Finally, the dude looked down, shuffling his feet. He grabbed the shovel and started to dig, this time without any complaints. Later, I gave him a hand and a cig while he went down in the pit, lowering a light for him. His eyes were pitch black, understanding, the kinda look an animal gives a hunter before he pulls the trigger.
I stood over the grave for a few more minutes. When the Mexican stumbled, collapsing into the small pile next to him, I waved for Blackjack.
“Get back, son,” he told me, drawing his nine millimeter. “He held up his end. I'm gonna hold up mine.”
The gunshot echoed through the empty courtyard, even with the silencer on the barrel.
I reached into the pit for the shovel, and then went to work, throwing dirt over the dead body as quickly as I could. The four brothers joined me, covering up his carcass, first with dirt and then using a pile of heavy cinder blocks stacked over the smooth earth.
Nobody suspected shit out here. If this place ever got bought and re-developed, they'd probably find a few more bodies deep in the ground besides the ones the club dumped off.
We were heading for our bikes, eager to hit the road and get the fuck back to the clubhouse, when Blackjack caught up to us. He walked up and put his hand on my bars before I could think about starting up the engine.
“We're not done yet,” he said, scanning his eyes at the other brothers. “1212 Hawkeye Street. That's where we'll find the one and a half mil the cartel dropped for a dead guy.”
“What the fuck?” I couldn't stop it from flying outta my mouth.
Whatever we'd forced outta Jose, I never expected it to be that.
Blackjack smiled. “Prez is wrong about one thing: the biggest swamp rats aren't in this club. Doesn't matter how much money you pay pigs to keep their mouth shut and look the other way – they always flip and sell your ass out when they get desperate enough.”
“So, this is a repo job?” Rabid asked.
Blackjack laughed. “If you wanna put it that way...Charlie Thomas got at least a good half mill from our crew over the years before cancer kicked him off the force. Bastard probably flipped and sold our intel to the cartel to leave a few crumbs for his family. Shame the fucking turncoat knew so much. Hell, his job was blacking out what was already on the books – and now those books with all our dirty secrets, slip ups, and weaknesses are in the Mexican hands.”
“Shit!” Splitter spat, pounding his bike.
“Whining about it won't do any good, brother.” Blackjack lit a smoke, finally moving away toward his own Harley. “Best we can do now is take that fucking money and use it to pad our asses against the hard fuck that's coming.”
We hit the road and ripped through town. My rage was extra hot, a wicked contrast against the cool wind whipping me in the face.
Blackjack's talk just confirmed what I already knew deep in my guts: shit was about to get a whole lot worse. No, the king rat wasn't in our club, but it wasn't gonna work any miracles on Fang's paranoia. Burying Jose was the first real shot fired in Redding, but the cartel war had been going on for months.
And now, instead of turning the tide, those motherfuckers just showed us how fucked we really were.
We cut our engines a couple blocks from the ratty old house. The doorknob was loose. Didn't even have to plant my boot on the wood to break through. I just ripped the knob off and pushed it open, heading into the house while the other guys fanned out through the basement.
Sickness burned my nostrils. No wonder the place wasn't very secure for a cop's house – the man hadn't been whole in a long time. Creeping death and strong medicine rolled off the walls, worse upstairs where I was heading.
Serial pushed past me, heading for the room at the end of the hall. I shot him a dirty look, clenching my fists. I'd settle with that asshole later.
Right now, we had to get whoever the fuck was in this place rounded up. We had to find what we came for and get the fuck out.
I peeked in the dead man's room first. Nobody was on the empty bed, just as I expected. Just as I came out, Serial exited the furthest room, one hand over a little girl's mouth.
Shit.
She couldn't have been any older than fifteen. I moved into the next room, hoping like fuck I didn't find another kid. Dealing with Thomas' wife would be a helluva lot easier.
The sleeping girl in the dark was definitely an adult, but she looked too young to have been married to cancer man. I grabbed her phone first, shoving it in my pocket. First rule of any residential raid was cutting communication. Confiscating phones was usually enough – hardly anyone had a fucking land line anymore.
A second later, a loud scream rang out down the hall. Fuck, Serial must've moved his hand, giving her a chance to howl. The woman next to me popped outta bed, reaching for the phone I'd swiped. She practically flung herself into my arms.