| |
“We go radio silent from here on out. You got an issue, solve it.” Garvey checked the ballistics watch he’d strapped on before leaving the clubhouse. “We’ve got an hour before sunup.”
“Which should have us long gone and at the rendezvous point,” Kane added, his voice tight through the mic in Garvey’s ear.
“Out.”
Despite radio silence, Garvey kept the earpiece in. The Riding Irish crew wasn’t one of his Special Activities teams. Covert in the CIA meant a group could move in and out of an area without stirring a single dust bunny. A group of bikers? Not so much. Bunch of grown men wanted to make as much noise as possible. Their expertise wasn’t as skilled as it would be for the members of a trained op team, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be just as effective.
Revenge tended to focus a man.
And Garvey had a hell of a crew waiting to serve more than a few cold dishes.
A club like Camino de Santiago wouldn’t expect them to draw blood. And as far as Garvey was concerned, they wouldn’t. His days of killing people to prove a point were far, far behind him.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to cause a little hurt and discomfort. It also didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to let the club members get their hands a little dirty. Say with...explosives.
The Camino de Santiago clubhouse stood dark under a thatch of palm trees. Only a few cars were parked in the expansive courtyard off to one side. Most of the silver flashing in the moonlight was the kind of chrome Garvey appreciated. Shame to let all this beautiful horsepower get blown to bits, but when you wanted to drive a point home with bikers, you cut them to the core.
Surveillance for the past week had turned up plans for a large get-together to celebrate the attack on the convention center. Which meant there would be a lot of colors, Camino de Santiago and others, gathered in one location.
Way to make it convenient, assholes.
A quiet peace hung in the air over the building, a vivid contrast to the loud, intense party that had drawn out for nearly eight hours. The Camino de Santiago crew certainly knew how to party. They had admirable stamina. It was the kind of party the entire Riding Irish club would have loved to have been a part of under different circumstances.
A few of the guys had grumbled about the plan Garvey had come up with, but he’d finally convinced them this would be more effective than retaliating with fists.
Strike first.
Punch later.
Garvey slunk against an outside wall, watching as shadows made their way across the open field. He kept his hand on the butt of the gun strapped to his thigh, ready to put down the first jerk who got in their way.
He didn’t trust anyone else to play lookout this close. Other guys would shoot to kill, but Garvey knew how to put down a guy using a hell of a lot of pain with very little damage.
So he was running point along with a few others who had the skills to handle the task. Somewhere in the dark, Swagger lay in wait, eye trained on the whole area through a scope.
Initially, Garvey had thought the former Marine sniper would want to be right in the thick of things, but Swagger insisted that providing cover was more his expertise. And who the hell was Garvey to argue with a man who was an expert shot with that caliber of a rifle?
Fifteen minutes later, tiny red circles of light blinked in the darkness. The moving forms in the courtyard became few and far between as the members of Riding Irish deposited their palm-sized packs and moved quietly to a safe distance.
Garvey began verifying that each pack would perform as required. This much firepower was overkill. Especially for a couple of motorcycles. They probably only needed half as much cocktail, but Garvey couldn’t pass up an opportunity to drive the point home.
Besides, he had a feeling these fuckers needed something big to get their attention.
Task done, and satisfied with his guys’ work, Garvey peeked in the front window. Women and men were scattered around the clubhouse in various states of dress. At least they all that in common. Most of the parties at the Riding Irish clubhouse ended the same way. After this, Garvey was going to throw one hell of a party for the guys.
He’d use the opportunity to steal Arden away to the newest addition to the clubhouse that the contractors had put the finishing touches on yesterday. He couldn’t wait to strap her down to the spanking table he’d had specially built, ass positioned high in the air to provide the perfect target.
Something buzzed Garvey’s ear a split second before the sound of breaking glass shattered his thoughts. He heard a dull thud through the window. Garvey knew that sound. Shit. Swagger had just put someone down.
“Just a flesh wound,” Swagger offered flatly as the sound of another round being chambered echoed over the mic.
God bless the fucking Marines.
A shriek pierced the air. Swagger’s target must have fallen on the woman. Bled on her. Barfed on her. Something. Garvey didn’t stick around to find out, ducking around the side and behind the relative safety of a Dumpster.
The stench of rotten meat, overripe fruit, and weed caused him to cringe. As he pressed against the rusted metal of the trash receptacle, light flooded the area, pushing away the last of the fading night.
Garvey hoped like hell everyone had gotten away, because he sure as shit didn’t have time to babysit them now.
“Got two on your left. Coming fast,” Swagger whispered in his ear.
Garvey unsheathed the knife he’d shoved into his boot, holstering the gun. No reason to give away his position with gunfire. He’d always preferred the lethal kiss of a blade to the sting of a bullet, anyway. In the hands of the right person, a sharp edge could be more deadly.
“One broke away. Coming around the north side. Other one on you in two.”
Seconds later, Garvey pushed up from his crouch in one smooth motion and wrapped his forearm around the man’s throat. Thick too. Had a few inches on Garvey’s height, which said a lot. Also meant he was a big fucker. Garvey could feel the solid rope of muscles against his forearm. But muscle didn’t mean shit in a fight.
It was all about skill.
And Garvey had that is spades.
Garvey jerked hard, cutting off the man’s air with a fast snap. Not hard enough to crush his windpipe, though. He wanted this guy around to tell his biker buddies he’d been bested by a shadow.
Quick as lighting, Garvey twisted, pulling the man down and shoving his face into the dirt. He sliced out with his knife and felt the man’s skin give as the blade tore through his Achilles’ tendon. The man jerked, all those muscles seizing from the pain a fraction of a section before they went limp.
The second man came around the corner.
In one smooth motion, Garvey flipped around his knife, gripped the tip of the blade, and launched it. The whites of the man’s eye were visible as the wicked, sharp blade embedded itself in his thigh. He opened his mouth to yell, but Garvey tackled him, hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs, and rode his limp body to the ground.
“Got three exiting the front door. Armed. Two went right. One is headed for you.”
Garvey used his momentum to roll up onto one knee, snapping his gun free to sweep the area as he reached back and retrieved his knife. The thug he’d put down groaned. Garvey swung out, clipping the guy’s temple with the hilt of his knife. His head hit the ground with a heavy thud.
Garvey snugged his back against the building. He holstered the gun again and flipped the knife around so the blade was pressed flat against his wrist.
“Three. Two.”
Garvey swung out on Swagger’s count, feeling his fist slam squarely into the guy’s mouth. He used his momentum again, adrenaline coursing through his veins in a hot rush as he caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye and kicked out. He caught the second guy in the jaw, feeling bone crack under the force. Blood arced out in a wide spray as he dropped like a stone.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” Swagger muttered through the earpiece. “You’re one scary motherfucker.”
Garvey grunted. Swagger didn’t know the half of it. This felt good. Too good. Like coming home. The comfort of an old friend he hadn’t visited in years. He thought he’d left this version of Garvey McShea behind a million light years ago. Funny how he slipped on the skin so easily.
Freaky-scary was more like it.
A variety of voices erupted in the clubhouse, sounding in different directions as he ducked behind a shed that looked as though it had fallen into disrepair years ago. If they waited much longer to carry out their plan, they’d have a body count to tally.
As Garvey came around the clubhouse he discovered Rawls holding a gun to Javier’s temple. The two men glared, their hatred for each other saturating the air.
Unwilling to add to this adventure, Garvey shoved both his gun and knife in their protective guards. As he stepped into the clear, Rawls barely spared him a glance.
Javier, however, looked directly at him. “Should have known this one couldn’t do the deed himself.”
“I got a clean shot.”
“Nope,” Garvey answered both Javier and Swagger. He folded his arms, leaning against the clubhouse wall next to Javier. “Rawls has a legitimate beef with you. How this plays out from here is entirely up to you. Rawls pulls the trigger, and your widow has a closed casket to cry over. I get my hands on you, and there won’t be a body to bury. Or, you and your crew leave my guys alone. We all walk away from this like gentlemen. Nice and clean.”
“Fuck you.”
“A man of few words, I see.” There was no point in trying to negotiate further. The longer they were there, the more opportunity the situation had to spiral out of control.
Quick as lightning, Garvey disarmed Rawls and left Javier sprawled on the ground dazed.
“He deserves more than a boot to the head.”
Garvey caught Rawls as he lunged for the felled man. “And the club deserves not to have its name smeared with Javier’s blood. Don’t make us into them just because you feel like you need his head served up on a platter.”
The man vibrated with rage, struggling to get past Garvey. That was when Garvey decided Camino de Santiago weren’t the only ones who needed to be dealt with by striking where it hurt the most.
“Don’t make your wife have to schedule conjugal visits in jail around taking your daughter to school for some asswipe who isn’t worth the dirt he’s lying in right now.”
“Yeah. All right.” Rawls shook off Garvey with a curse. “You’re letting him off easier than he deserves.” As though to illustrate his annoyance, Rawls delivered a swift kick to Javier’s balls.
Garvey chuckled as he slapped Rawls on the shoulder. “Swagger tells me the rest of the club tucked their tails and ran. So much for club loyalty. Time to get out of here before we go up with the bikes. Come on. Boone, five-minute mark. Count it off.”
“You really could do that? What you said back there?” As they jogged down the long, winding path where they’d parked a van, Rawls gestured behind him to where Javier lay unconscious. “Make someone disappear without a trace?” Garvey glanced over at Rawls, keeping his face blank. Rawls gave Garvey a once-over, his gaze troubled as he put at least two arm’s lengths between them. “Jesus.”
“Yep, could probably even make him disappear.”
