Page 23 of Generation Lost

“What the fuck?” muttered Ghost.

“In no uncertain terms,” said Bull. “We were told this is not something we should give a shit about. Help the poor ‘old folks’ get a place to stay, but keep our fucking noses out of everything else. Like Rafe said, end of story.”

“Who told you that?” asked Gaspar.

“Homeland, FBI, CIA, DOD, all the way up to the vice president, who said the word came down from the president.” Vince looked around the room. “I’m not liking this at all. Something is definitely wrong here, and I think we’re going to be caught in the middle of it.”

“You think we were set up?” asked Ghost.

“I don’t think we were set up. I just think we jumped in with both feet, like we always do, and didn’t really understand all the players. We might have to back up a few steps and rethink this entire thing,” said Gabe.

“What do you mean, Gabe? We know the players,” said Gaspar.

“Do we? We think we do. We think it’s the families. Rizzoli, DiBenedetto, Xi, Varovski, St. Pierre. But maybe it’s not just them that we’re really after. Maybe we’re missing someone or something.”

“I don’t know, Gabe,” frowned Ian. “Those families fit the mold of those profiting from gambling, counterfeit money, human trafficking, and drugs. I’m not saying there can’t be more that are involved. I’m just saying that it feels obvious.”

“Fuck me,” muttered Ghost. “When it’s obvious, it’s usually wrong.”

“Why would the agencies, all of them, tell us to mind our own business when they’re usually the ones telling us to get involved? What are they hiding? Why ask us to help these people with their homes, get them something new, but don’t help with everything else happening here?” asked Rafe.

“The government is involved in this?” frowned Ian.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Or maybe they’re just turning their heads the other way. If the illegals get weapons, it’s easier for us to justify tossing them out of the country. Or.”

“Or what?” growled his brother. Rafe smirked at Gaspar, shaking his head.

“Always the grouchy bastard. I don’t know how your wife stands you,” he grinned.

“Rafe, don’t test me today.”

“Or, maybe someone is building an army within our country. On purpose. Maybe they believe this is the way to take over the government. The things that happened with the mortgages, the foreclosures, the land, all of it was just a side-effect of what they’re really doing.”

“This is so fucked up,” murmured Nine, rubbing his hands over his face. Sly and Code ran into the room.

“We’ve got a problem at the bike shop. Now!”

“Afternoon. How can I help you, boys?” asked Razor, staring at the three suspicious men. They always knew when someone who came into the shop was serious about a bike or just screwing around and looking. These three were doing neither.

“Looking for an old woman named Irene Robicheaux. She’s not very big, maybe four-feet-ten or eleven, white hair, funny accent. Someone said we’d find her out here,” said the first man. He was dressed in a pair of linen pants and a matching shirt. He looked like he was about to set sail on a cruise, not get on a motorcycle.

“An old woman?” laughed Razor. “This is a custom bike shop, mister. No old women here, and definitely no woman that tiny could ride a bike like this. She’d have to be my size or bigger. I suggest you look elsewhere.”

Two men behind the man who’d spoken pulled their jackets to the side revealing weapons. One of the men had a long knife in its scabbard. He was either Hispanic, Italian, or Indigenous, thought Razor. Either way, he’d been in his share of fights, for damn sure. His face showed every cut, every broken bone, every single punch thrown at him.

“I’m glad you think it’s funny. But as you can see, I’m not laughing. I want to find this old woman, and I’ll even give you a hundred bucks to tell me where she lives, or I can beat it out of you,” he said.

“I’m guessing she doesn’t want to be found. And I don’t need your fucking hundred bucks. As for the beating, you could try, but you wouldn’t get one punch in,” said Razor.

Tango and Gunner walked in from the backroom of the shop, wiping their hands at the counter of the showroom. Behind the three men, Trak walked in, leaving the door open behind him.

“Leave,” he said calmly. The men all stared at him, wondering if he understood the danger he was in.

“Don’t tell me to leave. Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with?”

“No. And I don’t care. Leave.”

Before Trak could move, the man with the knife gripped the handle, swinging it toward his abdomen. The blade hit him, drawing first blood. Trak barely moved, grinning at the other man.

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