“Sheriff Turnbull’s an idiot.”
She couldn’t argue since she agreed. “He’s quick to go along with career cops, honey. And no one wants dealers in Markham.” She ducked her head, trying to see her eyes under the fringe of hair she used like a shield in occasions like this. “Is Brian a dealer, Grace?”
Grace laughed at that, seriously shocking Danielle. “Brian? Yeah, he’s a dealer. And he’s employed by that club that Knuckles belongs to. No one wants dealers in Markham, Mom? Really? We got one living right next door.”
Chapter Eleven
The gas station bathroom was unisex, the only one at this service station, so he had to act fast. When the light came on the overhead fan automatically whirled to life right along with it. Knuckles locked the door and moved to the sink, tore off a strip of paper towel, then laid it down in the basin to block the drain since the stopper was nowhere to be seen.
Then, from the back of his waistband, he yanked out the Glock 19 he’d been provided by Guidinger’s lackey. He’d been told it had no serial number, and he could see for himself it hadn’t even been filed down. This fucker had no number at all. However a person managed that, Knuckles was impressed. He’d also been told the clip was full, all 15 rounds accounted for, with no prints to be found.
But he didn’t trust these assholes. Not at all.
He released the clip and popped out each round into the sink, then reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out one of the two pairs of latex gloves he’d stuffed there. The lackey had also given him gloves, but those were in the trash at the clubhouse. Again, he had trust issues with these pricks. So, he packed his own.
With the sleeve of his hoodie he rubbed each round down. If spit shining wasn’t stupid, he would have done that. Then, still gloved, he fed them back into the clip and slammed it back into place. Next, his hoodie sleeve provided a good rub down of the grip, barrel, and—after checking the safety—the trigger and guard as well. Safety was the last thing scrubbed. With that feature still engaged he shoved the Glock into the band of his jeans, right at the small of his back, belt just the right tightness to allow for a sure hold.
Then he tossed the gloves, removed the paper towel, and properly washed his hands, eyes on his reflection in the mirror.
The neck of his button-down mostly hid the tattoo on his neck. The fisherman-style knitted cap covered his most notable ink: the snake on his skull. His hair was also hanging down rather than being slicked back, the ends sticking out every which way. The heavy-rimmed glasses were costume props.
He looked like a nondescript hipster. He’d even put on Converse sneakers, but that was fine. They’d be tossed before he got back to the clubhouse.
The instructions on this hit were simple. He had the address for a home on the outskirts of Hazeldale, out where the lawns were huge and landscaped by people who did not get the chance to enjoy them. Neighbors minded their own shit.
Then he was to enter the home through a sliding glass door the maid was paid to leave open at the end of her shift. No one else was to be in the home. The was wife skiing with her sister—in the fucking Alps for fuck’s sake—and the kid was at boarding school. Just his target, home alone.
Knuckles had been told the guy’s first name was Brent. After getting the address, he’d Googled that shit himself and found that Brent Charles was an importer-exporter, head of a very successful company.
Not trailer trash who owed money. The guy was swimming in it, unless he was trying to save face by digging his hole deeper with every holiday and plastic surgery for his wife.
Hence this extra paranoia.
Knuckles hit the pavement walking again, hands in pockets to hide the tattoos on his hands, head down, strolling like he was on his way to an appointment. That is, striding with purpose, not making eye contact, just a man on a mission. It was amazing how people overlooked people who just looked too busy to bother.
Hazeldale wasn’t unknown to him. There’d been some skirmishes here with the Mad Gypsys over the years, and now the Red Rebels’ Nomad chapter kept their home base here. Usually it sat empty, and he knew from Spaz the Nomads were all out in Nevada so he didn’t risk anyone recognizing him.
Obviously, he wasn’t wearing colors for this. A black hoodie and black jeans, black Converse, the cap, and glasses. That was it. Maybe all black looked suspect but it was still technically winter. He couldn’t risk a lighter color that would show blood like a fucking neon sign.
The residential neighborhood he eventually reached was a lot like his own. It was dusk, the lights in the houses mostly on. Through windows he could see people sitting down to eat in a few of the houses. In front of a dark one-level, worse-for-wear ranch style bungalow he found what he’d been looking for.
An old Buick Skylark, that weird purple-black color he never really understood. No one else was on the street, and when he tried the driver’s side door it opened easily.
Behind the wheel, he set about hot wiring it. He’d only done this a couple of times, but that was why he went for older cars. They were so much easier to steal.
The engine roared up when he got the right wires connected under the steering column, and he flicked on the headlights before pulling out onto the street. Keeping his eyes on the mirrors, he got two blocks before he decided that the car wouldn’t be noticing as missing for a while.
Eventually the houses got nicer, the grass greener, and the yards colossal. The place he was intending to hit was a white-yellow stucco, terracotta roof. An arbor of sorts stood over the front door. The big windows to each side had no blinds, so he’d have to keep that in mind. He could make out the wide, sweeping staircase right at the front, with a walkway overtop the living room, through one window. Couldn’t see what was up there, though.
The other window afforded a glimpse right through the house and out the back through patio doors. Bingo. He could see railings too, so there was a deck.
He circled the “block,” such as it was. It took fifteen minutes to figure out the house that was directly behind the one he was after, but he figured it out eventually. Luckily this one had no fencing of any kind, either at the front or sides, just confidence in the neighborhood protecting it.
Also, that house was totally dark. Not even a yard light on, not that it probably didn’t have a motion sensor light. But he was quick, sure he’d be clear of the windows of prying neighbors before they could get up off their asses to see what was going on next door.
He parked the Skylark across the street. If anything, that heap would arouse interest of Neighborhood Watch. But he didn’t have many options.
He skirted the treeline of the dark house’s property, the motion sensor light kicking in and lighting up the yard like mid-afternoon. In black, he stuck to the trees and was one with the shadows past the perfect grass, into a small stand of trees at the far back of the yard. On the other side, he came out into another perfect yard, the ass end of that white-yellow stucco right in front of him.
Sure enough there was a deck, a full storey off the ground, with a walk-out basement below. A few lights were on down there, and he could see the profile of a man sitting on the sofa, arm out to the side, watching something on TV. His head tipped back as he took a pull off a bottle of beer. Even through the windows Knuckles could hear the explosions from the movie on that big screen.
Jesus, the guy wouldn’t hear him coming at all.
Still, he kept his footsteps light as he eased up the steps to the deck, a huge monstrosity bigger than the footprint of his entire house with three seating areas and a huge stone oven. As he moved, he slid on his second set of latex gloves, pulled the Glock out, released the safety and loaded the chamber.
The patio door did, in fact, slide open without a fight. The kitchen he found himself in was also decidedly Spanish in design, with dark cupboards and a yellow and blue black splash that was aggressively cheerful. The floor was terracotta tile.
Through the kitchen, he crept, eyes searching for a door that led
to the basement. It was easy to find; the ruckus from that stereo system called to him, eventually spilling upward from a doorway located just beyond the kitchen pantry.
Knuckles looked back through the kitchen with its little eat-in table and chairs. He’d left the patio door open, which was good. If he had to run, he could also head out that basement door. He didn’t feel an ounce of constriction, no panic about how to get out if this got loud. Not that anyone would hear a shot over this fucking noise.
The stairs were carpeted, a solid build with no creaks or squeaks. He came out into the basement right behind the sofa, view of the backyard out to his left. The guy was watching the new reboot of the Star Trek movies, and sure enough it was a battle scene.
On the final step the Glock was up, steady in his hand. He took all of two steps, squeezed the trigger, and watched the guy’s head open up like a melon.
Something was wrong. There was suddenly screaming, and it wasn’t the movie. A woman jumped to her feet, shirt open, tits hanging out, shaking her hands back and forth, screaming like mad.
Fuck. Fuck.
He circled to the front of the sofa, the story unraveling when he saw the guy’s pants were open and his dick, still hard, was out on display.
He’d been getting head when he died. Not such a bad way to go.
But she was definitely a problem. He held a hand out, a settling gesture, and held the Glock up, close to his mouth, shushing her.
This didn’t work.
“Not going to hurt you,” he muttered, trying to put a hand on her shoulder, but she was understandably terrified. And she likely couldn’t hear him, either. This sound system was seriously good.
So, he did the only thing he could. He shot her in the head, too.
She hit the wall, body sliding down until the weight rested on the carpeted floor, leaving a red streak all the way down.
That’s when the movie volume dropped. He looked up, but it was still running. No one had come along and hit pause, this was just a quieter part.
He dropped the Glock on the ground, turned on his heel, and ran back up the stairs, leaving the house the way he’d entered, locking the patio door behind him.
He still jogged through the woods, anxious to put as much distance between him and these houses as possible. At the Skylark, he pulled off the gloves, tucked them in his pocket, then got the thing running again. Driving as legal as he ever had in his life, he found the house where he’d borrowed the car. Sure enough, it still sat dark. He left the Buick exactly how he’d found it, but he reached across to the glove box, pulled a few twenties from his wallet and left them inside. For gas and the trouble of getting the steering column put back to rights.
His wallet only held cash, to make that clear. Out to do a hit, he was not carrying his fucking California state driver’s license. Just cash in case he needed a cab, the bus, or to leave a thank you for someone’s car he had to lift.
He still had a few bucks for a meal, too.
Back on foot he found that same gas station and its attached diner. The bell over the door jingled his arrival, and he pulled the knitted cap off as he made for a table. When he’d been in before he’d had a coffee, and asked when the supper special ended. The cute waitress told him the steak sandwich was only available for $9.99 until 8pm. And here it was, 7:40.
She smiled when she saw him, bouncing on her sneakers as she came his way with a half-full pot of coffee. They didn’t have uniforms here, so her jeans were a good fit, as was the long-sleeved knit shirt she had on. The notch in the neck gave a good hint of breasts.
“Welcome back!” she said enthusiastically, pouring his coffee when he turned the white mug over. “You want the steak sandwich?”
He had to smile, letting his eyes trail from her face, down her neck to her chest, then back up. “Sure. I want the steak.”
She actually blushed, which was cute. “Baked potato or fries?”
“Fries.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “When does your shift end?”
“Eight,” she breathed, one leg bent, toe resting on the ground, swinging her body back and forth. “Why?”
“I need to be sure to tip you before you leave.”
She swallowed, looked around, then replied, “I can hang out a bit after eight.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I better put through your order.”
He nodded, and she scurried off. When she was back by the kitchen pass-through his smile slid away. His chest felt constricted, like something heavy sitting square across his sternum. And that nagging buzzing was back, too. His first clueless hit for Guidinger had gone perfectly, the only one that had so far, come to think of it. He met up with Tiny after, and they’d had Chinese food together.
Tiny sat quietly and let him internalize. They ate, even had pie, then he was ready to go back. So now, he needed to eat. But there was another edge to this...whatever it was.
He couldn’t go back to the clubhouse, not yet. And definitely not his house. He couldn’t risk Annie running out to greet him with this shit hanging over his head.
So, he’d eat the steak sandwich special, fuck this waitress once she was done her shift, then walk away and never see her again. As far as plans went, he’d had worse.
As advertised, the steak sandwich was pretty fucking good. The onions and mushrooms were grilled with mozza, creating a gooey topping that was the right mix of greasy and delicious. And as thin as the steak was, at least someone could do a medium rare on it.
He paid the bill, left a tip, then he met Melanie in the gas station washroom. She came to him hot, clutching at his clothes and grabbing his hair to pull him into a kiss. He avoided that, thumbing her nipples over her bra, watching her face go slack as she moaned. That got him hard, and he turned her around to face the mirror, circling her hands on the edge of the sink. The same sink he’d used to prep the Glock that he then killed two people with.
Her shirt pulled to the side, and he noted the spray of freckles along the back of her shoulder. Probably from being out in the sun.
On their own, his hands plucked at the button of her jeans and the zipper below. She was whimpering, her lithe little ass pressing into his groin. She could only be twenty-two, tops, definitely legal. But suddenly she seemed young.
And he still didn’t care.
With both hands, he shoved her jeans and underwear down to her knees, then opened his zipper and sprung his cock free. With both hands, he pulled on the condom he had in his back pocket, then he thrust his way into her tight little cunt on one motion, to the hilt.
She cried out, and fair enough. She was only somewhat wet. He fed one hand under her shirt, sliding up her rib cage and plucking at a nipple again as he retreated then slammed home again. This time she moaned, head coming up to his shoulder. He could watch her in the mirror if he wanted to. But he didn’t.
Eyes clenched shut, one hand at her tit and the other finding her clit, he fucked her raw but still payed attention. When her snatch started twitching, and her cries grew rhythmic in time with his hips, he bit down on her shoulder and rode out her orgasm. Her cries were sweet, cute if he wanted to admit it, but in the end, it was the tightening of her pussy that got him over the edge.
Even though orgasms were all good, he still didn’t feel better. He tossed the condom in the john and flushed, stuffed himself back in his jeans, then moved her out of the way to wash his hands.
She used the mirror over his shoulder to adjust her hair. She’d already straightened out her clothes. “So...do you want to hang out?”
He caught her eye in the mirror, honestly stunned. “What?”
“You wanna hang out? It’s still early.”
He shook his head, grabbed some paper towel, and dried his hands. “Honey, you just fucked a total stranger in a public bathroom. What makes you think we’re hanging out?”
Her face fell, but he caught it in peripheral. He tossed the paper towel as she whispered, “You don’t have to be an asshole.”
&
nbsp; “You gave me the one thing I’d want from you already,” he informed her, heading to the door. “Hold out longer, maybe we’re hanging out,” he finished with air quotes. “Once I get off, that’s it, sweetheart.”
“You’re an asshole!”
“I know,” he muttered to himself, crossing the lot to where he’d left Tiny’s Dodge Ram parked. Nope, he wasn’t feeling any better. The buzzing at the back of his neck was like something creeping up on him and he just couldn’t see it. Since drying out, he’d been on a break from it. And he knew why it was back, too.
This wasn’t right. These people hadn’t messed with him or his people. He didn’t even know what they’d done to bring him to their huge, professionally designed theater rooms. For all intents and purposes, Knuckles was realizing he wasn’t a stone-cold killer. He needed reasons, something to justify it.
If only he could go get blind drunk.
Both hands tightened on the wheel. Nope, not that. He didn’t need that coming back on him, not on top of everything else.
Shit, he missed Tiny. That stone faced, silent fucker was perfect to talk to. To get shit off his chest.
His eyes stung, and he wiped at them in anger. Shit, now he was fucking leaking?
He fired up the Ram and pulled away from the curb in front of the diner. The entire drive back to Markham he had one hand on top of the wheel, the other resting on the truck’s armrest.
And he couldn’t stop his fingers from tapping on the leather.
Chapter Twelve
Danielle scrubbed both hands in the warm water of the wash up sink in the morgue, back aching and knees complaining sharply at how long she’d been on her feet. Oddly, she could clean offices for hours on end and no problem. Here, doing what she was now being paid to do professionally and standing in one place for long stretches, her body felt a bit pissed off.
Time to get better shoes, she mused, drying her hands on the disposable hand towels then tossing them and leaving the medical examiner’s pathology lab.
Shelter (Red Rebels MC Book 5) Page 11