Authors: Amy Love
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
There were at least forty of them in the gathering, and it was definitely Elias' group. He could see the trike parked amongst the other bikes.
The map had to be of El Paso. Why would they be pouring over a map of San Diego, or any place else at midnight, unless they were coming close to their destination and fine tuning their play? So, if the White Wolves were now in force and going over route tactics for El Paso, did that mean Chelsea was in El Paso? Of course it did.
Son of a fucking whore!
This fucked everything up. Chelsea was in El Paso, and the White Wolves were here to pick her up in force. Tomas had no doubt that every one of them was well-armed and licensed. When he got the chance he was going to spit on Stewart's grave. "Yep, weekend-warriors, every man-jack one of them. Fucking asshole."
He didn't care at this point if they recognized him or not during his drive-by. They were going to plan as if he knew exactly where Chelsea was—they'd be stupid not to, and the man he faced down at the Log Cabin was not stupid. So instead of doing something to make himself look harmless, like turning down the frontage road or going to the gas station on the other side of the Interstate, he just crossed the over-pass and went right back down onto the highway, thinking fast and dialing his cell phone.
He told the man on the other end of the line the change in plans, and asked how many men he had available.
"You are talking about a war, mi amigo," the man said. "I'm thinking maybe this is too hot for something that doesn't mean squat to us."
"Fifty grand," Tomas said. He had only a little more than sixty at his house, and the seventy-five available at the other three stash houses.
"Shit." The man chuckled. "That ain't
near
enough for what you'll need to go up against forty some hard asses. Men are going to die. It was one thing when it was five of them, but forty? Please."
Tomas cursed silently. "Alright, one hundred."
The man was silent for a bit. "You got that on you?"
"No, I don't, but I have it in cash back in Houston. Clean bills. I'll pay up as soon as the job is done," he told him.
"When is the job done?" the man asked.
"When Chelsea Shore is dead. That's the only goal. If you got a sniper that can get in position and take her out, fine. I don't care how it is done. But if she reaches Houston, the deal is off," Tomas told him.
This time the silence was longer before he replied. "You have any idea what part of the city we are talking about?"
"It's not that big of a fucking city," Tomas said, feeling the edge of impatience growing inside his skull and throbbing.
"Don't curse at me, amigo, or I'll just hang up the phone and go back to bed. This is not anything like what you called me with earlier. You have no idea where they are going, how they are getting there, how good the men are at what they do, what fire power they brought with them, and you have no fucking money to pay up front with. So, keep your fucking fucks to yourself."
Tomas clenched his teeth.
One more asshole, just one more, and I'll fucking start skinning people, starting with this cocksucker.
"Fine, sorry. I'm a little tense. I wasn't expecting this at all."
"Good, I'm glad we can understand each other and can handle this like civilized people. Now, it sounds like we'll have to pick them up on the freeway and follow them into the city, while staying out of sight until they get where they are going,
while
having enough men close enough to respond as soon as they stop. That sound about right to you?"
"Forty bikers roaring through the city shouldn't be too hard to follow," Tomas offered.
"No, not normally. But they
are
bikers. They know they are easy to follow. I would think they would have a plan for this, don't you?"
The idea that the group would split up and send out red-herrings had
not
crossed Tomas' mind, and he cursed himself for this lack of foresight. With this size of group, they could easily use such a tactic.
Shit!
"So," Tomas asked, "If they break up in to decoy groups, can you handle them?"
"Well, trying to ambush them on the freeway when they are heading back with this Chelsea Shore doesn't sound like a profitable idea for either of us. So, I guess I'm going to have to handle that possibility. Do the White Wolves have a chapter in El Paso? I don't think I have heard of them, but I don't pay much attention to scooter trash. I don't deal with them."
"No," Tomas told him, hoping it was true. If they had sixty or so men available in the city, he was fucked. End of story, next game. "The White Wolves aren't even a real Houston club. They only operate in Northside."
"Well, that is something, at least, but they could have friends here. They could have family here," the man suggested.
There was no sense in arguing that point, so Tomas said, "Yes, they could, but probably not family and friends they want to get involved in something like this. Obviously they understand something of what they are getting into, or they wouldn't have shown up with so many."
"Do they know anything about your operation? Who your partners are? Is it possible they know about
my
operation?"
Tomas didn't like these questions. They were blowing holes in his chance to catch Chelsea. They were also going to let this man know just how fucked up his world had become over the last week. But, lying at this point was not a wise choice either. He needed this asshole. There was no time to find someone else with the same or better resources of men and firepower. "They don't know anything about you. That I'm sure of, because until earlier this evening,
I
didn't know anything about you. And what I know about you at this point isn't even a whole lot. I'm basing everything on the recommendation of someone else and your reputation with him."
"This seems reasonable logic to me," the man said. "But what about
your
operation? What do they know about that?"
"Enough to know that I have resources in cash, men, firepower and several dirty cops I can bring down a sh… I can bring to their door," Tomas told him.
Silence.
After a period of silence so long that Tomas began wondering if they lost their connection, the man said, "I guess what I'm really asking is, how possible is it that this whole thing is… what did you call it? Oh yes, a decoy. Is Chelsea Shore really in El Paso? Or did they just get you out of Houston for a night so they can raid your… resources. See, I want to get paid. So, if Chelsea Shore is not in El Paso at all, then how am I going to get paid? What information do you have that she is really here? You said that my payment depends on her death. I cannot kill someone who is not here."
Son of a fucking bitch, the fucking beaner is right!
Tomas screamed in his head, and his instincts were sending warning signals up so fast his balls felt like they were in a vice. Why the fuck would Chelsea stop in El Paso? It made no sense—no sense at all. There was, what, eighty more members of the White Wolves? What were the rest of them doing back in Houston right now?
He thought of his raided stashes, and the answer became violently clear.
Fuck!
He shook himself and then calmly said, "You ask too many questions amigo. I guess I'll take care of this back in Houston where I have people I can work with."
Silence, and then, "As you wish." Then the man broke the connection.
Tomas pulled to the side of the road and hammered his fists against the dashboard of his Chevy Nova. "Fuck!"
He was completely screwed now. They had to know he was on their trail because of that stupid fucking wet-back Juan getting caught. Elias would know that he would be the one to be expected to go for Chelsea. This could be a decoy run, just to get him out of town, or this could be a decoy pickup so that he didn't notice that a small group broke off and went for Chelsea in San Diego, because that's where she was—San Diego. Every fiber of his being told him that's where she was.
Leaning back he looked at the black ceiling of his car and tried to calm down.
"Alright," he said to himself. "This is a decoy. She is
not
, no fucking way, in El Paso. So I just saved a shit load of money and time. But what is their play, and how do I salvage mine?"
Reaching over to the glove box he pulled out a pack of Camels, rolled down the window, and lit one up. After taking in the harsh blue smoke, he blew it out in a long deep exhale and let his mind go blank.
Fifteen minutes later he watched the pack of bikers fly pass him, running down the freeway, the trike coming up at the rear.
He looked at the trike, and then sat forward. "Follow the trike," he said to himself. "That's how I weed through whatever decoys they have. That trike is going to Chelsea. All those men have one thing in common—they are tough, trained badasses except for the mechanic, who is old, thin, and rides as stupidass fucking trike. He's got personal reasons for being out here, and he wants to see Chelsea."
Tomas smiled, put the Nova in gear, and pulled onto the empty freeway, tossing the cigarette out the window as he picked up speed.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Tailing is a skill—a skill Tomas understood. He was better at tailing than he was at anything else. Luckily, he knew El Paso. He spent a couple of years here in his teens with his drunk bitch of a mother before he left the whore and drove to Houston, never looking back. So he knew parallel streets and places to duck into. He followed like a ghost, through the city and down into a residential area. By this time the pack was broken completely up, the trike was all alone. He was tempted to take the old man now. Just pull him over, and force him into the truck of his car at gunpoint.
He had nearly convinced himself to do this when two bikes came in off of a side street and fell in with the trike. The moment was gone. Not to worry, though—it wasn't really a missed opportunity, just a thought. A passing thought.
More bikes fell in with the small group. The pack was reforming. There were thirty of them in the group with the trike when they pulled into an apartment complex. Not liking the looks of that, Tomas pulled to the side of the road, blending in with the other parked cars. As luck would have it, the group stopped where he could see them.
The men got off their rides and began taking up positions of defense. Tomas watched and recognized the tactic for what it was. They were getting ready to bring someone out of an apartment. They were getting ready to be hit, hard. Guns began appearing in hands.
Could he have been wrong? Was Chelsea really here? No, no, Chelsea is not here, just stick with the trike and keep cool, he told himself. This is the decoy, and he had to admit, it was a very convincing decoy.
Minutes passed. No one made a move for any of the apartments. Riders continued to come into the complex parking lot, in twos and threes. After another ten minutes passed, most, if not all, of the White Wolves were accounted for in that lot.
Then, after another five incredibly long minutes, a short, black limo came slowly down the street, and then turned into the parking lot. The limo pulled up, and the bikers went on high alert. Six of them left the main body heading straight for an apartment door.
The doors of the limo opened and two large men got out. One was riding shotgun, the other riding in the back. The driver remained where he was.
As the six men going to the door reached it, six bikes started up and pulled out of the parking lot, fanning out, and heading back into the city. He watched them go, while keeping an eye on the six at the door. "This is
too
convincing," he murmured.
The door opened, and a redhead was there. She looked out at the bikers and then allowed the six men to come inside.
Two more engines started up, and Tomas' eyes shifted in that direction. These riders came out of the lot, but then parked on each side of the entry drive, with the men on them scanning the road. Tomas slid down his seat so as not to be seen.
The six who left before had to be some kind of outrider guard—group of riders to come in from behind an assaulting group. These two, the ones on each side of the entrance, were first defense and warning men. They would probably fire at anything that twitched suspiciously, warning the others that trouble had arrived.
Sure enough, both men remained on their bikes but pulled out their guns, checked them, and continued to scan the neighborhood.
Tomas waited, refocusing his attention on the apartment door. After another long minute or so, the door opened, and two men came out, guns drawn and looking for trouble. Once they were convinced that no trouble existed, one of them motioned with his hand and a smaller person came out of the door, followed by the other four men. The smaller person was in a black heavy jacket, baseball cap, and sunglasses. It was only when she got to the limo and turned back to the apartment to wave that he saw the blond pony-tail.
"Well fuck me," Tomas said.
The woman—Chelsea—got into the back of the limo, and one of the men followed her inside. Another got into the shotgun seat. The doors closed. Riders ran for their bikes. Engines started up. The limo began backing up. Pairs and trios of bikes pulled out of the lot, driving past the slow moving limo, and fanning out into the city.
Then the trike was one of them.
"Shit!" Tomas growled.
Chelsea was in the limo, but the trike was leaving ahead of her. He couldn't stay with both. He had to decide. The trike pulled out of the lot with two other riders, and headed toward the main drag. There was a freeway on-ramp in that direction. He had to decide. Limo, or trike.
"Fuck me running!"
His gut screamed at him that Chelsea was not, could not,
would
not be in El Paso. She was hundreds of miles West of here, and if he didn't follow that damn fucking trike now, he was going to lose them!
He started the Nova, then hesitated. The trike turned the corner, and went out of sight. The limo reached the street, its blinker indicating that it was turning in the other direction, with bikes in front and back. Another group broke off and gunned down the road past Tomas, taking a third option out of the area.
Tomas made his decision, and pressed the gas petal, bringing the Nova out of his spot, and took off after the trike, while screaming in his head that this had better be right.