Domino by Ivy Black
Chapter Twenty-Six
Domino
Getting into the switch car and back to Blue Rock went smoothly. For once in seemingly forever, everything went according to plan. Just as we drew it up. We should be celebrating, but when we get back to the clubhouse, we find the mood is somber. More than that, it’s bleak. There are a dozen guys sitting inside, silently drinking their beers, none of them saying a word. The atmosphere is heavy. Thick.
“Jesus,” I say. “Who the fuck died?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Monk says.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask.
“Sheriff Singer’s in there with Leadership. It didn’t look good.”
Cosmo cuts me a glance, then breaks away and heads into the Leadership room, sliding the door closed behind him. I look around the room and everybody is looking grim. Angry. Derek walks over and hands me a beer.
“You look like you could use one,” he says.
“Everybody around here looks like they can use something stronger.”
“You ain’t lyin’.”
“Where were you and Cosmo?”
“Had to handle some business.”
I figure right about now, Tarantula and Bala are handling business as well, taking over the leadership of their MC. I’d be surprised if their MC wasn’t thinned out for a while. No doubt, Ortega’s loyalists aren’t going to take kindly to their prez being murdered and will be out looking for blood.
But so long as Tarantula and Bala hold up their end of our bargain, the Warriors won’t even be looking this way. Assuming their coup goes off as planned, anyway. If it doesn’t… I push the thought away, not wanting to think about that right now. Seems like we’ve got bigger fish on our plate to fry at the moment. Those two guys are resourceful and they’re strong. No doubt they’ll be able to slide into the leadership role of their MC. I knock on the table beside me just to be sure.
“How long they been in there?” I ask.
“About forty-five minutes.”
I suppose it’s possible that Singer got word about the shootout and the murder of Ortega and the cartel men, but it doesn’t strike me as likely. For one, it happened well outside the town limits. It’s an unincorporated piece of real estate, meaning there are no cops out there. And even if there were, there’s no reason to think they’d connect it back to us at all. We got in and out clean. There’s no way we left so much as a fingerprint on the scene out there.
Before I can go through everything that happened out there looking for flaws a second time, the door to the Leadership room opens. Singer strides out and stands in the middle of the room, taking us all in. His face is red, and his nostrils are flaring, which is never a good sign. The rest of Leadership follows him out and stands at the front of the room, apparently giving him the floor for the moment.
“I warned you all about bringing this war into my town,” Singer starts. “Well, shit just got real, boys.”
He slams the file in his hand down on the table. One of the guys picks up the file and opens it, looks at what’s inside, his expression darkening with rage. He hands it to the next guy, and it’s not long before the file makes its way around the room. Nobody in Leadership is speaking. They’re obviously all waiting until we’ve seen what Singer brought along for show and tell.
I take the file when it’s handed to me and flip it open. Sitting on top is a color photo of a large man in a Pharaohs kutte. Or at least, part of a large man. In the photo I’m looking at, the corpse is missing its head and hands.
“Jesus Christ. It’s Costco,” I mutter.
Costco’s real name is James Hilton. He’s called Costco because he’s damn near four hundred pounds, and the joke about him being a bulk item started long ago. He was a good guy who was quick to laugh and told the most obscenely inappropriate jokes. He could get an entire room laughing in a matter of moments. I liked Costco a lot, and I’m taking his death pretty fucking hard right now.
I pass the file to Derek and listen to him groan when he sees the picture and turn my attention back to Singer. He’s positively apoplectic as he stands there staring at us. Only when the file’s made its way around the room and we’ve all seen it, and it lands back on the table in front of him, does he speak.
“Look, I know I played my part in all of this. But this shit has got to end. You see now what’s coming. I won’t let my town be turned into a goddamn battlefield, and I sure as hell don’t want any more ten-year-old girls finding headless corpses all over town.”
“And how do you suggest we end this, Sheriff?” I ask. “If you remember correctly, we didn’t start this.”
“But we’re sure as shit going to end it,” somebody says.
Singer rounds on him. “You ain’t going to do anything. All you guys are going to do is make amends somehow. You killed Zavala’s men, so you guys need to sit down with him and figure out what it’s going to take to end this shit.”
“There is no sitting down and talking to a guy like Zavala. Guys like him don’t negotiate. They simply move into an area and spread like a fuckin’ cancer. And right now, he’s got his sights set on Blue Rock. The only way you can deal with a cancer like Zavala is to cut him out,” I say and the guys all mutter their agreement.
Prophet steps up. “The sheriff is right. We need to find a way to end this. Peacefully. Without bloodshed. Or at least, more bloodshed. I assume he killed Costco to avenge the drive-by shooter we put in the morgue. The score’s even. Now, we just need to get in touch and find a way to end this.”
All heads in the room turn to him, surprise on everybody’s faces. Prophet’s been the one banging the drums of war, trying to rally us to nut up and go after these cartel pricks. To hear him doing a complete about-face on the subject is shocking. And it also tells me he’s full of shit and is cooking something up. You don’t go from trying to wage a personal crusade to talks of reconciliation like that. Not when the issue is as personal as this is to Prophet.
But I back off for the moment, waiting to hear what he has to say once Singer leaves. Prophet turns to the sheriff and nods.
“We’ll find a way to end this without any more bloodshed, Sheriff. You’ve got my word,” he says.
Singer doesn’t necessarily look entirely mollified, but he looks like he knows that’s the best he’s going to get, so he nods and storms out of the clubhouse, the door banging into the wall behind it as he flings it open. Nobody moves and nobody speaks until we hear Singer’s SUV fire up and drive away. And once we’re sure he’s gone, Prophet turns back to us, his face contorted with the rage that’s burning inside of him.
“We tried to find a way to end this without more bloodshed before. And Domino’s right, Zavala is not a guy you can negotiate with. He murdered one of our own, and I, for one, am not going to stand by with my thumb up my ass and hope things get better. Fuck, no. I’m going to war. And I want to know who’s with me.”
The guys are banging their bottles on the tables, showing their approval for his declaration. I see a couple of the guys in Leadership are uneasy about it still, but I also see a grim determination in their eyes. They’re not about to let Costco’s death go unchallenged and unanswered. If it wasn’t before, war is now inevitable.
“I’m calling an open vote. Full membership and a simple majority rules. The question is, do we go to war or not,” Prophet calls out. “We’ll leave the vote open until tomorrow at noon.”
Doc comes out with an old ammo box from overseas with a slot cut into the top of it. It’s what we use when we have votes involving the full membership. He lays it in the hands of the statue of Anubis by the door, and we’re all expected to cast a vote before it closes. As I grab a slip of paper and write my answer down on it, my cell phone rings. I slip it out of my pocket, see that it’s Ashley, and connect the call.
“Sorry, I was going to call you as soon as I got back, but I was… sidetracked. I’ll explain it to you later,” I say.
Her voice is panicked, and it sets me on edge immediately. She’s crying and rambling incoherently, and I can’t understand a single thing she’s saying. In the background, I hear a series of loud, hard bangs but can’t figure out what in the hell it is. But with each bang, Ashley grows more frantic.
“Slow down, Ash. What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
“Ryan. He’s here. He’s trying to get in,” she finally manages to spit out. “Help me, Max. Help us.”
“Call Singer. I’m on my way.”
Dropping the phone in my pocket, I start for the door, rage and fear coursing through me in equal measures.
“What’s going on, dude?” Derek calls to me.
“Ash. She’s in trouble. I have to go.”
I dash out of the clubhouse and run for my bike. I hop on and start it up, peeling out of the compound at a reckless speed. Fear is flowing through me completely unabated and I have so many questions. How the fuck Ryan found her being at the top of the list. He’s supposed to be a thousand miles away, and she’s supposed to be untraceable. What in the hell happened?
I’m so caught up in my head, I don’t realize that Derek is on my left and Cosmo’s on my right until they pull up alongside me. There’s no time for me to argue with them about being here, so I just duck my head and give my bike a little more throttle, my fear for Ashley overriding my sense of safety.
Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to Ash’s house and quickly dismount. I grab my sidearm out of my saddlebag and the boys follow suit. We sprint to the gate and push our way through it. My weapon at the ready, we head into the backyard, and when we do, I freeze. It feels like a fist of ice has reached into my chest and is squeezing my heart so tight it might explode.
The door to the guest house is shattered and barely hanging on by the hinges like a tooth that’s ready to come out. Knowing there will be nobody inside, I run into the house, anyway, totally unsurprised that it’s empty. Looking at the destruction that surrounds me, though, it looks like Ashley put up one hell of a fight. But Ryan took her just the same.
Turning around, I run out of the guest house and storm through the back door of the main. We run into the living room to see Missy, Mark, and their kids tied up. When she sees me, Missy’s eyes focus on the weapon in my hands, her eyes growing wide. Mark looks more sanguine about it.
I stuff the weapon into my belt at the small of my back and pull out a small knife. In a matter of moments, I cut through the ties that are binding them. Missy takes the gag out of her mouth and looks at me with fear on her face.
“He took her. That miserable son of a bitch took her,” Missy gasped.
“When?” I demand.
“They left here no more than fifteen minutes ago,” she tells me.
“They were driving a white Nissan Xterra,” Mark offers. “I saw him pull into the driveway. It’s definitely an Xterra.”
“How are we going to find it, man?” Derek asks.
“Cosmo, can you stay with them? Make sure they’re all right?”
He nods. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to call Sheriff Singer and tell him I need his men looking for that Xterra.”
“Yeah, that should go well.”
I make the call knowing Singer could possibly rebuff me outright. I explain the entire situation to him, and he listens quietly. And when he speaks, he surprises me.
“I’ll have my guys keep an eye out for it,” he says. “And as a courtesy to you, and only because it’s got nothin’ to do with this cartel shit, I’ll let you know when we find it.”
“I appreciate that, Sheriff.”
“We’ll settle up later.”
“Fair enough.”
With Cosmo staying with Missy and Mark, it falls to Derek and me having to go bad guy hunting.
