Domino by Ivy Black
Chapter Twenty
Domino
“So? Did you seal the deal or not, Romeo?” Derek teases.
“A gentleman does not kiss and tell.”
“Yeah, well, you’re no gentleman,” he fires back.
“Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you go get a girlfriend of your own and stop pestering me about my love life?”
“Oh, listen to you. Calling her your girlfriend already,” Derek chirps.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know—nah, you know what? Kiss my ass.”
We both laugh. We’re in the garage in the compound and we’re both giving our bikes a tune-up. We’ve got a run coming up and I want to make sure it’s in peak shape. I also don’t want to hang out in the clubhouse right now. After the drive-by, the tension has been off the charts and I’m feeling too good to let it drag me down. Something’s coming and there’s nothing I can do until the hammer drops. So, I’ve resolved that until then, I’m just going to enjoy life and enjoy my time with Ashley.
Derek looks over at me, an inscrutable expression on his face. “You’re really into this chick, aren’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“For one thing, every time I bring her up, you get this weird little look on your face and you always change the subject.”
“Maybe I just don’t feel like sharing all the details of my life with you.”
Derek shrugs. “It’s possible. It would be a first, since I usually can’t get you to shut up, but it’s possible. That still doesn’t account for that weird expression on your face anytime I mention Ashley’s name.”
“I don’t get a weird expression. You’re so full of shit.”
“I’m not, actually.”
“He’s right. You do get a weird look on your face.”
Derek flashes me a triumphant smile as I turn to see Cosmo standing behind us.
“Et tu, Brute?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Just callin’ it like I see it, kid.”
“Yeah, whatever. The both of you can kiss my ass.”
They share a laugh as I finish tightening the plugs on my bike. After that, I start to wipe down the chrome, pointedly ignoring both of them.
“Need to talk to you, Domino,” Cosmo says, his voice suddenly grim.
Derek looks at me with a raised eyebrow but says nothing, turning back to his bike instead. Wiping my hands on the rag I’m holding, I walk out of the garage with Cosmo and follow as he leads me off to the side of the compound near the barbecue pits. He reaches into the cooler that’s been a permanent fixture there as long as I can remember and fishes out a couple of bottles of water, handing one over to me.
We both take a seat on the top of the picnic table, looking out over the compound. Cosmo says nothing but looks pensive as I twist the top off and take a long swallow of the water. My curiosity is definitely piqued.
“There’s some things going down around here and we’re trying to keep it quiet. Only involving a few, just to protect operational security and everybody’s safety,” Cosmo finally says.
“Yeah, I got that. But what do you mean operational security?”
He frowns and looks down at the bottle in his hands. “I’m going to let you in on what’s going on, but I need your word that this goes no further. Not to Derek. Not to Ashley. Nobody.”
“You’ve got my word.”
He nods and takes a swallow of his water before turning to me. “Bala and Tarantula have been feeding us intel about the cartel’s movements. That’s why he was here the other day. He was giving us some intel about a Zavala shipment coming up through the Central Valley. Ever since the shootout with them, Zavala’s been determined to make this area his and to take us out in the process. So, he’s flooding the area with his drugs... and his sicarios.”
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“Yeah. So, me, Prophet, and a few others in Leadership have been running covert ops. We’ve been hitting their convoys and burning the product. We’re not going to let that shit get anywhere near Blue Rock,” he says.
“That’s why things have been so tense lately, huh?”
He nods. “Yeah. It’s getting pretty hairy out there. Anyway, Tarantula’s going to make a move on the Warriors’ club prez—Victor Ortega. Turns out, he’s a good friend of Zavala’s, and they’re working together to wipe us out and establish their drug empire here. Ortega’s moving behind the scenes, of course. He doesn’t have the balls to take us head on, so he’s working through Zavala to get it done. Miserable fucking prick.”
I pull a face as I think back to what Bala told me the other day. That he, Tarantula, and some of the others within the Warriors’ rank and file are taking exception to the open alliance with Zavala and his cartel. I’ve got nothing but respect for their stand against working with people who openly traffic children, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to help Tarantula and Bala take Ortega out and flip their MC on its head. At least I can feel better about working with the Warriors after that, knowing their leadership has some sense of morality.
Cosmo’s face is pinched and drawn, and I can see the toll all of this has been taking on him. He’s got a family to think about, and I can only imagine that running ops against a cartel, knowing they could retaliate by taking out his family, has to be excruciating for him.
“Why are you telling me all of this?” I ask.
“I’m not going to lie to you, kid. We’ve got an op coming up where your skill set would come in real handy,” he says.
I take another long swallow, draining the small water bottle, then toss it into the trash can beside the table, my emotions whipping back and forth through me violently. On the one hand, life is really good right now and the last thing I want is to be drawn into a war with a cartel. That’s going to be messy, to say the least. We’ve already been shot up once, and the chances are pretty high that things are going to get a lot worse than that before they get better.
On the other hand, though, these guys are my brothers. I haven’t been closer to anybody since I rotated out of the Corps. They took me in and gave me a home when I had nothing and nobody. The good in my life right now has as much to do with them and my place here among the Pharaohs as anything else. How can I turn my back on them when shit’s going down and they need my help? What kind of a brother would I be if I did that? What kind of a man would I be?
“This is all strictly voluntary, kid,” Cosmo says. “There is absolutely no pressure for you to throw in on this op, and nobody’s going to think of you any different. You’ve got our word on that.”
“What’s the op?” I ask.
“We’re going to hit one of their supply trucks. But Bala sent word that Ortega himself is going to be there, too.”
“So, we’re helping Tarantula and Bala flip their MC’s leadership.”
He nods. “Yeah, pretty much. With a friend in the Warriors, it not only cuts Zavala out of the Central Valley, but it helps keep Blue Rock safe and free of the cartel drugs. We want to do this long range so that we have plausible deniability, and to do that—”
“You need a sniper who’s comfortable shooting long range,” I finish for him.
He purses his lips but nods. “Yeah. That’s pretty much the score.”
A wry chuckle passes my lips. I’m the only one in the club that’s got experience as a long-range sniper. There’s an art, as much as a science, to hitting a target at a distance. Some people have it, some don’t. Anybody in Leadership can pick up a rifle and take the shot, of course, but there isn’t anybody who’s guaranteed to score a hit. They know it every bit as well as I do.
And if they take a crack at Ortega, there is no room for error. Like that old saying goes, if you come at the king, you’d better not miss. In this case, if we miss, Ortega will rally his men, including Zavala’s sicarios, and wage a war that will be nasty. But if we take him off the board, we weaken the enemy and make an all-out war less likely. Or if not less likely, at least it’ll be a war that’s not going to be fought on two fronts. We won’t have the sicarios and the Warriors coming at us. It’s not much in the way of comfort, but it’s something.
I look over at Cosmo. “But no pressure or anything, right?”
His expression is serious. “If you can’t do it, we’ll find another way, kid. I’m shootin’ straight when I tell you there’s no pressure.”
“When is the op?”
“The meet with Ortega is supposed to be in a few days. Bala’s going to shoot us the time and location as soon as he can.”
I nod vaguely. “I need to think on it for a minute.”
“Of course.”
“Also, if I do it, I’m going to need the intel as soon as you have it. Like the instant. I’ll need to scout the area and find a suitable nest.”
“You’ll have it as soon as we do,” he says.
I nod. “All right. I need to think on it.”
“Fair enough. Until we know more, why don’t you go spend some time with that sexy little number down at the diner?”
“Why are you all so obsessed with who I’m dating?”
He shrugs. “Because it’s the most interesting thing that doesn’t involve people getting shot going on around here.”
I laugh softly. “That’s probably true.”
I’m just about to jump down from the table when Sheriff Singer’s SUV pulls in through the gate. Cosmo and I exchange a glance, then stand up as he pulls into the middle of the compound and shuts off his engine. Prophet and Doc come out of the clubhouse and walk over as the sheriff gets out of his car. Cosmo and I wander over to see what’s going on, a nervous rippling running through my gut.
“Sheriff,” Prophet greets him.
Singer shakes hands with all of us, then leans against his truck, thumbs hooked through his belt loops, furthering the image of a gunfighter in the Old West, I’ve always had of him.
“You boys doin’ all right out here?” he asks.
All of us exchange looks, nodding, acting as if everything is right in the world, and that there isn’t an army of angry Mexican cartel men looking to murder us.
“Yeah, we’re good,” Prophet replies.
Singer spits a mouthful of tobacco juice in the dirt as his feet, his eyes narrowing as he looks at Prophet, who offers him a smile that looks so wooden, it wouldn’t convince a blind person, let alone somebody as sharp as Singer.
“Thought you gave that shit up, Sheriff?” Prophet says.
He chuckles. “I think dealin’ with you boys has made it a hard habit to break. Just don’t tell Kasey. She’ll have my ass.”
“She won’t hear it from me,” Prophet says.
The air is thick with tension and crackling with the weight of everything not being said right now. This isn’t just a friendly social call. Obviously. Things between us and the sheriff have been better, but we’re probably not on his Christmas card list. There’s a reason for this visit, and I, for one, would like to know what it is.
“So, what can we do for you, Sheriff?” Prophet asks as if reading my mind.
Singer works the tobacco in his mouth as he looks at us again, maybe trying to decide whether or not he’s going to get a straight answer out of any of us. He should know better than that by now.”
“Heard a rumor about y’all runnin’ around in town,” Singer says.
Doc scoffs. “And when did you start listenin’ to rumors, Sheriff?”
He shrugs his wide shoulders. “Normally, I don’t. This one though seemed like somethin’ I needed to check on for myself.”
“All right,” Prophet says. “What’s the rumor?”
Singer spits another mouthful of tobacco juice in the dirt. “Heard there was lots of shootin’ out here the other day.”
Prophet shrugs. “You know we all like to go out back of the compound and do some target shootin’. Probably all it was.”
“Uh-huh,” Singer replies, looking thoroughly unconvinced.
“That same day, there was also an unidentified Mexican man, mid-twenties, dumped at the emergency room doors of St. Mary’s by two also unidentified Mexican men, with a single gunshot wound to the neck. Boy bled out on the pavement right there. Probably just a coincidence though, huh?”
“Seems like it,” Prophet replies.
That’s about the only spot of good news in this shitstorm raining down on us from all sides right now. I’m glad the fucker is dead. But I keep my thoughts to myself since I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t go over to well right now.
“I got a theory,” Singer says. “Want to hear it?”
“Would it stop you if I said no?” Prophet asks.
A wry smirk flickers across Singer’s lips. “Probably not. So, here goes. My theory is that these unidentified Mexicans are tied up with the cartel and judgin’ by those bullet holes in the walls of your compound, they shot your place up. You boys returned fire—self-defense, of course—hit the man in the neck. They drove off and dumped him at the hospital.”
“That’s quite a theory, Sheriff,” Doc says.
“Uh-huh. All it is since nobody’s talkin’ right now.”
“Sure wish we could help you. But things around here have been pretty quiet lately,” Prophet says.
Singer looks closely at each one of us, his steely eyes looking for a tell, something that lets him know that he’s spot on about what went down out here the other day. But nobody so much as bats an eye in his direction. He finally nods and frowns, then spits another wad of juice in the dirt at his feet.
“Look, fellas, I’ll never be able to express my gratitude to y’all for savin’ Kasey from those assholes. I’ll never be able to repay that debt I owe. But I can’t have a war breaking out in town. We can’t put the innocent people here at risk. So, if somethin’s goin’ down, y’all need to tell me so I can take appropriate action.”
“And what would that appropriate action be, Sheriff?” Doc asks.
He shrugs. “I’d likely have to call in the feds. They’re the ones who deal with the cartels. As you so capably demonstrated, we’re not equipped for that shit, boys. We’re a small town and can’t afford to have them big city problems here.”
Prophet cuts a glance at all of us, and in his eyes, I can see him telling us to keep our cool, that he’s got a plan, and that he’s on it. All we need to do is go along with him. Not that any one of us would actually break ranks. That’s not something he’d even have to worry about. Having the feds snooping around here would be bad for all of us because they would inevitably come knocking on our door and given some of the shit we’re mixed up in, we can’t have that.
“Even if that were the case, and your theory is correct—not that I’m saying it is,” Prophet says, “you can trust that we’d never let anything happen to Blue Rock, Sheriff. This is our home, and we’d die to defend it.”
“I know that, Prophet. I know y’all love this town as much as I do. And I know what you have, and would, sacrifice to protect it. But y’all have to know by now those cartel fuckers don’t play by the normal rules. They’ll shoot up the town just for the fun of it. And that can’t happen.”
Prophet nods. “Understood, Sheriff. And I get it. We all get it. Just trust me when I say you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
He scoffs. “From where I’m sittin’, I’ve got a whole shitload to worry about.”
“Not from us. I give you my word.”
Singer takes a moment to look at each of us in turn, one more time. Giving us one more opportunity to come clean about what’s happening. Right now, he knows he has nothing to go to the feds with. No proof of cartel activity, and no proof that we’re involved with them in any way. I can see he’s worried, though. As are we all. Prophet’s right… this is our home, and we’d die to protect it.
We’ve all got a stake in this. Singer knows and understands this. He knows a lot of the guys have families here. Knows that most of us have somebody we care about living in town, and that they, in turn, have those they care about as well. We’re all intricately connected to this town. Tied and tethered to it in a hundred different ways. And he knows that we aren’t about to let anything happen to any one of those people who bind us to it or to the town itself.
“Just don’t go bitin’ off more than you can chew here, fellas. And don’t go doin’ anything stupid that’s going to hurt this town or the people living here,” Singer says. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“Never do, Sheriff.”
“Uh-huh.”
Singer gets back into his truck and gives us all another pointed look before he puts it into gear and drives off. Prophet and Doc walk back to the clubhouse without a word to us, but Cosmo looks at me.
“Keep your head on a swivel, kid. Let me know what you decide.”
I nod as he turns and heads for the clubhouse himself. This thing feels like it’s starting to spiral out of control, and I know that if I say yes, I could help. Taking Ortega off the board isn’t going to stop things entirely, but it might help limit the damage the incoming shitstorm is going to cause. And if I don’t, I’ll be inadvertently helping that damage spread wider and the bodies to pile up.
“Yeah, no pressure at all.”
