Plus, hypervigilance isn’t a bad trait in my line of work. A sergeant at arms has protection written through their core.
“You see anything, Halo?”
“Nothing but trees and sky,” he mutters. “Would be a great night for a jump.”
I look up at the sky, seeing nothing but stars for days. I’ll take the ex-Navy SEAL’s word that it’s a good night to drop out of an airplane.
I scan what I can see of the tree line. It’s dark. The buyers are Russian. Not gonna ask them what these weapons are for, but I hate the idea they might work their way back to Russian soil. They’re bringing cash. It’s an experiment, selling to them. We don’t know these guys. They’ve got one shot to prove they are legit. Well, as legit as you can be in an underground weapons world.
Once the deal’s done, we’ll review if we should do business with them again.
“I can taste whiskey,” Halo mutters. “Gonna drink a bottle of it and pass out when we get back.”
“I’ll grab tequila and join you,” I say. I love three things. Power, Patrón, and pussy. The power I get from being a true one percenter. Living my life by my own rules. Riding or dying with my brothers. And a night with a great bottle of tequila and high-end ass after a long hard ride on my bike is as good as it gets.
“Two bikes and a van,” Switch tells me.
I pass the news along. “They’re here.” When I tip my chin at Niro, he sits up straighter and tucks his phone back into his shirt pocket.
King stamps out his cigarette in the dirt, fixes the waistband of his denim, and runs his hand over his Glock. I prefer my SIG. One is in the small tool compartment on my bike, handle up, ready for me to grab it if required. Another is holstered beneath my cut, but you can bet I’ll have that fucker out, aimed, and fired in less time than a man can blink.
“Prez,” I caution as he steps towards them.
“Sorry, Mom,” he says. But knowing I hate it when he gets ahead of me at these things, he takes two steps back anyway.
When the bikes and van pull into the clearing, they leave their headlights blazing at us. Obscuring our vision. It’s a dick move, and I pull down my night sights. Don’t give a shit if I look stupid. They cut the glare, and I can make out the guys. Both bald. Both jacked. Neither gets off their bike. A guy climbs out of the van.
“Name?” Prez says.
“Viktor,” the guy says with a heavy Russian accent.
We don’t do the pat down shit; it’d be fucking stupid. We all know we’re packing. And there are more of us than there are of them.
“You got them with you?” Viktor asks.
King nods and directs him to the back of our van. “This way.”
Viktor walks with King. The two bald guys make me nervous, but I know Switch and Halo have our backs. I give them a hand signal to let them know to watch them while I cover Prez.
They’re making small talk about something as King opens the doors.
I hear a fluttering of a bird’s wing, followed by the rustle of leaves. Then I hear a creak. Like a rusty hinge. It’s slow. I glance over to King. The Russians aren’t touching their van. Niro is still seated inside ours.
I glance over to Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
What was that fucking sound?
“You see shit?” I whisper so Switch and Halo can hear.
“Nothing.”
“Rear doors,” Halo says. I can’t see them from where I’m standing.
“King,” I say in warning.
He looks my way, and in the heartbeat it takes him to look up, Viktor pulls his gun and points it at King’s skull while yelling a single word into the night. The van opens and more men pile out.
It’s a Trojan fucking horse.
I see the red dot on Viktor’s head. “Go,” I shout.
Viktor falls to the ground—shot from Switch’s rifle—as I open fire. Bullets from their weapons shatter the glass windows, but Niro is no longer there. He appears on the opposite side of the hood, using it for cover, and I run behind the van to get to King.
I can’t let another president die on my watch.
“What the fuck?” he yells.
I drop to the ground and start firing beneath the van, taking out legs, ankles, anything. Saint is firing from behind his bike, his aim deadly accurate. I see men dropping as Switch takes them out from above. A bullet catches Saint and he’s thrown to the ground as blood stains his shirt. He’s trying to reload, but one of the men approaches him, weapon drawn.
Saint’s a sitting duck.
Panic can come later. I jump to my feet.
“Niro,” I yell. “Take out the ones I grounded. King, give me cover. I’m gonna get Saint.”
King slams his hand against my shoulder. “You’re not going out there.”
“I’m also not letting him die.” Because I let that happen once before. Tweedledee creeps towards Saint, who’s crawled behind a large rock. “Just fucking cover me.”
“Shit,” King curses but complies. Bullets fly past me. I pray his aim stays true as I duck and run until I get to Saint, who’s struggling. I fire twice over the rock. Warning shots. Then I duck back down and reload Saint’s gun for him.
“Should have stayed where you were. Fuck,” Saint curses.
“What would Jesus do?” I ask with a grin.
“Pretty sure he wouldn’t reload a Ruger GP100 with one hand.”
There’s yelling; a Midwest accent. Then Tweedledee looms over us. I fire four shots in quick succession, and his chest and face explode.
“Nice one,” Switch says in my ear before he takes out the wheels on the right-hand side of their vehicle.
And suddenly, there’s only one left, and he’s running into the woods.
I stand and offer Saint a hand to help him get to his feet. “How bad is it?”
He looks down at his bloody arm. “Nicked me, I think. But the blood made everything slippery, and I’d not taped the handle of this yet.” He tilts his Ruger from left to right.
Not something the average person thinks about, how to handle a gun when it’s wet or there’s blood on it. But you’ll rarely find a vet who doesn’t.
“Fuckers,” King shouts as he stands.
I tug out my phone. “Track, can you come out with the tow truck and bring two prospects and a full kit?” The full kit tells him there’ll be body cleanup. Shovels. Tarps.
“Sure thing. Just tell me where.”
I give him the details. There are six bodies on the ground.
“There’s still a man in the trees. Don’t lose focus. Switch, Halo, keep providing cover.”
King walks to their van. “Empty,” he shouts after looking in the back. “They never intended to pay for this shit.”
“I got Track coming out. We wrap and dump the bodies—shallow grave shit in the woods, stick the bikes in the back of the van, and then tow it. The garage can spray it, change the plates, then sell the bikes and van on.”
“Not the cash everyone was banking on,” Niro says. “Our van’s got a few holes. Our load is fine though.”
King tugs at his hair. “I’ll find a new channel.”
I glance over at Tweedle-Dee. “You hear that guy? Not Russian.”