Page 93 of Vengeance

The Griffin’s Beach President chuckles. “Right? Fuck, if we would’ve thought of this months ago, we wouldn’t have a problem because there’d be none of them left.”

“Leave it to Lex, huh?” he says. “Hey, can I snag a couple weapons from the armory here?”

“What for?”

The less others know, the better. “To keep us out of having anything to do with drugs.”

“Take whatever you need,” Jennings says. “Need help?”

“Nope, I’m doing this one on my own.”

“Psycho-”

“It’s best this way.”

The older man seems to understand, and he just nods. If Psycho’s earned anything, it’s trust. “If you need anything, you know how to reach me.”

“Thanks,” he says and grabs a shotgun, rope, and a machete from the hidden gun storage behind a false wall panel.

Shotgun isn’t usually his weapon of choice, but the sound of it is unmistakable for pretty much everyone. He knows what Diego needs for proof, and the machete should do the trick.

“Do you have a box?” Psycho asks.

“What size?”

Good question. “Uh... head size?”

“When you say things like that, it worries me. Just so you know.” Jennings stands and leads him out of the Chapel.

“How do you specify?”

They walk into the back room, and Jennings pulls out a box handing it to him. “Shoebox. Wine box. Produce box.”

“Wine box should work,” Psycho says and looks it over. “Yeah, this should be perfect.”

“You’re putting a head in it, aren’t you?” Jennings asks.

Turning, he smiles. “Do you really want to know the answer?”

“No, no, I don’t. I should know better than to ask by now. I really should.”

Laughing, he heads back into the Chapel to grab his weapons of choice and heads out to the pickup he stole from Riverview the night before. Everything needs to be untraceable, and he goes over the checklist in his mind again.

Gun? Check. Rope? Check. Machete? Check. Location? Check. Untraceable truck? Check. Box? Check. Carrier to bring box to Diego? Ready and waiting.

Psycho takes off his kutte and puts in the saddlebag of his bike before he climbs into the pickup and pulls out of the lot to head west to the isolated town six miles south. This Charles guy made his home in the same town Tara’s ex took her to. It must be cursed or haunted. He wishes he’d remembered to grab a hat, but he’s not the only man covered in tattoos in the nearby cities.

Who the fuck do I think I’m lying to? I’d be picked out of a lineup within a second.

Driving past the small, white house, he takes note of the other houses surrounding it. The one to the right is boarded up with a notice for demolition on the front, and the house to the left has a note about the occupant being deaf and to leave any package on the front porch. He takes a chance to drive by one more time to make sure there aren’t too many cameras that may trigger something to record him.

Across the street sits three houses with occupants. He parks and takes note of the people he sees. Two of the three are obvious druggies, which makes it easier. Crack heads aren’t the most detail oriented, so even if they see him, they’ll never be able to give a decent description. And even if they did, they won’t be credible.

He can’t tell who lives in the third house, but he walks over to open the mailbox, hoping the occupants are taped inside at the back. Sure enough, he sees only the name of a man—Leonard. The front door opens, and Psycho quickly walks away until he notices the walking cane of the old man walking to his mailbox.

One house has a deaf person, and one has a blind person. Psycho knows he needs to be careful because between the two of them, they likely have intensified remaining senses, so he can’t be too loud or too visible. That should be as easy as convincing an old lady not to beat up a club bunny who doesn’t know boundaries.

The backyard meets a wooded area full of dead trees, and Psycho can’t help but think that he could cover all of this up with a simple accidental fire set near the house. If only this asshole didn’t pick a house with neighbors.

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