A Long Ride Read online

  I know, I squeezed back, then relaxed.

  Ace had more good news. He informed us, “The virus Vietech infected her site with gives him full control of everything. He can overwrite any command you give the Draganflies.”

  I gestured in frustration. “Wonderful. So if we use them anytime soon he can turn them against us. How inconvenient.”

  You'll have to revise the plan… my subconscious grumbled.

  “Damn that guy.” I clenched a fist.

  “I have something for you,” Anh Long told Ace. He dug a slip of paper out of his pocket, handed it to the geek. “Cell phone numbers for my men in the Tiger Society. A few will have been in Diep's inner circle at times. They are never told what one another are working on, but tracing their movements as a whole could give us something tangible.”

  “Right,” Ace muttered, studying the numbers, committing them to his extraordinary memory. “I can trace the GPS signals. There will be records of all their movements, dating back to the activation of the phones. We'll know everywhere they went and how long they stayed there. I might be able to extrapolate where Carl and Tho are being held. And any other captives. There are a substantial number of variables. I'll make a chart, and work on equations with –”

  “Sweetie,” Shocker interrupted. She smiled apologetically to the room, then looked at him with a mild rebuke, Stay focused.

  “Yes dear,” he muttered, then told Anh Long, “We can use these.” Hues of pink tinged his face as Bobby and Patty snickered. He pocketed the numbers and typed rapidly on his tablet.

  “Excellent.” I folded my arms. What started as a mission to liberate our Coast from idiotic gang business has turned into something mind-blowing in scope. This was no longer a local or even national problem we faced. If we succeed in shutting down Diep's distasteful operation of profiting from slaves, we'll have done a service for people all over the world.

  Who'd a thought a guy like me would become a humanitarian?

  A grin slowly stretched my cheeks, and I swear my canines lengthened by an inch. I held a palm up, blew on imaginary dice, and mimed throwing them. “Challenge,” I said. A stab of exultant energy raced along my spine.

  * * *

  The security of our garage in Pass Christian was iffy, and we sure as hell weren't going to the apartment in Gulfport (we just moved there. I wasn't about to chance compromising it already, fuck you very much). So we decided to make our base at Eddy's house. It belonged to Perry now, though I would always think of it as my coach's home.

  The beach on our right was devoid of people, sand a dirty white beyond the sea wall, patches of tall grass growing on small dunes. Tiny waves crested and foamed at low tide. Shallow pools and sand bars visible in the sediment-clouded water trapped minnows that were feasted on by swooping, pooping seagulls. I watched a few of the scavengers dive and catch, flying off with tiny fish wriggling death throws in their sharp, smiling beaks. Then turned my attention from the beach to Eddy's long steep driveway, Patty next to me in the driver's seat, the three kids in the back, her Buick SUV humming effortlessly up the hill.

  The towering clean white two-story looked just as it did when we visited a few months ago. Though the landscape of ancient oaks and rose gardens was far less picturesque than it was in the summer. The wide circular drive in front of the garage resembled a drag strip pit area, populated with old and new performance machines that made my breath catch and goosebumps erupt on my neck.

  As the only two-wheeler in the bunch, my Hayabusa really stood out. I had been worried about the big Suzuki in a way I imagine a parent frets over a favorite daughter that is late coming home. My eyes raked its gray and white fairing, polished wheels and suspension, seeking damage. I managed, just barely, to contain myself from shouting “'Zuki!” and diving out to embrace her. I gave Blondie's truck a perfunctory inspection. The midnight purple '52 Ford was a show stopper, with an impressive train of bling lining the pavement on the other side of it: Perry's bright orange '49 GMC truck; Shocker's hell-fuck-yeah '59 El Camino, low and mean, red and gray; Big Guns' lime green otherworldly Honda Prelude; and Ace's Scion FR-S, with a liquid crystal exterior capable of being the ultimate color scheme – invisible.

  Not a pit area, I mused. It's a special equipment convention.

  “That your bike?” Patty asked as we got out, closed the doors.

  “Yep.” I started walking over to it.

  “Take me for a ride sometime?”

  I turned to look at her. She held her hands apart, right fist rolling an imaginary throttle, left gripping a clutch. She squinched her eyes, bit her bottom lip, and leaned over as if taking a corner at Gran Prix speed, making sounds like a motorcycle shifting gears.

  Ha! my subconscious chortled. She would dwarf you on the bike, and Blondie would tax you for violating the Rule of Bitch Seat: only the blonde furred crotch of my woman shall warm my passenger seat.

  “I'm not good with passengers,” I said. “I have a Blondie-only policy, if you know what I mean. Big Guns has a couple of fast Honda CBRs. If you just want a hundred-ninety miles an hour thrill ride we can arrange that, no problem. Maybe Bobby will take you for a ride.”

  “A motorcycle ride, or a,” she rotated her hips suggestively, “Patty-cycle ride?”

  “You'll have fun asking him,” I laughed.

  “Mommy will you show me how to dance like that?” Jasmine said, trying to watch her mom while supervising Nolan, who got Caroline out of her car seat and shut the door.

  Patty's face lost a little color. She was thinking fast. “Jas, you're not, um, old enough to learn that dance yet. One day, yeah, but I, huh. No…”

  Nolan and I shared a mirthful look. He led the girls inside, leaving me alone with my bike. I ran my hand over the seat, cowhide with the short hair still on it, smooth and feather soft, dyed a dark blonde. My hair stroking turned into a perverted fondling so I quit before anyone caught me. I squatted down and studied the engine, inhaling an intoxicating mix of synthetic oils and high octane fuel, 'Zuki's beastly scent. The Yoshimira exhaust pipes were discolored where they bolted to the cylinder head, hues of blue and gold that would become a glowing orange thousands of degrees hot after the two hundred horses were put through their paces. The fat mufflers themselves, one on each side of the wide rear tire, gleamed like silver, obsessively polished to a mirror finish by my own hands. My reflected image distorted as I inspected their mounting brackets and weld seams. A seesaw, fluffy-numbing euphoria started in my throat and chest, cascading down my torso, lightening my step.

  I sighed. “Thought I'd have to break you out of the impound again.” One last pinch and twist of the seat, then I turned my full attention to the Ford.

  In the shadow of the house the purple paint looked closer to black, shiny glossy surface gray where it reflected the Hayabusa on one side, dull orange where it mirrored Perry's truck on the other. The Ford was wide and low, bed rails below my chest, giving me clear view of my drone in the back.

  Demonfly's wings were detached and laying alongside the fuselage, the plane's tail and tips of wings sticking out the open tailgate, far too long for the eight foot bed. She was modeled after the Mitsubishi Zeros the Japanese used in World War II. Unfortunately, I feared my little spy plane would share the same fate as the Kamikaze bombers.

  “We didn't get much time to get to know one another,” I told the flying demon chick airbrushed on the matte black engine cover. It took me several days of layering and drying to paint her. I was attached to all my art, especially projects as involved as Demonfly. “Our short affair was good for me. How about you?”

  “And you called me a thespian lon,” Big Guns said with his silver smile, walking around the corner of the garage. “Qui xu,” psycho. “I knew you'd be out here talking to your machines.”

  I looked at him. “You get what I need?”

  His cheeks widened, teeth gritted. He complained, “Sure. Don't open with 'thanks'. It was no trouble at all to get your bike, truck and plane here. And
then,” he gestured in outrage, “you had me go shopping! Du ma, Razor. Do I look like a Mexican???”

  I tagged him in the shoulder with a knuckle. “Well, you do eat at Taco Bell a lot…”

  He chuffed a reluctant laugh.

  “Look. I'm sorry. Thank you for being such a useful burro.” I flashed my #1 Mr. Motherfucker smile. “You feel appreciated now?”

  He grunted, Fuck you.

  “Good. Now that you've vented your inner drama queen, let's talk about the job.”

  He put hands on waist and grunted, Fine.

  “So did you get what I asked for?”

  He showed me a look I could only describe as diabolical. “Oh yeah.” He grimaced. “You sure you don't want anything with more kick? Give me a few days and I can score some real fireworks.”

  “Nah. We don't have a few days.” We turned with silent consent, walked the sidewalk to the front door. Went inside. “Did Anh Long get us more men?”

  The Viet underboss gave a different kind of grimace, nodding. “They're flying out of San Francisco. California boys.” His jaw flexed. He grunted, “Cac.”

  “I doubt they're thrilled to be coming to Mississippi. We'll need them, in an case.” We stopped in the living room. It was empty. My eyes strayed to the huge trophy case, ears becoming aware that everyone seemed to be in the dining room or kitchen.

  “Need them as pawns, you mean.”

  “Pawns, cannon fodder, expendable. That's what Anh Long pays them for. They know the score. We need a team of guys we can throw at Diep as a distraction. They'll appear to be our main force, throwing a feint so we can nail their ass in the confusion.”

  “Too bad we don't have suits and helmets for them.” His eyes squinted, one finger tapping on his folded arms, face gold in the lamp light.

  “They have vests. We'll make sure the casualties are minimal. It's going to be a siege. Offense chooses the initial level of aggression. We'll have them press just enough to convince Diep it's our primary attack, but not so much they get slaughtered in a counter.”

  Pursing his lips, his eyes shifted in serious thought. Having nothing to add he said, “I'll leave the war strategy to you.” He looked at his watch. “They should land soon. I'll go meet them. We linking up in N.O.?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See you there, bro.” We gripped hands, bumped chests, and he left.

  I walked through the kitchen, an undefined sense of dread putting me in a state of caution. Why is everyone suddenly quiet? I turned into the dining area. Shocker, Bobby and Patty stood over Ace, who sat at the long table with his tablet in front of him, all eight eyes staring at the screen in shocked horror. The kids were clamoring to see, and Perry was moving quickly to corral them, inviting them to watch a movie upstairs. He put on a smile and spoke in a comforting tone, managing to shoo Nolan and Jasmine out of the room, Caroline on his hip with wide eyes and a whiny mouth. They hadn't made it out of earshot before a child's terrified voice screamed from the tablet's speaker. Caroline echoed it, her scream fading as Perry hurried up the stairs. I rushed over to the table.

  “Oh my God,” Shocker whispered, eyes distraught, welling with tears, as we watched Tho and Carl being struck by a pot-bellied Asian man.

  Crack! The man hit the crying boys in turn, open-handed blows that swelled and reddened their dirty, tear-streaked faces, witnessed in gruesome high-definition. Their agonized screams increased in volume, and a dizzying panic blanketed me. Abruptly lightheaded, I leaned over to grip the edge of the table, peering closer at the tablet through a film of scarlet.

  The man's head was out of view, his bare, obese torso and stumpy arms all we could see in the light, room dim behind the boys. Carl and Tho were hanging limply, exhausted, their hands bound with archaic manacles above their heads, attached to some kind of apparatus that looked like it could be used for hanging beef. I shut my eyes tightly. The boys were naked, traumatized.

  I gripped the table harder, head swimming with vertigo. The scene was macabre, sick and twisted. It showed what kind of person Diep truly was. My eyes shot open and glared at the man that taunted the boys in guttural Vietnamese, talking to them like misbehaving dogs. This is the kind of people Diep befriends… We were dealing with a real psychopath.

  The urge to snatch the tablet up and break it over my knee was hard to resist. Before I could give voice to my rage the tormentor moved the camera. The adjustment showed only his lower body and the boys' legs. Their ankles were cuffed with manacles so old they were rusted and pitted, iron dating to the days before slavery was outlawed. Streams of blood were dried to their feet, skin cut deeply from struggling, chains anchoring them to the filthy stone floor.

  The man reached up and pulled something on the apparatus that brought Tho's and Carl's outstretched arms down, bodies now bent at ninety degrees, bleeding, battered faces suddenly back on the screen. They yelled hoarse, bone-chilling pleas as the man began to take his pants off, cries becoming hysterical when his short erect penis sprang free under his fat stomach.

  “NO!” Shocker roared, voice booming with violence. We all flinched. She turned away from the table as a different creature, snarling frighteningly, and punched the nearest wall with a blur of destruction, knocking huge holes in the sheetrock, several framed pictures shattering on the floor. Bobby and Patty lunged and grabbed her, straining to hold her arms, wrestling the berserk woman to the floor with great effort. Ace darted from his seat to help, yelling to get through to his wife.

  The commotion behind me felt distant. I stared at the tablet with a stunned detachment, furiously thinking of some way to stop this. Realizing I could do nothing was hard to accept. My throat felt like someone was strangling me. I sat in the vacated chair. Right as the man finished stepping out of his pants the scene changed, obviously to a different room, showing a man and woman of middle age on their knees with their hands tied behind them, battered faces shining sickly with blood and sweat, tears. Who the hell??? Even clothesless and beaten they looked upper-class, heads held high, regal, the kind of people who could afford procedures to stay youthful in appearance; toned and tanned, no gray or sagging features in evidence. Their fitness is the only reason they still have composure, I analyzed coldly.

  The camera swiveled to the left, zooming in on a figure I instantly recognized. A growl bubbled deep in my chest at the sight of Diep. When he stuck his face in the camera and spoke I realized this wasn't a recording-

  It was live!

  “Razor. A pleasure to see you looking so uncomfortable,” the Elder Tiger said in a low clear voice. He held up his injured arm. The cast had been replaced with a wrist brace, the hand still healing from the round Loc had put through it months ago. “I'm doing better, thank you for asking.”

  “Still popping Loratabs, huh? Be careful of addiction,” I warned the punk.

  His yellow-brown face darkened as he moved closer, the camera shadowing his chin beard and cruel mouth, epicanthic eyes narrowed to evil slits. “Still the crude barbarian, I see,” he countered. “Very well. Let us be barbaric.” He moved his head slightly toward the captives. “Everything I know about you tells me you don't know these people.”

  I stared at him, wishing I could tear off his smug jaw from his face and gnaw on it like a chew toy.

  He lifted his head a couple feet above the camera and stared down at me, eyes widening with lack of sanity, smile wider. “Ah… You don't know them.” He danced his head side to side as if to peer around me, humming an upbeat tune. He stopped and suddenly snarled, “Perhaps you're woman knows them.”

  He moved away from the camera and I could see the couple again. I cringed, heart missing a beat. I could see it now.

  I could see Blondie…

  That's my girl's freaking parents!

  Diep cackled at my stricken expression. He turned toward his captives. He wore a rain suit, bright yellow with tall black rubber boots.

  Why a waterproof suit? I pondered. Then, Damn. It's a blood proof suit…

 
; Digging in a pocket, he produced a pair of large clear safety glasses, put them on. He studied Blondie's parents dispassionately, like a carpenter studies a wall he must dismantle as part of a larger job. With casual posture he told me, “Once upon a time my tastes were more like my associate's, not quite refined, seeking gratification from choice cuts of young meat. However,” he dug in another pocket and pulled out a large knife, unsheathed it, “I've matured.”

  The woman lost her composure and cried out at the sight of the blade. The man mumbled unintelligible pleas for his wife, his jaw broken severely. Diep dropped the sheath on the floor, stepped forward and contemptuously kicked the man in the stomach, then, in one deft movement, he spun on a toe and swung his arm down gracefully, slicing the knife across the woman's face.

  The bound man slumped forward, gasping and coughing with his forehead on the floor. The woman shrieked once, shuddering with silent sobs after that. Her cheek was bathed in scarlet. The deep cut flowed, unceasing, covering her neck, left breast. Her eyes and nose were running. Slowly, she crumpled over and lay on her husband' s back.

  Diep smiled down at them. His head rotated to me. He held the knife up, polished steel reflecting the camera and man behind it, wetted with innocent blood. He spoke like we were old friends sharing a beer. “You and I aren't that different, you know.”

  I wanted to cut this short. I heard myself say, “Well, I still have my Johnson so…”

  His eyes locked onto mine, neck rigid, body frozen. Bright insanity radiated from his dark eyes. For a moment I thought I had fucked up, fearing he would turn and start hacking up Blondie's folks. The moment of crazed tension left his face and I remembered to breathe.

  He shook his head and knife, Tisk-tisk, then told me, “We are both artists. Innovators. We even use similar tools and safety gear,” he tapped the tip of the knife on his glasses, leaving spatter on the lenses, “differing only in our methodology: you creatively piece things together. I creatively take things apart.”