Crank, Duck, and Stilts sat in the Tahoe and watched Andy’s Burgers. They’d positioned the freshly painted Tahoe within walking distance of Gravely Park then twelve members of the club, with their old ladies, had ridden into the park on a wave of V-Twin thunder and taken over a covered picnic area. They’d set up and started the grill going for burgers and hotdogs.
Once they were sure plenty of people had seen them, Crank and his two accomplices had quietly slipped away, leaving their bikes behind and walking through the wooded part of the park to the waiting Tahoe. Now they were waiting for Greg to leave. He normally worked from about ten in the morning to about two in the afternoon, and it was nearly two now. Duck was driving, and Crank was sitting in the passenger seat, his eyes heavy as he thought about Sunday; a small private smile on his lips.
It had been after nine before he and Lana had finished. Once they’d gotten to the showers, soaping their bodies had changed her mind about having to leave, and he’d taken her again as the hot water pelted down on them. Not having to pause to sheath his sword was fantastic because it didn’t break the mood or slow them down. When he felt the time was right, he’d entered her, and her soft moan of pleasure as he slid into her depths was the most erotic sound he’d ever heard. They’d gone hard at it again as he took her on the floor and against the wall until they were both exhausted and panting.
That was three days ago, and they were meeting at the gym again tomorrow morning before she went on shift. There would be no fucking, at least not at the gym, but that didn’t change the fact he was looking forward to tumbling around on the mat with her.
He took a deep breath and his smile twitched a bit wider. Maybe they would practice breaking holds so he’d have an excuse to wrap her up and hold her against his body.
Lana wasn’t like any woman he’d had in the past. Both times they’d hooked up, she fucked his brains out then left him with little more than a “by your leave.” She knew exactly what she wanted from him, and wasn’t shy about it. She’d left him spent with a smile and a quick kiss, and after locking up, he’d ridden home, tumbled into bed, and slept the sleep of angels. She was defiantly the cow he didn’t have to buy to get the milk, and—
“Here he comes,” Duck said, and Crank shoved the thoughts of Lana aside. It was time to go to work.
They’d parked the Tahoe near Greg’s car, and as he approached, Crank pulled a New York Yankees ball cap low over his head and kept his face down. Normally he wouldn’t be caught dead in an American League team’s ball cap, but he was undercover.
“Get ready,” Crank said as he stepped out of the truck and trotted across the lane between the two banks of parking spaces.
Crank came up behind Greg and quickly jerked a bag over his head then stuck two extended fingers hard into Greg’s soft side.
“You make a sound, and your guts are going to be all over the pavement,” he snarled, taking Greg by the arm and hauling him toward the Idling Tahoe.
Stilts opened the rear door, and Crank shoved Greg in and slammed it shut.
The moment Crank was inside, Duck juiced the Tahoe, and it surged away. The entire grab had taken less than a minute.
“I didn’t do anything! What are you going to do to me! Where are we going? Who are you?” Greg called from the backseat, panic clear in his voice.
“Shut up!” Stilts slapped Greg on the back of the head. “You say another word, or touch that fucking bag on your head, and I’ll slit your goddamn throat!” He caught Crank’s gaze and grinned as Crank smiled back.
After a moment they could hear Greg sobbing, but nobody said anything. The kid was already broken. All they had to do now was tell him why this had happened to him.
“What are you going to do to me?” Greg asked.
“You want your fucking throat slit?” Stilts asked, playing his part to the hilt. “If I so much as hear you breathe…” He drew the edge of his fingernail slowly across Greg’s throat like a blade.
“I’m sorry! I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry!”
“Gut him,” Crank said.
“No! Wait!” Greg wailed and began to sob harder.
Crank looked at Duck and rolled his eyes.
“Goddammit! He’s pissed himself!” Stilts slid farther away from Greg.
“Shit,” Crank muttered.
The leather seats were waterproof, but they were going to have to scrub the seat when they got back to the clubhouse. This was the first time that had happened. The next time they were going to have to remember to put a towel down.
“You shit in my car, I’m going to cut your nuts off with a spoon, you got that cupcake?” Crank said, his tone sharp. This time he didn’t have to pretend to be angry.
Greg said nothing as he sat in his own piss, his head down and sobbing. Crank didn’t feel sorry for the little prick one bit. They weren’t going to hurt him, but maybe the kid would learn that stalking and threatening to kill an ex-girlfriend was seriously uncool.
They weren’t making money on this deal, but the single mother with the lovely eighteen-year-old daughter had been desperate. She’d gone to the police, but typically they couldn’t do anything. Without evidence to connect Greg to the threatening notes, there was little they could do. Greg was too smart to make any overt threats in person, but having the creepy little bastard always watching would be enough to freak any woman out.
That’s when, through a series of contacts, Pamala Greery had reached out to the Fallen Legion. He’d met her, and agreed to take the job. A job like this typically paid a quick five Franklins. Pamala didn’t have all the money but promised to raise it somehow if the Legion would just protect her daughter. He’d felt sorry for her and agreed to do the job for two hundred and fifty she did have, so long as she promised not to tell anyone that he’d cut her a deal. The two-fifty should, almost, cover their expenses.
Once the deal was made, the Legion had put the plan in motion. Using the information provided by Pamala, they found Greg and spent a week eyeballing him so they could determine the best way to warn him off.
They would do messier jobs, up to and including killing, but Crank decided how they handled each case. They weren’t hired thugs and killers. He guaranteed results, but they rarely had to do more than explain to their target how it would be detrimental to their health if they continued on their present course… like with Greg. It was a fine distinction, admittedly, but it allowed Crank sleep at night.
The only person the Legion had killed was Randy Filken, and that fucker had gotten everything he deserved.
The brothers usually worked in rotation, so everyone was sharing the risk equally, but the entire club had wanted in on Randy. They had watched him for months, watching for patterns.
One evening, when his parents were out, the Legion had busted into his family home with weapons drawn, bagged him, and dragged his ass out. He had pled for his life as they forced him onto his knees, but it did no good, and Crank had put his weapon to the back of Randy’s head and pulled the trigger.
Terri Gilrande, the woman Randy had brutalized and raped, may never fully recover, but that sick son-of-a-bitch would never hurt another person… and Crank could live with that. The job had cost the Gilrandes fifty G’s, but they had paid it without flinching.
Duck turned the Tahoe into a failed mini-market gas station about three miles outside of Amberton. He left the vehicle running because this wouldn’t take long.
The three men rolled ski masks over their faces and stepped out of the SUV; Crank opening Greg’s door and hauling him out while Duck stuck a magnetic covering over their license plate so Greg couldn’t give their plate number to the cops. They would stop and take the covering off the moment they were out of the sight of their victim.
The three men surrounded Greg, Duck, and Stilts each taking one of Greg’s arms before Crank yanked the bag off Greg’s head. The kid blinked and squinted as his red and puffy eyes tried to adjust to the bright sunlight.
“Know why you’re here?” Crank pitched his voice down to a sound as threatening as possible.
Greg shook his head. “What are you going do to me?”
“That depends on you. You know Pam and Michelle Greery?”
“No!”
Crank pulled his balisong and whipped it around in a simple but complicated looking manner to open it. Opening the knife like that wasn’t necessary, but if you had never worked with a butterfly knife, it was as intimidating as hell. He held the deadly looking blade just off Greg’s neck.
“Lying to me isn’t a good idea,” he growled. “Do you know—”
“Yes!”
Crank kept the knife close. “You’re not going to go near them again. You’re not going to speak to them or send them any more of your stupid little pussyfied notes. If you meet them walking on the same side of the street, you are going to cross the road. Do I make myself clear?”
Greg nodded frantically.
“You don’t fucking exist to them. If they so much as see you, they’re going to tell me, and you won’t like what happens next. You see these two guys? They’re not nearly as forgiving as I am. Next time, they pay you a visit. You understand?”
Greg again nodded frantically. “What are you going to do to me?”
Crank let him sweat a moment. “You going to leave the Greery’s alone?”
“Yes! I swear! I’ll never talk to Michelle again! I promise, swear to God!”
“Drop your phone,” Crank ordered.
Greg dug into his pocket and dropped his phone at his feet. Crank stomped on the phone several times until it was smashed.
“Sorry about the phone,” he said, his tone giving the lie to his words. “Start walking. Town is three miles that way,” Crank added with a jerk of his head.
“You’re going to let me go?”
“This time. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”
Duck and Stilts released him, but Greg stood, frozen to the spot.
“Run!” Crank shouted, lunging at him. Greg stumbled back then turned and bolted.
Stilts chucked as Greg pounded away. “Jesus, look at him go. That kid should be in the Olympics.”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here before someone shows up,” Duck said as they turned toward the Tahoe.
The pulled off their ski masks as they turned the truck onto the road, traveling in the opposite direction from Greg. They drove for a couple of miles then pulled to the side of the road, so Stilts could hop out and remove the cover over the plate.
They looped around so they wouldn’t pass Greg, and pulled into the first self-serve car wash they found.
With the three of them working on the Tahoe, they peeled the muddy, rust colored, paint off to reveal the pristine white factory paint underneath. The peelable paint Monkey had discovered had been a godsend. They could spray their Tahoe to change its color, then with thirty or forty minutes effort, return it to its original color by just peeling the new paint off.
“What the fuck is this color?” Duck asked as he slowly peeled the paint off the hood.
“A mixture of whatever Monkey had left over. I think its red, silver and black. It’s awful, isn’t it?” Stilts replied.
“Yeah, but this job didn’t pay like normal, so I told him to use what he had leftover,” Crank said as he slowly stripped the paint off the passenger side door. “I thought he’d paint the body one color and the top another, or something, not mix it all together, so it’s the color of bloody shit.”
Duck chuckled as he wadded the plasticized paint into a ball and tossed it aside to dispose of later, then began working on the front fender. “I don’t care what it looks like. This shit is just amazing because we can hide in plain sight.”
They continued to work on the vehicle, each man working on a panel until all the paint was removed. As Stilts and Duck worked on the last two panels, Crank bought some leather cleaner from the vending machine and gave the seat Greg soiled a good scrubbing to prevent any staining and to help remove the smell of urine.
Tasks finished, they gathered up the balls of paint and tossed them into the back, then made their way back to the park.
They parked the Tahoe in the same place before they made their way back to the party, appearing from the woods a minute or two apart and blending in with the rest of the Legion.
The entire operation, from start to finish, had taken less than two hours.
“How’d it go?” Shiv asked as he handed Crank a burger.
Crank grimaced. “We scared him so bad he pissed himself.” As Shiv began to laugh, Crank continued. “Unfortunately he was still in the truck at the time. I cleaned it up, but the whole fucking thing smells like an outhouse.”
“Did you kill him for that?” Shiv wheezed, holding onto his sides. The SUV belonged to the club, so it affected them all, but Shiv couldn’t stop laughing.
Crank was fussy about brothers keeping their rides, the Tahoe, and the clubhouse clean, so Greg was lucky if Crank hadn’t made him clean it up with his tongue.
“No, but I told him if he shit in it, I would cut his nuts off with a spoon,” Crank said as he bit into the burger, making Shiv laugh that much harder.