by J.G. Martin
Chapter 7
July 10, 2034
The Las Vegas Strip, NV
Minerva hung back as she trailed the reputed slaver boss along the Strip. The slaver woman’s description of her boss had fit only one man. His name was Duncan Carter and he was a well-known high roller. He had come to Vegas after being kicked out of the New Republic of Texas military for torturing and raping prisoners of war. He was reputed to have continued his sadistic ways with the prostitutes of the Strip, and she assumed he also used the slaves that were being brought in. He had been sentenced to twenty years in a military prison but he escaped, and the rumor was he had killed four MPs during his escape.
He was a big man, standing several inches over six feet and well muscled. The rumor was that he used steroids which contributed to his legendary rage. He had only been in Vegas for a year, but he had quite the reputation as a man not to be crossed. He stood out in his flashy clothes and with his diamond and platinum jewelry. He strolled down the street like he owned it and people hurried to get out of his way.
It made him very easy to follow; as did the two big shaven headed goons, one white and one black, he had trailing him. Both wore ill-fitting cheap suits that did little to conceal the protective vests they had on underneath or the batons in their belts. Duncan was probably carrying a pistol, because he somehow seemed immune to the laws of the Strip. That meant a powerful patron or that he paid large bribes, maybe both. The two goons watched the crowds for threats but they weren’t watching to see if anyone was following.
He strolled around town, and in and out of shops. Twice he just took things without paying for them and the shop owner didn’t complain. Oh yeah, this guy was a prince. Minerva was starting to feel like this was going to be fun. She could end the slave trade in Vegas and take out this jackhole as a bonus. Eventually he would lead her to the warehouse they were keeping the slaves in and hopefully some of the buyers.
She was so busy watching Duncan that she didn’t notice the two men following her at first. By the time she did see them it was too late. She followed Duncan and his goons as they traipsed through a back alley heading into the seedier part of the Strip that didn’t front onto Las Vegas Boulevard, now simply called the Boulevard. She was so focused on them and that they were finally going to lead her to the warehouse that the two thugs were able to sneak up on her.
The rattle of a dumpster behind her caused her to whirl around to see what was behind her. She cursed as she realized she had forgotten the basics of checking her six. Two men in dirty jeans were approaching her. Both of them had black bandannas pulled up over their faces. One was a short, stocky black man with close cropped hair. He was wearing a dirty red hoodie and what looked like a biker cut on over it. In his hands was a short metal baseball bat. The other man was Hispanic with a blue long sleeve shirt that showed his bulging muscles and a crowbar in his hands. The scarring on his shaved head looked like someone had taken a weed whacker to it.
He also wore a cut, and it became obvious to Minerva that these guys were looking for payback for the beating she had laid on that biker a year earlier. He had been the Vice President of his club, and he had sworn to get even with her. She noted he wasn’t here himself though. These two shouldn’t be that much trouble she thought as she slipped the brass knuckles she carried in each pocket onto her fingers. She could dispose of them quickly and then get back on the trail of the slavers.
She needed to rethink that when two more bikers appeared from a side alley behind her. She was now cornered and the odds were definitely less in her favor. She turned sideways and back towards the wall of the building to keep them all in view. As they approached she could see that the two new arrivals were a mismatched pair.
One was a skinny, obviously young man, with long blond hair wearing a dirty gray hoodie and jeans. He was pimply and looked nervous, flicking a switchblade in and out as they approached. Like the other two he had a black bandana over his face. The fourth man was the leader of this bunch and he was big. He was well over six feet tall and was muscular that was running to fat. He wore a dirty long sleeve white t-shirt and jeans, and a long salt and pepper beard poked out from under his bandanna. The patch on his cut indicated he was the club’s sergeant at arms, which meant the chief enforcer.
“Time to pay girl.” He snarled. “No one will be wanting you after we finish with you. It’s too bad, you’re kinda pretty.”
The others laughed evilly at his bravado and clutched at their crotches to show what they meant. All of them moved closer trying to surround her. Minerva may have ignored her training and gotten herself into this mess, but she remembered a key piece now. Always take out the leader first. It demoralizes and confuses the followers and gives you the advantage.
They were expecting her to be scared. A little girl outnumbered by all the big bad men. But she wasn’t; that familiar feeling was coming over her and she was close to a red-out. Instead of cowering, she rushed forward and kicked the big man right in the groin with her steel toed boots. He let out a high pitched wail and collapsed slowly to the ground clutching his crushed balls.
The others hesitated for a second before rushing her all at once, but that was all she needed. After she kicked the big man in the groin she pivoted to her right and threw a powerful snap kick with all of her might. Her leg extended fully and her foot caught the Hispanic biker right under the chin as he rushed in. The force of her kick combined with his momentum knocked his feet out from under him and his head snapped back with sickening crunch. The biker landed in a heap on the dirty alley floor.
She ducked under the wild swing of the bat wielding biker and dodged out of the way of the pimply biker’s stabbing knife. She moved around to face both of them and they looked much less sure of themselves. The odds were down to two one and they could hear the pathetic whining of their leader as he writhed in pain on the alley floor. Minerva raised both hands and waved them on.
“Come get some you dirty bastards.” She said coolly.
They shared a glance and screwed up their courage. There was no way they could back down from one woman, so they both rushed her at the same time. She slid to the right and avoided the down stroke of the black biker’s bat. She slid back and wrapped her left arm over both of his to hold the bat down and punched him square in the face. The brass knuckles did their job and his nose split open like a ripe melon. He dropped the bat and toppled backwards.
The young biker was game; she had to give him credit. He circled her warily stabbing at her with the switchblade. He probably saw an opportunity to make a name for himself by taking her down when the other had failed. She almost felt bad as she struck down at his elbow with the base of the knuckles on her left hand, numbing his arm and causing him to drop the knife. He stared at her his mouth and eyes wide open as she crushed his jaw with a punch from the other hand.
He fell to the ground unconscious and she took a quick breath. All four were down and in various states of consciousness. A swift kick to the head sent the man with the broken nose into oblivion for a few hours and she moved to stand over the still whining leader. The big biker looked up at her with hatred in his eyes. Something Minerva was used to. Men didn’t like to have their egos or their privates crushed by a woman.
“Tell your boss to come himself next time.” She told the groaning biker. “I think he still has some ribs I didn’t break.”
“Screw you.” The big biker spat.
“I doubt you will be capable of that for a while.” She replied sarcastically before she kicked him square in the face, knocking him out cold.
Ordinarily she would kill them, but that would put Strip Security on her tail. Fights they generally brushed off, especially those in a back alley. But killings were bad for the image of the Strip and therefore bad for business. So security generally did a pretty good job of catching the perpetrator. And in this case, she would probably be the prime suspect. She confirmed they were members of the same biker gang, the Dirty Few Motorcycle Club, as the b
iker she beat up at the casino.
As one final insult she stole their cuts and dropped them in a dumpster a few blocks away. It was considered a grave insult to the club to lose your cut and they would probably face further punishment at the hands of the club. Hopefully it would deter the rest from continuing to come after her. She didn’t need any more distractions.
The slaver boss and his bodyguards were long gone. She was lucky if they hadn’t heard the disturbance and seen her. She could prowl the area and see if she could locate them, but she had to be on shift soon. And if they had noticed her little dustup, she would only alert them to the fact that she was following them and not just in the wrong place at the wrong time. She would have to find another way to locate the warehouse.