I roll my eyes when bitch-ass Migs steps forward a little too close to the devil and his bride, to my liking.
“Yeah.” Clasping his hands in front of himself like he’s the designated lead petitioner, or rather, the chosen sacrifice. His being part of the old crew means Rudy put him up to it, no doubt.
“How’s it fair you get to claim her before Rudy opened the floor?”
Misanthropic and always disgruntled, this guy’s never satisfied. That would be the basic personality of the old crew. They’d rather terrorize the streets than build something. Rather than enjoy the life afforded them through skill and hard work, they seek to be nihilists.
“Because he wasn’t.” I give him the obvious answer. “He was going to tear her apart in a gang bang and throw her in the Tombigbee.”
Easy trembles. Angel rises like an enraged god of death. Standing, he scoops her up, resettling her in the chair, pressing a kiss to her head still covered by the hood.
He comes around to the front of the desk, nonchalantly crossing his arms over his chest. “Aye, Migs?”
Some may mistake his light tone for congeniality — they would be mistaken. “I get it. The pickings are slim, man. Something new and fresh pops up. Seems like everyone should get a taste, right?”
“Nah.” Shaking his greasy, matted helmet-head, he chuckles, “I’m not saying that, Prez. It’s just that she’s not even your type. She’s big. You never go for big girls. You like’em like the twins tall with legs for days, not some stumpy, little, round bitch. She could have served the club with all that ass?—”
Blood sprays just missing me and Rocco.
Ezekiel-Jane screams, and screams behind us.
Stalking over to the door, I rip it open. Saban stands wide-eyed at the threshold.
“Aye. Take her up to the loft and wait for us there. Don’t leave her, aight? Stay with her until I finish taking care of this business.”
Brown eyes round meet mine. She nods. Hurrying past me, she pulls Ezkiel-Jane up and after her out of the office.
“See what y’all motherfuckers made me do? Now my new wife is upset.” Angel looks after the retreating women, worry etched on his face. Turning to spear each man with a murderous look, he queries, “Anymore stupid fucking questions or comments?”
To a one, they all shake their heads.
“Never speak of my lady. Are we clear?” He taps the machete against his thigh, meeting the eyes of every man present.
After a chorus of “si,” he orders the old heads, Mig’s crew, “Good, now get the fuck out and get this motherfucker out of my sight. Throw his head and hands into the incinerator. Put his body into the Tombigbee.” His tone is low and controlled. The barely held fury fools no one. We’ve all seen it at least once — the night he found out that Fede was trafficking kids for Mathias Shelby Sr. The challenge he immediately issued after was in this very tone.
He and I actually fought over who would get to kill the bitch. Angel won, and the leadership went to him. He immediatelyblooded me as his second, and we’ve been running el Diablo ever since.
They should have known he would never have allowed a gang bang under his watch. Now Rudy’s crew is one man short because of it, and el Diablo is a little better for his demise. A good start, but we need to dead all of them.
“They are going to be a fucking problem.” Rocco says after the last man has filed out.
“I hope like fuck they do.” Looking at the pool of blood, the guys somehow managed not the track it all over Angel’s pristine floor. “It’s past time we got rid of that lot.” Stating the obvious, I meet each of their stares.
Angel grunts. He’s wearing the hat of the CEO of Cruz Construction and Logistics now. Drivers and skilled workers are scarce. El Diablo is more than just bikers. We run an entire trucking fleet across the country and have billion-dollar building projects. A lot of our people come right out of high school, but many prefer to go into tech these days.
“In due time,” Angel promises, his eyes hard.
We waste no time cleaning up the mess left in the wake of Angel’s temper.
The office smells of bleach and lemon but otherwise is pristine an hour later.
“You want to go over it again?” This is from Padre, one of our Prospects, who Angel sent to pick up Ezekiel-Jane’s car.
“Nah.” We all look at this OCD-ass motherfucker like he’s lost it.
“Ahh, man, you got it bad.” Rocco shakes his head in wonder, but I don’t miss the worry clouding his eyes.
“If you are so worried, you should have stepped up, hombre. You got something to say?” Angel’s already bristling.
