Stay Vertical (The Bare Bones MC #2)(6)
“Iso!” shouted one of the *s. “Roll up that f*cking door so Tyke can bring the jeep around!”
Iso! Isosceles Weaver was the f*cking sergeant-at-arms of The Cutlasses, a local motorcycle club that considered the Leaves of Grass Ranch to be their backyard. They’d tried to hit him before several times, mainly by being stupid, and had been rebuffed each time by one of Lytton’s mercs.
Once, Iso had pretended to be delivering a load of space buckets and grow lights. As if anybody would fall for that. The merc had shot out Iso’s tires and the box truck had blocked Lytton’s driveway for a week until he’d had it towed to the impound yard. Another time, Iso faked he was an electric company worker, complete with authentic uniform and clipboard, concerned that a neighbor was poaching electricity and running up Lytton’s bill. Yeah, sure. If anything, everyone always suspected the pot farmer of poaching power.
Lytton didn’t know how they’d gotten this far this time, but suddenly he felt alive, on top of his game. Was this the desperation he’d been waiting for to jolt him out of his stupor? This was what had been missing from his life. He’d become too complacent—a Sativa King in his lonely turret, acting out warped fantasies that were only a paltry shadow of the real world. All the while real danger and excitement lurked just beyond his own greenhouse—
“I can’t get it up!”
That was Iso’s stupid voice, all right. He was apparently having trouble with the chain on the roll-up door, and that Tyke douchebag was already crashing through the woods in his stupid f*cking Jeep.
Lytton had to act fast.
Pivoting on one foot like a quarterback, Lytton entered the greenhouse, the barrel of his Glock leading the way. He was hit with the sweet, pungent aroma of flowering marijuana buds. Overhead light banks cast a futuristic glow on the rows of plants, but the first thing Lytton fixed on was Doug Zelov’s eyes, peering at him piercingly over a bush of fluffy green leaflets.
Lytton shot first. He’d been prepared to shoot since originally hearing the shots inside his greenhouse. If one wasn’t prepared to shoot, why would one carry a gun? But Zelov must have been ready for it, for in a flash he was gone. Lytton screeched around the corner of that aisle, nearly flying like a bowling pin when his bare foot snagged on a warm, mushy human limb. He barely registered that loyal old Helium Head, who had been with him since the motor home days, was sprawled like a starfish. His eyes behind the circular spectacles lens were wide open and glassy.
Pissed off supremely now, Lytton sprinted like he hadn’t since high school. Arms pumping, adrenaline rushed like a tsunami through his veins. That aisle of pot plants had never seemed longer, like in one of those dreams where you run and run and don’t get anywhere.
He rounded that corner in time to see the back of a stupid cut flying the Cutlass’ colors just as its wearer vanished behind his hydraulic door. Back in the illegal days, Lytton had realized he should have an escape route. This greenhouse was pushed up against a rise of the mountain, so the hydraulic door led to a three-foot tall tunnel lined with concrete. Helium Head must have left the door open, and now stupid biker boots were sticking out of Lytton’s tunnel as the rat tried to tunnel away.
Lytton shot him in the ankle first and then pulled him out. Iso screamed like a baby.
“Ow! What are you f*cking doing?”
“What do you think I’m f*cking doing?” Lytton shouted back. “You just killed my man! Come out of my f*cking tunnel!”
The sergeant-at-arms was thrashing around so thoroughly Lytton couldn’t keep his grip on his ankle, so he stood back and aimed his piece at the boot. Some of the leather had been blown away where he’d already been blasted. The ankle was no doubt shattered, as a rivulet of blood trickled from the tunnel. “Come out or I’ll shoot you again.”
Reluctantly, Iso squirmed backward through the tube. Lytton impatiently waited to swoop down and snatch him up by the back of his cut, the rocker, predictably, displaying two crossed swords.
But just as he yanked Iso to his feet—some sergeant-at-arms, the guy bawled like a moron—Doug Zelov stepped out from behind a space bucket containing a lush Young Man Blue plant. Zelov, predictably, leveled his barrel at Lytton. Now it was a Mexican standoff.
“Give me back my man,” Zelov said matter-of-factly.
“You shot my man,” Lytton stated.
“And you shot my man. So we’re even.”
“Not exactly. You killed my man and I just shot yours in the foot.”
Zelov chuckled. “He’s not dead. Just stunned from more action than he’s seen since the new PlayStation was released. You’re pretty organized here. This is the most impressive setup I’ve ever seen.”
What was the f*cktard babbling about? He sounded set to make a sales pitch for a late night product. “I’m glad you approve. Now I’m holding you here until the cops arrive.” Lytton rattled Iso around in one hand and emphasized his point by pressing his barrel to the loser’s temple.
Zelov said, “Which should be in about two hours thanks to that twisty drive up the mountains. Listen, why don’t we just cut a deal. Your pot is by far the most potent on the market and people are clamoring for it ‘cause you don’t use all these chemicals that are banned from the country. People are getting sick of toking that pesticide-laden crap. We really just wanted to borrow a couple of buckets of Young Man Blue.”