Thrash
The bar is a madhouse. An insane asylum where the orderlies have given up and joined the patients.
After a few rounds of drugged beer, a few ‘Skullfuckers’ songs, and a nearly full set of ‘Steel Hearts’ tunes, the Reaper’s Sons and everyone else except for the band, myself, Lexie, and Alice, is practically out of commission. Hyperactive and emotional from the Molly, but with all the coordination of a blind toddler, there isn’t a man in the room who can do a damn thing to stop us.
Everything’s going to plan.
Or was.
“Back off. I said no.”
Alice’s voice cuts through all the music, all the raucous chatter and carousing, and brings me to her side in an instant.
Some piece of shit in a Reaper’s Sons cut has his hands all over her. She’s cornered in a quiet part of the bar, trapped, tray of drinks in hand and a fearful look in her eyes as this lowlife does his best to get his paws on her tits.
I can’t allow that to happen. Not to my woman. I don’t give a damn what she’s said to me about us being over.
“Hey, buddy, got a second?” I say, casual, tapping the man on the shoulder.
“The fuck do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?” He says, turning.
I don’t give his drunk eyes the chance to focus. Two quick punches — a jab-cross combination — snaps his head back and sends him stumbling into the bar.
I shoot a quick look over my shoulder to my cousin. He’s got his eyes right on me. All it takes is a nod from me and he and his band cranks the volume on their set up to a deafening eleven.
No one hears the man’s cries as I seize him around the neck and pull him towards the front door.
To the thumping base of The Steel Heart’s hits, I pound his sweaty, drunken face into the pavement. Blood colors my shoes and stains my knuckles.
I leave him behind the dumpster, a massacred mess.
No one touches my Alice.
Back inside, my eyes find her instantly. She’s doing her best to work like nothing’s bothering her, but I can tell she’s shaken. I head to her side, pushing my way through the crowd.
“Are you ok?”
“They’ve never treated me like that, before,” she says. Her voice is hesitant, afraid.
I put my arms around her and embrace her. Whatever’s happened between us, she’s important to me. “You’re alright, now. It’s going to be fine; I’ll keep you safe. Now, come on, we have to get you and Lexie out of here.”
I motion to my cousin, and his band kicks into their greatest hits, cranking up the bass and putting on a set that would make any fan of hard rock bang their head.
The bar erupts into pandemonium.
Fights break out, people start throwing things, and more than once I see someone flash a gun. It’s then I make my move — I grab both Alice and Lexie by the arms and take them with me out into the parking lot. No one’s going to notice their absence at this point and I have to get the two of them to safety.
“What now?” Alice says, looking at me with eyes as wide as the moon above us.
The scene in the bar has her rattled. I can hear the nerves and tension in her voice, and part of me wants to comfort her, to pull her close until she calms down, but the other part of me still remembers what she told me — that she wants nothing to do with me. I choose to keep my distance. It’s a damn hard resolution to stick to.
“You two go home. Lay low, stay indoors. It’s going to get a bit wild tonight. Hammer or anyone else calls you and asks where you went, you tell them you got spooked and left. He won’t blame you for that,” I say.
“Where are you going?” she says.
She almost sounds concerned.
“To get the money, and whatever else the Reaper’s Sons don’t have nailed down. Most every patched member is in the bar right now, which means the only people watching the stash houses are going to be some prospects and maybe one or two Reapers who happen to be on Hammer’s shitlist. Riot and Creole are waiting for me near Hammer’s house, we’re going to rip off the cash first, then we’ll head for their drug op.”
“Be careful,” Alice says. “Please.”
I shrug off her concern. Whatever feeling I hear in her voice is probably just her being upset at the chaos happening in the bar behind us. She’s made clear that she doesn’t want anything more to do with me.
“I’ll be fine. And I’ll make sure you’re paid. Then we’ll be done.”
She frowns and looks like she wants to say something, but then decides against it. Lexie squeezes Alice’s arm and then gives me an icy look. “We’ve got work to do. Enough talking, let’s get out of here, ok?”
“Fine enough with me.”
I walk the two of them to their vehicles — Lexie first, and she peels out in her rush to get the hell away from here, and then Alice. Alice hesitates again, leaning against her driver’s side door, fingers fidgeting with her keys. She looks so beautiful by the moonlight. It’s a shame she’s so caught up in this idea that I don’t give value her.
I think about telling her that I’m sorry, that I give a damn about her and that it rips my heart out to see our relationship end like this. I saw a future for us, once; the two of us working together, making each other stronger; she keeping me grounded and giving me the kind of family life I’ve never had, and me providing the support and stability that she’s been missing for so long.
We could’ve done so much. The future looked so bright.
Now it’s as dark as the look on her face.
Without a word or a goodbye, she shakes her head, as if deciding against saying anything and gets into her car and starts it up. The last thing I see of her is a fleeting glance of her questioning hazel eyes in the reflection of her rear-view mirror.
It’s not until after her car’s disappeared into the dark that I take out my phone and send a text to Riot and Creole.
I’m on my way.
* * * * *
It’s quiet out here, on this deserted street on the outskirts of Crescent Falls. The night air has a chill to it, and the only sounds that touch my ears are the chirp of crickets and the croak of a bullfrog that’s taken up residence in the stand of trees on the edge of Hammer’s property.
His house isn’t an impressive sight. A one-and-a-half story California bungalow with paint that’s peeling in spots, a front-facing exposed-brick chimney, and a detached two-car garage. It looks like any other home in this part of town. Though might look modest from the street, inside that house, there’s a stash of cash that’s going to set us up for a good long time.
We observe the place for a while from the safety of the darkness. There’s no traffic in or out, and the couple other houses in the neighborhood are all dark and at far enough away that, unless we’re firing off mortar rounds, they won’t hear a damn thing.
It’s perfect for a raid.
“You ready?” I say.
Riot nods. “Locked and loaded.”
Creole grins. “What good is an enforcer without a little enforcing from time to time, yeah?”
“Circle round the back, Creole. The cash should be in the garage — that’s where Lucky brought it when I did the deal with Alice.”
“How many men you think they have inside?” Riot says.
“Don’t much matter, does it? We’re going in either way, and I’m looking forward to a bit of fun,” Creole says, checking the ammunition on his pistol. “It’s been too long.”
“Masks on, guys,” I say. “Let’s do this. Creole, we’ll give you until the count of thirty to get into position, then we’ll make our move after another thirty.”
The three of us pull down ski masks over our faces. There’s no way we’re leaving any survivors tonight, but, even so, we have no idea what sort of camera or security systems a man like Hammer has in place. We can’t let what we’re about to do fall back on the club.
With a quick gesture, I tell Creole to go ahead of us and he slinks into the dark, moving around to the opposite side of the garage. Riot and I give him a full thirty seconds before we start ahead.
Then I motion to Riot for him to get into position. After thirty seconds, I make my move.
It’s a simple plan, a straightforward smash and grab. In times like this, getting clever will get you killed. I’m not looking to show off, I just want to get paid.
One man at each of the two windows into the garage — Creole and Riot — and me at the door. When I’m in place, I’ll kick that bitch open and Riot and Creole will each make their move in through the window. We’ll hit the Reaper’s Sons inside from three different directions, loot the damn place, and get the fuck out of there.
I move into position.
The solid wood door looms in front of me and I tighten my grip on my pistol. Just staring at the door makes my heart pound and my muscles tense, ready for action.
It’s time.
I cock my leg back and aim a heavy kick right to the side of the doorknob where the lock’s mounted.
There’s a snap of wood as the door rips free from the frame and flies inward.
The sight of a regular garage greets me — tool chests, project bikes, workbenches — with one notable exception: an office desk on the far end of the garage, with a stack of cash on it high enough to give me vertigo and a set of money counting machines right next to it. Two duffels, half-open and loaded with cash, sit on the floor beside the table.
Jackpot.
Three startled sets of eyes spin in my direction.
Fucking prospects.
I charge inside.
They were expecting an easy night of guard duty, the poor bastards. Not that I blame them, because who the hell would be crazy enough to fuck with the Reaper’s Sons? They probably drew the short stick and expected a long, boring night and an even longer morning as they got to hear from all the patched Reaper’s Sons about what a great party they missed.
Poor bastards.
I have my pistol up before the closest one even has a chance to piss himself. One pull of the trigger and a puff of blood erupts out of the back of his head. Easy.
The remaining two let out a shout and dive for cover, shooting back at me once they hit the ground. I kick over a workbench and duck behind it.
Glass shatters — to my left and my right — and Creole and Riot make their appearance at the same damn time, unleashing bullets on the unlucky prospects.
One goes down, a bullet catching him right in the throat. He dies messy and loud, clutching at the hole in his gullet while his blood stains the concrete floor.
The other gets lucky, finding shelter in a corner, protected by a heavy steel tool chest and a wooden workbench so thick it might even rival my cock. He’s dug in, protected.
That’s a problem.
We don’t have time to fuck around with a protracted firefight. Every second that ticks away is another second for someone to call the cops or, even worse, Hammer.
“Shit,” I scream, letting loose a few bullets in frustration.
“Chill, Thrash, we’ll get him,” Riot says.
“Yeah, haste makes waste. Let’s enjoy the bit of sport, yeah?” Creole says, smiling as he aims the occasional potshot at the pinned-down prospect.
I shake my head. The longer this operation takes, the more risk we have of getting discovered. And if the Reaper’s Sons find out who ripped them off, there will be hell to pay and, based on what Bull’s told me, I’m not sure even my club would back me up because I’m breaking every fucking rule being here.
“Riot, get the cash. I’m ending this. Now.”
I survey the room and find exactly what I need: a gas can.
I dodge bullets on my way over to the area where Hammer has a project bike up on a jack. Right at the feet is a cherry red gas can. I heft it in my grip — it’s half full, which is more than I need.
“You should’ve just let us shoot you, it would’ve been a lot fucking easier for the both of us,” I yell as I hurl the gas can towards the area where the prospect is taking shelter. Some of the gas sprays throughout the garage in a fine mist, but the majority of it stays in the gas can and the cherry red bomb lands right at the prospect’s feet.
Two shots from my pistol and the can explodes in a small fireball, spreading liquid flame all around and setting fire to the everything in that corner of the garage, prospect included.
In seconds the garage is a ripping inferno.
So much for subtlety.
Screaming and burning, the prospect runs out of his hiding place, hands in the air. Without hesitation, Creole takes a calm step forward and puts a bullet between his eyes.
“It’s a mercy,” he says.
Eventually, all that’s left of the prospect is a haunting scream and the memory of what burning flesh smells like.
“Let’s go,” I say to Creole and Riot.
We grab the cash and head for our bikes, the path in front of us lit by the ember-red light of the burning building behind us. We get back to our bikes and I can’t help but shake my head at how much of a clusterfuck this situation has become.
“I was hoping we’d be sharing these under better circumstances, guys,” I say, pulling a trio of cigars out of the pocket of my cut. I hand one to Riot and one to Creole. “When you guys get somewhere safe, smoke ‘em, and remember that, despite all of the shit that’s happened tonight, we’re still fucking rich.”
“This was a fucking mess, Thrash,” Riot says, his voice raised loud over the crackling of the burning garage.
“We still got paid,” I say, shrugging. “We’re going to have to forget about the second location. Everyone in town is going to see this shit.”
“So we stash the cash, yeah? Lay low?” Creole says, his eyes reflecting the flickering glow of the fire.
I nod, then, realizing the damn urgency of the situation, I take a look in one of the duffels — it’s a disorganized mess of tens and twenties, bundles of cash wrapped in rubber bands. On a rough guess, we’ve probably pulled in somewhere around a quarter million for a take. Split equally between Alice, Creole, Riot, Lexie, and myself, that’s probably a fifty grand each. It feels good knowing that, even if I never see her again, I’ve helped Alice dig herself out of the hole she’d found herself in, and set her up to be able to take care of herself and her mother for a good long time.
I do a rough division of the cash, moving some from one duffel into another until I’ve got one of the bags packed with what should be good enough for Lexie and Alice’s share and the other bag stuffed to bursting with the remaining cash. I hand the bag to Riot.
“Get that to Alice. Tell her it’s hers and Lexie’s shares. They’re going to need to keep it low key for a while, not spend outside their means. She’s smart, she’ll figure the rest out.”
He takes the bag and nods.
“What about me?” Creole says.
“Head home. Drink some fucking whiskey, celebrate. That’s sure as fuck what I’m doing. When the morning comes, we’ll meet and finish dividing up the cash.”
“Works for me. Ain’t nothing wrong with getting drunk and waking up richer than the night before. Take care, Thrash.”
“You too, Creole.”
I head home with the remaining duffel stored in the cargo compartment of my bike. Thousands upon thousands of dollars, enough to set me up for a good long while. Total fucking freedom.
And it wouldn’t have been possible without Alice’s help.
And now I’ve lost her.
The bag feels so much heavier, and yet, no matter how much cash is in there, it’ll never be enough to make up for losing her.
Was this really worth it?
I park my bike in the driveway and grab the bag of cash and sling it over my shoulder and wrinkling my nose at the smell of gas. Some of the spray from the gas can must’ve hit the duffel. I remind myself I’ll need to switch the cash to a new bag, as this one’s now a very-expensive fire hazard. .
I pull out the cigar from my pocket and light it. The scent of fine Cuban tobacco fills my nostrils. It’s fucking heaven. Life goes on, I remind myself. And someday, maybe, I’ll forget about Alice. Someday far in the future, I’ll stop thinking about that woman that I wanted to make my own and call my old lady.
That’ll be the day.
The ember at the tip of my cigar flares as I throw my front door open, resolving to get good and drunk until I numb the pain she’s left me with.
A rough voice cuts through the quiet night, hard and jagged, like a hacksaw through bone. Light catches the metallic shimmer of a gun, pointed right at me.
“It’s about fucking time, Thrash. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come home. Now, set the fucking money down and get on your knees, it’s time to put you in the ground.”