But I know better. I’ve been with this club since I was born. I don’t just wear the colors – I bleed them. My daddy bred me to be the man I am today, to be the Mustang I am today. And if he taught me one thing, it’s to keep my head low and do my job well. Today, I’ve got plans that should keep anyone from underestimating me or my ties ever again.
Today, we’re headed back to Chris’s repair shop, where I was just a few weeks ago. He had let me in on a tip off of where our missing rider’s body had gone. But something tells me this isn’t the whole story.
Even though I have been riding past his shop almost every day and seeing the lines out the back for our supplies, he’s sending me less and less money. And not only that, I am starting to see young guys -- like the two I took out on my last visit -- frequenting his shop wearing what look to be Coyote colors. In other words, this ride ain’t just going to be one of my regular check-ins. This is going to be rough -- for somebody.
The boys peel off to the exit, and I count the numbers ahead of me, making sure everyone is in line. This exit is the last stop before Coyote territory and stepping one foot over is grounds for being shot on sight, at least while the war is going on. Isaac out front senses the danger I’m feeling as he slows down, his engine purring at the stoplight, and we all follow -- all except for Ryan, who is revving his ancient, beat-up bike like it’s a battle cry.
It doesn’t matter how quiet we are able to make ourselves. Chris has heard us from down the highway. When I get off my bike, I see the two hired help plus two more men stand by the office entryways. Their arms are crossed tight over their chests as they block the inside from our view.
This is my job, my guy, so I take the lead. I call out past the men standing us down to where I know Chris is just out of my eyesight, “Chris, you lousy motherfucker, tell these dumb sons of bitches to back the fuck off!”
The two new men laugh heartily to each other as they point at our group of six. The other two, the ones I’m acquainted with, have more terrified looks on their faces. They know the consequences of daring to try to match up with me. They know what’s about to happen.
I take a few steps towards one of them and peer over his shoulder. In the darkness of the repair shop, I can make out a man standing over a large, black metal box with a huge padlock on it. He pushes it underneath a car as he takes a large deep breath in and stands. “What do you want, Cal? It ain’t our time to pick up the cash yet. I’ve got nothing for you.”
I gesture to the four cars waiting in the back of the shop. There are passengers inside counting money, itching their palms, and sweating profusely. Junkies. “By the looks of your business, I’m going to say you’re doing just fine. Where’s the cash?”
He studies me with one eye, straddling his body to the side, “I don’t have your money, Cal. You can’t force me to turn over something I don’t have. That wasn’t in our contract.”
I hear the scuffle of gravel behind me as Isaac comes storming from his spot on the flank. He shouts at Chris, “Who do you think you are, you little piece of shit? You’ve got our money, and you damn well know it. And if you’re holding our money, we don’t have a contract. No protection. No deals.”
Chris throws his arms up, motioning to his men. They step back, grabbing bats and car tires. My men do the same but with switchblades. No one moves as each of us wait for the first sign of aggression. I call out towards Chris who is walking into his office, “We know who you’re working with, Chris! You must be a goddamn fool if you think you can deal to the Coyotes with Mustang coke. And mark my motherfucking words, as soon as I dispose of these two little bitches, I’m coming for your ass next!”
One of the largest of the two newbies looks at me and laughs. “Oh, Grandpa!” he shouts as he swings his black metal tool towards my head.
I duck, missing it by centimeters. I plunge myself at his stomach and chest, my blade just missing his skin. He flies backwards into the ground as I pummel my fists into his face. Blood pools near his ears as I feel his chest start to slow beneath the weight of me. Weakly, I have mercy on him, and I stand up to observe what I’m left with.
All around me, I hear the shouts of my men, wild, guttural, maniacal. This is what they came to do; this is what they live for. Blood, destruction, mayhem -- it’s all part of their calling card. Isaac and Ryan work the bruised and battered body of the other new henchman while our other two enforcers-in-training have it out with the two younger boys. I watch in horror as the smallest guy manages to slam his bat into one of our men in training. He looks up, his mouth full of blood, and the bastard winds up to take another swing.
I dart after him, managing to grab his arm before he can land another blow. I take his bat and toss it way out of sight. I’m about to land a fist to his gut when Ryan runs up, his small pocket knife pointed upwards, driving it into the boy’s side.