Move the Sun (Signal Bend #1)(8)
The town had lost its police department in the early 1990s, when another national fiscal crisis had taken a toll. They were miles away from the nearest substation of the Crawford County Sheriff’s Office. Isaac’s father had led the club in those days, and, rather than watch the town and its environs descend into some kind of pioneer-days lawlessness, Big Ike had seen a way to keep order and make a buck. The Horde had become the town security, taking a monthly sum from local businesses for the promise of protection and a guarantee to fix the damage from what it could not prevent.
They were effective deterrents to crime. So effective, in fact, that Crawford County never saw a need to bring a substation within reasonable distance of Signal Bend, and the club maintained a cordial and very healthy relationship with Sheriff Keith Tyler, who took his cut of the meth profits and stayed out of the way.
The Horde also occasionally did custom bike work. That, though, earned, at best, a low five figures in a year.
The clubhouse showed its history as a rural construction company. The building was long, low, and serviceable, built mainly of cinderblock and surrounded by a large gravel lot that had once held heavy equipment. The property was ringed by an eight-foot, chain-link fence with privacy slats. Normally, though, the huge double gates were left open. There had been no need to lockdown for going on five years. They had beefs with crews in St. Louis and East St. Louis, but that trouble went down on the away field. It stayed out of Signal Bend.
Isaac was damn proud of that.
It’s why he was het up now. Something wrong was going down if Jimmy and Meg Sullivan, cookers extraordinaire, were walking around Signal Bend armed at all, much less bringing that shit into Tuck’s. And the dynamics of the fight were puzzling: Jimmy and Don Keyes first. Don had nothing to do with the trade, though he had a deep connection with the Horde. But then the shift to Will, who was just a farmer—and Isaac’s oldest friend. Good friends with Jimmy, too. Isaac had no f*cking clue what that scene was all about. But he wasn’t going home until he knew.
Neither were the Sullivans. He went into the clubhouse.
The Horde were lined up at the bar or sitting at tables nearby. Rover, their Prospect, was pouring whiskey. And there were girls. Always seemed to be girls around. The Horde was the only MC for miles, and lots of farmers’ daughters managed to find the coin to tart themselves up and drive themselves out for a chance for a tumble with a biker. Hence the long row of dorm rooms at the back of the clubhouse. That, and space to entertain the occasional visiting brother. The Night Horde wasn’t part of a large charter, but they were friendly with several and allied with one, The Scorpions, an international charter based in Florida.
Show looked up and saw Isaac striding in. “Hey, boss. Jimmy and Meg are waiting for you in the Room.
Made ‘em nice ‘n comfy.”
Isaac nodded. “You good to go, Victor?”
Victor stood on the rung of his barstool and reached over the bar. He grabbed a box of rubber gloves from the shelf underneath and tucked it under his arm. “You know it, Isaac. Born ready.”
The Room was a former repair bay they now used to do their dirtier, wetter work. A room one could hose out and scrub down with bleach, if need be. Not much call for it usually—in fact, it held the booze back stock right now, serving as an overflow storage area as well as an interrogation space. Jimmy and Meg Sullivan were gagged and tied to metal chairs, their arms bound to the arms of the chairs, positioned side by side, about three feet between them. Isaac hadn’t realized how much of a beating he’d laid down on Jimmy, but the skinny f*ck looked pretty bad. His broken right wrist was swelling angrily, the hand attached to it livid.
Isaac looked at Victor, and gestured to Jimmy. Victor nodded and walked over to Meg. With a smile that should have turned her blood to ice, he ripped the duct tape off her mouth. She squealed as the tape took some skin with it. Victor pulled a wheeled tool chest up alongside Jimmy, and Isaac grabbed a stool and sat in front of Meg. She was the weaker link.
Isaac leaned in a bit. Her throat was swollen, with a gash still leaking some blood, where Sport had landed her punch. Sport—that’s were he should be right now, dammit, his hands around her naked ass.
That amazing ass. He tried to smile at Meg, but it came out a snarl. “Okay, Meg, sweetheart. This is how we play. I ask you questions. I don’t like your answer, Vic takes something off your man. Do you understand the rules of the game?”
Meg took a big breath and began to blather. “Ike, man, you don’t gotta do that. You and Jimmy’s friends. I know you don’t want to hurt him, that’s crazy—NO!”
Isaac had nodded to Victor, who picked up a pliers and attached it to the nail of Jimmy’s swollen right pinkie. Without so much as a pause for a breath, he yanked, pulling the nail straight out. Still gagged, Jimmy screamed like a 12-year-old girl at a boy band concert. His eyes bugged out. Victor dropped the bloody nail into a steel bucket at his feet. The bucket was not small.
Isaac turned back to Meg. “The question I asked was Do you understand the rules of the game? You didn’t answer. Now I’m asking again. Do you understand?”
Weeping hard now, Meg nodded. “I understand.”
“Good. Let’s get to the real questions, then.”
INTERLUDE: 1994
Johnny Accardo was up well before dawn on a mid-autumn Saturday, dressing quickly and lacing up his boots. He went to Lilli’s room and knocked lightly. When he got no answer, he opened the door a couple of inches and peeked in.