Page 9 of Bullet

“Freddie’s not the owner,” she says, adding, “Anymore.”

“Right. Whoever it is, I want a word.”

“Um, he’s not in at the moment. I can take a message and have him call you.” She has her spiel memorized. War glances out to the table with the men around it, then back at the girl.

“Which one?” War asks, jerking his head toward the men.

She leans forward, lowering her voice. “They’re not nice men. You’re not going to get what you want from Sal unless there’s something in it for him, and in the end, he’ll screw you over anyway. Do yourselves a favor and just go.”

Seems to me like she’s talking from experience, which explains the sadness in her eyes. “Is he hurting you?” I ask.

“No. And he won’t. I’m going to be gone before that happens,” she says with determination.

“Which one?” War asks again. He won’t be deterred.

“Dark blue T-shirt,” she huffs. I glance back at the man called Sal, who has a massive beer gut, a receding hairline, and what’s left of his hair in a ponytail at the base of his neck. His eyes are fixed on us inside the office as he grumbles something to the guy next to him. That guy looks like Sal, only younger. He’s probably his son. If he has his father’s genes, aging isn’t going to be kind to him either. When the younger version of Sal comes to his feet, his buddies stand as well.

War heads back out with me, and we approach Sal and his men.

I pull out the invoice Amelia gave me earlier. “I’m here to talk to you about the work you did on Amelia Ralleigh’s car. This invoice is bullshit. You didn’t use half the materials listed, and the labor cost is highly inflated.”

“If the lady has a problem with it, she should have come herself. I don’t know you, and I don’t discuss my business with people I don’t know,” Sal throws back.

“She’s my woman, and when someone takes advantage of her, I’m the one who does the talking.”

“You’re insulting my team.” Sal grins slyly, and from the corner of my eye, I see one of his guys pick up a two-by-four, obviously trying to intimidate me. “My men don’t like it when you accuse them of shit.”

“I’m not accusing you. I’m damn fucking sure you took advantage of a woman who doesn’t know anything about cars. She trusted you. You took her money and didn’t do the job the way it should have been done. You need to return the money you took from her,” I say.

The big, blond, burly man holding the two-by-four is fast, but not nearly as fast as Blade, who comes out of nowhere to knee the man in the gut, shove him to the ground on his back, and hold the wood to his throat.

Sal’s men react by reaching for their blades and guns. War snaps back the wrist of the man standing in front of him, who’s holding a switchblade. The blade drops to the ground, and the man screams in agony.

Sal looks around and throws his head back in laughter. His belly jiggles. It takes him a minute to catch his breath, then he says, “Look around you. You’re outnumbered, and we’ve got bullets.” He focuses on War. “You can’t catch those, hotshot.”

“We’ve got bullets too,” I reply in a sinister voice. That’s when Roscoe cocks his gun and puts it right up against the back of Sal’s head, letting him feel the barrel. “Here’s how this is going to go. Your posse drops their weapons, then you walk inside with us and give us the money you conned my woman out of. You won’t contact her, and if I see you anywhere near her, I’ll take you out.”

It’s not like we’re giving Sal a choice, but he holds out for about ten seconds, then finally motions for his men to stand down. I collect their hardware and corral his men behind the shop, where Roscoe and Blade will guard them until we’re ready to go. Sal goes into the office and calls out to the young woman we met earlier. “Violet, get the hell out of here. You’re done for the day.”

Violet doesn’t need to be asked twice. She gathers her books, tosses them into her backpack, and races out the door. Sal waits for her to leave, then takes down an old picture of dogs playing poker to reveal a safe. He covers the dial to keep us from seeing his code and opens the safe to take out a wad of cash. That’s probably all the cash sales he makes that he doesn’t report to the IRS. It’s slimy, but it’s not the reason I’m here, so I ignore him and take the money he hands me. His fingernails are black with grease, and he holds on to the cash for just a second longer than he should. He’s not happy.

I tell him, “Fair warning, bud, we’re part of Satan’s Pride. If you don’t know who we are, ask around. And if you do, be smart and don’t do anything you will live to regret.”

Yeah, his eyes grow big, and for the first time, he notices the insignia on our jackets. “Fuck!” he murmurs under his breath.

“We done here?” War asks.

“Yeah,” I reply. We back out of the office and whistle to get Roscoe’s and Blade’s attention. They hurry to meet up with us, and we leave immediately, leaving a trail of dust behind us.

Risk and Crush are finishing up by the time we get back. They’re loading the ladder back into the van when Crush says, “I got what we need on order. It’ll arrive on Monday afternoon.”

“The tarp’s on good and tight. It’ll hold up in the short term,” Risk adds, then asks, “Did you get her money back?”

I nod.

“Was there trouble?” Risk furrows his brow.

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” I reply.