"Who the fuck are these people?" he growls. "I need to get started on the drive to LA."
I shrug. No clue. If I had to guess, I would say they were mobsters. But I'm not an expert on any of that Godfather shit. The guys we shot just look like stereotypical guidos.
Magnum grunts disapprovingly and runs his hand through his hair. Frustrated. Nervous. Not drunk enough. I can't really tell. Reed's dumb ass responds with idle conversation.
"Riding the bike all the way out west?" Hog asks. "Shit."
Magnum fumbles around his jacket for a small pistol, answering Reed as he loads her up.
"No. Packing her up on the back of the truck," he responds. "But I need to get going. We have the club meeting in a few weeks and Southpaw insists I attend."
I nod along with his reminder about the club meeting because I'm looking forward to a few days of getting piss drunk and getting into trouble. I'm no Shaw, but I don't mind a bit of gambling.
"Newbies getting patched in," Reed says agreeably. "Well. Better head upstairs and see if Ethan's dead or not."
Magnum smiles. Reed has a dark sense of humor. Most of us do. We grew up living rough with a strong sense of family, but a stronger sense of independence and freedom.
It's a good sign that Magnum doesn't seem worried.
"Bear's smart. I trust he's found a way to hold them off."
"Only one way to find out," I point out. We enter the building, three giants standing in the landing of an old Boston condominium building with hardwood flooring stained a deep mahogany and plush red carpet on the steps.
It's so quiet, you could hear a bullet drop into a chamber from three floors up. Eerie. Blood rushes past my ears and every sense heightens. I wish I could pretend to hate the thrill of the hunt.
The army changes you. That much is true. It's hard to explain exactly how much to civilians. I wouldn't even bother trying.
"Which condo?" Hog whispers, scanning the foyer for clues. I find the list of mailboxes and scan the names. Magnum and I say the answer together, but I don't know how his drunk ass figured it out without checking.
"Second."
"They'll hear us coming," Reed whispers.
"Good," Magnum says. "I want this over with. Quickly..."
The three of us storm up the stairs together, preparing for a bloodbath. If not a bloodbath, at the very least a mess to clean up.
It turned out to be a bloodbath like I suspected. I finished my part after five days before reporting every molecule of evidence destroyed to the big boss – at least the big boss in my neck of the woods. Technically, Southpaw is the ultra-boss. I report to Ethan Shaw for the time being.
Just when I’m sending him my report of what all went down, another message chimes in on my phone. I could use the money, so I’m not angry about all the extra work. Carrying out hits in the desert out here is a lot more exciting than guarding warehouses filled with ammo out in the Middle East.
At least here, you can get yourself a home cooked meal with real steak and roasted potatoes. I fucking hate the Middle East. I had to come home because I lost two fingers on my right hand along with my eye – my pinky and my forefinger. Fucked up how it happened and I don’t remember most of it, but my buddy Weston Forbes claimed that he saw me fly thirty feet in the air.
I cracked my skull, but nothing came out and I only have a big scar on the back of my head, which covers up just fine when I grow my Blackwood blond hair out.
I would much rather be in the land of the free.
THE CULPRIT: I need you for a special job.
I respond quickly.
ZEB: How much?
I want to earn my patch, but it’s not cheap fixing your bike and keeping it tuned up enough to fly up and down Route 66 heading to club meetings and whacking people for the big boss out west.
THE CULPRIT: $5,000. It’s important. A family issue.
A family issue? Interesting. I can’t think of any family issues that would cost around $5,000. It can’t be killing anybody, but it must be something pretty big to get that much money out of it.
