Protect (6 page)

And she never kissed him. Yeah, it wasn’t
necessary for him, but she had to be the only broad—other than a
sweetbutt—that didn’t need an hour of foreplay. It was too bad,
actually. Fritter really liked kissing, he always had.

He must have dozed off, because suddenly he
came awake with a jolt as someone kicked his foot. “Fuck!” he
shouted, heart racing like a little bitch.

Knuckles was laughing. “Time to go,
sweetheart. You ready?”

“When am I not?” he muttered, downing the
now-cold coffee.

When his belly was full of a second, warmer
dose of joe, Fritter followed Knuckles out into the sunshine of the
compound just as Mickey was pulling up with the Grainger Garage’s
midnight-blue cargo van.

“Wonder what the shipment is today,” Fritter
said around a yawn.

“At least it’s probably not heavy,” Knuckles
quipped, sliding on his shades.

In one, synchronized formation the Red Rebels
took to the street, Mickey’s van behind Fritter and Knuckles, with
Tank, Buck, and Rusty trailing behind. Mickey stayed close within
town limits, then when the highway was under their tires he eased
off a bit. The sun was warm but the wind cut through his clothes,
keeping him from growing uncomfortable. He checked to his left and
Knuckles was grinning widely, catching Fritter looking and sticking
his tongue out like Gene Simmons.

Another great day for a ride.

Hazeldale wasn’t a long trip away. Within
twenty minutes they were crossing town limits, downshifting as
Mickey pulled up closer again on their rear.

This was so fucking
weird
. They’d all
passed through Hazeldale on a few occasions before—it wasn’t the
other side of the moon. But once the Mad Gypsys had crossed the
Screaming Banshees and the Red Rebels with one ambush the blood had
gone bad. That had only been just over two years ago, or maybe
three. Who could remember? It seemed like they’d had a bad taste
from the Gypsys forever.

Hazeldale was a lot like Markham, just
smaller. Everything branched off the Main Street drag where people
still parked diagonally. As the Rebels rolled by noisily, people
out enjoying the nice day stopped to watch them. Literally froze in
place and stared.

Fritter gulped, shooting Knuckles another
look. He jerked his head to a particular group of blue hairs
outside a grocery store and Knuckles just shrugged.

The long parade of gawking ended at the far
end of Main, and from there they knew it would be a lot more
private. The sign for the airstrip came along not three minutes’
ride once they were up to highway speed again.

Spats Air apparently consisted of two
helicopters and a private jet that was available for rent, plus
they had an airstrip perfect for private charters to land. That was
where their cargo was waiting for them. It wasn’t their place to
question the methods of how the Sachettis conducted business; their
only concern was what they had to do and how much they were getting
paid. The Sachettis gave the Rebels the same leeway; no input on
how to do their job, just the expectation that it was getting
done.

A security checkpoint was a bit of a
surprise, but as they coasted up to the booth the arm went up
without pause, no stopping required. Fritter gave the guard a small
salute as they passed, then he and Knuckles gunned it across the
open tarmac to the only air transport in sight; a small, sleek
private jet. Fritter didn’t know shit about planes, no idea what
kind it was. They were just rolling the stairs up to the side.

Fritter killed his engine along with
Knuckles, stopped a respectful distance. The first person to
approach them was some hired man-meat that he’d seen before, but
he’d never been told the guy’s name. His neck was wider than his
head and his hands looked like full-sized turkeys. That was one big
fucker that Fritter did
not
want to test.

He dropped the kickstand and swung off his
Glide, mirroring Knuckles. The van pulled up behind them and Mickey
climbed out, stretching his arms over his head.

The beefcake thrust his hand out with a
strained smile, like someone told him to be nice or he’d be in
trouble. “Perfect timing,” he said as Knuckles shook then Fritter
did the same. Mickey leaned between them to shake a mammoth hand
then the guy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Just unloading
now.”

“Should I pull up closer?” Mickey asked.
“Wasn’t sure where you wanted the van.”

Big Neck shook his head. “Nah. He can
walk.”

It was like a cartoon. Fritter and Knuckles’
heads spun to face each other, equally confused.

“
He
?” Mickey asked.

Just then the plane door opened, and an
unholy shriek filled the air as a man was all but carried down the
gangway. His hand were tied in front of him, but he literally had
his heels dug in and was making it very difficult for the two
suited goombas on each side of him.

“Wait, we’re aiding and abetting a fucking
kidnapping
?” Mickey snapped as Tank joined their group. Buck
and Rusty kept watch behind their little convoy.

Big Neck looked surprised. “You didn’t
know?”

“Never signed up for human trafficking,” Tank
rumbled, halting but stern. “What the fuck is this?”

Big Neck put up both hands. “Gentleman, this
is the cargo. I thought you knew what was going on. We need him
delivered to the address provided to your tech officer.”

The struggling threesome was drawing closer,
and Fritter could see the cargo’s face was a swollen and bloody
mess. He was still shrieking, too.

“Shit,” Tank spat out, seeing it at the same
time.

“Can we ask what the hell is going to happen
to him?” Knuckles asked, strangely calm.

“No.”

Well, that was helpful.

“Open the van,” Big Neck instructed with a
wave of his hand. “We can’t stand out here all day. We’re scheduled
to take off again in twenty minutes.”

Fritter couldn’t help it, he deferred to Tank
by casting him a questioning and worried look. The big guy was
staring down Big Neck, eye to eye, but then he had to shake his
head. “We signed up, guys. Mickey, open the van.”

“Shit,” Mickey muttered, turning back to the
van and leading the man and his escorts to the side doors.

Fritter realized the guy wasn’t sputtering in
English, it was all Spanish gibberish delivered in absolute panic.
He tried to reach out for Mickey, and a guy didn’t need to be
fluent to know he was begging for his life.

“If he’s going to be yelling the whole way
that’s going to make Mickey nuts,” Fritter said, he wasn’t sure who
to. Probably Knuckles, who nodded his agreement.

Big Neck shouted something in Italian, angry
and sharp, not at all romantic, and one of the guys pulled out a
pistol and cracked the guy in the temple. He crumpled immediately,
and Mickey helped catch him by pure reflex.

“Jesus,” Fritter breathed just as Big Neck
laughed.

“There you go, gentleman, problem solved. Now
get a move on. They expect you inside of an hour.”

They’d
just
make it, but he was right.
They had to go now.

“Mount up,” Tank bellowed, sliding on his
shades and heading for his bike.

“Fuck,” Fritter was chanting as he headed to
his bike.

“Chill,” Knuckles instructed him. “Not our
worry, not our business. Right?”

He let out a long breath as he straddled his
bike, then started his motor. He watched the three goons return to
the plane, laughing and back-slapping the whole way. He had such a
knot in his stomach, but he had no idea why: delivering a guy to
undoubtedly be killed, or apprehension that something bad was about
to happen.

The two feelings often felt exactly the
same.

Knuckles led the U-turn back to the security
check point, Fritter followed. The van trailed them close, and he
tried to tamp down the unease that was making his gut roll.

Just a delivery, just a delivery, just a
simple living, breathing, fucking delivery.

On the highway it was easier to force his
focus. They headed north towards Bakersfield, luckily with no towns
between Hazeldale and their destination.

Miles flew by, the air doing a decent job of
scrubbing his nerves. No problem. Short delivery, fifty grand split
six ways. And no heavy lifting.

He nearly laughed remembering Knuckles
comment about the cargo not being heavy. And the dude
was
kind of skinny.

The van honking brought him out of his
thoughts. As he quickly checked over his shoulder he heard the
squealing of tires, and from nowhere four sport bikes roared into
formation behind them.

“What the fuck?” he was shouting, but no one
would hear it. Mickey was pulling to a stop as the bikes continued
up behind Fritter and Knuckles, and he heard the popping of gunfire
somewhere behind Mickey.

Out of instinct he hit his brakes, and there
was more squealing rubber as two of the riders behind him swerved
to avoid collision. He was already reaching into his waistband,
pulling his Glock free as the strange biker to his right was
bringing his arm up. There was a muzzle flash but Fritter was
already firing. The fucker all but flew off his bike as a round
proved a motorcycle helmet’s visor was no match for a .22 caliber
bullet. The bike thankfully caught the sand on the side of the
highway and rolled off into the ditch, effectively crushing its
operator underneath.

To his left he saw only Knuckles, rolling
slow like him now, making a circle in the air with one finger. He
nodded and then pulled a U-Turn. Two of the riders behind them were
approaching slowly, but as they about-faced he heard them rev their
engines and they both shot ahead.

Fritter and Knuckles each had a handgun out,
but Fritter waited. Mickey was on the other side of their
attackers, and friendly fire would really fucking suck. Then
they
were under fire and there was no room for debate.

Fire tore along his shooting arm, but he
ignored it and managed to somewhat aim before delivering one round
into the front tire of the bike directly in front of him. The rider
fought for balance, dropping his weapon as he tried to gain control
with both hands. He lost that fight, the bike sliding sideways
behind him, taking out the fellow next to him like bowling pins.
The bikes were still skidding.

“Fuck!” Fritter was shouting, breaking hard
enough he felt the force nearly throw him over his handlebars. It
would
have if he hadn’t braced for it. His back end slid
right a bit, and he put a foot down to keep from dumping as he came
to a stop.

There were more gunshots behind the van.
There was no way to know what the hell was going on. As Knuckles
pulled to a stop next to him they shared a look, dropped their
kickstands and dismounted in a fucking hurry.

The van’s driver door was open. Knuckles
headed that way, pausing in front of the van where he had some
cover. He tried to see through the driver’s door window but the
vehicle was blocking everything.

Knuckles was in front of the opposite head
light. With a wild whoop the crazy fucker was off, running along
the passenger side like a man with a death wish.

“You fucking nut job,” Fritter muttered,
starting up the other side much quicker, shoving the door shut as
he went. He had his Glock pointed downward, sidestepping the whole
way to present a smaller target.

The world was very sharp, very bright and
vibrant. His breathing and pulse were eerily regular, but he could
feel the sweat under his arms running down his ribs. The only sign
he was fucking terrified.

He heard the footsteps a split second before
the shadowy form appeared at the ass end of the van. It took
surprisingly little time to realize it wasn’t anyone he recognized,
and calm as you please he brought his arms up and fired off a
single round that caught the guy in the arm holding a fucking Uzi.
The second shot, delivered a half second later, took off the side
of his head and he topped over.

“Holy shit! Fritter, you okay?”

He let his body sway against the van, back
flattening on the panel. He caught his breath, shooting arm hanging
down loosely. His free hand he clasped on his elbow, feeling the
warm wet that wasn’t sweat.

He didn’t want to look. He fucking hated
bleeding.

“Hey, hey, stay with us there buddy.”

Fritter opened one eye with a chuckle. “I’m
alright,” he assured Tank, letting the big guy take the Glock from
him. “Is everyone whole?”

“You bet. You’re the only one hurt.”

“That’s hardly fair.”

Tank chuckled, then he heard ripping, opening
both eyes this time. Tank had torn the sleeve off his flannel
shirt, and as Fritter watched he tied off his arm above a spot that
was really starting to fucking sting.

“Thanks big guy,” he mumbled. “What do we do
now?”

“They shot out two van tires,” Tank mumbled,
shoving the Glock down the front of Fritter’s pants. “Mickey’s
calling Jolene. Getting her to report the van stolen.”

“Shit,” Fritter muttered. “What about the
dude?”

Tank’s mouth set in a grim line as a gunshot
rang out, kind of behind Fritter but not quite. He jumped about two
feet, heart hammering and that sick feeling returning. “Shit,
really?”

“Only way, man. Knuckles is using one of
their weapons, Sachetti won’t know the difference. It can look like
it was a stolen van, kidnapping, then this guy’s buddies came to
get him back. Works for law that way.”

“Who were these guys?” he asked. “They were
on fucking crotch rockets. And they were shit riders.”

Tank shook his head. “No idea. Not sticking
around to check IDs. We’re outta here. Five minutes ago.”

Fritter nodded.

“You okay to ride?”

“Yeah. What about Mickey?”

“He’ll have to ride bitch. That might draw
some attention but I want to get gone. No time to wait around.
You’re sure about this arm?”