“This looks like the motherfucker from the video?” T asks, jerking his chin at the guy strung up like a piece filleted meat.
Arms tied, hanging from the rafters of a garage bay at the club, he’s a little bloody, but not worse for wear. Not until I get my hands on him.
“Looks like it,” I answer him, walking around the guy.
Some Mexican gangbanger asshole with a skull tattooed on his back and the words ‘Mexican Mob’ stamped under it, bleeding all over the concrete. And believe it or not, the motherfucker isn’t even Mexican.
“Claims he doesn’t know Sammy. Claims,” T growls, hitting the guy in the face with his fist. “He’s not Mexican Mob, but his ink says something different.”
Buck chuckles from his spot against the tool bench. “Either real stupid or real smart, playin’ dumb.”
“Maybe a little bit of both,” T suggests, shrugging. “Either way, he’s not walkin’ out of here.”
The fucker hanging isn’t making any noise. His chin’s dropped to his chest and his eyes are closed. “He already dead?” I ask Rock.
“Nah, just takin’ a nap.”
“You sing him to sleep?” I ask him, chuckling when I get a look at Rock’s face. “Rock him to sleep? Give him a hot bath?”
Rock just gives me the one finger salute. “Time for you to change his diaper, asshole.”
“Nah, you’re good with kids. Go ahead.”
“Fuck you.”
“Hard or soft, take your pick.”
Rock just shakes his head, walking around the guy and hitting him in the kidney, waking him up. “Wakey wakey, fucker.”
The asshole groans, his head lulling to one side. He makes a couple gurgling noises, his eyes popping open when Rocky jerks on his ropes. I watch him watch us, trying to catch some recognition, a clue that this fucker knows us or knows why he’s here.
“Fuck,” he moans, pulling on the rope. “What the fuck?” His head whips from side to side, looking at his arms tied up, and then at us.
“Where’d you find this guy?” I ask Buck.
“Loitering on Sam’s street.”
“Oh yeah?” I muse, talking to Buck, but looking at the dude. “Like that side of town? Got a friend on that street?” I ask the guy, circling him. I know goddamn well he was there looking for Samantha. Watchin’. Waitin’.
“I don’t—I don’t know,” he stutters, coughing. He does know.
“You get lost?”
The guy doesn’t answer me, just groans.
“This got anything to do with the gun shipment that got botched with the Mexicans Danny Boy was tellin’ me about?” I ask Ty, my voice quiet, but serious.
“You thinkin’ this shit with Sammy’s because of a fucked-up shipment and some severed ties?”
“When did all this shit start?”
It seems to dawn on T, making sense and clicking into place. “Fuck. Jesus Christ. You think this is all tied?”
I don’t know what I think. Haven’t been around enough lately to have a firm grasp on what’s been going on, but if I’d have to guess, that’d be my bet. “Yep.”
Tyler drags a hand over his face, head shaking. “Danny Boy’s gonna lose his shit knowing this is a club issue and not a Sammy issue.”
“Well, pretty soon, it’ll be a non-fucking-issue,” I tell him, grabbing my knife and walking up to the guy hanging.
“You got a name, asshole?”
He shakes his head, sneering at me. “Fuck you.”
“You can make this easy or hard. Either way, I’m gettin’ the information I need.”
“Fuck you.”
Jesus. “That all you know how to say? Because if it’s not, then you better start talkin’.”
The dick spits in my direction, hitting my boot. I don’t have time for this shit.
Sticking my knife a few inches into his thigh, I ask him again, “You got a name?”
He screams. Screams like he’s dyin’. “R-R-Rick,” he stutters through his screams.
“So, Rick, who you work for?” I ask him casually, but I’m feeling anything but fucking calm.
He doesn’t answer, so I give him another hole. “Who you work for?”
He starts screaming again, louder this time. Blood oozing out of his leg from the first hole and gushing out of the new one. I don’t ask him again who he works for. I just let my knife do the talking, adding a third hole. And after the fourth, he starts babbling. “Santino. He’s Santino.”
I’m gonna assume that’s his boss. I don’t ask to confirm he’s Mexican Mob or any other fucking question. I just put my knife through his chest.
He bleeds out, strung up like the fucking pig he is.
“Call Dan and get a prospect in here to clean up the mess,” I holler at Poncho, cutting the dead motherfucker down and letting him fall to the floor.
It takes Dan five minutes before he’s walking, head shaking. “The fuck happened here?”
“Mexican Mob, the fuckers followin’ Samantha.”
He eyes go wide, looking between me and the body on the floor. “Mexican Mob? Like the motherfuckers we had a gun deal with? Same deal that fell through when our shit went missin’?”
“One in the same, brother.”
His face says it all. He’s fucking shocked. Shocked and livid.
“So we goin’ to war?” I ask, looking around. Not everyone’s here, but there’s enough of us to make a decision.
“Not yet,” Dan says, kicking at the dude on the ground, rolling him over. “We wait until after the rally. We can’t afford war right before a charity run.”
“Fine. But once it’s over, they’re over. They’re all fucking dead.” Even if I have to kill each one of them myself with my goddamn hands.
“Agreed.”
“Yo, King?” Poncho shouts, walking into the bay. “Got an issue.” He doesn’t have to tell me. I know who the issue is.
“Samantha.”
“Talked the prospect into the taking her home.”
For fuck’s sake. Should’ve known. “Clean this shit up. I’m outta here.”