Reaper, p.20
Reaper, page 20
Mayhem leans in towards me and whispers. “Tank’s talking about himself.”
I look back at Mayhem and blink once, slowly. “Really? I didn’t pick up on that.”
“It was subtle, I know. But if you had been in church when this came up, you would’ve picked up on it.”
“Thank you for the clarification, Mayhem,” I say, wondering, if I’m going to become more a part of Reaper’s life — and what the hell am I even thinking, wondering about that, and why am I even imagining myself, right now, as being a part of his life in the future when I don’t even know if I’m going to live through tomorrow — do I need to start keeping stickers or coloring books around for Mayhem?
“You’re welcome.”
“Rabid wanted your head. The vote was close. If it hadn’t been for me, Hunter, and Goldie — who I fucking pulled aside and made a fucking promise that I’d go to a yoga class with him, fucking hot yoga, which has me even more fucking worried, because, what the fuck makes it hot, is it a sexual thing? — you’d be dead.”
Reaper casts a hurt look at Diesel and Mayhem. “You two both voted to kill me?”
“After the shit we went through to save your ass, and the way you just fucking ran off, all because Vanessa died, fuck, yes I’m fucking pissed at you,” Diesel says.
Mayhem leans in again. “Diesel used to be married. His wife, she died when — ”
I cut him off. “ — I get it. And… are you well, Mayhem?”
“Very. Thanks for asking, though. It’s considerate of you, considering I threw a bag over your head and you punched me in the face. You throw a solid punch, by the way.”
“Why’d you vote to kill the man I lo — the man I like?” I say, wincing at how poorly I cover up that word. The other bikers — except for Mayhem, who seems oblivious — give me a curious look, then look at Reaper. Reaper smiles, and his brilliant eyes grin.
“It wasn’t cause I don’t like him. I like him. But I just looked at the facts of the case and judged based on that. It wasn’t personal,” Mayhem says.
“You were humming the fucking Law & Order theme most of the goddamn time, and any time you asked a question, you spoke like that one old lawyer guy,” Tank says. “It was fucking exhausting. Reaper, I nearly gave up on you just to get away from this fucking lunatic.”
“That ‘old lawyer guy’ is Jack McCoy, a living legend of the New York City justice system and one of the foremost — “
“Enough,” roars Tank. “Reaper, we’ve given you the punishment you deserved for abandoning the MC to go do whatever the fuck it is you are doing here… which looks like you were just shacking up with Vanessa’s sister and fucking with the Russian Mob?”
“I came here to kill myself, Tank, and got involved with Volkov in the process,” Reaper says. “Adriana came here to kill me, too. Then, well, she and I got involved.”
“Would have been a lot easier if one of you two had just finished the fucking job instead of dragging me away from Bianca to come down here and… what.. save your ass from the Russians?” Tank pauses, sighs, then shakes his head. “That wasn’t fair of me. It’s been a long ride, brother. And a whole fucking lot of talking to people. You know what that does to me. How can we help you?”
“It’s OK, Tank. I understand, and I appreciate you being here. I love you, brother,” Reaper says. He sighs, slips his arm around Tank, then continues. “And Adriana and I are going to need your help with the Russians, yes, but there’s something else we need your help with, first.”
“Whatever you need, brother. Now that we’ve got that shit from earlier out of the way, we’re here to help.”
Reaper nods, hesitates, then pulls Tank into a hug. “That’s good. I’m glad to hear it. Because tomorrow night we’re going to rip off the Triads.”
Tank shakes his head. “I hate you so fucking much.”
“I love you, too, Tank.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Adriana
Below us lies a long stretch of road intermittently lit by poorly spaced streetlights. A mile to my left down that stretch of concrete is the trucking yard, where a gaggle of heavily armed Triads anxiously waits for their shipment. To my right, at a distance of six miles, the stretch of concrete connects to the main highway, ‘the 80,’ as the locals say around here, that links Sacramento to the Bay Area ports of San Francisco, Oakland, Stockton, Richmond, Benicia, and Redwood City — a bevvy of entry points for the cargo the Triads are transporting to this trucking stop, tonight, and which should arrive less than five minutes from now.
Across from me, situated in a vantage point on the opposite side of the road and enclosed in some underbrush, are Tank and Reaper, both on motorcycles. To my right, on his motorcycle, are Mayhem. and Diesel. I shift in my seat on the beat-up Suzuki GS500 purchased for a few hundred dollars, a handshake, and a wink off of Craigslist from a man who alternately used the names Elvis, Leroy, Hopkins, and repeatedly told me I could just call him ‘Al.’ It isn’t what I’d prefer to ride, but choices are limited, and even this piece of shit motorcycle will be better for our heist than a crappy Sebring.
Five minutes.
Five minutes until a truck loaded with the weapons or drugs the Triads are transporting comes down that road, we ambush and subdue the driver, leave him on the side of the road, speak a few Russian phrases within earshot of the driver, and ‘lose’ the Makarov pistol I had Mayhem purchase from a pawnshop in Volkov’s territory. That should be enough to plant the seed in the minds of the Triads, pointing them where we want them.
“Are you sure we have to leave this Makarov behind?” Mayhem says, turning the pistol over in a gloved hand. “It’s so quirky and just weird, I hate to lose it.”
“You’d compromise our mission just because you want to keep a weird gun?”
“There are a lot of things I’d do for a weird gun.”
I roll my eyes. "Mayhem, we need to—"
"Look, no self-respecting criminal would leave something like this behind," he interrupts, holding up the Makarov. "It's evidence, sure, but it's also a perfectly magnificent piece. Professionals don't just toss hardware. I’m keeping it."
Heat flares in my chest. "You'd be surprised how fucking dumb criminals can be, even the skilled ones. In my time in law enforcement, the number of times I broke open a case because some 'professional' left evidence behind or blabbed when he shouldn't have is astronomical."
Mayhem's head snaps toward me, his eyes wide beneath the streetlight's glow. "Wait, you're a cop?"
I flinch. We hadn’t gotten to that part yet, and I’m pissed as hell at myself for letting it out, and all because Mayhem wants to keep a shiny new toy.
“Was," I correct sharply. "Was in law enforcement. Not anymore." The words taste bitter. "I left it behind after Vanessa died. Had to find and kill the person responsible." I pause, glancing across the road where Reaper waits in the shadows. "I thought it was Reaper."
"And now?"
"Now I'm in love with him."
Mayhem lets out a low whistle. "Well, shit. Congratulations on finding love, I guess? In the most fucked up way possible, but hey — life's weird like that."
A distant rumble catches my attention. Headlights pierce the darkness far down the stretch of concrete, growing larger. The truck.
"There," I whisper, but Mayhem's voice drifts under his breath, barely audible over the approaching engine.
"Hope things go better for Reaper this time, now that another woman he loves is wrapped up in one of his personal vendettas."
The words hit me like ice water in my veins. Another vendetta. Not an overdose, not an accident, but a fucking vendetta. What does he mean? My blood turns cold as the implications crash over me — what don’t I know about Vanessa's death? What piece of the story am I missing?
I turn to question him, but the truck's headlights sweep closer, and Mayhem's motorcycle roars to life beneath him.
“Showtime," he shouts, and rockets down the embankment toward the road.
The truck barrels down the road, its headlights blinding and blaring over the cracked tarmac with the ostentatious confidence you only see in freightliner rigs and the men who drive them. I ease the Suzuki onto the shoulder, engine still rumbling. Tank and Reaper kick off in a synchronized ballet — Tank lining up ahead of the curve with his signature overkill: a two-by-four banded to the back of his Harley, a ridiculous but effective caltrop deployer. Reaper guns it directly into the lane, his body compact and ready, the black leather of his jacket sucking up the sodium glow.
Mayhem and Diesel sweep in together. Diesel's bike is purring but barely, kept silent for the initial approach; Mayhem is whooping like a lunatic at the oncoming fifty tons of steel. The semi slams on the brakes, horn wailing, but it’s too late — Mayhem zigzags into the path, brandishing the Makarov like a kid wielding a sparkler on the Fourth of July. The truck's brakes scream as it tries to bleed velocity, sending up a shower of sparks as it crests the caltrops Tank dotted along the landing strip of asphalt.
There’s a shrill, metallic shriek as the tires go, the rig lurching and slewing, barely keeping upright. I swerve behind and block off its escape. In the chaos, Reaper guns his bike up the embankment, slings off and sprints on foot straight for the cab.
Mayhem follows, pistol raised, still doing that terrible vodka-baron impression.
"Open the door, tovarisch!" Mayhem bellows.
Reaper grabs the handle and rips it open before the driver can even reach for a weapon. The guy inside is huge, but he freezes at the insanity outside his window.
“Vasili, my friend!” Mayhem howls. “We are delivering you from burdensome labor! Rejoice!”
No one responds. The driver is breathing through his mouth, eyes wide, until Reaper grabs his jacket and yanks him from the cab. The guy lands hard on the dirt, yelping, but Tank and Mayhem are already there to pin his wrists and zip-tie him. Diesel lopes up behind, grabs the guy’s ankles in hands that look like they could pull the limbs off a bear.
Reaper kneels so his mouth is right next to the driver’s ear and snarls, “If you tell anyone what happened, we come back. If you tell anything but Russian noise, we really come back. Blini.” He says it with exaggerated menace.
Mayhem doubles over, cackling. “Blini and piroshki! And maybe… your — how do you say? Your babushka, yes?”
"Please, man," the driver whimpers, in regular Californian. "You can have the truck, just — "
"Don't move," I snap, yanking the keys from his breast pocket. I palm them, motion for Diesel to let go, and the driver folds himself into a pathetic ball on the ground.
I flick my eyes at Mayhem, and he gets the silent demand. Leave the fucking piece.
He hesitates, cradling the Makarov like a rescued kitten, and when I scowl harder, he offers a last, wounded puppy glance and finally drops it on the seat of the battered cab. For a psycho with a penchant for explosives and poor decisions, he sure is sentimental. I stare him down, and he sighs, then walks off, flipping me the bird behind Reaper’s back. Kids these days.
I mount the steps, slide into the greasy seat, and let the chemical smell of adrenaline and diesel fill my lungs. My motorcycle — lightweight, anonymous, disposable — waits like a loyal dog on the shoulder. I leave it. A Suzuki GS500 is not worth my freedom or my life, and anyway, the plan was always to ditch it after this job.
Reaper gives me a grin through the truck’s side mirror. It’s a predator smile, sharp as a fresh blade, but it’s for me, not at me, and it lights something thrilling and kinetic in my gut. As I adjust the seat, I catch the glint of his eyes in the reflection and, for once, I think maybe we might just pull this off.
The key slides into the ignition.
I turn.
The engine coughs, then bellows. I shove the rig into gear, my body remembering the drills from my days at the Academy’s pursuit driving school. Drive steady, look ordinary, act like you belong. I scan the rearview: the driver is still fetal on the shoulder of the road, Tank and Diesel hovering over him, Reaper and Mayhem already firing up their bikes. I give Mayhem a thumbs-up and catch Reaper’s brief nod; they peel off, gunning ahead to run interference for any nosy night drivers or lost joggers who might find a hijacked semi suspicious.
The wheels fight me a little — two are already empty of pressure from Tank’s spikes — but the truck only has to limp a few miles. Past the next overpass, I cut onto a frontage road, winding through lightless industrial lots and banks of closed chain-link. I grin as I hunch over the wheel of our stolen eighteen-wheeler, knowing that the pounding in my chest isn’t dread but the white-hot anticipation of pulling a perfect con. I’ve always loved this part of the job, when everything goes to plan.
Behind me, the little convoy of motorcycles forms a broken escort, leapfrogging ahead to check blind corners and then doubling back to keep unwanted eyes away. We are ghosts, moving through the midnight city’s circulatory system, and for the first time, I feel like I belong in their strange, angry pack.
The steering gets doughy as I approach the last turn. My hands are sweating, but the cab is cold. I slow, check the mirrors again, and ease the truck around the dead end. There it is: our ratty U-Haul, hidden behind a wall of stacked pallets and an abandoned food truck, waiting for its cargo. Cardboard and fry oil fumes fill the air, and the silence is so total I can hear the ticking of the cooling engine.
I park, kill the lights, then sit for a second with my hands on the wheel. They’re shaking, I’m smiling. I breathe once, twice, exhale a fuckload of ecstatic anxiety, then throw open the door.
We’ve still got work to do.
I walk to the back of the trailer, shoulders a little wider, back a little straighter. This is what it’s all about — we unload the cargo; we con the Triads; we use them to get close to Volkov; and then we take out that blight on the city of Sacramento. It’s justice. It’s vengeance. It’s helping the man that I love.
And it’s all going according to plan.
I grip hold of the handle on the trailer’s roller door and throw it up.
I pause. I blink.
“Fuck me.”
Behind me, I hear Reaper’s voice. I don’t turn, I don’t look at him, I can’t take my eyes off what’s in front of me.
“What is it?”
“No guns. No drugs. It’s… people.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Reaper
People.
Blindfolded, handcuffed, dirty and beaten, and wearing ragged clothes and looking far closer to livestock than humans, yet still, they’re people.
I hold up a hand as a warning to my brothers behind me. One finger — caution, and keep your fucking mouths shut.
Then I lean in to Adriana. “We can still make this work. Just remember to sound Russian.”
Her head whips in my direction, and her eyes flare with the same vengeful glare that night we first met, when she told me she was going to kill me. Her voice is a snakelike hiss. “Are you fucking joking? These are human fucking beings — not guns, not drugs, not fucking cargo… they’re fucking people.”
“I know. But trust me, OK? I have a plan.”
I don’t, really. More a desperate sense of optimism that flickers beneath the forceful glare from Adriana, a glare that says that she clearly sees me less as the man she loves and more as the conniving criminal I used to be.
Her hand slips around my wrist like a handcuff, and she pulls me further away from the semi.
“A plan? A fucking plan? This is beyond anything we talked about. These are people. I should fucking arrest —” She stops short, but I know where she’s headed. I know how fragile things are between us right now; I’m not just the man she loves, I’m a biker deep in shit with a Russian gangster suggesting that we use a trailer load of people to bail myself out of trouble. It’s criminal, and the reflection I see of myself in her eyes isn’t anything I’m proud of.
“Yes, a fucking plan,” I lie while my mind spins like wheels stuck in mud. Her grip tightens, my brain whirls, and then I grin at her — the wheels are actually turning. Not well, but there’s grit in the mud and things are moving. “I promise I’ve got this. It’ll work out for us and work out for them.”
“This is too much. This is too deep. I mean, is this going to be like Boise, am I going to be caught up in your…” She stops, but looking in her eyes, it’s impossible not to see the anger, the sadness, the thoughts of Vanessa that flicker through her mind.
“This won’t. This isn’t Boise. Trust me.”
She worries her lip between her teeth, while her eyes show a dozen different ways she could hurt me — from leaving me, to turning me over to the cops, to outright killing me. Finally, after a sigh big enough it could power a sailboat, she nods. "Fine, comrade. I’ll trust you. Call me Svetlana.”
Her accent is terrible. But it’s there. And I doubt twenty blindfolded, handcuffed, and utterly exhausted Triad trafficking victims could tell the difference between Adriana and Maria Sharapova.
I take Adriana's hand and we walk back toward the others. Diesel's already peering into the truck, his face gone white as fresh paint. Tank's jaw is working like he's chewing nails, and Mayhem's eyes are wide with something that looks like fascination mixed with horror.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Tank breathes, stepping back from the trailer. "Reaper, what the hell is this?"
"It's exactly what it looks like," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Twenty people. Triad cargo."
"Cargo?" Tank's voice rises. "These are human beings, you sick fuck. We're calling this off. Right now."
"No." I step between him and his bike. "We're not."
Tank's hands ball into fists. "The hell we're not. This is trafficking, Reaper. This is slavery. I didn't sign up to be part of some goddamn human auction."
