Havoc (Los Desperados MC)
Read Havoc (Los Desperados MC) Online
Authors: Kara Parker
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
Havoc copyright @ 2016 by Kara Parker. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For as long as she can remember, Kara Parker has been fascinated by old westerns and the thrill of the open road. Irresistible rogues, seductive heroines, and explosive plots are things she loves reading and writing about.
When she’s not writing her next book, Kara can be found tending her backyard garden and playing with her two kids.
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The “old ladies” at the club always ask me if I’m afraid to be out driving on my own and I’m never quite sure how to answer them. It’s funny, most of them aren’t old at all, some are even younger than me, but age doesn't make you an old lady. Old ladies aren’t real members; they don’t do any real work in the club. The old ladies don’t get on bikes and ride out looking for trouble, they don’t sneak past the border, they don’t drive big-rigs filled with millions of dollars’ worth of stolen handbags and jewelry down the LA freeway. The old ladies are the girlfriends and the wives and the sidepieces. Their boyfriends and husbands go out every day and work for the club. They get passed and traded around and they just light another cigarette, snort another line, and live another miserable day, not even bothering to hope for better. Most of them are sad and lonely and arrive at The Bandits’ clubhouse only because they have nowhere else to go. Hell, that’s how I first got in.
But that’s not me. I gave the old lady business up years ago. It’s true; I was an old lady to my crappy ex-boyfriend. He was the one who brought me in to the biker game, and he’s the one who told The Bandits they could trust me. It was a hot Thursday night and I was all of nineteen when he brought me into the gang’s clubhouse. We stood before a dozen bikers armed to the teeth and he threw his arm around my shoulder and told everyone I was Daniela, and I was his.
I was offered all the booze I could drink and all the drugs I could snort, like that alone was supposed to be enough for me. But I hated it. I hated being told to hush and remember my place. I hated being ignored when I knew my ideas were far better than any of the other guys’. I hated seeing pimply-faced teenaged boys, who were full members, lord themselves over me and try to boss me around.
So one day I decided enough was enough, no way, no how was I spending my life an old lady. So I got a bike and proved my worth, over and over again. I quit the good-for-nothing, lying, cheating, son-of-a-bitch boyfriend and never even really missed him. I’m driver now. I’m a lead driver and a full member of The Bandits and I’ll smash in the skull of anyone who questions me on it.
But right now, it was two o’clock in the morning and I was by myself driving a semi with millions of dollars’ worth of illegal merchandise in the box and I felt fine, not scared at all. Behind me I was hauling designer watches covered with glittering diamonds, couture purses, sky-high heels by Italian designers, silk ties, gold chains and the list goes on and on. I had watched the boys from the docks load them into the truck, crate after crate of expensive baubles, money piled on top of money. And then the roller door came crashing down locking the goods up and I gave the boys their cut.
“You all alone out here?” one asked, sticking his envelope into his back pocket and then lighting up a cigarette. He looked like he was in his late forties and was balding and overweight. On the warm night, sweat had spread out from his armpits back and chest making a rather gross pattern on his red shirt. It had taken an hour to load the truck, and he had “supervised” the younger boy who had done all of the actual work. He had spent his time muttering at the boy to go faster and be quieter while he stood with his hands on his hips and tried to look intimidating.
“I’m with The Bandits. I’m never alone,” I answered him. My voice had been sweet as pie, but I knew the look I gave him made him nervous. I opened my coat to reveal the two Glocks I kept loaded in their holsters. He had wiped the sweat from his forehead and laughed awkwardly and I didn’t even have to show him the knife I kept strapped to my thigh. It was a shame really; it’s a good knife.
I drove from the docks down the late night LA streets. I passed gangbangers trading paper bags for large wads of cash on the corners. Their buyers were white men in suits who glanced furtively up and down the street as they did their business looking guiltier with every passing second. A few blocks away some blonde starlet in a tight white dress with red stilettos and dark sunglasses had come stumbling out of a club. The paparazzi had been smoking cigarettes and leaning against their cars waiting for her and when she emerged they had jumped to action, filling the night with shouts and flashbulbs.
It was only a few blocks from the drunken starlet to the entrance to the freeway. If I were going to encounter any trouble, it was there on the streets themselves. But nothing had happened; the ride had been smooth and quiet. The old semi had shuddered a little bit on the incline to the freeway, but then she quieted down and settled beneath me and I could finally breathe and relax. I reached down and rolled open the window, letting the warm air flow over me, another job done well. I gave two pulls on the horn as I settled into my speed on the freeway. It was old habit and superstition, a sort of good luck ritual and it hadn’t failed me yet.
All I had to do now was take the truck to the warehouse. My job was to drive like everyone was watching me. I stayed right at the speed limit, I kept a safe distance from the other cars on the road, I used my turn signals, and I came to a complete stop at stop signs. It sounds easy; just follow the rules, drive normally. But it’s easier said than done. There were a lot of stolen goods in this truck, millions of dollars’ worth. If I got caught it’s no slap on the wrist and community service. The value on everything in this truck was enough to get the feds involved. I was looking at at least ten years in a maximum-security federal prison if I got caught. That much money and potential guilt weighs heavy on your shoulders. Bad drivers want to deliver the goods and get them out of their own hands as quickly as possible. They speed and cut corners and get too nervous and then some beat cop pulls them over for running a red light. Next thing they know there’s a flashlight in their eyes and the police are asking them for invoices and paperwork and they’re sweating a lot and the jig is up and the whole thing’s ruined.
But when the old ladies talk about fear, they’re not talking about the cops. The cops have rules they have to follow, laws they must abide. If they caught me, they would arrest me, read me my rights, put me in cuffs, and then give me a lawyer. But the cops and arrests aren’t what the old ladies fear. There is no honor amongst thieves, not out here anyway. The old ladies fear the other criminals who see a lone female driver as an easy target. They were scared of criminals desperate for money with guns and nothing to lose. There were beginner gangs who wanted to get a leg up by stealing another gang’s haul. They were afraid of what would happen to them if a gang of angry, desperate men caught them alone. They knew what fate awaited the driver of the haul if he were a man and it wasn’t pleasant. And if she were a woman...Well, no one ever spoke about it, but we can all easily imagine the horrors.
So the old ladies stayed at home in the club and think themselves safe. They called me crazy for driving the truck out here all by my lonesome late at night. They were simple women; they liked easy answers. They liked to think that they were safe inside the walls of the club, that it was the outside world that was dangerous. But I knew better. All those dangers they imagined would befall them if they were driving the rig, didn’t they understand horrible things could happen at any time? Late night in the club with no one else around, walking home from the store or the bar, they imagined themselves safe, but I knew they weren’t. That was why I’m always armed and always on. Whether I was in the rig or out of it, I was ready for whatever fate decided to hurl at me. That was what makes me good at my job.
I knew every other car on the road with me. There was a black Lexus next to me driven by a teenage boy with his giggling girlfriend in the passenger seat; a green Ford truck filled with landscaping tools and crew; a Red Honda with a dark haired woman yammering away on her cellphone. I watched them and marked them when they entered the freeway and made sure to keep an eye on them until they hit the exit. Being followed was never a good sign and I would need to catch the car early if I was gonna lose a tail. I looked out for any car that might be following from a distance, staying just on the edge of my vision. But it was a quiet night and I saw nothing suspicious as I moved into the left lane, my exit sign lit up like a beacon from heaven.
I was close, almost home. All I had to do was deliver the goods to the warehouse where Big Tom would be waiting. He’d watch the goods get unpacked and he’d check everything off. He’d take his time and make us wait and then when he’s finally done, we’d meet with the rest of the gang and have a few drinks and get drunk off our success. I’d get paid. Then I could go home and sleep and take the next few days off. I planned to drink coffee and get a manicure and relax until the call came in for the next shipment and it was time to go to work again. It wasn’t a bad life I’ve got, not at all.
I thought everything was fine. I thought I was ready for anything that could happen. I wasn’t some size zero, frail little thing that toppled over from a strong gust of wind. I didn’t look like much, just a short girl with curly hair who was about a size twelve, but I’m a demon on the road and I’m as tough as nails and I don’t give up, ever. But as I rode down the exit from the freeway and onto the roads I felt a tingling sensation at the back of my neck. I sensed them before I saw them. But then, one by one, I watched as headlights appeared in my rearview mirror, a sudden light in the darkness illuminating the riders who had been waiting for me. Single headlight, they weren’t cars; they were motorcycles and as they roared loudly to life, well, I would be lying if I told you I wasn’t afraid.
I shifted gears and pushed the gas pedal to the floor as I looked in the mirror at who was coming. I recognized their insignia: Los Desperados. For months we had heard whispers and rumors that the rival gang was planning on messing with our operations. When I heard the noise I shrugged my shoulders and plotted my route. The Bandits and Los Desperados had been enemies as long as anyone could remember. There was always the threat that they could be waiting to jump us. We knew eventually they would go too far and we would have to retaliate. We always knew there would be a war; I just never thought the first shot would be aimed at my head.