Page 73 of Reaper
“You were humming the fuckingLaw & Ordertheme most of the goddamn time, and any time you asked a question, you spoke like that one old lawyer guy,” Tank says. “It was fucking exhausting. Reaper, I nearly gave up on you just to get away from this fucking lunatic.”
“That ‘old lawyer guy’ is Jack McCoy, a living legend of the New York City justice system and one of the foremost — “
“Enough,” roars Tank. “Reaper, we’ve given you the punishment you deserved for abandoning the MC to go do whatever the fuck it is you are doing here… which looks like you were just shacking up with Vanessa’s sister and fucking with the Russian Mob?”
“I came here to kill myself, Tank, and got involved with Volkov in the process,” Reaper says. “Adriana came here to kill me, too. Then, well, she and I got involved.”
“Would have been a lot easier if one of you two had just finished the fucking job instead of dragging me away from Bianca to come down here and… what.. save your ass from the Russians?” Tank pauses, sighs, then shakes his head. “That wasn’t fair of me. It’s been a long ride, brother. And a whole fucking lot of talking to people. You know what that does to me. How can we help you?”
“It’s OK, Tank. I understand, and I appreciate you being here. I love you, brother,” Reaper says. He sighs, slips his arm around Tank, then continues. “And Adriana and I are going to need your help with the Russians, yes, but there’s something else we need your help with, first.”
“Whatever you need, brother. Now that we’ve got that shit from earlier out of the way, we’re here to help.”
Reaper nods, hesitates, then pulls Tank into a hug. “That’s good. I’m glad to hear it. Because tomorrow night we’re going to rip off the Triads.”
Tank shakes his head. “I hate you so fucking much.”
“I love you, too, Tank.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Adriana
Below us lies a long stretch of road intermittently lit by poorly spaced streetlights. A mile to my left down that stretch of concrete is the trucking yard, where a gaggle of heavily armed Triads anxiously waits for their shipment. To my right, at a distance of six miles, the stretch of concrete connects to the main highway, ‘the 80,’ as the locals say around here, that links Sacramento to the Bay Area ports of San Francisco, Oakland, Stockton, Richmond, Benicia, and Redwood City — a bevvy of entry points for the cargo the Triads are transporting to this trucking stop, tonight, and which should arrive less than five minutes from now.
Across from me, situated in a vantage point on the opposite side of the road and enclosed in some underbrush, are Tank and Reaper, both on motorcycles. To my right, on his motorcycle, are Mayhem. and Diesel. I shift in my seat on the beat-up Suzuki GS500 purchased for a few hundred dollars, a handshake, and a wink off of Craigslist from a man who alternately used the names Elvis, Leroy, Hopkins, and repeatedly told me I could just call him ‘Al.’ It isn’t what I’d prefer to ride, but choices are limited, and even this piece of shit motorcycle will be better for our heist than a crappy Sebring.
Five minutes.
Five minutes until a truck loaded with the weapons or drugs the Triads are transporting comes down that road, we ambushand subdue the driver, leave him on the side of the road, speak a few Russian phrases within earshot of the driver, and ‘lose’ the Makarov pistol I had Mayhem purchase from a pawnshop in Volkov’s territory. That should be enough to plant the seed in the minds of the Triads, pointing them where we want them.
“Are you sure we have to leave this Makarov behind?” Mayhem says, turning the pistol over in a gloved hand. “It’s so quirky and just weird, I hate to lose it.”
“You’d compromise our mission just because you want to keep a weird gun?”
“There are a lot of things I’d do for a weird gun.”
I roll my eyes. "Mayhem, we need to—"
"Look, no self-respecting criminal would leave something like this behind," he interrupts, holding up the Makarov. "It's evidence, sure, but it's also a perfectly magnificent piece. Professionals don't just toss hardware. I’m keeping it."
Heat flares in my chest. "You'd be surprised how fucking dumb criminals can be, even the skilled ones. In my time in law enforcement, the number of times I broke open a case because some 'professional' left evidence behind or blabbed when he shouldn't have is astronomical."
Mayhem's head snaps toward me, his eyes wide beneath the streetlight's glow. "Wait, you're a cop?"
I flinch. We hadn’t gotten to that part yet, and I’m pissed as hell at myself for letting it out, and all because Mayhem wants to keep a shiny new toy.
“Was," I correct sharply. "Was in law enforcement. Not anymore." The words taste bitter. "I left it behind after Vanessa died. Had to find and kill the person responsible." I pause, glancing across the road where Reaper waits in the shadows. "I thought it was Reaper."
"And now?"
"Now I'm in love with him."
Mayhem lets out a low whistle. "Well, shit. Congratulations on finding love, I guess? In the most fucked up way possible, but hey — life's weird like that."
A distant rumble catches my attention. Headlights pierce the darkness far down the stretch of concrete, growing larger. The truck.
"There," I whisper, but Mayhem's voice drifts under his breath, barely audible over the approaching engine.
