Page 59 of Retribution
“Do that. If you need any help, I’m down for it. Pretty sure Iron and Brute will be too.”
“Thanks, bro. I’ll keep that in mind.” Cobra shuffled over to his Harley and swung his leg over the seat.
The thunder of sixteen bikes soon shattered the silence as the outlaws rode side by side on the highway leading to Philipsburg. As they approached the area where Big Pat’s warehouse was, they hit the kill switches on their bikes and coasted to a safe location. There was no reason to tip off the prey that the lions were coming for blood.
“The prospects said that they’ve only seen about five assholes going in and out of here at one time,” Brute said as he crouched behind one of the large oak trees across from the property.
“I didn’t notice any security cameras when I cruised by the place the other night,” Cobra said. “Did the prospects find any?”
“They checked it out and there were none. There are only four big-ass dogs that Sticky and Ringer took care of as we were heading in—the pups should be out for a while. Big Pat’s proving once again why he’s only a two-bit thug,” Iron said.
Cobra and the others chuckled.
“Fuck, this is gonna be too easy,” Cobra said.
“Are you gonna be bored kicking their asses?” Scarface’s smile widened into a grin.
“Fuck, yeah.” Cobra sat back on his haunches and fished his cell phone from his pocket. He checked his messages and calls—nothing from Dakota. He hadn’t heard from her since he’d left for work early that morning. Fuck, something felt wrong. Niggling worry bore a hole into the back of his brain.Maybe she’s pissed because I’ve been gone too long, or maybe—
“There’re only two doors—one in the front and one in the back.” Iron’s voice broke in on his thoughts. “The prospects broke in through one of the windows last night and unlocked five of the others ones in the basement. None of the moronic SOBs noticed anything off kilter today, so some of us can go in that way and unlock the back door. Four of us can stand watch in the front in case the fuckers try to make a run for it.”
The men nodded, and then Sparky made the decision on which brothers were going to do what. Cobra was one of the brothers who would go in through one of the basement windows.
“Let’s move out,” the vice president said.
The street was empty, and a thick blanket of clouds blotted out the light from the moon and stars, keeping the bikers shrouded in darkness as they crossed the road. They fanned out, each of them well aware of his position and role in obliterating the occupants and the contents inside the small warehouse.
As they approached the building, Dakota’s face flashed in his mind.Why the fuck aren’t you answering me? Are you okay?Cobra rolled his shoulders and coughed, trying to get his head back in the game. The club was on a mission, and he had to push all thoughts of his woman out of his brain and focus on the here and now. The cold and ruthless reputation he was famous for had to be front and center. Cobra inhaled and exhaled several times until he fell into his detached zone.
Cobra crouched low as he followed Iron, Brute, Pee Wee, and Razor to the side of the warehouse. Brute pointed to a series of windows, and Cobra dropped to his knees and pushed one of them open. “Too fuckin’ easy,” he muttered under his breath. His hand went to the back of his waistband and felt his 9mm. Cobra never liked it when things were too easy because in his experience it meant shit was about to hit the fan.
“Be on high alert,” he said to the others. “This shit is too damn simple for my liking.”
The brothers nodded then opened the windows and slipped inside.
Rows of metal tables filled with copious bottles of cold medicine, a plethora of antifreeze containers, drain cleaner canisters, batteries, glass tubes, and Bunsen burners occupied a good portion of the large room. Huge fertilizer bags lined the back wall, and the strong odor of solvents seared Cobra’s nostrils.
Brute held up two fingers on his left hand, gesturing everyone forward as they moved as one unit toward the stairs. Like harbingers of death they walked in the darkness, forming shadows that would soon spread wrath on everyone in that fucking building.
When Cobra and Iron reached the top of the stairs, a strong and foul chemical stench hit them in the face, and Cobra pinched his nose with his thumb and index finger. Iron pointed to a steel door, and Cobra quietly walked over and let in four Steel Devils. A flood of antsy excitement dropkicked him in the stomach as he and the others threaded through the darkened building looking for the drug lab. They moved with barely a sound as they secured the different areas. In the distance they heard noise: muffled voices, the whirr of fans, the clang of pots. As they approached the front part of the building, yellow light seeped from under a door. Several of the members flattened against the wall, hiding in the shadows, and Cobra crept over then slowly turned the knob, opening the door ajar. A sliver of light spilled onto the concrete floor, and he peeked in and saw five men cooking meth. Three looked to be in their early twenties and had the same look—clean-cut and preppy—that the fuckers had who’d drugged Dakota. The other two men were older and looked like thugs. Cobra knew they’d have to be taken down first before they took care of the other ass wipes.
One of the douchebags walked over to a table, and within seconds, loud, hard-hitting beats blared through the room. A couple of the guys mouthed the lyrics and swayed with the music as they worked.
Razor motioned to a hallway to the left before he and Hulk disappeared into the shadows. Cobra figured they were going to let in the rest of the brothers, so he waited, poised at the door, watching the assholes mix shit up then pour it into pots on the burners.
A minute passed. The tension crackled. Another minute ticked by. The stress mounted. It seemed like hours, and every muscle in Cobra’s body strained to stay rooted to the spot. From the look on the faces of his brothers, he knew they were itching to rush into the room and crack some skulls.
“Yo, what the fuck!” a voice bellowed from behind them. The rush of heavy footsteps made Cobra look over his shoulder. A tall, built man in his thirties held a gun in his hand as he rushed toward the bikers. “Big Pat didn’t tell me about you.”
Cobra couldn’t believe the dude thought he could take on all six of them, and he closed the door to the lab then turned around and watched the guy as he stopped and stared at them wild-eyed.
From the corner of his eyes, Cobra saw that Iron, Pee Wee, and Brute had already taken their guns out.
“Seems like this motherfucker’s been smoking too much of the shit they’re cooking,” Cobra said and the others laughed.
“Who the fuck are youse?” the stooge said.
Iron narrowed his eyes. “The Grim Reaper.”
