KING
About forty minutes later, we rolled into the parking lot of the Inca's clubhouse. Shutting off our bikes, I looked back at the big steel gates that had been left standing open and an ominous feeling settled down over my shoulders. Suppressing a shiver, I got off my bike and took off my helmet, putting it down on the seat. I looked over and saw Drew doing the same.
It was silent as the proverbial tomb in the parking lot. The building standing before us looked like it had once been a large, two story home. But the paint was peeling, cardboard had been taped over some of the broken windows, and there were large holes in the stucco walls.
Empty beer cans and bottles had been discarded all over a yard that was mostly brown and dead – save for a few stands of weeds that were six feet high. Used tires and other trash littered the front of the house and the place just had the feeling of a derelict building. Or maybe, more accurately, a flophouse. It was like the sort of place where you could go to score a little smack or a ten-dollar blowjob – whatever your preference was at the time.
I had little doubt that if we walked inside, we'd find the floors littered with the bodies of squatters sleeping off their latest bender.
“This place is a fuckin' dump,” Drew remarked.
I nodded. Compared to our place, the Incas' clubhouse was an absolute pit. I'd demanded that our clubhouse be kept immaculate. The yards were well tended, the place got a fresh coat of paint once every couple of years, and everything was well maintained and in good working order. The last thing I wanted was for our crib to epitomize what most people thought of as the biker lifestyle. I wanted the Cossacks to have a better, cleaner image than all that.
And looking at the shithole the Incas called home, I knew I'd succeeded – in that endeavor, at least.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“Almost makes me appreciate the fact that you have us doing all of those fuckin' chores.”
“This is why I do it,” I said. “I think we need to take pride in – ”
“I said, almost,” Drew smirked.
I looked at the house and then looked around at the yard. The one thing noticeably absent was the bikes. There should have been some bikes in the yard. Instead, everything just looked so closed and sealed up. I scanned the windows of the house and though a few had remnants of tattered curtains hanging from them, some of them didn't. Yet, I didn't see any faces pressed to the glass, checking out who'd rolled up on their clubhouse. In fact, from where I was standing, I didn't see activity of any kind through the windows.
It was a terrible cliché, but it was quiet at the Incas compound. Too fuckin' quiet.
I looked over at him, my face growing increasingly grim. “Something's not right here.”
Drew nodded slowly, his face turning this way and that as he scanned the area around us. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Ambush?” I asked.
He shook his head. “If that were the case, they probably would have put a thousand bullets into us by now.”
“Yeah, probably,” I said, the tension in my body growing with each passing minute.
“But what is going on here?” Drew asked, his voice a hushed whisper.
“I wish I knew, man,” I said. “But this is creeping me the fuck out.”
“That makes two of us.”
Standing there, in the middle of the compound's parking lot, I felt more than a little exposed. The skin on the back of my neck prickled and I felt eyes on me. There may not have been an ambush in the offing, but I knew without the shadow of a doubt we were being watched. “You feel it?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the house.
“Feel what?”
“Eyes on us.”
Drew gave me a slight nod. “Thought I was just being paranoid.”
“I don't think so, man,” I said. “El Segador and his boys are watching us. I can feel it.”
“So why don't they just come out and take us head on, then?”
I turned in a slow circle and looked at the surrounding land. Lots of low hills and trees provided cover where the Incas could have been hiding and watching us. But what was their goddamn game here? “I don't know,” I said. “I don't see what their play here is.”
Drew looked around at the low hills and probably came to the same conclusion as I had – that they were out there, watching.
“Bunch of pussies!” he called out, his voice hot with anger.
I turned back to the house and suddenly knew what their play was. “They want us to go inside,” I said. “They want us to see something.”
“How do you know that?” Drew asked. “How do you know it's not like rigged to blow up or some shit like that?”
“If they wanted to kill us, they could have had somebody with a rifle and a scope up in those hills take us out,” I said. “And blowing our brains out wouldn't serve their purpose anyway. If we're dead, we can't work for them. No, this isn't about them killing us. This is about putting us in check. About them letting us know who the big dog is. I can feel it.”
Drew let out a shaky laugh. “You sure have all these hinky feelings about shit all of the sudden.”
I shrugged and gave him a lopsided smirk. “It's a gift.”
“Yeah well, that's a gift you might seriously want to think about returning.”
I sighed and looked around at the surrounding hills and forest one last time, wondering where in the hell those assholes were hiding. A dark shiver passed through my soul as I thought about what might be in that house waiting for us.
“Let's get this over with,” I said. “Let's go see what's inside and get the fuck out of here.”
“Or, we could just get the fuck out of here.”
The thought had crossed my mind, but I had a feeling that if we mounted our bikes without going inside, we just might catch a bullet from a hidden sniper out there. No, this was staged and set specifically for us and El Segador wasn't going to let us not see what his little gift he'd left for us.
“We need to go in there,” I said. “Dawkins might be in there and he might be hurt.”
“Dawkins is gone, man. They probably chopped his body up and fed him to their fuckin' dogs,” Drew said. “It kills me to say that, but it's the truth. Us going in there isn't going to change that.”
I knew he was probably right. The only way we were going to see Dawkins again was if the Incas sent us another love letter in the mail. But I had to be sure. Whatever happened to Dawkins was on me and I wasn't going to leave until I knew with absolute certainty that he wasn't in there, hurt and waiting for help. “Listen,” I said, “you don't need to go in there. You stay out here and make sure those assholes don't come down here and fuck with our bikes.”
Drew looked at me and then at the surrounding hills again. I could tell he was torn between wanting to go in and not wanting to. Drew wasn't a coward and never backed down from a fight. He was one of the toughest son of a bitches I knew. But there was something about that house that made him want to avoid it. Something was bothering him and he didn't want to go inside.
I understood the feeling – I didn't really want to go inside either, truth be told. But I was the leader of the Cossacks and it was my duty. “Seriously, man,” I said. “I'll only be a few minutes. Just hang out here. Keep an eye on shit.”
He looked at me and nodded, his face grim, but a look of gratitude filling his eyes. “You got it, boss.”
I looked around one last time and let out a breath. I didn't really want to go inside that house. I had an inkling of what I was going to find in there and, if I were being honest with myself, I really didn't want to see it. But it was my responsibility as the leader of our club and I had no real choice in the matter.
Walking away from Drew, I crossed the yard and soon found myself at the front door. Figuring this wasn't a situation that called on me to stand on ceremony, I reached out and turned the knob without knocking. Not surprisingly, it wasn't locked.
Letting the door swing inward, I crossed the threshold and immediately regretted it. The stench was overpowering. I hadn't been around many rotting corpses in my time – none really, to be honest – but I would have bet my life that the horrid odor filling the house was exactly that.
Putting a hand over my mouth, I continued farther into the house. It was dimly lit, gloomy even. And the interior was as dirty and trashed as the exterior. The fabric on the couches in the living room was covered in stains and tears. Empty beer bottles and cans littered the floors, and there were holes in the walls all over the place. I had no doubt that once upon a time, this had been a fine home. A nice home. But once the Incas got hold of it, just like everything else they touched, it had turned to shit.
As I walked farther into the house, the stench got worse. When I turned into the kitchen, I found Dawkins and fought to keep myself from gagging. “Son of a bitch,” I muttered to myself.
Dawkins had been propped up in a chair at a scarred and nicked wooden table. His head was thrown back, the expression on his face haunting, for it was one of terror and pain. He'd been cut up. Tortured. One of his eyes had been put out. His arms were on the table in front of him, but ended in stumps – his hands, of course, had been hacked off, boxed up, and sent to the cops. And there was blood everywhere. Pooled on the table, on the floor around his feet – there was so much splash and spray, it looked like the Incas had been throwing a painting party.
I was no crime scene or forensic expert, but I didn't need to be to know that the large, ragged gash across his throat was what ended Dawkins' life.
“I'm sorry, man,” I said to the corpse. “This is all my fault. I never should have – ”
I cut myself off and stood in silence, staring at the lifeless body of my friend, my brother. The wave of guilt that washed over me seemed as deep as it was endless. I suddenly regretted ever climbing into bed with a bunch of shitbags like the Incas. I'd let my desire to get out of the life cloud my better judgment. I'd let the illusion of quick and easy money make me careless. Sloppy. Stupid.
Mixed in with the guilt, a fire ignited in my belly. The hatred I felt for the Incas – and for El Segador, in particular – was as deep and abiding as the guilt I felt over the death of Dawkins. I wanted vengeance. Justice. For Dawkins. He deserved it. I owed it to him.
I looked into his dull, lifeless eyes and only felt that pit of hatred within me grow ever deeper.
“We're going to get them, man,” I said. “We're going to make sure they pay for this. I swear to you that these assholes are going down.”