward the rest of the mall. “It seems like this place has seen better days.”

  “But that is just it! There are constantly people coming and going, coming and going! Men! So many men! And then sometimes, young girls. Why would middle-aged men in suits go into a laundromat?”

  “Isn’t that a little sexist, Mr. Pavel?” I ask. “Men have dirty laundry, too. Maybe they’re divorced,” I suggest. “Maybe they’re estranged from their wives and living in apartments without a laundry facility.”

  “Why would they come without bags of laundry then?”

  “Wait.” I cock my head at him, puzzled. “You’re saying that the people who are coming and going from the laundry aren’t actually carrying bags of laundry?”

  “Yes!” Mr. Pavel nods his head emphatically up and down. “No laundry! And they stay, for an hour, but if you go inside, they are not there. Then they come out, get in their cars, drive away. No laundry. No nothing.”

  Huh. This actually might be something after all. It’s not a lot. In fact, it’s hardly anything. But it is at least enough to merit a follow-up.

  “Mr. Pavel. Can you tell me why you decided to report this to the FBI, instead of going to your police department?”

  He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “I tried to talk to police. They told me I was just jealous that the laundromat gets more business than I do.” He locks eyes with me. “So I contact you.”

  I sit for a moment, considering. “Is there anything else you can tell me? Do you know the owners? Have you ever talked to them?”

  “No, I do not know the owner. There is a woman who works there. Now when she sees me, she tells me to leave.” His eyes furrow. “She does not like me asking questions. She thinks I’m a crazy old man.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out. “Okay. Thank you for your time, Mr. Pavel. And your information.”

  “I am not a crazy old man,” he insists.

  “I’m sure you aren’t,” I say, giving him a neutral smile. “By the way, before I go, can I order one of your turkey subs?” I ask, glancing at the menu. I may as well grab something for dinner to stow in my mini-fridge while I’m here.

  Mr. Pavel is delighted to make me a sandwich. While I’m waiting, I stare out the window and watch the traffic go by. No one drives into or out of the parking lot.

  My turkey sub ready, I pay with a card and put a dollar in his tip jar. I tell Mr. Pavel goodbye and thank him for his time. Out at my car, I set the sandwich and my now-empty coffee cup inside, then lock it and walk over to the other side of the mall.

  There are a couple of cars parked in the spaces in front of the laundromat, which is next to a tiny hole-in-the-wall pizza joint that looks permanently closed. But strangely, the laundromat is dark inside. A plastic sign hanging in the window is flipped to the “closed” side. I try the door, but it’s locked. Frowning, I rap on the glass a few times. No response. Then I notice the business hours posted under the sign.

  On Fridays, this place is supposed to be open until nine in the evening.

  I knock on the glass again, but I don’t really expect an answer. I wish I’d happened to notice when I drove in whether the laundromat was open then. Turning away from the door, I take a quick note of the make and model of the two cars sitting in front, just in case. I grab a small pad of paper from my blazer pocket and write down the license plate numbers of both cars. Then I wander down the row of shops, looking into each one to see if there are any customers. There’s no one in the insurance place but a lone employee staring at a computer screen. In the fitness place next door, a couple of people are working out on some machines. I go inside and ask each of them whether either of the cars in front of the laundromat is theirs. Both of them say no.

  Hmm.

  Well, at the very least, this deserves another visit back to the laundromat when it’s open. I walk back to my car, and point it in the direction of my hotel on the other side of town.

  I drive back, my mind turning over everything I’ve just seen.

  On the way, another cop car — an SUV this time — pulls in behind me, about half a block back. He stays with me until I turn into the hotel parking lot, then continues down the road.

  The girl is roused from sleep, bruised and broken.

  The men and the older woman are yelling at her. They’re speaking so fast that the girl doesn’t understand many of the English words. Only “cunt” and “go” and “now.”

  She and the other girls rise from their mattresses. The men shout some more, and the girls who know English start to get dressed and pull their few possessions together. She does the same, her heart hammering in her chest. One of the men comes up to her, mimes her picking up her thin mattress and blanket. She does, and hoists it over her thin shoulders like the others do.

  They stumble up the stairs, in a groggy line. Past the rooms where during the day the men come to fuck them. Only a naked bulb lights their way. The girl almost falls once, but catches herself, afraid she’ll be beaten if she slows down.

  Outside, she is surprised to see the nighttime. She hasn’t seen the sun or the moon in so long. This moon is clear. It is beautiful. So beautiful it makes her throat close, and tears well up. It has been so long since she has seen it, a moon this full. The last time was across the world. A lifetime ago.

  They are shoved into a truck, one practically on top of the other. She finds Katya, the other girl from home.

  “Where are they taking us?” she whispers.

  “I don’t know.” Katya’s eyes glow wide in the moonlight. “I heard one of the men say they had to hurry. Maybe they have to move us. Maybe someone found out. The police.”

  A bitter laugh escapes the girl. The police. One of the men who fucked her last week, brutally,
was a policeman. Whatever is happening, the police will not help them. She knows.

  9

  Beast

  “Rock didn’t tell us he wasn’t comin’.”

  Dragon, the president of the Outlaw Sons, is not happy Rock isn’t here.

  “Rock sent me instead.” Angel’s voice is firm. There’s no room for questions in it. “I represent him in his absence. I speak for the club.”

  We’re standing outside a barn at a property just inside Lords of Carnage territory. About a dozen Sons are assembled behind their president. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are others around that we can’t see. A van with the logo for a plumbing company sits off in the distance, its suspension hanging low to the ground.

  “You gonna tell me why your prez couldn’t be bothered to tell me he wasn’t comin’ himself?” Dragon snarls. The single braid of his beard twitches as he speaks. It’s a stupid affectation, that fuckin’ braid. It makes me want to yank it off his face. Right before I punch him.

  Angel hesitates for a split second. Any sign of weakness on the part of an MC prez is always a risk with a rival club. On the other hand, Rock’s not showing up with no explanation is a sign of disrespect.

  “Medical issue,” Angel finally says. “Nothin’ serious, but unavoidable.”

  Dragon smirks. “That right? Well, I suppose the old guy is gettin’ up there in years.”

  The contempt in his voice makes my muscles tense. On either side of me, I can feel Thorn and Gunner’s postures grow rigid.

  “We’re here to discuss terms,” Angel says coldly. “So, let’s discuss terms.”

  Off to the side, one of the Outlaw Sons —a meaty guy with a shaved head and a wide scar running across the front of his skull — lets out a bark of laughter. My right fingers start to curl into a fist, but I stop them.

  “Rock tells me it’s time for your club to get back into the gun business,” Dragon begins pleasantly. The asshole grin on his face tells me he thinks he’s got the upper hand in this conversation. “We’ll see.”

  “Depends on the terms.” Angel shrugs slightly, his eyes flicking to the van. “You’re the one with the product. Let’s see if you can make it worth our while to help you move it.”

  Dragon’s eyes grow angry. “Rock and me already came to an agreement.”

  “Well.” Angel doesn’t move. “Let’s make sure that agreement hasn’t changed.”

  Angel doesn’t trust Dragon. I don’t fuckin’ blame him. I was pretty goddamn surprised when Rock first came to the club with this proposal, and I know I’m not the only one. We haven’t done business with the Outlaw Sons in the past because frankly, they’re a bunch of fucking assholes. And they have a history of being allied with our enemies. Even though our clubs have never gone head to head, we’re not exactly what you’d consider friendly.

  Rock brought the proposal to us at church a couple weeks ago. Told us Dragon had approached him with an offer designed to be too sweet for us to refuse. The idea was to be part of a pipeline transporting weapons between Cleveland and Pittsburgh.

  The Sons want to work with our club because our territory lies directly in between their turf and the next link of the pipeline to the south. Without us, they either have to go east into Death Devils territory, or west. Either of which loses them time and money.

  We’re pretty sure the Sons used to run guns through these parts with the Iron Spiders. But when the Lords of Carnage and the Spiders got in a bloody war that resulted in us wiping the Spiders off the map, our club took the opportunity to expand into the southern part of the state. We even started a second chapter of the Lords of Carnage to the southeast of us. Now the Lords control all the territory from here south, to the state line.

  Which means that if the Sons want to run through here, they have no choice but to come to us.

  Rock was convinced a business partnership with the Outlaw Sons was a good deal for us, too. Not everyone’s on board. But the fact is, we need the money. We know the routes. It’s a win-win for the Lords.

  Except that means we have to play nice with a club we hate.

  “So.” Angel crosses his arms in front of him. “Rock says you want to make it worth our while.”

  “Worth it for both of us.” Dragon pulls out a smoke and lights it. “If you think your fuckin’ club can handle it.”

  Angry rumbles resonate through our men. Angel doesn’t take the bait. Tension in his shoulders is the only sign he’s preparing for possible violence.

  “You move our product. You take your cut,” Dragon continues. “Rock told me this was all settled.”

  “Just outta curiosity. Who these guns goin’ to?”

  “We got shipments comin’ in from the docks in Cleveland. Goin’ to a couple organizations out of Pittsburgh. Brown, mostly.”

  “MS-13?” Angel asks.

  “And Kings.”

  Behind Angel, Ghost snorts. “You’re supplyin’ to both sides of their war?”

  Dragon leers, showing a set of stained teeth with some gold. “Spics wanna kill each other, what the hell do I care? Whatever makes us the money, brother.”

  “I ain’t your brother,” Ghost fires back.

  “You got a problem?” The asshole to Dragon’s left, with the Enforcer patch on his chest, takes a step forward.

  I’ve had enough of this shit. I step forward too and move into a defensive position, my hand ready to go for my piece. “You gonna make a problem, fucker?” I snarl.

  Brick, our own Enforcer, moves into position next to me. One of the Sons makes a sudden move to reach behind him. One of our men yells out a warning, and all at once, guns are drawn on both sides.

  Adrenaline pounds in my ears. For a few seconds, it looks like this is gonna end very badly.

  “Dragon!” Angel shouts in sharp voice. “Tell your men to stand the fuck down!”

  “Get your men in line, VP,” Dragon roars back. “Or we’ll blow them off the goddamn map.”

  “This ain’t the time or the place to start a fuckin’ war, Dragon,” Angel warns. “Let’s talk about this one on one. Tell your men to stand down.”

  His voice echoes in the silence. A bead of sweat trickles down my temple. My eyes dart from Outlaw to Outlaw, searching for the slightest movement, the slightest reason to fire.

  Dragon clenches his teeth and gives Angel a look of suspicion, but slowly lowers his gun. He glances back and gives a brief nod, and his men do the same.

  “Stand down, Lords,” Angel says. We do as we’re told, reluctantly. “Dragon. Let’s talk.” He lifts his chin over to the far side of the barn. Without waiting to see if Dragon will follow, he walks away from the group. As he goes, he cuts a sharp look at Ghost, our Sergeant at Arms. “You keep shit in line.”

  “Understood.” Ghost doesn’t look happy about it. I don’t fuckin’ blame him.

  Dragon waits a couple beats, then slowly follows Angel to a point about thirty feet away. Their murmurs reach my ears, sharp and strained. I can make out a few words here and there. Next to me, Thorn listens, too, his jaw tight. I hear them talk percentages. Angel argues a point or two. Gradually, the tone shifts, becomes less angry and more businesslike. I let myself relax just a hair. But then I hear Dragon say something that doesn’t make sense.

  “And the other product?” he asks.

  “What product?” Angel frowns, his eyes narrowing.

  Dragon pulls back, and cocks his head at Angel for a few seconds, saying nothing. Finally, he lifts his chin and smirks. “Guess I must be thinkin’ of another conversation. Forget I said anything.”

  A few seconds later, Angel and Dragon exchange an edgy handshake. As they walk back to us, Dragon barks out to a bunch of his men to drive the van inside the barn and unload the guns into the trailer we keep there. Angel comes back to us, and tells us the run down to the border will take place in a couple days, once Dragon has confirmed with his contact that we’ll be making the drop.

  “Somethin’ about this shit stinks,” I mutter, gl
ancing over his shoulder at the Outlaw Sons as they work.

  “It’ll work,” Angel reassures me. “We’re good.”

  I hesitate, then decide to ask the question that’s on my mind. “Rock tell you anything about another product we’d be movin’? I heard Dragon say somethin’ like that while you were over there with him.”

  “No.”

  “Any idea what it is?”

  Angel shakes his head. “I’ll talk to Rock about it. Goin’ over to the hospital after we get back to town.”

  “I’ll be over there later. Maybe we’ll cross paths.”

  Angel nods. He glances over at the barn, where the Outlaw Sons have finished loading the shipment from their van to our truck. “We done here?” He calls over to Dragon.

  “Yeah.” Dragon hawks deep in his throat and spits on the ground. “I’ll expect an update when you’ve made the drop.”

  “You’ll get one.” Angel looks around. “All right, Lords. Lock this shit up tight, and let’s get a move on.” He flashes me a grin. “See? We’re good. Easy peasy.”

  I don’t say anything. I’m not worried about the gun transport. We can do that with our eyes closed. But there’s something fucked up about this situation. I can feel it.

  I just don’t have any goddamn idea what it is.

  10

  Brooke

  After a dinner of cold turkey sub sandwich and a shitty night’s sleep on a too-soft mattress, I’m sitting in the sterile breakfast area of my hotel. Sipping bad coffee, I chew on a stale bagel with cream cheese and try to tune out the news station blaring from the TV mounted on the wall.

  I’m sitting at one of six tables. The only other non-empty one is occupied by an older couple that look to be in their late sixties or early seventies. The man is trying to read a newspaper while the woman talks to him. From what I can tell, they’re visiting their son and daughter-in-law from out of town. The woman is angry that they put them up at this hotel rather than having them stay at their home.