I slow my steps and place my back against the wall. Sidling towards the back entrance, which no longer has a door. I take the gun out of the shoulder holster and listen before taking a few steps closer to the entrance.
“Who the fuck are you? What do you want?” I hear snarled.
Which is followed by Hot Rod’s voice. “I’m your worst nightmare.”
A shot is fired, and I rush into the building, but stop when I see Hot Rod already has the asshole on the ground, on his stomach. He hogties him like a steer in ten seconds flat.
“Hey, Hot Rod I reckon we should enter you in one of those cow-chasing and tying things at the rodeo.”
“Shut the fuck up, Finger. This motherfucker tried to shoot me. Good thing he’s a useless turd.” Hot Rod is smirking, and I chuckle because I can imagine he’d really rip this fucker a new one if he’d actually shot him for real.
“I’ll go get the van. Then we’ll drive his piece of shit into the middle of the warehouse and torch it,” I stop speaking when the weasel panics and lets it slip what is in the vehicle.
“No, you can’t do that. I have my supplies in there to get to the kids...”
He must realize what he has revealed as he snaps his mouth closed so fast it’s a wonder he hasn’t bitten off his own tongue. I look at Hot Rod, and he looks back at me. Yeah, we both heard him.
An hour later the warehouse is on fire and the engines are out in force to put out the blaze. Shame the building stored flammable stock at one time! The drugs went up in flames with the vehicle, so not a kid in town will suffer because of that stash.
We drag Byron into the shed, all taped up so he can’t make a noise, and chain him down to the chair, which is the same one Snake died in. Yeah, all bad boys end up here I’m thinking.
Tracker, Cap, Rides, and Scalpel step inside the shed. Both I and Hot Rod step away, giving Pres and the other officers a chance to look at the idiot.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Byron Briggs. The big drug dealer who sells to young boys and girls to make himself feel important.” Tracker turns to look at me. “Did you bring some with you?”
“We sure did, Pres.” I take a small packet out of my back pocket with multicolored pills inside. Nobody misses the wide-eyed, panicked look that Byron gives the bag.
“Well, these are pretty aren’t they, Cap?” Pres asks, waving the bag in front of Cap’s face.
“Sure are, Pres,” Cap replies straight-faced.
Byron can’t speak as he has his mouth full of an oily rag that Hot Rod found in the back of the van and stuffed it in and taped it, before I could suggest anything different. Hey, it is what it is, and he deserves all he gets.
Hot Rod's phone buzzes and taking it out of his pocket he reads a message. “You piece of shit,” Hot Rod loses it, something I’ve never witnessed. We’ve all seen him lose his temper, but never like this. The punch hits Byron so hard it’s a wonder it didn’t break his neck. “He’s dead. The drugs you sold to the young kid were too strong. He inadvertently overdosed because of it. He was going to be a doctor and wanted to experience what it felt like, so when he treated an addict, he would understand some of what they were feeling. Now he is dead because of you.”
Cap rushes forward on Tracker's hand signal and stops Hot Rod from killing Byron. I mean at this time, because he is going to die here, and he’s going to wish for it by the time we are done with him.
Tracker rubs his hands together as he steps closer to Byron. “You are going to tell me everything I want to know. You are going to talk fast, and with no bullshit. If you do that, I’ll give you a clean death. If you fuck with me, I’ll make your death so prolonged you’ll beg for it.”
Three hours later, we know Maddog is living in a five-bedroom place on what is nicknamed Millionaire’s Row. It’s a pun basically, as millionaires don’t live there. The scum of theearth lives there. The place is ready to fall down, and a powerful storm will probably do that.
Byron is wasted on his own pills, which we literally pushed down his throat. He is so spaced out that he has given us exactly what we wanted. The torture was more than we needed, but it was fun to make this fucker suffer.
Tracker wipes his hands on an old towel that Scalpel hands to him. “Okay brothers, he has no fingers, no toes, knee-capped, elbows broken, and shoulders dislocated. Anyone want to do the honors?”
It’s like something out of a movie when everyone of us except Pres takes out our weapons and shoots the fucker. Even Scalpel shot him, and that’s saying something when he’s been a medic for years.
Stripping off our paper coveralls, which cover our feet too, we throw them into the can outside the shed. They will all be burned once the prospects and Scalpel, who offered to assist, have gotten Byron into the acid bath.
Tracker snarls, “Tomorrow we go after the other fucker, Maddog, grab him and bring him here. He’s going to regret what he’s done.”
Jeremy walked around the clubhouse. He looked at every room, wrote a copious amount of notes, which he did all the while mumbling to himself. He asked questions regarding our ideas for a sauna, gym, and swimming pool. He walked outside the back of the clubhouse and pointed out an area that would be great as an open-air dining area, where a grill, pizza oven, and the like could be built.
“It would make a nice meeting place in the summer. Eat, drink, and enjoy a game of cards or suchlike,” Jeremy suggests as I step closer to hear more of what he is saying to Demon.
“Question, Jeremy?” I say as I get nearer to both him and Demon. I’ve been following them both around for well over an hour, and I’m ready to ask about building my house at this point.
“Okay, Finger, what’s the question?” I can tell Jeremy is going to be a fun guy once you get to know him by the way he replies.