The LA Rebel’s clubhouse isn’t like others. It’s in a four story house, gated with prospects guarding. The interior is dark, the walls an inky blue and the floor wood panelling, just like that of a dive bar. To the right of the front door is a large sitting room, furniture consisting of two cream couches, a flat screen TV and a stereo sound system that sits in the corner. To my left is the stairs leading up to the next level. Straight in front, which is where we’re heading, seems to be set up like a dining room but I know is their Church room. A long table sits in the middle of the room with twelve cheap looking chairs neatly pushed up against it. The windows are frosted, blocking outsiders from looking in. Even though this is a gated house, I guess they can never be too careful.
We each take a seat while Storm leaves the room, calling men’s names as he goes. Not long after, people start piling in, taking the leftover seats and leaving the head of the table for Storm. Prez sits at the other in with me and Cobra on either side, much like Church back home.
“Right, let’s get to it!” Storm announces as he barrels back into the room and takes his seat. “Sermon in session.” He pounds the gavel down on its board that’s just off to his left.
“Tell me everything, Storm, and don’t leave anything out.” Prez says, folding his hand in front of him. All eyes land on Boomer, head of the LA Rebels.
“So, as you know, drug lord Giovanni Toretto has bullied his way into our territory, using drugs to get information on us, from wanting to know what we do, where we run our drugs and most importantly where we run our woman.” Scratching behind his ear, he takes a moment before continuing, “He’s already killed one of bunnies that comes and goes from here, Cindy Marlow, he sent us her head; a warning as such.” Storm’s face contorts into anger, making his face show the lethalness that he keeps inside. “He will pay for what he’s done.”
“His blood will be on my fucking hands, you get that into your head,” Cobra says calmly to the man at the head of the table. “He threatened my Old Lady and her best friend. He will pay.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second. But, we will have your back. This was our mess to begin with. I’m not even sure how you guys even got onto the man’s radar unless he hacked into our systems and saw back and forth emails between us.” Storm scratches his beard on his chin, chewing on his bottom lip, seemingly lost in thought. “I’m sorry if that’s the case. We know every damn person and their dog can hack into computer systems these days.”
“Then we have to hack into theirs. Chip, get on it.” Prez says, huffing out a breath of air before holding up a cigarette at Storm, asking permission to smoke. A nod from the LA Rebel’s leader, Prez lights up and takes a long, deep drag of his long cigarette. Sighing in satisfaction. “If anyone can get into their shit quick, it’s Chip.”
Storm gives a small nod of his head while tapping his long, wrinkled fingers on the table. “We know where he’s hiding, so how do you want to play this?”
“Play this? Fuck that, we’re going in, guns blazing. None of those bastards will come out alive.” Prez smashes his fist onto the table, his face turning red. “Tonight, this fucking ends.”
***
It’s twelve thirty in the morning, its mega cold, and my hands feel like they’re going to fall off. I knew I should have listened to Prez when he told me to wear gloves. But nothing will stop me holding my gun, murder in mind. Adrenaline is coursing through my body at rapid speed, waiting to be unleashed on the enemy. Giovanni Toretto will be dead in a matter of an hour.
We’re all crouched behind cars that line the street, facing a decapitated, old house that has seen better days. The three stories of rotting wood and crumbling stone makes it hard to believe that it’s habitable, but apparently it is.
Movement from the house has us all quieten down and we watch with bated breath to see what happens. Two big, burly men leave through the front door, laughing and roughhousing as they make their way to a Mercedes SUV GLS, shiny from copious amounts of washing, I imagine. After they leave, we make our way across the street and huddle against the building, careful not to lean on the wall in fear of it collapsing.
“We know there is the front door and the back door. Half of us through each. Shoot anyone that gets in the way. Giovanni needs to stay alive, capture him and tie him to a damn chair. Knock him out but do not kill him, understood?” Prez takes over, the authority in his voice makes everyone agree without a grumble.
I go with Prez, Cobra, Storm, Dope and Flipper, along with three of the LA Rebel’s to the front door while eight others head to the back. It’s fucking fight time.
“On three….one…two…three. GO!” Prez bellows, kicking the front door in, it crumbles as it goes to the ground. A group of men sitting in the living area of the building look up in surprise and fear, raising their hands in surrender. The rest of our men come busting in. They’re surrounded and I can smell the fear that emanates from them. I shoot, hitting one straight through the leg, then all hell breaks loose as the remaining men pull their weapons and fire blindly. They all go down with sickening thuds that makes me smirk in a slight feel of satisfaction.