Hammer

 

In a dusty garage at the edge of New Orleans, right where the seedy motels and strip malls start to give way to the muddy trails of the bayou, the tops of a dozen beer cans popped off like a string of fireworks. Twelve men stood around a hulking eighteen-wheeler, wearing leather vests with patches that said “Twisted Saints” and holding up their drinks triumphantly.

 

Marcus “Hammer” Lithgow stood on the hood of the truck and looked down at the members of his MC. The flickering bulbs that hung from the ceiling lit their dirty, hairy, grinning faces. His vest matched theirs perfectly except for the nametag on his chest, and the narrow patch beneath it which read “President.”

 

Standing on top of a stolen treasure and surrounded by his loyal band of brothers, Hammer felt like a pirate captain on the high seas. His chest swelled with pride as he lifted his beer can. “Saints,” he bellowed happily, “here's to the biggest score we've ever pulled off! And best of all, once we unload it, every penny of this motherfucker is ours. There's no one to cut in or kick up to—just a quarter mil in electronics, split twelve ways.”

 

The bikers cheered loudly, clunking their cans together and gulping them down.

 

“Over twenty grand for ten minutes' work,” cackled Lash, the club's VP. Beer foam clung to his tangled brown beard. “Who else ever earned that much, huh?”

 

“Not Cobra's mom, that's for sure,” Splinter crowed, pointing to the Saint next to him. “She only charges two bucks, and that's when she ain't getting paid in food stamps!” The others laughed, including Cobra as he cuffed Splinter upside the head good-naturedly.

 

Hammer finished his beer and climbed down from the hood of the truck, grabbing another can. “Okay, so I've lined up a fence for us up in Baton Rouge. He says he can exchange the merch for the money first thing tomorrow, so I'm taking Splinter and Cobra with me as backup and leaving Lash in charge. Once we get the cash in hand, it's important that we don't flash too much of it around for the first couple weeks, understand? We don't want to attract any—”

 

There was a knock on the garage door. All of the Saints turned to look.

 

“—attention,” Hammer finished, narrowing his eyes.

 

He looked around, doing a quick head count to make sure all of the Saints were already there. They were.

 

“All right, what the fuck is this?” Hammer asked, staring down the others. “No one was supposed to know we were here. Did one of you assholes invite your girlfriend or something?”

 

The confused bikers looked around at each other, shaking their heads. Some of them were already uneasily reaching for guns, knives, and wrenches.

 

Another knock. Politely gentle, but insistent.

 

“With a knock like that, it ain't the fucking cops, that's for sure,” Lash pointed out.

 

“Then who is it?” Cobra asked, his beady eyes bulging in his fat, ruddy face.

 

“Someone worse,” Hammer sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

Splinter's jaw dropped. “Him? But you said—”

 

A third knock. Louder this time. Less patient.

 

“Forget what I fucking said,” Hammer snapped. “Just keep your mouths shut and let me do the talking, okay? This could get bloody in a hurry if we don't play it right. And for Christ's sake, put those weapons away before you get us all killed.”

 

Hammer took a deep breath as he walked to the door. His pulse had stayed steady when the Saints had hijacked the truck less than an hour ago, but now his heart was hammering in his ears and it took every ounce of control he had to keep his hands from shaking. He'd never considered this possibility while planning the robbery, but holy fuck, if the person at the door was who he thought it was, it might turn out that he'd made the single biggest mistake of his entire goddamn life.

 

He only hoped he hadn't taken the rest of the Saints down with him.

 

Hammer opened the door, revealing a short, sleek-looking man in his early sixties. He had olive skin and heavy eyelids, and his slicked-back hair was snow white. He wore an Armani suit with a silk shirt and tie, and a gold pinky ring with a large ruby in it.

 

Even though Hammer had only met the man once before, he had no trouble remembering him. He was Don Arturo “Turo” Ricci, the most powerful gangster in Louisiana. And whenever he felt the need to show up in person, things generally didn't end well.

 

“Mr. Lithgow,” Turo greeted him pleasantly. Although he'd moved to America as a young man, his voice still retained the faint lilt of his Italian accent. “It has been far too long since we have had occasion to converse. May I enter?”

 

“Certainly, Don Ricci,” Hammer replied, forcing a smile. “Please, come in. You, uh, honor us with your presence.” Hammer felt like an awkward douchebag trying to frame his words so formally, but he knew Turo took pride in being old-school when it came to showing respect, down to the smallest detail. The tiniest slip-up could be fatal for the whole MC.

 

But why? Hammer thought, frustrated. There's no reason for him to even be here, is there? I thought of everything when I planned this job, I'm sure of it. I made sure he wasn't connected to this in any way. What could I have missed?

 

Turo stepped into the garage, the raised heels of his polished black loafers clicking on the grimy concrete floor. Even with the lifts in his shoes, he still only came up to Hammer's shoulders.

 

But, then, Turo Ricci was living proof that a person didn't need to be tall to be scary as hell.

 

Turo looked up at the truck with mild curiosity, as though he was thinking of buying one. “Ah, here it is. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in computer equipment. No doubt you have plans for that kind of money, yes? But since I did not hear about this theft from you, I am left to assume those plans did not include giving me what I am owed.”

 

Hammer felt the other Saints bristle around him. He couldn't blame them. This wasn't supposed to happen, damn it. This whole score was supposed to be theirs, free and clear.

 

“With respect, Don Ricci,” Hammer began, trying to keep his voice calm and low, “we didn't realize you were, um...I mean, we did our, uh, due diligence when we planned this out. We made sure this trucking company wasn't affiliated with any of your…associates. We even asked around to make sure you had no plans to hijack this truck yourself. We'd never do anything to intentionally interfere with your business. So I think it's fair to say we're...well, confused by all this, is what I'm getting at.”

 

Turo smiled, shaking his head. “I see. Then perhaps it will clarify things for you when I point out that even if the truck didn't belong to me, this city still does. When we first met and you requested permission to operate here, I told you I would graciously allow you to ride around on your bikes and pull your small-time scores. Marijuana, guns, stolen cars. These things are beneath my interest. But stealing a quarter of a million dollars in merchandise without seeking my permission—or paying my tribute—is simply unacceptable.”

 

Hammer swallowed hard. “Sure. I see your point. And I beg your forgiveness, and, of course, I'll be happy to give you a cut of this. A big one, just so you know this was a total misunderstanding and there's no hard feelings. Twenty-five percent, how about that?”

 

Turo's dark eyes drilled holes in Hammer, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

 

“Okay, fifty percent,” Hammer said. “Just to show you we're committed to making this right.”

 

Turo stepped forward, putting his left hand up on Hammer's shoulder and squeezing it. For a moment, Hammer relaxed, believing they'd reached an accord. Sure, giving up half their take was a bummer, but at least the Saints would be left with a decent amount and they'd get out of this in one piece...

 

Suddenly, Hammer felt a battering ram smash into his midsection. Turo's fist moved like lightning as it delivered another savage blow just under Hammer's ribs. The air left Hammer's lungs and he doubled over just as Turo pulled a handgun from a holster under his jacket, pistol-whipping him in the face.

 

Even through his doubled vision and the ringing in his ears, Hammer saw the other Saints start forward menacingly. He held up a hand to stop them. “Don't,” he slurred, tasting blood. “Stay back.”

 

“Yes, listen to your president,” Turo told them. “I have twenty men outside with machine guns. If any of you put a hand on me, you will all be exterminated in less than two minutes.”

 

He put a hand around Hammer's throat, leering down at the biker's bleeding face. “Perhaps if you had approached me beforehand, you would be in a position to negotiate. Since you chose not to, you have forfeited your rights to this truck and everything in it. These are the rules and, as men, we must live by them. You should be grateful I do not simply murder you right here, along with the rest of this yellow trash you call an MC. But make no mistake—if you ever defy me in this manner again, I will end every last one of you. Do you understand me, Mr. Lithgow?”

 

Hammer's pride writhed and yowled in his gut like a wounded animal. He was a born street fighter who'd never backed down from a brawl in his life, and the humiliation of being forced to grovel and roll over like this made him wish he was dead.

 

But Turo wasn't known for making idle threats, and Hammer knew if he didn't go along, every member of the Saints would be slaughtered.

 

He nodded.

 

Turo released him, returning his gun to its holster and wiping his hands on a handkerchief with a faint grimace. “Good. Now give me the keys, please.”

 

Hammer pulled the keys to the truck from the pocket of his jeans, handing them over. Turo took them and walked over to a button on the wall, pushing it. The huge main door of the garage rattled as it was pulled upward, letting in the humid bayou air. Turo's gangsters stood outside, holding compact machine pistols.

 

Turo gestured to one of his men, tossing the keys to him. The man caught them and climbed up into the cab of the truck. The engine came to life and the man slowly backed the truck out of the garage, driving off.

 

“Gentlemen,” Turo said, “enjoy the rest of your evening.” He walked off into the night, followed by his soldiers.

 

Lash lunged forward, crouching down in front of Hammer. “You okay, man? Anything broken?”

 

“That greaseball cocksucker,” Splinter fumed. “He doesn't give a shit about the rules. He's just a greedy prick. We're not gonna let him get away with ripping us off like that, right?”

 

“We should firebomb his goddamn house,” Cobra snarled. “And all his fucking businesses, too. We should shotgun everyone who works for him, and then grab him and cut his head off.”

 

“Yeah? How exactly are we supposed to do any of that shit and get away with it?” Lash asked angrily. “They're the fucking Mafia, in case you haven't noticed. They've got more guys, they've got more guns. We start an all-out war with them, they'll mop the floor with us, guaranteed.”

 

“So we're just supposed to bend over and take it?” Splinter retorted hotly. “Is that why we joined a fucking MC? So we could let some asswipe in a fancy suit walk in and piss on us whenever he feels like it?”

 

“Splinter is right,” Hammer said quietly, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “We're Twisted Saints. The day we start acting like pussies and pushovers is the day we may as well hang up our cuts.”

 

“Fucking suicide run,” Lash grunted.

 

“You're right, too,” Hammer continued. “We go head-to-head with the Ricci, we'll end up at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain with cement blocks tied to our ankles.”

 

“So what are you saying?” Cobra asked, frowning.

 

“He's talking nonsense,” Lash said. “His head must have taken a harder hit than we thought.”

 

Hammer shook his head stubbornly. “No. I'm saying we need to get some fucking payback, and I'm saying we won't be able to get it by fighting like we usually would. We'll need to come up with something else. Something smarter.”

 

The Saints traded uncertain looks.

 

“Like what?” asked Splinter.

 

“I don't know,” said Hammer, smiling slowly. “But I think I know someone who can help.”