King's Ransom: South Side Sinners MC

by BT Urruela

  Thick woods encompassed the safe house, three hundred and sixty degrees, besides a small gravel road that ran from the house through the overgrowth to a paved road on the other side, so two teams of three were sent in either direction to work their way through the entire area, while four of his newer guys kept watch out front.

  The rumble of motorcycles grabbed their attention, and Robbie eyed the gravel road in wait, the four remaining men raising their weapons anxiously. “It’s only the prospects,” Robbie said, waving them off. “And they better have that little fuck.” His hands met his hips.

  The four prospects who had been sent to take out Dimitri, Knuckles, and Jacoby, pulled up to the house and parked alongside the other motorcycles out front.

  A spindly man with prison tattoos and an unimpressive beard dismounted his bike and approached first.

  “Prospect Adams, what do you have for me?” Robbie asked him, hands still on his hips. “Good news, I hope.”

  The others collected up behind Adams and his worried eyes darted from them back to Robbie. “We found their bikes—” Adams muttered.

  “Whose bikes?”

  “Dimitri’s and Knuckles’.”

  “And …”

  “They weren’t with them.”

  Robbie threw his hands into the air. “So, we’ve got two bikes and a fucking van, and four bodies that have just vanished and left them behind, is that what you’re fucking telling me?”

  “We, uh, we think they went into the woods.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. You’re telling me they didn’t teleport?”

  “Uh, n-no, sir,” Adams replied sheepishly.

  “That was a rhetorical question, numb nuts. Were their bikes where they should’ve been? At the first checkpoint?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And Jacoby?”

  Adams fidgeted more, scratching at his forearm feverishly. “We found him, and shot him. Think we got him, but he was able to get away, boss.”

  Robbie abruptly smacked Adams with the back of his hand and the crack of skin meeting skin was thunderous.

  Adams staggered back into the others, his hands meeting his cheeks, one of them much redder than the other.

  Robbie scowled at them with a pointer directed right at them. “You fucks ever hope to get that prospect label removed, you better do as I’ve asked and kill those sons of bitches, do you hear me? I will not tolerate failure. You come back the next time and they’re not dead, you all will be, you got me?”

  “Yessir,” Adams responded, hand still rubbing his jaw.

  “Yessir,” the others muttered.

  “Get back out on that road and you find them, motherfuckers. Find them!”

  As the prospects scurried back to their bikes and mounted them, Robbie took a deep breath of the fresh spring air. The tension seemed to leave, right along with the departing prospects. “Ah, Honey Bear, it’s like I’m back in Iraq again.”

  He took a proud look over the remaining men who paced the overgrown grass and gravel road out front, a mess of pines and oaks, juniper bushes and wildflowers their backdrop, and then he looked back at Honey Bear, who puffed on a Marlboro from the tattered front porch, and let the smoke leave his lips in little circles.

  “Now I’m ready to kill,” Robbie added.

  “Luka was somethin’ special.” Honey Bear laughed. “Figured you’d have taken out Preach yourself too. You hated him damn near long enough.”

  “Since the day I met him.” Robbie shook his head tightly, a wicked grin on his lips as he replayed the death in his head. “Thought about pulling the trigger myself, but it was more fun to watch. Got to see his eyeballs shoot in opposite directions.”

  Honey Bear chuckled. “Found some of his teeth on the floorboard before they took the bodies away.”

  “You told Greyson and Bronson to bury them, roger?”

  “Sure did. Had Grey dig the pit last night even. They’re waitin’ for the rest of ’em before they fill her in.”

  “They’re both former military. We should’ve kept them here,” Robbie said, shaking his head, disappointed. “You heard anything yet from our guys at headquarters?”

  “Last I talked to ’em, which was about ten minutes ago, the standoff situation continues.”

  “We lose any more of our guys?”

  Honey Bear shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Go check it out, will you? We don’t have time for this shit. We need to erase these cocksuckers, find the girl, and get the fuck out of here. Storm that motherfucker if you must.”

  “What about Callahan and Shane? Pyro and Dalton are still holdin’ ’em. Said they’d kill ’em if anybody tried to enter the room.”

  Robbie thought on it for a moment, his head cocked just so, and he passed a look of amusement. “Kill them if it comes to it. Just quiet things down over there, round up whoever’s left, then burn that fucker to the ground.”

  “Can I bring a few of them shits over there with me?” HB pointed to the four members left at the safe house, who spent more time bullshitting than they did scanning the perimeter. “Just in case.”

  Robbie glanced over. “Yeah, but only two. And HB”—he narrowed his eyes on him—“trade those fucks out with Bronson and Greyson before you hit headquarters. I need some semblance of combat readiness out here.”

  “Roger that,” Honey Bear responded, tossing his cigarette to the dirt and stamping it out. He shuffled toward his Harley but looked over toward the group. “Hey, two of you rotten peckerheads get in that Blazer and follow me out.”

  Robbie put a hand up to stop him. “I don’t fucking think so, HB. We have some cash in there I’d like to keep close by. Grab the keys to that piece-of-shit van from inside. I saw them on the radio desk.”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t trust me, boss?” HB chuckled.

  “You’re my best friend. Of course I don’t.”

  Twenty-Four

  The icy water surprised her, and before she realized what was happening, her foot slid on a wet rock and she splashed down into the stream. She poked her head up, sputtering and coughing. No time to take stock of injuries. Annalise had to move. Silently, she cursed herself for being so careless as she used roots to pull herself onto the opposite bank. Drenched, she moved like a cat caught in the rain from tree to tree, trying to put as much distance between her and the inevitable search-and-destroy party that would be following her.

  Her flight was repeatedly stalled and grounded by wayward branches and jagged foot traps waiting to snag her in the darkness. Movement ahead of her, in the distance, startled Annalise and she froze, trying her best to blend into the trees. She crouched into a thicket and listened. Someone was coming through the woods but not from behind her. Maybe fifty yards or so to her left, someone was running toward the house. She didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. Her heart drummed so loudly she was terrified they would hear it. The footsteps and crunching leaves got louder. They were really moving. She stayed low, not moving a muscle. It was only when they were past her that she heard him speak. Dimitri! At first, relief flooded her. He’s alive! Whatever was going on in this crazy shit storm, he was alive. She remained frozen. Her reprieve short-lived as she realized he was running straight into hell. Is he going to save me, to help his guys? He was well out of sight before she could bring herself to move. Keep running! All common sense told her to keep going. Maybe she could get to a road or a town and call the police. She ran about ten yards and stopped again. If the police came, they would get Dimitri too. Dammit! She tried running again, but her legs were like giant weights. You don’t owe them anything, she tried futilely to remind herself. What could a single unarmed girl do anyway?

  He would come for you. He is going for you and will probably die for it. Annalise stopped, her chest heavy with the weight of the choice before her. Annalise closed her eyes and saw Dimitri’s face. Her arms dropped limply to her sides. Even if she made it for help, even if she somehow survived this, if he died in the process, her life w
ould be as dark and void as before she met him. Worse. That was before she knew his touch, tasted his kiss. The connection with him was a drug she would never be able to live without. Annalise turned, silently she bid her mother farewell and prayed she would find some kind of peace, then started back toward the gates of hell.

  Dimitri led Knuckles, slow and steady, toward the derelict barn, using the trees for cover, keeping his eyes peeled on every movement, every sound. They closed in on the two walls of the barn still standing, with no roof to speak of, except for the shingles and rotten two-by-fours that were scattered across the barn floor, and remnants of the other two walls, rotting in piles where they once stood.

  Dimitri detected the gentle babble of the stream just beyond the barn then. And just further, beyond more trees and underbrush, the safe house hid. He heard the faint sound of a car chewing up gravel. His head moved on a swivel—too much he had to scan, too many directions for them to come from.

  They eventually worked their way to the barn ruins, tree by tree, and then traversed the decaying material with careful steps. Jagged rusted nails, wood beams crumbling under their weight, and fallen branches required slow, methodical movement.

  They made it to the back corner of the two large barn walls and kneeled beside one of two window frames—long without any glass.

  Dimitri leaned into Knuckles, though his eyes continued to watch behind them, and he whispered, “They shouldn’t be coming from behind us, but make sure you keep an eye out.” He pointed to another window frame a few feet down the wall. “You watch from there. I’ll watch from here. If you spot them, you hand signal. We gotta take out as many as we can at once.”

  Knuckles nodded, maneuvering toward the other window. Once in position, he nodded again, and they began their watch.

  In the silence, Dimitri’s heartbeat and panting sounded incredibly loud. He fought to control his breathing, his nerves, but the more he fought it, the harder taking a steady breath seemed to be. The sweat collected along his brow line, and one bead rolled down into his eye, the sting making his eyelids flutter, his attention lapsed. He wiped an arm across his forehead, keeping the pistol up and ready with his other hand. He took another quick glance through the window frame.

  Squirrels.

  Trees.

  The stream as it eases past.

  He leaned back behind the cover of the wall, glanced toward Knuckles for any hand signals, and found none, then peered again through the frame. He did that a few times, and he couldn’t help but remember a memory from long ago as he did—Preach geared up in camo and hunter’s orange, a rifle held steady in his hands. Dimitri was only ten, wearing similar gear, though two sizes too big. He remembered feeling like the kid from A Christmas Story, shuffling his way through a forest not far from where they were fighting for their lives, maybe an hour or two away. He had trailed Preach, with an old Winchester that belonged to his dad clutched tightly in his small hands. It was Dimitri’s first and only hunting trip. His pops was getting worse and Preach was starting to take over the fatherly duties Jameson let fall by the wayside at an alarming rate.

  They had been in the tree stand for so long, it felt like a millennium to young Dimitri. He couldn’t stand the wait, the boredom, but he liked that Preach liked it, and he did his best to play his part. A few hours in, Preach pointed out a buck not a hundred feet away and said in an enthusiastic whisper, “Line up your shot, kid. You got this.” His excitement was contagious. Dimitri remembered raising the rifle with a broad smile on his face, the first real one of the day, his cheek against the cold steel. Preach steadied the barrel with his hand, guiding it. The rifle’s sight swayed and then settled, and Preach whispered excitedly, “Pull the trigger!”

  Dimitri did pull the trigger and the buck fell at once, and it made the most awful cries Dimitri had ever heard. Preach cheered, his hands raised high in the air. “You did it!” he said proudly. He patted Dimitri on the back. “You got him.”

  Dimitri remembered wanting to cry right there in that stand, as the buck gasped for breath, kicking its legs frantically, and Preach’s excitement escalated, but he hadn’t cried. He held it in and forced a smile.

  But when he approached the buck and looked into its eyes, Dimitri got lost in their innocence, in the awful way the buck sucked at the air, and how the blood poured from the wound like a faucet had been attached. He did cry then, and he cried for some time.

  And he never killed another animal again.

  Pssst. Knuckles waved his hands impatiently until he caught Dimitri’s attention. He held up three fingers and then grabbed his crotch.

  Three dicks. Dimitri nodded.

  Knuckles pointed to his watch, and then he held up his thumb, circling it around—signing the number ten.

  Three dicks, ten o’clock. Dimitri nodded once again and he inched closer to the frame, took a peek, the Glock held so tight the skin of his hand had gone white. A shiver swept over him as he located them, three of Robbie’s men slinking through the woods toward them, just beyond a clearing of wild daisies and knee-high grass, and the rocky banks of the swift stream. He took a steady breath, watching them, knowing with only hand guns, he and Knuckles would have to wait. He spotted the only one with a rifle on the far left and decided he would shoot him first.

  Jimmy, Estes, and Motor. Dimitri shook his head as he recognized them, and then returned to cover. Old Marine buddies of Robbie and Honey Bear’s, they were rookie members, and had always rubbed Dimitri the wrong way. Leaning back against the wall, he looked to Knuckles and took a deep breath. He mouthed “At the clearing,” and Knuckles passed him a nod.

  When the three men slowed, the black-eyed Susans and grass at their feet, they scanned the area cautiously. They crept forward, their weapons high, their eyes on the rundown barn.

  Dimitri imagined the three of them walking toward the stream, toward the barn, envisioned their proximity, the space between them. He’d hit Motor with the rifle first, Knuckles would hit Estes on the right, and they both would go for Jimmy in the middle and hope he hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. Their shots would have to be fast and precise. Overwhelming and surprising them was their only option. He took a steady breath, eyed his best friend, gulped.

  Just a second longer.

  The hues of early morning light filtered down between the trees, shredding the cover of darkness as she made her way back through the underbrush. Each step, each twig that snapped, Annalise stopped and listened. When she could hear the stream in the distance, she paused, resting her bloody arm against a tree to scan the woods in all directions. Was this the same place she crossed earlier? In the darkness, she couldn’t be sure which way she was going, and every fucking thing out here looked exactly the same. But that damn stream she knew for sure. She was still soaked to the bone from their earlier encounter. About fifty yards away, through a mountain of multiflora rose and autumn olive, she could see what may possibly have been an old building; or part of one, at least. Upon closer inspection, she saw it was a degraded barn. Either she was not in the exact same place or she ran right by that in the dark this morning. Annalise continued toward the stream, keeping her eyes on the old barn, staying as low as possible. She stepped into the edge of the water and slipped again—her heart leaping into her throat. Three men on the other side were coming right toward her. There was nowhere to run. A few more steps and they would see her. Before she could move, shots rang out and two of the men fell, one sending a barrage of bullets in all directions as he went down. Terror struck her like a physical blow. Frantically, she looked around, trying to figure out where the shooters were. The third man ran forward, opened fire on the barn, but he too was struck down. He staggered into the water and took a second shot before dropping like a stone into the stream. Annalise watched in horror as ribbons of red flowed with the current and encircled her ankles.

  She had no idea if these were good bad guys or the bad ones. Under the cover of the large buttonbush that separated her from the barn, she stood froze
n, staring at the dying man in the water. He coughed and sputtered but made no attempt to get up or use his weapon. She looked to the opposite bank and then back at the barn. The thought of the man’s blood on her skin turned her legs to Jell-O but she dared not move. The man was suddenly still, eyes fixed wide. His left hand, still clutching the gun, was outstretched toward her.

  Annalise had never actually seen a dead person outside of a funeral home. Even then, she stayed in the back and didn’t go anywhere close to the deceased. Now she stood only feet away, looking into once-living eyes, now hollow, vacant somehow. A chill ran the length of her body and she forced her gaze from his face to the gun in his hand. She could almost reach it but if she stepped out of the brush, she would be fully exposed.

  Trembling all over, she glanced up at the barn as she used a branch to try and snag the strap that waved in the current. Holding onto the fine twigs of the buttonbush with one hand, she extended the branch as far as she could reach. The first attempt scraped over his body but missed the strap entirely. The second time, she struggled to get closer and the branch hit the gun, almost knocking it loose from his hand. Annalise shuddered and tried to focus only on the strap. This time, she leaned out, pulling on the buttonbush, and stretched. Just as she slipped the branch into the strap, the twigs she was holding onto snapped like the pop of a gun. Leaves flew everywhere and Annalise was sent sailing. I’ve been shot! Water splashed into the air around her as she crashed down onto the body of the gunman. This fucking creek. I hate this fucking creek. She lay for a moment, too stunned to move, staring into his lifeless eyes.