Chapter Twenty-Five

Luc

Sitting in my chair, my hands wrapped around a hot cup of coffee, I tried to listen as Mouth droned on and on about the state of the club, from housekeeping to a future food run. It was the first of the month and it was the only time Mouth joined us for the early morning briefing.

Typically, the fucker flipped us the one-finger bird and went about his day. Mouth was the odd man out. An officer, but not. The go-between for the officers and the enlisted brothers, Mouth, was good at multi-tasking, a jack of all trades, but preferred managing the clubhouse and the Plebs.

"Disturbed Desires is ready to reopen. The Plebs did good work, and Saint was able to interview and hire new dancers."

"Who's manning the bar?" Frost asked.

"Considering the new stipulations Luc set into place, until we can find someone trustworthy, it's going to be me and Ivy."

"Don't want her working that place alone," I said firmly.

"I don't either, that's why when she's scheduled to be there, one of us will be with her," Mouth advised. "I can easily put the Plebs on a revolving schedule, but that creates another problem itself."

"The question is, can they handle her if she loses her shit?" Logic spoke up.

"That's why I was thinking of assigning only one of them. Pyle would be a good battle-buddy for her."

"Gomer Pyle?" Slash shouted. "The fucking idiot?"

Mouth sneered, pointing a finger at Slash, "Say one more motherfucking word, Slash, and I will have your ass on KP duty for life!"

Yeah, that was the other thing.

No one wanted to piss off Mouth. I may be the president of this club, but Mouth ran the place. Fucker liked to believe he was a grunt like the others, but I knew Mouth was a class unto himself. Enlisted like the other brothers in the club, Mouth forewent the Green to Gold Program in the Army and went Warrant Officer. After surviving a deep-classified mission, the President of the United States bestowed Mouth with the commission of WO5. The highest rank in the Warrant Officer Program. Not only was Mouth a highly decorated soldier, but he was also expertly skilled in many areas and the second deadliest brother in the club next to me. Because of his classified past, Mouth was the only brother in the club that technically didn't have to salute me when in uniform.

The man deserved respect.

Plain and simple.

So, when I saw Mouth's shoulders square up, I leaned back in my chair and grinned, because I knew Mouth was about to hand Slash his ass.

"That fucking idiot deserves our respect, shithead. Pauly McCoy served just like every motherfucker here. Yes, he isn't all there in the head, but that boy is as loyal as they come. Ain't no one better to watch Ivy. You think I'd just put anyone on her? Barbie may belong to the Prez, but she's ours. We all care about her. Even the Plebs. She dotes on them. Listens to them, cares what they think. And don't forget, Slash, that kid is fucking deadly as hell when push comes to shove."

Slash held up his hands in surrender.

"Sorry, brother."

"Got no problem with Pyle shadowing Ivy," I stated, ending any argument that may occur. If Mouth thought Pyle would work, then that was good enough for me. "Just make sure he knows that she is to be protected at all costs. No matter what. Got me?"

Mouth nodded.

"Anything else?" I asked.

Gathering his shit, Mouth stood. "Nope. See y'all next month and, Saint, I expect those extra funds for housekeeping first thing tomorrow."

Saint dropped his head to the table and moaned, "When is Berlin due back, cause his fucking job sucks?"

The brothers chuckled.

The club's treasurer, Berlin, was following up on a lead that he pulled out of his ass a few months back when he was in D.C. visiting an ailing friend. It was only by chance that Berlin was in the right place at the right time, because when he was walking out of the VA Hospital in D.C., he saw a familiar face getting into a government vehicle with a high-ranking political figure. Someone we all thought was dead, was, in fact, alive and well, which set off major alarm bells.

Doing what Berlin was good at, he followed the motherfucker.

The last time I heard from him was three months ago when he told me he was following up on a lead and wouldn't be around for a while.

Brother was off the reservation and none of us knew where the fuck he was. However, we weren't worried. Berlin was more than capable of taking care of himself. He would call when he needed help or an extraction.

"You know Berlin." Alias smirked. "The longer he's gone, the more interesting shit's gonna be when he returns. Enjoy the downtime, brother, while you can."

"Is that what you're calling the current state of the club? Downtime?" Saint complained.

"Enough," I growled, halting any arguments before turning to Frost. "We still set for later tonight?"

"Got the shipment ready. Twenty crates of M4s and two crates of AKs ready to be delivered. Los Diablos has agreed to the terms and conditions. In fact, they jumped at the chance. Said it would be their pleasure."

"And Los Santanas ?"

"None the wiser." Saint smirked.

"Good, I want everyone on their game tonight. Motherfuckers thought they could play us, use our turf to move their product, well fuck that. This is Disturbed land. Tonight, we show those motherfuckers exactly who they fucked with. Tonight, we send a fucking message to everyone. No one dares anger the brothers of Disturbed."

My brothers erupted boisterously.

"Why Victor?"

"It's the Devil I know, man."

"Yeah," I sighed, clenching my teeth, when an ache like no other ran down the line of my jaw. "I guess it is."

Fuck it all to hell.

This wasn't what I wanted to be doing tonight.

I had other plans. Mainly I wanted to get back to the clubhouse and sink my dick into Ivy, not deal with this fucked-up shit.

It was a simple agreement. I provided the Diablos with the weapons they needed to solidify their turf and in exchange, they took out Los Santanas . Nowhere in that agreement were they to join forces with Los Santanas .

Now I had this shit to deal with.

Maybe Slash was right. Maybe I should have just killed the motherfuckers when I had the chance.

Instead of heading home, I was standing before what remained of two gangs that had merged, and now, Miguel Chavarria would soon corner the market in guns and crystal meth.

Talk about a shitstorm.

The problem was these idiots had no fucking clue what they've done.

"Bossman told you gringos that San Francisco belonged to Los Santanas ," one of the Los Santanas sneered, pounding on his chest like he thought he would walk away from this shitstorm like he was the man . "This is our fucking turf, gringo."

He couldn't be the man if he tried.

Trash moved quickly, coming out of the shadows to shut the fucker up. Now that the motormouth could barely speak through a mouthful of broken teeth, I didn't have to listen to him anymore.

Someone had to be the voice of reason and sensibility, since Miguel had left half of his crew to fend for themselves when all hell broke loose.

I tried to tell the motherfucker, but, apparently, he refused to listen.

I hated repeating myself.

There was no use.

Instead, I got to listen to some fucking dying minions drag out every last sordid detail he could think of before his life expired.

Too bad for this motherfucker, because Trash beat him within an inch of his life. If I was a decent man, I would have just snapped the fucker's neck and put him out of his misery.

But I wasn't, so it didn't matter.

"You know, Vic, for a small operation, you could have made bank if you hadn't aligned yourself with Los Santanas . Good money in guns. Could have kept your crew busy for years. Greed is a nasty bitch, but crystal meth. Really?"

"Had no choice."

Saint added, "From what I hear, Los Santanas' shit isn't even that good."

Fucking amateurs.

Now they were my problem.

Victor shouldn't have done it, but that wasn't my call to make, only my mess to clean up. He had to have known this would happen, eventually. Too bad for him that eventuality came sooner than he thought. They'd all feel it too before the night ended for them, and word would spread to never bother me or mine ever again.

My fingers itched and my eyes narrowed with a ferocity that mirrored my soul.

I really hated fucking amateurs.

They were wild cards. No rhyme or reason to their decisions and generally when pushed, created a fucking mess even Houdini couldn't make disappear.

"What do you want?" Victor cried. "I'll do anything."

Sighing, I shook my head.

Why did they always cry like bitches when shit went sideways?

They fucked up, made the mistake. They should own it and deal with the consequences.

It was simple. There were no do-overs in this life. Mistakes got people killed. It was a hard lesson to learn.

Flicking my cigarette away, I leaned closer and sneered, "That's just it, Vic. Gave you a chance and you blew it."

Confusion flickered in his eyes, although I doubted that wasn't difficult for a man like Vic. God, was he really that stupid? I fought not to roll my eyes and barely succeeded as Vic looked back at a few of his men that were still standing. Fuckers couldn't be older than twenty-five. They looked like fucking babies to me.

Then again, most people did.

Shaking my head, I eyed Victor's jeans that were sagging way too low for the comfort of my eyes.

Yep. He was a kid.

"Vic?" I said smoothly, snapping my fingers several times. "I need you to pay attention here."

Scratching behind his ear, Victor swung back around, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah?" he said, dropping his shaky hand, offering a smile like he didn't know what to expect.

Yeah.

Enough of this shit.

I was bored.

Reaching for my gun, the effect on Vic and his remaining friends was instantaneous, as their hands shot up and curses flew.

"Fucking hell!"

"What the fuck?"

More expletives flew while Victor stared down the short barrel of my gun.

"Luc, let's talk about this!"

Shaking my head, I spoke slowly and clearly.

I didn't want any misunderstandings.

"You thought you could take me down. I shit fucknuts like you in my sleep. Gave you a chance. You fucking screwed the pooch. Now it's time to pay the piper."

Vic froze, quivering, slack-jawed, completely unaware of what I was saying.

Maybe he was that stupid.

I didn't know.

I also didn't fucking care.

"Last lesson, Vic. Actions have consequences."

Before the kid could reply, I fired my gun.

My brothers moved quickly, gathering the remaining idiots and tying them to the barrels of crystal meth. I didn't want a single trace of anything left behind, and when the cops showed up, they would need dental records to identify the bodies.

Frost walked over, shaking his head. "Got the crates of guns loaded back up in the van. Alias is heading back to the clubhouse now."

"Where's Agony and Trash?"

"Getting the gasoline."

"Need to find Miguel Chavarria and Raul. Fuckers got away."

"Will put Slash and Logic on it." Frost nodded when Agony and Trash walked in, each carrying two ten-gallon tanks of gasoline.

A smile on their disturbing faces.

Fuckers weren't happy unless they got some fun too.

Not the most badass thing my brothers had ever done, but in a pinch, it worked.

Watching Trash and Agony slosh gallon after gallon all over the crystal meth containers and then the crying, begging men, I felt nothing.

Reaching for another cigarette, I walked out of the warehouse with Frost before lighting my smoke, when I heard the whoosh of the accelerant ignite. Shaking my head, I blew out a puff of smoke just as Trash and Agony vacated the burning building.

Standing next to our bikes, Frost asked, "Think they learned their lesson?"

Watching as the flames crackled, leaped and danced, striving to break into the sky, I shook my head.

"Can't teach stupid."

Later that same night, in some hellhole in Costa Rica.

In the middle of a dimly lit room, I found myself seated on a chair, completely devoid of any clothing. Leather straps tightly bound my wrists and ankles to the chair. To be precise, it was someone else who took the initiative and strapped me down onto the chair.

Apparently, they didn't trust me to stay put.

Looking around the room, I wondered how long I had been here. Every time the steel door opened, a faint glow would illuminate the room, offering a brief glimpse of what lay beyond. A pungent smell of urine hung in the air, accompanied by the unsettling sound of rats scurrying about, creating an uncomfortable atmosphere.

I fucking hated rats.

Vile creatures.

My disheveled brown hair and overgrown beard gave me a rugged and untamed appearance. Judging by the unruly length of my hair, I estimated I had been here for several months. Since I'd been here, my green eyes had sunken back into my head, a visible testament to the weight I had lost. I gazed at my reflection, dismayed to see my once chiseled physique now replaced by a feeble and wrinkled frame.

I looked horrible, for sure.

But I was anything but weak.

The sight of my skin, marred by lacerations and burn marks, served as a constant reminder of the torment I had endured at the hands of my captors. The unsettling experience of slipping in and out of consciousness, all the while plagued by the lingering uncertainty of when they would finally execute their intention to kill me. Because of the multitude of drugs they had administered into my system in their quest for information, my dreams had become even more vivid and terrifying. Right when I was on the verge of slipping away unnoticed, the abrupt opening of the steel door halted my escape, emitting a jarring metallic sound that made me grimace in discomfort. As he walked into the room, my eyes strained to adapt to the sudden brightness, yet before I could even fully see him, his voice reached my ears, announcing the piece of shit I'd come to see.

It was game time.

"You asked to see me?" the man asked.

"Took you fucking long enough, asshole. I was beginning to think you didn't care."

It took me longer than I originally thought to find the man in charge. However, getting one-on-one time with him had become difficult. Left with no choice, I allowed myself to be captured. It was rather easy, too. All I had to do was steal ten million dollars' worth of their product.

Of course, setting that shit on fire also helped.

"You caused a big problem for me, Mr. Harris, or would you prefer I call you Berlin?" Asshole smirked, lighting a cigarette as he spoke and offered one to me. I used to smoke but had quit once captured. Asshole put the pack back into his breast pocket and rolled up his sleeves.

"Made some calls, and no one could tell me why a retired Ranger was snooping around in Costa Rica. Though, I have a pretty good idea. Your lot was always good at sticking your noses in things that didn't concern you, but I don't know for sure."

I still just stared blankly at the asshole while he continued.

"But of course, you boys have a history of poking around in places that don't concern you. Take Afghanistan, for instance. You and your friends didn't fare so well. Did you?"

My eyes flickered at what the asshole had just said.

"For instance, Hercules didn't fare too well, did he?"

Bingo!

Gotcha, motherfucker.