Chapter Twelve
(Jaxson)
‘FUCKING GET OVER HERE!’
My cell phone buzzed with a message from Frank ‒ the clubs helmsman for the whiskey shipment ‒ I read his short message to my dismay.
Ah! Shit! Frank should have left the docks by now. What the fuck’s gone wrong?
I kicked into high gear… throwing on my jacket and snatching my gun from the hallway drawer. “Sorry. I need to go!” I called to Chloe, sprinting out the door without time for another word.
‘5 minutes.’ I responded to Frank’s text as I mounted my bike outside. It was just after 7 pm and the sun had set. I cranked the engine and sped out of the parking lot and onto the main road, my wheels screeching around the corner.
I tore down the highway charged with a nervous, excited energy; nearly every damn day one of my brothers would cause a mess that I would have to clear up. Secretly, I fucking loved the thrill of it. Protecting my club was what I lived for the pride that came with defending Charlie De Luca’s legacy gave me an excitement when I woke up in the morning that I had come to crave. It was only when I had to stare at my face in the bathroom mirror every morning that I had a hard time with the killings.
When I reached the stretch of road running parallel to the dockside, I raced down it relentlessly before turning onto the side road that would lead me directly to the boat.
SHIT! I slammed on my brakes and swerved wildly to avoid slamming into a large unlit truck that stood in my path. The road had been completely blocked, putting a barrier between me and the site of our shipment.
Fuck! There was no way this happened by accident.
I jumped off my bike and called Frank’s phone, but there was no answer. As I walked toward the dock, the sound of men shouting and making a racket left me feeling increasingly tense and suspicions. I maneuvered my way up close to them without being seen. When I arrived at a vantage point near the stern of the large boat, I dropped behind a stack of girders to keep out of sight.
Three trucks were being loaded with whiskey – our whiskey. On our boat, five men dressed in black with lights on their heads came up from below deck and the doors to the boat’s hull shut behind them. I couldn’t tell how many crates had been already unloaded. I watched as the men stacked the boxes of whiskey into large white trucks, fighting the urge to shoot down every last one of them. I needed backup. Otherwise, I could lose both the $200,000 worth of inventory in this shipment, and my life.
I pulled out my phone to call my brothers, and the damn thing was dead. Shit! I drew my gun. Just as I was about to open fire, I spotted four muscular, sturdy-looking, guards standing either side of the stern of the boat – each of them laden with weapons – I knew I didn’t stand a chance.
Feeling for my keys in my back pocket, I sprinted around to the back entrance of Bruno’s Marina building that sat opposite. Inside, I locked the outside door behind me and climbed up to the first floor. I ran into the front office, keeping the lights off, and thought about calling the club then looked out of the front window that overlooked our stretch of dockside, craning for a good view in the dim light. I planned to open the window and snipe the guards and guys loading the trucks from above.
In the half-light, I could make out that somebody else was on the deck of the boat —too skinny to be the helmsman. The dark and looming figure sat with his back against the front bulkhead of the wheelhouse. The unknown man chewed on gum, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of one pocket and a lighter from the other and struck. Although I couldn’t make out his face, I saw his head rise in my direction and he beckoned over the four guards; the large men were tense and cautious around him. I had been sure it was too dark out for anyone to see me up here, but the man on the boat turned to his heavily armed goons and pointed in my direction.
My stomach tightened—I suddenly realized the weight of my situation.
The guards grabbed at their weapons and ran toward the front door of the Marina building, one floor below me. A bashing sound echoed through the room as the guards rammed their bodies into the outside door. I started to run for the other exit downstairs, but just as I made it to the top step, I heard a gunshot that must have been fired at the lock. Moments later, the front door was smashed down. I retreated into the office – locking the door from the inside. Although, I knew they were easily capable of breaking through.
Shit.
With the lights in the room still off, I ducked underneath the desk and planned my next move. I had one chance to get this right.
BOOM! The door burst open.
Four shadows in the shapes of men flood into the room. Four guns cocked.
“Don’t fucking move,” a voice growled.
They had run right past me. I jumped up onto my knees, my elbows on the desk, pulled the toggle to the desk light – illuminating the room just enough for me to fire four fast shots. Four bodies hit the ground, and I bolted for the exit.
Knowing that at any moment, these thieves could run off with my club’s whiskey, I burst out of the front entrance; my fists balled tightly at my sides, ready to fight.
Nothing.
I pulled out my gun and looked left then right.
Suddenly, a flicker of light from the hall inside alerted one of the men, who’d just shut the door to his van. A van full of our crates.
The man yelled to rest of his gang who promptly charged at me, and although they weren’t armed, I was swarmed by a fierce onslaught of violence. Whirling, slashing, stabbing, kicking from every direction. The bright headlights they wore cut through the darkness in all directions. I squinted at the flood of blinding light directed at me and threw punches at them as black-gloved hands punched and grabbed at me. One guy lunged at me, swinging a wrench. I swerved and got out the way enough not to be knocked out, but he clipped the side of my face leaving a gash. I threw a right hook in retaliation, his eyes widened and lowered as he fell hard on his back to the floor—he was out cold.
Desperate to gain control over the situation, I fired a single warning shot in the air. But when I did, I stumbled, almost tripping over something in the dark and lost my gun in the darkness. Unaware, the mysterious black figures made a break for it, in panic.
I chased after a couple of them as they ran for their vehicles – loaded with whiskey – but I’d run no more than a few yards when vans poured out of every conceivable nook and cranny in my direction. Brakes squealed, radios squawked, guns cocked as they raced off. Darting out of the way, I threw my hands on my knees in defeat.
I looked up at the boat for the man that appeared to be their leader. He was gone. FUCK! I ran up the ramp to the deck to help the helmsman out, but he was shot dead—collapsed at the helm. There was a moment of still and silence.
Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow.
I ducked as bullets ricochet off the metal of the boat.
“Chicken-shit. Come here, fool,” someone yelled as he opened fire again.
Shot after shot after shot. I could tell where the man was and ran around the other side of the helm.
Our bodies collided, and I froze. I had no weapon, and it was so dark, I couldn’t even see the man’s face.
He raised his gun, pressing the barrel against my temple.
The man chuckled. He pulled the trigger.
CLICK.
There was a pause before another three dull clicks.
CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.
The handgun was out of ammunition.
“You son of a bitch.” He sneered.
His empty gun flew wildly in the air, and he hurled it at my head hitting me between the eyes, stunning me. The last thing I remember was being kneed in the stomach, dropping me as my legs suddenly gave out, and I fell to the ground, bashing my head again and blacking out.
It was sometime later, in the aftermath of the attack when I blinked back to full awareness, drained and in excruciating pain. It was early light, and nobody was around. The sea was choppy, stirred by the wind. It was quiet except for the lonely sound of a buoy bell in the distance and the creaking of wood. My battered and bloody face was hit with cold, salty air that stung like a bitch.
I slowly staggered up and looked up at the docks, surveying the wreckage. The pier to which the boat was moored was littered with smashed wood from the whiskey crates….
As I stumbled along the deck of the boat, something caught my eye and I looked down. It was a gum wrapper. I leaned down to pick it up and when I looked at it closer, I knew what it was and who it belonged too.
It was a stop smoking gum and there was only one person I knew that chewed this gum and smoked at the same time…
I looked at the helm and Frankie was gone. They’d taken the body. I stumbled off the boat and went around to where I left my bike. My wheels had been hidden. As I swung my leg over the bike and fired up the motor, I took one last look at the carnage left then roared off leaving a trail of dust behind me.
My knuckles were white as my hands gripped the handlebars but my mind raced with rage as I tore up the highway. I needed to get away and regroup. I also needed to call Dino and Bruno to let them know what happened. Bruno would have a fit and demand blood but I had no evidence to give him as to who the traitor really was.
A gum wrapper wouldn’t count as it could have been left anytime by anyone. In fact, Antonio had been there this morning. But I knew in my heart who it belonged to and I knew he’d done this to humiliate me before the vote. I swore he wouldn’t get away with this. Even if it cost me everything I had—I was going to nail this little bastard. No one betrayed the Black Devils, no one.