Chapter Twenty
“We’ll strike tonight,” Steel said, looking at Roughneck. “Chains tracked down all the homes of the members who have personal slaves. We don’t want innocent people killed, but it may happen.”
“The way I see it is that the only innocent people are the women being held against their will and the kids who have to live with these fucking gangsters. There’s no way wives and girlfriends don’t know a sex slave is in their house.” Rage sizzled and electrified Paco’s back, then spread down his spine, melting into his legs.
“Paco’s right,” Goldie said.
“Could be, but we’re not here to pass judgment on anyone but the people who are bringing shit into this town and county, and usurping territory that isn’t theirs. We know our goals, so let’s not go off in a different direction. Scattering will bring defeat.” Steel stared hard at Paco. “You need to put your personal feelings aside, bro, or you’ll be useless,” he said in a low voice.
Paco clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Of course he’d put aside Chelsea’s degradation by men very similar to the ones they were ready to annihilate that night. He’d let his rage bubble, but when it was time to move forward, he’d capture and squeeze it out of him until the mission was accomplished. He’d be spot-on. Cold. Calculating. A son of a bitch.
Chains passed around sheets of papers to the Night Rebels and Fallen Slayers members. The Night Rebels had come to Silverado the previous day, and the moment they’d been planning for and strategizing about had finally arrived.
Paco looked at the sheet of paper: Chubby (aka Miguel Silva) 4579 Madison Ave. The paper meant Chubby had a personal sex slave at his house. Paco would make sure it’d be his last. He folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket.
“We estimate there are six women being held in the basement. A couple of them will be shipped out tomorrow. We’ve learned they’ve been sold.” Patriot leaned back against the wall. “We gotta move in fast, get the women, and blow up their fuckin’ clubhouse. We got about five brothers on lookout. After some of the names on the sheets of paper Chains is handing out meet their demise, their wives will call and warn the others as to what’s going on, so we gotta strike hard and fast. There’re three fuckers with their own slaves. When you get them, get your asses to the fuckers’ clubhouse and help us with the rest of the job.”
Roughneck crossed his arms, his long hair falling past them. “Any questions?”
“What’re we doing with the women?” Skull asked.
“We’re going to take them over to Cortez and dump them at the hospital. No one wears their cuts tonight, and make sure your faces are covered. We got a bunch of ski masks and bandanas. It’s whatever you want,” Paco answered, looking at Cueball, Ironclad, and Jigger.
That night, the sky wasn’t starlight and moonbeams—it was cracked asphalt blurred by storm-laden clouds moving silently like phantoms. No one was on the streets. An eerie quiet permeated the town. It was a weeknight, so children were tucked in their beds, bars were closed, houses were devoid of light. The night was perfect for people who worked in the shadows. Darkness brought the primal nature to the fore, a heady trance for men who craved dominance and power.
Paco stalked to the address on Madison Avenue. Goldie walked beside him, neither of them talking. When they came to the square house, it was quiet and dark like all the others on the block.
Paco took out a bag of ground beef and threw it over the fence. Two pit bulls ran over to it, their noisy breathing and flapping jaws making him smile. They’ll be out in no time. He saw Goldie motion him to a large bush near the garage, and he went over. He crouched down and looked through the basement window, but it was too dark. Taking out his flashlight, he shone it through the window and saw an oblong box against the back wall underneath several hooks, rods, and straps hanging from the ceiling. He snapped his fingers at Goldie and he came over, bending down and looking in the direction Paco pointed with the light. Nodding at Paco, he stood up and took out a bump key.
As they started around back, they heard the garage open. They quickly took cover behind the bushes as a portly man of medium build with a shaved head came out into the driveway. The man popped open a beer and took a long pull.
Paco recognized him from the picture Chains had given him earlier in the day—it was Chubby. This is too fucking easy. When the man turned his back to them, Goldie rushed him, clamping his hand down hard over the man’s mouth. Chubby’s eyes bulged and he struggled, but before he could make any headway, Paco plunged a knife in the man’s abdomen. A look of shock echoed in his eyes before they glassed over, unblinking. They dragged him into the garage and made their way into the house through the door.
It was as quiet as a tomb. Paco indicated through hand gestures that he was going downstairs, then watched as Goldie took out a 9mm from a holster decorated with a 1% sticker and stood watch at the top of the stairs. Shining his flashlight in front of him, he crept down the wooden steps, making sure to keep his feet apart so they touched the sides, thus lessening any creaks.
When he reached the bottom, he went immediately to the coffin-like box. On top of it was a small, square iron grid. He shone the light on it and two terrified blue eyes reflected the beam in them.
“Fuck,” he said.
He pulled a crowbar out from his boot and broke open the locks—eight of them in all. Lifting the lid, he heard a muffled cry. A naked woman lay in the box, a gag around her mouth, her hands and feet cuffed. He took out a shim from his leather jacket and moved it around in the lock, freeing both handcuffs in no time. The woman’s terror-filled gaze never left his face, and she flinched when he grasped her wrists and tugged her up.
“Come on. We gotta go. I’m not here to help you, not hurt you.” Shining the light around the room, he spotted a fleece blanket and wrapped it around her, then put his fingers on his covered mouth. “Don’t make any noise.”
She nodded and they went upstairs, leaving the house through the front door. No one had stirred. Paco picked up the young woman, who cried out. “Shut the fuck up. I told you I’m helping you.” He threw her over his shoulder, and he and Goldie walked the two blocks to the SUV in silence.
Paco sat in the back seat with the girl, who kept staring at him.
“Are you my new owner?” she asked in a halting voice.
“No. We’re helping you. How old are you?”
“Sixteen.” Her voice cracked.
“Where are your parents?”
“They live in Arizona. Are you really helping me?” She wiped her cheek.
Paco nodded. “How long did the fucker have you?”
“I was sold to him six months ago. Before that, I was with a man who kidnapped me. I was at a party, and a couple of my friends took off to another party. I just wanted to go home, so I started walking. This guy pulled up next to me in a BMW and asked if I needed a ride home.” She cast her gaze downward. “I know. Stupid. Worst mistake I ever made.” She sniffled.
“Yeah. When you get to Cortez, you call your parents.”
“What’s your name? Why are you guys helping me?”
“We don’t fucking like sex traffickers. Let’s leave it at that. No more questions or talking.” He looked out the window and saw the van parked behind a closed warehouse. “I’m gonna blindfold you.”
“No. Don’t. Please.” Panic laced her words.
“No one’s gonna hurt you. It’s to protect you from seeing too much.” He slipped the black tie over her eyes and fastened it. “Don’t take it off. We play nice, but we can also be ruthless.”
Jigger came over to the SUV. “She’s the last one. I’ll see you at the target place.” He grasped the girl’s arms and led her into the van.
Goldie and Paco parked a block away from the West Avenue Bandits’ clubhouse, carrying two gas cylinders each.
“There it is,” Goldie said in a low voice.
The clubhouse was a one-story, free-standing cinder block building on a large lot. The next building was a block away. A chain link fence wrapped around the club, and numerous “Beware of Dog” signs were plastered on it. Without any sounds of barking, Paco surmised they were snoozing—courtesy of the brothers. Above the entrance, a makeshift sign read “West Avenue Bandits Clubhouse.”
“Not for long,” Paco said under his breath as he saw Muerto, Sangre, and Brick escorting several women, all of them draped in blankets or sheets. Chains came over to them and took two of the cylinders.
“We have to act fast. I’m not sure if they’re going to come out and check why their security cameras are scrambled. Even though Knuckles and Brick have been doing it for the past few days, you never know.”
“Let’s go.” Paco moved quickly inside.
“Are all the women out?” Goldie asked, placing the cylinders in different spots in the room.
“Yeah,” Roughneck said as he came in behind them. “We’re good to go. Let’s blow up this motherfucking building.”
Chains, Paco, Goldie, Roughneck, and Patriot placed the propane bombs in all the rooms while Diablo, Tequila, and Knuckles set a few pipe bombs around.
“Let’s get the fuck outta here,” Paco said. The timers on the bombs were set to go off in eight minutes.
“You know what to do,” Paco said to Jigger, who was closing the van door. “Were all of them trafficked?”
“That’s what Muerto and Sangre said. A couple of them are in their early twenties, but the rest are under eighteen. Fuckin’ perverts.” He stomped out his cigarette butt.
“Easy. You still got shit to do. I heard Diablo’s going with you.” Paco glanced at the time on his phone.
“Yeah, he’s coming now.” Jigger went around to the driver side. Cueball waited inside, scooting over when Diablo opened the passenger door. “See ya.”
Paco nodded, then made his way to the SUV. There was enough force in there to demolish the clubhouse. The plan was that the Night Rebels would stay a couple of days to make sure there wasn’t any retaliation the Fallen Slayers couldn’t handle. If they were correct in their assessment of Los Malos and the West Avenue Bandits, the Bandits would think Los Malos double-crossed them, especially when they found the women missing. Trafficked women were worth a lot of money, and greed was what propelled the dark and tormented world of sex slavery.
“Let’s take a spin by Bustos’s house,” Paco said to Goldie.
“Why? The pansy ass split. We were gonna hit him tonight too.”
“I know. I just thought he may be hiding out in his house.”
“Nah. Knuckles, Patriot, and Roughneck were pretty sure he left. They checked out the strip bar, and some of the women there said he’d taken off a couple of days ago.”
“That seems strange. There’s no way he even suspected what was going down. I wonder what made him take off.”
“Maybe he’s headed to Alina for Chelsea. You said her fuckin’ pimp is there, and the fucker sold her to Bustos.”
Ice ran in his veins as fear seized him. Not once so far that night had he felt fear. Adrenaline and hate pushed him through the mission, but fear never entered the picture. Now it crawled up his legs, poked at his brain, and splintered his heart. If Victor got a hold of Chelsea, he’d crush her, bone by broken bone. I can’t let it happen. He was afraid for her, and for him. He cared deeply for her. He’d been lying to himself to protect his heart, but what he realized was that she’d had his heart ever since the truck stop.
Kaboom! Boosh! Kaboom!
“Right on time,” Paco said as he looked over his shoulder. A rising ball of blackened orange-red flame shot up into the dark sky, billowing outward. As they pulled into the Fallen Slayers’ compound, the wail of sirens echoed behind them.
Goldie got out of the car and looked at Paco. “Aren’t you coming in?”
“Give me the keys. I’m gonna head back to Alina. I should be there in case the club is targeted. We got most of the brothers here.”
Goldie threw him the keys. “I’d go too if I thought my woman was in danger.”
Paco climbed into the driver seat, switched on the ignition, and drove away from the clubhouse, his heartbeat thrumming in his temples.