Watcher

by MariaLisa deMora

  “You need anything from me and mine?” The words were out of Watcher’s mouth before he realized it, and only after they were spoken did he realize he’d put every Soldier on the line. Fuck. He didn’t want Raul to fail, but a fight like this wouldn’t be clean, and every man involved would be targeted for years.

  “No, my friend. I would not ask that of you.” Raul barked a laugh, then said, “But I thank you for the offer. The odds are…steep. Your response tells me you have at least a sliver of hope I will succeed. I will take the confidence with thanks.” Minutes passed, and they sat in an uncomfortable silence, the fire’s flames crackling and dancing in the pit in front of them. Raul shifted in his seat and broke the quiet with a heavy sigh. “My friend…Watcher. I would ask a favor of you. Can you promise me you will care for my Carmela, should anything untoward befall me? Can you promise me this?”

  Without hesitation Watcher said, “Yes. Of course. As if she were my own.”

  Raul pushed for confirmation, the strain in his voice betraying deep fear. “Promise me, Watcher.” The beer bottle reflected the flames, glinting as it was lifted again. “Promise me, please.” Raul drank deeply, draining the bottle. He turned, and Watcher saw a determined look on his face. Raul’s expression showing while he might know the odds were against him, he would not let the knowledge dissuade him from the course set in front of him.

  “I promise you Carmela will be taken care of. Like my own family, she will be safe.” Watcher swallowed, then fisted his right hand, pounding it against his chest. “My vow.”

  “Thank you, my friend.” Raul paused, then Watcher saw the glint of his teeth reflecting the flames, giving him a sinister look. “Now, I would tell you my plans. Because you are one of the most intelligent men I know, and have a profound grasp of strategy. Carlos is on the move, but his destination is unknown, so I have plotted a course in his absence. You may, perhaps, see voids in my plans that, if filled, can make the difference in the outcome. May I share those plans with you?”

  Raul knew if Watcher saw a chance to help, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself, and this was one of those things he could do without endangering the lives and families of his men. “You got it. Lay it on me—” He paused, then gave Raul the same respect he’d given Bones two nights ago. “—brother.”

  Blowing shit up

  “Jesus, Mason,” Watcher blurted, interrupting his friend’s recounting of a recent throw down with the Machos. Watcher hadn’t heard from Raul in days, and from the sounds of what happened in Chicago yesterday, Raul’s slim chances hadn’t held. Fuck. He wouldn’t say anything to Mela or Juanita, not yet. Not until I’m sure.

  “Yeah. It was fucked up, man. Coulda been way worse, though.” A harsh laugh escaped Watcher, and Mason reacted with his own gravel-filled chuckle. “Understatement of the fuckin’ year, man. Walking into that club, not knowing for sure what’d gone down or who I’d find still standing.” He paused, then hissed, “The stench.” Watcher made a noise, because he knew exactly what Mason was talking about.

  Firefights, especially when they happened inside a building, carried their own recognizable smells. Burnt gunpowder, the metallic tang of residue from so many guns, discharge gasses unable to disperse because these spaces weren’t designed for ventilation like a range would be. Those were the first things someone noticed when they walked into a site like Mason had. Next would be the scorched scent of terror, smelling as rank as a hog trapped in hot sunlight. Bitter and cloying, it was a searing musk which would stick in the back of the throat, coating every breath with pheromones created in an intense fight-or-flight situation. Then, depending on the number of causalities, they would smell waste, the byproduct of terror and injury. Blood, feces, urine, vomit—any of these, and likely all of them—would be carried on the air, too. Perforating wounds, involuntary reactions to the gore left behind; unavoidable evidence of slack muscles of the dead. You never forgot the smells, or the sounds.

  “You lose anyone?” If it were someone he knew, Watcher would have a trip to Chicago to plan.

  “Prospect. Dirty Dan. Downed by the first shot, what started it all.” Not a name he recognized, but Watcher questioned, wanting to be certain.

  “Patched long?” Sometimes men jumped clubs, so even if he hadn’t been in the Rebels long, Watcher might still know him from elsewhere. “From Chicago?”

  “Yeah, a Chi-town native. He wasn’t a patch, had barely rolled from hangaround to prospect. You don’t know him, brother, no worries.” Mason paused, and when he continued, there was a note of pride in his voice. “You remember Andy?” Watcher grunted in affirmation because of course, he remembered Andy. “He’s a fuckin’ keeper, man. What you said about Mexico, I got to see with my own eyes. Bones himself ran a recruitin’ play right on the fucking spot. I literally gave Andy his vest an hour before this shit went down. Took me way too fuckin’ long to talk him into it, but he finally took the leap. Then, the first thing that goes down is Machos getting up in my shit. The man took it in stride. Like a fuckin’ rock. Slate. Only thing had him shittin’ himself was worried he’d fucked up. Not the trash he took out, not the fact there was red runnin’ through the room, only if he’d screwed up.”

  “Club. Family. Honor. Nice to know a man like him slipped through my fuckin’ fingers.” Watcher laughed. “Thanks for that, asshat.”

  “Thank you for letting him slip. I need men like him.” Mason paused, then told Watcher the same thing he’d ended nearly every call with for the past eight years. “Need men like you, brother. When you gonna give up your hot-as-shit desert for a house by the big lake?”

  “In your dreams, big boy.” Watcher laughed, then sobered to say, “You sure it was Machos, brother?”

  “Yeah, flyin’ the green. No doubt about it.” Cautious, Mason asked, “Why? What’s got you tweaked?”

  “Not tweaked, exactly. And I don’t want to say anything until I know for sure, but you know who Machos’ president is, know what the bastard is to my Juanita and Carmela.” Watcher paused, unsure how much to say until he had a chance to check on things, and decided to err on the side of caution. “Hate to think he’d reach so far because of Andy.”

  “Slate.” Mason corrected him idly, reminding Watcher of Andy’s new road name, then tone sharp, questioned, “What do you mean, because of Slate? What’s he got to do with Machos?”

  “You know I got a beef with ‘em. You know how deep it runs, how far the hate goes.” These were statements, not questions, and Watcher didn’t wait for a response. “You also know, because I told you and you don’t forget a fuckin’ thing, An—Slate went to Mexico with me and mine. I told you how Mela came to be mine and Juanita’s, even before we knew she was a cousin. It is not a far stretch to believe Estavez could have tracked Slate. In fact, since this happened, I wonder about Memphis. How much has Slate told you about his time there?”

  “Nada,” Mason said quickly, anger tingeing his voice. “He ain’t said shit.”

  “Ling.” When Watcher called the drug king’s name, Mason drew a breath. “Yeah, brother. Slate didn’t get sideways of the man, but a woman he knew did, and I know Slate did some digging. Might have gotten himself on radar that way. Add that to the Machos having a hard-on for anyone who sides with me, knowing they back Ling and Ling sells all their product, including flesh? You can add it to him rollin’ to you, and them knowing our history for as much as we’ve put out there, it ain’t hard to tally up a pain column. Slate mighta brought this to your door, brother.” Watcher shook his head, something wasn’t right in the mix. “Feels like I’m missing something, though. It’s not quite…right. Plus, if he did, I can guarantee you he did it unknowingly. Man didn’t even know the difference between an MC and an RC until after he hit Chicago. Was a foreign language. Been educating him long distance, he’s been a remote student for a while.” This pulled a laugh from Mason, and Watcher smiled to hear it.

  “I’ll take over his schooling from here out, brother.” Mason paused, and in the brie
f interval between words came the distinct sound of a match strike, then the harsh rush of air that signaled the first draw off a cigarette. “I know you’re right. If he did bring the target, then he didn’t even know he carried it. He’s one of the most open and easy to read people I’ve met. Heart of gold, man. He feels shit deep. So fuckin’ deep. Wants to be whatever is needed. Wants it in a way that can’t be taught.” Another rush of air. “Machos.” A pause, then, “Shit, man, they been swirling around us for a long time. Wasn’t him that told them my strip joint was neutral.”

  “No shit? You opened it up? I didn’t know, brother. Thought Jackson’s was your only neut. Good to know.” This told him Mason was confident about his position in Chicago, something which gave Watcher relief after Bones’ last conversation. Then his relief died when Mason laughed.

  “Nope. I did not. Had a cut patch motherfucker passin’ out bullshit. Well—” He paused, and Watcher listened carefully. “He wasn’t a cut at the time. Is one now.” The name seemed torn from Mason, and recognizing it, Watcher knew why. “Monster.” An officer. Fuck.

  “Shit.” That was bad and pointed to a version of bad which seemed to echo what Bones had told him. Mason was losing focus, and if his members were revolting, then it would only escalate. “You cut him?”

  “He took the path you’d expect, man. I allowed it and then encouraged his beat out. Earned a couple days in an assclown gown.” This meant Monster had been allowed a choice. Drop his patches voluntarily and live. Was allowed to leave the club on his own two feet, but the fact he took a beating afterward said his chosen departure left him out bad. Monster wouldn’t get another club to call home in the area, ever, and might not find another club ever ready to take a chance on him. “Officer, and he pulled this kinda shit. Fiends, I shoulda known.” Rebel Fiends was the club Mason had killed, the first he’d joined and the precursor to the Rebel Wayfarers which he now ran. Monster had been a member of the previous club and had stuck with Mason through the coup which moved them to where they were now. Longevity as much as anything had gotten the man an officer patch, and now his true colors had been exposed. Assclown gown, that meant his beat down was enough to get him a hospital bed for a few days.

  “Shit,” Watcher repeated, the word not sufficient to the dread in his gut. “You holdin’ your shit, brother?”

  “Yeah, I’m holdin’ it. I’ve got good men, patched in a dozen in the past year who are club to the core. The kind of members you know will carry the club on their backs until they bleed. Don’t need fence-sitters or chair-fillers. Monster was both of those. Came to a decision vote. Monster’d fuckin’ wait to see where the wind was blowing before he cast his lot.” Like many clubs, Soldiers included, the Rebels used a system of markers to indicate a yes or no vote on any big topic. Black was no, white was yes, and the timing of when you laid your vote down told everyone at the table where you actually stood. Early voting was a passionate plea, even in a silent church when no argument was allowed. Men who didn’t have a dog in the hunt waited to see which way the vote would sway, and then either cast their lot to cock-block if they didn’t like the brother promoting the change, or throw it to ensure their favorite knew they had backing, regardless of the actual outcome of the vote. Chair-fillers were men who marked time in the club, looking for a better thing. They’d go from role to role in a club, trying to find something that fit, or, and this was arguably worse, they’d be all about the party, and roll from gig to gig there, too. “Him out, lets me nominate someone I want close. Open a spot at the table for heads who won’t push as hard for the shit I’m still tryin’ to stamp out.”

  Before Mason had taken over, the Fiends ran whores. Not slaves, but still owned girls. Women who didn’t see any other way of living their life. Watcher had heard, but never asked, that the tipping point for Mason was when Deacon took payment for a shipment of product in girls. Bringing back a dozen undocumented women from Canada. As unwilling as it got, and sounding far too close to the kind of trafficking Juanita had endured.

  “What’s next for the Rebels, then? You got a line on the Machos? Gonna get your pound of flesh back?” Watcher knew he would be on the warpath if something like that went down for him.

  “Holdin’ my shit. Wanna see how this internal struggle in the Machos plays out. Bide my time and be smart, they might take care of my problem for me.” Noise from outside and Watcher looked up to see Devil and Opie walk through the door into the barn. He acknowledged them with a chin lift as Mason kept talking, telling him more than he knew. “I’ve got my finger on the pulse of a half a dozen things right here in Chicago.” One of those would be the pretty neighbor, no doubt. “Got enough of my own shit to deal with. Gonna let their shit run, see where it ends up. Bingo’s in Indiana. We’re expanding east for a change.”

  Watcher grunted, because it was news. “You sanction that shit?” Up to now, all the Rebel chapters were west of Chicago. South and west, but not too far west. Watcher didn’t want to butt up against Mason in a struggle for territory and suspected Mason felt the same. East took the Rebels into potential conflict with a dozen other clubs, though.

  “Yeah. I wanna keep the old bastard, and Bingo was struggling with a family issue meant he was needed in Fort Wayne. I’d already been talkin’ to two small clubs there, trying to figure out if I wanted to start a support patch campaign. Now, at least one of them will be rolling into the new Rebel chapter.” Mason laughed. “Give you one guess whose club it is.”

  DeeDee was Mason’s cousin, from the same holler in Kentucky. Her old man was Winger, and he’d been the one to first introduce Mason to the life, way back when. They were in Fort Wayne, so the moment Mason spoke, Watcher knew who he had to be talking about. “No. You serious?” Tipping his chin down, Watcher grinned at the floor. “Lucky bastard. You always seem to have people right where you need them, when you need them.” Opie grabbed the back of a chair and pulled it closer to the desk and then sat, Devil patiently leaning against a pillar next to him. “DeeDee know Winger’s doin’ that shit?” He laughed. “Full circle, brother. That’s stellar.”

  “Yeah. Keepin’ it all in the family, for sure.”

  Watcher’s phone buzzed, and he narrowed his eyes as Opie and Devil reached into their pockets at the same time, pulling out their phones. A broadcast. Shit. “Well, you know what they say about incest.” Opie’s eyes lifted to his, and the expression on his face made Watcher’s blood run cold. “Mason,” he clipped into the phone. “Gotta go.” Disconnecting, he pulled his phone away and looked at the screen, seeing three letters texted from an international number. Fuck. “Call the brothers.” He stared at the screen for another moment, hearing Opie and Devil rushing to comply with his demand. SOS. “Call ‘em all.”

  ***

  Hands loosely gripping the stick he had threaded through the center of the wire spools, Watcher shuffled backwards as quickly as he could without tripping and falling in the dark alley. He rounded a corner and dropped to one knee, feeling a presence at his back. Trusting his brothers, he didn’t turn and look, simply pulled out his phone and dialed. “Team One in place.”

  “Five by five. Copy, One.” They had abandoned their tech for this run, because the distance between teams and the construction of the surrounding buildings meant their communications might be spotty. He waited, several tense minutes passing before finally receiving the response for which he’d been waiting. “We’re a go. Repeat, we are a go.”

  “Copy.” While waiting, he’d not been idle, stripping the wires and connecting them to the small hand-held detonator he carried. Fingers working quickly, he connected the battery and slammed the cover into place. A moment later there was a rattling boom north of their position, and he spoke into the phone, “Team Two fired.” He waited a beat, then said, “Fire in the hole.” One finger on the toggle, he tugged it gently, feeling the click as it completed the circuit. Thunder rolled up the alley, pulsing past the niche where he and his team waited, dust following the noise. “Team One fire
d.”

  “Copy. Team Three fired.” That was good news, because Opie’s team was so far away he hadn’t been able to hear their detonation. “Confirm all targets, boss. Repeat, all targets fired.”

  “Copy.” A rattle of gunfire and Watcher held up a fist, silently telling his men to wait it out. The cartel’s men would be expecting them to rush in following the blast. They were firing blindly into the dust raised by the explosion. When they failed to connect, he knew those men would begin making their way down the alley. Simple psychology to advance until they found resistance. No resistance, they’d make their way farther and farther from the base, opening the way for the Soldiers’ final salvo which would completely destroy the target.

  Once a sapper, always a sapper, he thought with a grin as he swapped the wires for the second pair. This was when he always felt the most in control. Where he was meant to be. Putting together the intel, laying out a strategy and watching as his men identified and understood what was needed. Looping the teams together, playing strength to strength in a way their everyday life didn’t allow. And then executing the plan. Locating supplies, getting everything into place, and doing his damnedest to ensure everything came off the way it was supposed to.

  The Soldiers had identified three cartel warehouses in Juarez, and their current operation was intended to destroy each base of operations for the cartel. The target wasn’t simply the removal of hundreds of thousands of American dollars in product, but it was his intent to send a statement at the same time pushing back the cartel’s hold. This would free the territory up for someone else to fill, and Watcher prayed the right ones would come out the winner. The first blasts were intended to breach the outer walls but without doing significant structural damage. The next ones would have a very different result.