Redemption Road (Vicious Cycle #2)(12)
Nero, a scrappy Italian originally from Jersey, had stepped forward to be our explosives expert. With his bottlecap-thick glasses, he looked more like a tech nerd than a tough biker. But any doubt I had in his abilities faded the first time he showed us a test run of one of his homemade bombs. I knew then he was truly an asset to have along.
“He stays with the vans,” Chulo said, pointing to Breakneck.
Even in the darkness, I could see Breakneck’s fists clenching at his sides. “I’m going to find my daughter.”
“You won’t be any help to her if you get your ass shot,” Chulo challenged.
I placed my hand on Breakneck’s shoulder. “It’s for the best if you stay here. If this goes bad, we’re all going to need you in one piece, not just Sarah.”
“Fuck,” Breakneck muttered under his breath. After a few tense seconds, he nodded and then slipped back into the van.
Once we checked our weapons and were ready, Chulo ordered, “All right. Let’s go.”
As I ran across the rugged desert terrain, it brought back memories of my one tour in Afghanistan. Just out of high school, I had signed on for a two-year term in the army. It was the shortest one I could do where I actually got out of town, but I would still not be gone long from the Raiders. It wasn’t so much a great sense of patriotism or that I felt I needed molding into a man as it was about getting money for school. Of course, in the end, I got only a two-year degree at the local technical college before Preacher Man was on me to step up and take more responsibility in the club.
As far as suffering from PTSD, the lifestyle I had known before I went into service had prepared me to deal with the horrors of war. That said, it didn’t mean I didn’t occasionally have a nightmare that brought me shouting up off the bed in a sweaty mess. In the end, the nightmares were just a few more to add to an ever-increasing pile. I was pretty sure any shrink who ever got a look inside my f*cked-up head would make a run for it.
Just ahead of us was the row of tightly woven shrubbery that sat about twenty feet from the front gate. After seeing it on a map, Chulo had decided it would be our rendezvous point. Once we were all accounted for, Chulo radioed the weapons van. As I gripped my assault rifle tighter, I tried to still the erratic beating of my heart. Adrenaline had it pumping overtime. There was nothing left to do now but wait for the van to arrive and for the explosives to truly set our plan in motion.
When the van came into view, I drew in a sharp breath. Just as it got to the line of shrubbery, the driver’s side door was thrown open and one of the El Paso Raiders jumped out. The van’s gas pedal was rigged to keep accelerating. Just as it was about to hit the gate, gunfire broke out, riddling the hood with bullet holes. But it was all in vain. The moment it smashed into the steel, the van exploded in an orange ball of fire, taking out a section of the gate.
“Now!” Chulo shouted.
I sprang out from behind the shrubbery to get behind Ranger. With his gun cocked, he kicked down another part of the gate that was hanging precariously by one hinge. As it collapsed, he motioned us to follow him. The moment I entered Mendoza’s courtyard, I felt like I had been transported back into the service. Everything seemed executed with military precision.
Immediately gunfire rained down on us. Crouching, we returned fire until we took out the two targets and the only sound in the compound was the bellowing alarm.
“Go on. I’ll cover you guys,” Ranger said.
“Rev, you, Nero, and Snake take the house,” Chulo ordered.
“Okay.”
“We’ll take the back bunker,” Chulo said, nodding at Bishop and two others.
With Nero and Snake at my side, we hurried across the courtyard. When we got to the veranda, gunshots went off behind us. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Ranger taking out three men who were rushing toward him. I had no idea how, with those odds, the f*cker managed not to get hit.
Using brute force, Snake kicked in the front door while Nero and I covered him. When we met no opposition, we headed into the foyer. With its marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and expensive art, it was evident what drug money could buy, and Mendoza certainly enjoyed the finer things in life. Nero cleared his throat, then said, “Okay, how about I make a sweep of the front. Rev, you take the hallway and bedrooms, and Snake, you take the middle.”
“Sounds good,” I replied.
I advanced out of the foyer and past the living room. When I started down the hallway and came around the corner, a hail of gunfire met me. I ducked into an open bedroom. In the darkness, I took a knife out of my belt. Pressing myself against the wall, I listened to the sound of boots clomping down the hallway. As the gunman entered the doorway, I plunged the knife into his chest. The hit momentarily disabled him. Grabbing him by the shoulders, I shoved him against the wall and wrestled away control of his weapon.
“Where is the American woman?” I demanded.
“Fuck. You.”
Pressing my knife against his throat, I growled, “The gringa with red hair. Where is she?”
When he shook his head defiantly, the seething anger racing through me reached a volatile point—one where I no longer saw reason. Since he was of no use to me, I plunged the knife into the man’s throat. After severing his artery, I released him, letting him drop to the floor.
Sputtering and convulsing, he began to bleed out over the white marble floor. As I stared down at the man in disgust, rage filled me. Although I should have reined myself in, I couldn’t stop myself from kicking him over and over again in the gut and groin.