Page 27 of O'Mega's Revenge
Her nod was almost non-existent, and her eyes were wide.
“People who dedicate their lives to stopping abuse and trafficking took advantage of a drunk man. I’m disgusted with the whole lot of you.”
“It’s just hair!”
“It’s just sex. She was asking for it.” I fired back at her.
“That’s not fair.”
“What you did to him was not fair.” I enunciated every word clearly so she wouldn’t misunderstand.
“He broke up with you.”
“And that makes it okay? That’s lame. It’s like saying, she asked for it because she was wearing a mini-skirt, or got drunk. It is the same damn thing!”
“It’s not.”
This was going nowhere. I grabbed my gear from the room and checked to see if I had everything. My keys were on the table next to Missile. That meant I had to hear her protests and denials as I moved past her. But I tuned it out. I was afraid I’d lash out. That was what I was trying to avoid.
“Don’t go.” She scrambled to follow me out the door but got sidetracked by trying to grab her shit. That gave me a head start to get to the lobby. My bike was parked right outside, just past the little porte-cochères traffic circle. She was just coming out of the building as I left the lot.
By the time I hit Danielle’s lake house, I’d broken over a dozen traffic laws.
“He’s not here,” she told me from the doorstep.
“Club?” I asked but was already moving. Of course, he was at his club. They had to vote on his VP patch today.
“You shouldn’t go there,” Sprout’s mom yelled.
The echoes of it were left in the dust I kicked up leaving.
By the time I neared their clubhouse, I’d had a minute to think. Sprout’s ma was right. I couldn’t go barging in. I parked the bike behind a warehouse a few blocks west and approached on foot. There were no tall buildings in this area of Skilletsville. The trees were either too small and weakly clinging to life or choked with wisteria to the hazardous point. Even the light poles were covered in the shit. The vines crawled out along the lines and mixed with the garbage in the alleys.
I found a spot on top of a flat roof that offered a sight line of the gate. Anyone leaving or coming would go in through there. I found a hair tie, attached a small make up mirror onto a conduit, and laid down on my back to spy. That way, my head wouldn’t be seen over the low lip of the building.
About an hour later, I noted a string of four cars. Two black SUVs, a van, and a fancy luxury car— maybe a Mercedes. I couldn’t tell. I risked exposure to get a better look at the parade stopped in front of the junkyard gate.
The speck at the gate didn’t open up. And a man got out of the lead SUV to bang loudly on the corrugated aluminum shielding the entrance. He banged harder, and another joined him.
His shaved head made the tattoo snaking from temple to neck clearly visible.
I dropped back out of site. I knew that tattoo. Hadn’t seen it in years. But it was one that I never would forget. My chest pumped in and out because I couldn’t calm my breathing. In the mirror, I noticed two armed Destroyers who came out and talked with the group. I couldn’t make out much, given the tiny little view, but whatever went down seemed to satisfy the entourage. There was a handshake and a “wait here” motion from a Destroyer. The gate crawled open, and the party went in. One bodyguard was deposited outside the gate with a semi-automatic rifle.
With a slight adjustment of the mirror, I was able to see the Destroyers who joined him. They weren’t Skilletsville men. I knew the entire crew and most of the boys from Maryland, too. My best guess was these were Buffalo’s guys.
Was it a coincidence? Or could it be bad luck that I’d found one of my tormentors? This was something I should run past my sisters. But I wasn’t feeling very cordial with any of them right now.
“Fuck it.”
I collected the mirror and rolled off the roof. Once I retrieved my bike, I holed up at the most likely route eastbound. If I missed the entourage, I missed them. But I was hoping they’d head back toward Philadelphia.
Sure as shit, their parade of vehicles drove past and hour later. I fired up the bike and followed, keeping a casual distance behind.
At an intersection near the freeway, I rolled up next to the van and tagged the back bumper with a tracker. Then I revved through the red light and took off. I’d need gas and other shit for a proper tail. With an idea of where they’d go, I hit a discount store for extra gear, including a camouflage blanket, a phone charger, and a pair of binoculars.
Then gassed up twice before getting a faint hit almost due north of Philly.
It was dark before I found the place. I’d circled the area twice before realizing the blip was tucked inside a sprawling equestrian ranch. The barn was larger than a football field. There was even a racetrack. I blinked at the logistics of securing a location like this. There was no way the entire estate was monitored.
