Pee Bee

We’d met with the President and SAA of every club we were friendly with, and in no time we’d found out where Calle 18’s new dope house was. According to those who were in the know, going in wasn’t going to be an easy task.

Following the ‘robbery’ of the last dope house, rumor was that there were a dozen men armed with machine guns guarding the new location. The information left us no alternative but to go in at night, and as heavily armed as we could be.

After leaving Alexandra with Tegan and Peyton, we took a ride to Coronado Island, and were at Mc P’s Irish Pub, a known Navy SEAL hangout.

“Look what the cat dragged in. One Shot! Hell, I thought you’d been buried at sea,” the bartender shouted.

“Grab me a couple Bud’s?” Crip asked.

“You got it, One Shot.”

One Shot?

The bartender, who was apparently an old friend of Crip’s from his Navy SEAL days, handed us two beers and then grinned.

He was tall and wore a thick beard and had curly hair. His shirt clung tight to his chest, and he had forearms that were as big as my biceps. Tattooed across his bicep was the same SEAL Trident that Crip had on his upper arm.

“Pleasure trip to your old stomping grounds?” the bartender asked.

The Navy Amphibious Base where the Navy SEALS were trained was two minutes from where we were, but going there wasn’t our objective – or at least I didn’t think so.

“Business,” Crip said.

The bartender arched an eyebrow.

Crip glanced at me. “Give us a minute?”

I motioned toward the patio. “I’ll be outside.”

It was late afternoon, and the bar wasn’t busy yet. I walked out to the empty patio, and sat down at one of the larger tables. I realized there was very little we could do about the situation Cholo was in without help – and a lot of it – but sitting and drinking a beer while one of my brothers was in danger wasn’t my way of doing things.

According to Crip, going to the dope house in daylight would assuredly lead to our arrest, and I couldn’t disagree. Drinking a beer with Crip’s SEAL buddies while Cholo was being held hostage, however, ground on my very last nerve.

Before I’d taken a drink of my beer, Crip sat down beside me. “Just hold tight. We’ll have some company in a few. Let me do the talking.”

“You’re the boss,” I said snidely. “But I’ve got a question.”

He took a drink of beer. “What’s that?”

“There’s nothing we can do right now? Nothing? I have a real tough fucking time believing that.”

He crossed his arms, met my stare, and narrowed his eyes. “Cholo’s not your brother. He’s our brother. I want to save him just as much as you do. If we go there during the day, they’ll see us coming. We’ll be gunned down, and he’ll be executed. Or, the neighbors will see us, and then call the cops. The possibilities are many, but they all end with us, and him, being killed. We have to wait until after dark.”

I let out a sigh. I didn’t like it, but it made sense. “Alright. But, swilling beers with your old buddies ain’t fucking cool. Not now.”

Two guys about Crip’s age – and two seemed to be in their latter twenties – stepped to the table, interrupting our conversation. The all wore beards like the bartender, and had similar builds.

No names were exchanged, and it was clear that they’d never met Crip, but they started talking like they were old friends.

“What’s the mission?” the one at Crips side asked.

“Extraction,” Crip said.

“How many tangos?”

Crip shrugged. “Uncertain. Maybe a dozen.”

The man nodded once. “Zero dark thirty?”

Crip shook his head. “Twenty-two hundred. Tonight.”

The man looked at the other three men. Each man nodded once.

Crip leaned onto the edge of the table and looked at the man at his side. “The five of us--”

“Excuse me?” I growled. “Six of us.”

Crip glanced over each shoulder, and upon determining we were alone, locked eyes with me. “This isn’t going to be easy, Peeb,” he whispered. “We’re going to be up against--”

“I don’t give a fuck who we’re up against,” I snapped. “Cholo’s my brother. My fucking brother, Crip. Just like these four whistledicks are yours. Looks like this bearded bunch of fuckers are willing to help you. Well, motherfucker, I’m willing to help Cholo. So, you can include me…” I stood up and clenched my fists. “Or, you can fight me. Take your pick.”

The man on Crip’s left chuckled. “Looks like there’ll be six of us.”

“God damn it, Peeb.” He shot me a glare. “You could get killed. No bullshit. Killed.”

I shrugged. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

* * *

Following an impromptu training session at our shop that included hand signals and the proper use of weapons, I was fitted with modern-day military gear and loaded into a van.

Thirty minutes later, just before 11:00 p.m., and we were poised and ready to enter the home.

Our instructions came over a headset.

“Raven One to Raven Three, we’ve got six tangos at the east side of the residence. Appears to be a kitchen. Copy.”

“This is Raven Three. Roger six tangos. Be advised, west bedroom, north side. We’ve got four tangos, copy.”

“Roger four tangos, Raven Three. On my four count.”

“Roger your four count, Raven One.”

“One.”

“Two.”

My heart was in my fucking throat and my stomach was twisted into a knot. My only hope was that we got to Cholo before they killed him.

If not, there was going to be hell to pay.

“Three.”

“Four.”

The back door was blown from its hinges, and we burst through it one after the other. I was the last man through the door, and I heard a silenced rifle fire six times before I even planted one of my feet inside the house.

“Kitchen clear.”

Crouched down with my weapon pointed ahead, just as they had taught me, I entered the kitchen immediately behind the man in front of me.

Six men were dead on the floor.

I stepped over them, and with my rifle at the ready, I followed the man they called Tree Top down the hallway.

“First bedroom clear.”

“Bathroom clear.”

“Garage clear.”

“Four Echo Papa Whiskeys in bedroom two. We have no asset. Be advised, hold your fire. Repeat. Hold your fire.”

I was a part of the mission, and I was glad that I volunteered. But, we hadn’t even been in the home for two minutes, and the threat of death was long gone. It was obvious why Navy SEALs were touted as being bad-asses.

It was because they were.

Certain Cholo was being held captive in the back bedroom, I eagerly elbowed my way into the small room.

Much to my surprise, six Hispanic men stood with their wide eyes fixed on Crip, but there was no sign of Cholo.

With a rifle trained on each of their chests, the men stood in fear for their lives, or so I thought. Crip stood in front of the group of men with his rifle slung over his shoulder, and his pistol gripped tightly in his hand.

He raised the pistol and pointed it at one of the Hispanic men’s head. “Donde esta el jefe?”

I didn’t speak Spanish, but no differently than most people in southern California, I understood it enough to know Crip was asking where the boss man was.

Stone-faced, the man glared back at him, and then closed his eyes. “No se.”

Crip pulled the trigger.

The man fell to the floor with a thud.

Blood poured out of the man’s forehead and onto the carpet. Standing only a few feet away, Crip pointed the pistol at the next man’s head. “Donde esta el jefe?”

The man spat at the floor. “No se, pendejo.”

Crip pulled the trigger. The man’s legs buckled, and he fell into a pile beside the first man.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Crip pointed the pistol at the third man’s thigh, and without warning, pulled the trigger. The man screamed and fell to the floor in agony. In response, Crip pointed the barrel of the pistol at his head.

“Donde esta el jefe?” he seethed.

The man clenched his bleeding leg and moaned. “Cual queres? Hay dos?”

“El mero chignon,” Crip said. “El hombre que secuestro el bandido.”

“En el edificio junto al mar,” the man said.

I thought he said he’s by the sea in a building, but I wasn’t certain.

I’d felt apprehensive and half-sick since we entered the home, but upon recognizing what the man said, my heart filled with sliver of hope.

“What’d the fucker say?” I blurted.

“He knows where Cholo is,” Crip growled. He motioned toward the floor. “Get a tourniquet on his leg. He’s going with us. Keep him alive, I’ve got plans to use him later.

“What about this one?” I asked, motioning toward the last remaining man.

Without a word, Crip pointed the pistol at the man’s face and pulled the trigger. “Don’t trip over that piece of shit on the way out.”