by Robert Rand
It was a single action revolver. The long-barreled pistol swung up steady in her grasp to point at his chest.
He lurched to his left. The gun followed. "You stupid little cunt."
The gun exploded.
Chapter 8
Ralph Vasquez, Esquire, spun the wheel to the left, guiding the big Mercedes 600SL through the intersection on to Paradise Road.
"This can't be good,” said Hudspeth, pointing at the flashing red, yellow and blue lights ahead.
"That's the Turnberry entrance." Rourk confirmed that the squad cars were, in fact, at the entrance to his home.
Two Las Vegas Metro patrol units blocked the entire driveway. An officer with a red cone attached to his flashlight was directing traffic away from the luxury high-rise complex.
As the car rolled slowly by, Rourk and the others could see a half dozen police vehicles beyond the main entrance. Vasquez guided his car through a break in the traffic and parked at the curb.
The three men walked through the covered gateway before being confronted by a uniformed patrolman. "I'm sorry, sir, you can't go through just yet,” said the cop, raising his hands as if to push the three men away.
"What the…" Rourk was looking beyond the police line to a group of men awash in the red and blue flashing lights, lying face down on the concrete near the main entrance to tower three. "That's my brother-in-law!"
The cop glanced between Rourk and the men now being handcuffed and roughly searched by a dozen other officers.
Vasquez and Hudspeth then noticed the big man with the red beard being yanked to his feet by two cops. Vasquez spoke to the cop blocking their way. "That big guy being so roughly handled by your fellow Gestapo happens to be one of my clients."
The young patrolman shot Vasquez an angry look.
"I'm his lawyer" Vasquez announced.
"Shit" the cop mumbled, just as the two cops slammed Spanky into the hood of a squad car.
"Yeah, 'Shit'."
The cop pressed the transmit button on the radio mike, "One-David-Seventeen, One-Charlie-Eight."
"Go Charlie-Eight," came the instant reply.
"Ten-nineteen my twenty." The cop asked his sergeant to respond to his location.
"Ten-four."
In less than a minute, the sergeant was being read the riot act by Ralph Vasquez, Esq. "…and you can be assured that your perpetuation of this violation of Mr. Zigan's civil liberties will be found to be an unconstitutional abuse of authority,” concluded the lawyer.
The sergeant turned, red faced with anger, and walked over to where the group of bikers were being herded into a police transport van. "Cut 'em all loose" he ordered through clenched teeth.
A chorus of 'What's' and 'Why's' came from the cops who had just affected the arrests.
"The big one is the brother-in-law of one of the residents. They are legitimate 'guests'" he explained, ending his statement with a sarcastic tone.
The cuffs quickly came off. The bikers all began trash talking the cops while rubbing the creases in their wrists left by the overly tight restraints.
"Punk-ass pigs," grumbled Nolan.
"Fuckin' bitches," Fat Jack snarled.
"Ease up, fellas," Spanky reined in his cohorts, "We got more important things to do than talk shit to these cocksuckers…"
"Spanky!" Rourk hollered as he and the other two approached.
"Bro!" The burly biker grasped Rourk in a bear hug. Stepping back, he asked, "What's goin' on? I got a call from Sis."
"Upstairs. We'll talk."
"Yeah, sure."
The group entered behind Rourk. The contrasts of the group were remarkable and weren't lost on the concierge and security as they walked by.
There was Rourk, his Hugo Boss suit, even though rumpled and with his silver tie hanging out of one of the pockets of the navy coat, looking elegant and powerful. Much the way the lawyer appeared. However, Vasquez maintained a tie with a perfect knot pulled tight at his throat and wore enough gold and diamond jewelry to be mistaken for a Mafia don. Spanky was by far the tallest of the group, but Fat Jack, at 405 pounds, was the one drawing the greatest attention. His Levi's were the ones that hung on the wall of Millers Outpost. The custom-made leather chaps looked to have taken more that one cow to make. His hair was thinning, yet long, pulled into a brown and silver ponytail. His general appearance was that of a hefty grease ball.
Twin was one of the ugliest men in the western United States. His lumpy face and fleshy, rubbery appearing lips were kept from being the focal point of his face by the huge, bulbous nose that had been split along the right nostril in a knife fight and repaired by one of his friends with a tube of crazy glue. Though he was only 28 years old, he looked at least 10 years older.
Nolan was in his early 50's. His gray-brown goatee and hair were both worn long. He and Twin were both knife fanatics. Nolan normally carried a minimum of 7 knives. His clothes were all leather. Pants, shirt, boots, coat, gloves and hat. The only thing not leather was the cut off Levi jacket that held his colors.
However, the one appearing the most out of place was Hudspeth. He was wearing Dockers, polo shirt and a windbreaker. He looked like the cop he used to be. The part in his brown hair was on the right, his eyes dark and always picking up on every detail of his surroundings. He was an athletically built 5'11". The only difference now from when he had been a Federal Agent was the addition of the neatly trimmed moustache that adorned his thin upper lip, but even that looked like a cops' moustache.
Introductions were made all around as they took the express elevator to the Rourk penthouse. The elevator opened on to a private foyer. Marble floors were sided by rose-colored walls. An antique cherry wood table held a gray vase filled with wild flowers. A gilded oval mirror hung on the wall above the flowers. The double doors leading to the apartment were intricately carved oak panels laminated over steel. They were also open.
Scott Hudspeth stepped to the front of the group and withdrew the 10 mm Glock semi-automatic that he carried in his waistband at the small of his back. With the safety off and the weapon held up, Hudspeth entered the apartment. He made a quick check of the premises, finding the enormous apartment vacant.
The others had made their way into the living room. Sullivan began pulling beers from the cooler behind the bar. Vasquez poured himself a large snifter of Grand Marnier. After a long pull from a bottle of Coors Light, Sullivan began filling in the blanks for everyone. "I think it's related to the Brand" he began, relating the story of how he had stabbed a guy in prison and ended up running the drug and extortion rackets for the Aryan Brotherhood while he was in Soledad Prison in California.
When Sullivan had finally paroled he had thought his dealings with the Brand - a nickname given to Aryan Brotherhood members because of the shamrock tattoo they all had that branded them as members of one of the most vicious prison gangs in the country - were over. But they had other plans. To let Sullivan know about those plans they sent a couple skinheads to deliver the message.
Things had gone wrong and it ended up being an armed confrontation with the Sheriff's Department that resulted in the deaths of four cops and the two skins.
"I got a call about eighteen months ago,” he recalled, "from the broad who used to visit me to bring me messages from Whitey."
"Why didn't you tell me, Bro?" asked Spanky.
"It wasn't any big deal. She had heard about me getting a pardon from the governor and said she just wanted to say congratulations. Now that I think about it…she did say 'We'll be in touch' as she hung up. Now we've got punk-ass Nazi low riders from California kidnapping Lisa."
"You're probably right. It's most likely related," said Hudspeth.
"We start runnin' all the speed freaks, skinheads and white supremacists to ground and find where these riders are hiding out,” suggested Nolan.
"Yeah, we can get some help from the local red and white" chimed Twin, referring to the Hells Angels by their 'Colors'.
The phone rang. Hudspe
th and Rourk both looked down at the caller I.D. screen.
"Do you recognize the number?" asked the former Fed.
"No" Sullivan replied as he lifted the receiver. "Hello?" He typically phrased the greeting as a question.
A child's scream was carried into the room through the receiver. The six other men in the room crowded toward Rourk as he cried out his daughter's name, "Lisa? Lisaaaa!"
The phone sounded like it was dropped.
"Shh!" Rourk held up one hand, palm out to get the people around him to be quiet as he strained to hear.
A voice came, as if from a distance, "You stupid little cunt!"
"Don't you touch her!" Sullivan screamed into the phone.
The distinct sound of a single gunshot exploded on the other end of the phone line. Sullivan went pale. He could feel his bowels liquefy as fear gripped him completely. "Lisa" he whispered as tears spilled over red-rimmed lids.
Hudspeth turned on his cell phone and dialed the Las Vegas office of the FBI, bypassing the switchboard and reaching an old friend.
"Spencer" the phone was answered.
"Spence, Scott Hudspeth, this is an emergency and I need a huge favor."
"What's up?"
"I need a location on an active cell."
"Number?"
Hudspeth read the number from the caller I.D.
"Two minutes - and you owe me."
"You got it."
"Lisa, baby" Sullivan cried as he begged the dead air space for the sound of his daughter's voice.
"I've got someone getting us a location on that cell phone,” offered Hudspeth. He went on to say, "Let's head out to the car and be ready to move."
Spanky told Nolan to call down and tell Laura to pull into the underground parking garage at tower three.
Nolan pulled out his own cell phone and gave Laura directions.
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