Page 50 of Ravaged and Ruined
Grizzly rides at my flank, his jaw set in stone. Padre’s behind us, quiet but deadly, the way only he can be. Surge leads a second group trailing wide to flank if needed. Hashtag rides with Rancor and Crank, head ducked low, eyes locked on the GPS he rigged to ping the Scorpions’ burner phones.
We move like a damn unit with purpose stitched into our bones. We circle west, past the last row of crumbling industrial buildings just outside Atlantic City jurisdiction. Close enough to be a problem. Far enough no one’s watching. Except us.
There, half-hidden behind a busted chain-link fence and a scrapyard sits a two-story concrete shithole with a cracked scorpion spray-painted on the cinder block wall.
Found you, mother fuckers.
I kill the engine and swing my leg off the bike. The rest follow. In seconds, we fan out around the perimeter like dogs let off the leash. A couple of bikes are parked out front, one of them still warm. This place reeks of piss and bad intentions. I crouch beside a busted dumpster, peering around it. A half-dead security light flickers above the partially opened back door and no security cameras visible. One of the Bloody Scorpions is slouched near the entrance, supposedly standing guard, but he’s too busy scrolling his phone to notice us closing in.
Bloody Scorpions. Stupid fucks.
Grizzly steps up beside me, his voice low, “Hashtag says they rotate watch every two hours.”
I nod once. “We need one alive. I want one too stupid to keep his mouth shut.”
Grizzly grins wide and peels off toward the back with Pike and Hashtag, slipping through the overgrowth to cover exits. Padre crouches at the east wall, waiting, still as stone.
The only sound now is the distant hum of semis rolling down the highway. Thirty minutes later the door creaks open, the hinges groaning and a kid steps out. Prospect. No patch yet but he’s got the tattoos. The stance. Cigarette hanging from his lip like he thinks he’s untouchable. He’s the one. Young. Dumb. Alone.
“Target,” I mutter.
We wait while the two men switch positions, once the door is closed and the prospect is alone, I give the signal. Three fingers up. Two. One.
Surge already moving. Crank’s boots slap asphalt, silent but fast. I rise and move with them.
The kid barely registers the shift in the air before he’s surrounded.
“The fuck is this?” he chokes, his eyes going wild.
I shoulder slam into him and press my forearm to his throat, shoving him into the wall hard enough to rattle his brain.
“You don’t get to ask questions,” I snarl, “You ride with the Scorpions?”
He hesitates. Big mistake.
I knock the air out of him with a punch to the gut. He doubles over but I don’t let him catch his breath before jerking him back by the collar.
“Yes!” he coughs. “Yeah—shit—I’m just a prospect, man!”
I grab his jaw, force his face up so he sees me. Sees my cut. “Then you’re exactly what I need.”
“Bag him,” I bark.
Surge slaps duct tape over his mouth. Grizzly yanks a canvas sack from his vest and drops it over the kid’s head. Rancor hauls his ass out the back like garbage on collection day.
Our own prospect comes in hot with the van. The slide door slides open smooth and fast. We haul him inside. He fights, but not well. Kid’s soft. Untrained. Hasn’t experienced pain yet.
“Where to?” Crank asks.
I stare straight ahead, eyes burning. “Guest Room.”
He knows what that means. We all do.
It’s time we got answers. And the prospect? He’s about to meet the side of us nobody walks away from.
The van rolls out first with the Bloody Scorpion prospect zip-tied and gagged inside. Our prospect drives, hands tight on the wheel, eyes flicking to the mirrors like his life depends on it, because it fucking does.
I ride flank on my bike, the engine snarling beneath me. Grizzly and Surge ride tight to the back bumper, their headlights punching through the heat-rippled dusk. Pike and Hashtag up front, cutting a path. Padre and Backdraft hold the wings. No gaps. No room for surprises. If one of those Scorpion bastards tries to follow, we’ll bury him on the side of the damn road.
