Page 55 of Spyder
“Then, what’s his problem?” Monk asks.
“He’s nervous. He knows this thing is just getting ramped up and he doesn’t want it spilling into town. Doesn’t want any innocents getting hurt,” he replies. “And most of all, he doesn’t want feds swarming the town and turning the place into a goddamn military encampment.”
Everybody mutters their agreement with the sentiment, and I can’t help but agree. Having the FBI, ATF, DEA, and whatever other alphabet agencies they have out here to ostensibly fight the drug war would kind of strip Blue Rock of its homey charm quickly. Not to mention, we don’t want them all up in our business. It’d be pretty hard for us to get around and do our thing.
“Listen, I was going to wait until we had a plan in place to tell you all this. But we got some intel from Tarantula earlier today,” he announces. “Our hits on his shipments have had a desired effect. It hit him in the wallet. Hard.”
“Zavala’s abandoning the area?” somebody asks.
Prophet shakes his head. “No, though that was one thing we would have been happy with. But to be honest, although I hoped for it, I didn’t think that would actually happen,” he says. “Instead of abandoning the town, Zavala is coming up here himself. He’s going to get things squared away at his warehouse and then he’ll come for the town. He’ll come for us.”
That’s not exactly what I’d call a desired effect. I’m so busy trying to calculate just how nasty this is going to be when it dawns on me. The hits on his shipments weren’t simply to hit him in the wallet. Prophet’s been hoping to draw Zavala out and draw him here all along. He intends for this to be the final battle. One of us, either the cartel or the MC, is going to emerge with a win. And the loser is going to face oblivion and extinction.
“Cut the head off the snake,” I say. “And the body dies.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Spyder
After leaving the clubhouse, I stopped off in town to pick up a few things before heading home. Bellamy is going to be staying with her mother tonight, so we didn’t make plans on seeing each other which is okay. I need a night to get my own head together, blow off a little steam, and wrap my mind around what Prophet told us. The final battle’s coming and it’s safe to say I’m a little haired out about it.
It’s not that I’m afraid to fight. I think I’ve proven that over the last few weeks of these running skirmishes with Zavala’s men. What’s tripping me out is that I already know just how nasty this is going to be and there is a very real possibility that I don’t come back from this. Zavala’s going to have a lot of men with him and we’re twelve strong. Maybe thirteen or fourteen. I’m suddenly starting to understand how Leonidas must have felt at the Battle of Thermopylae.
On the flip side of that coin, though, is that if we can somehow pull out the W, we will never again have to look over our shoulders. We’ll never again have to fear some sicario prick driving up and unloading on us at a stoplight. And we won’t have to worry about the streets of Blue Rock being flooded with all sorts of drugs or the kids here being trafficked and sold into sex slavery.
If we win… if we kill Zavala… the power of his cartel is broken forever. I’m not naïve enough to think that somebody won’t step into the void. If we cut the head off the snake, the body will die, of course. But the problem is, a new snake will simply slither in to replace it. The hope is that they’ll turn their eyes away from Blue Rock and NorCal as a whole. If we can make it too costly in terms of money, product, and men, hopefully, it will deter anybody else from trying to set up shop here.
It’s with all of that rampaging through my mind that I step out of the Chinese food place, dinner in hand, when I literally run into a face I wasn’t expecting to see. Tall, wide, greasy, and still ugly as hell, Pete Wells is standing before me, an expression of shock on his face I’m sure mirrors my own. Just seeing him sends a spike of anger surging through me.
“I thought you were told to get the fuck out of town,” I growl.
I see the fear behind his eyes, but he makes a good show of it. Peter puffs himself up and tries to loom over me intimidatingly. His eyes are narrowed and he’s staring at me, though not directly into my eyes—he’s looking at my forehead. It’s an old trick to make it look like you’re looking somebody in the eye. And most people don’t bother looking closely enough to tell the difference. I do. And I read it as a sign of nervousness. He’s got good reason to be nervous.
“What are you still doing here, Pete?” I snap.
“Y-you can’t tell me what to do. I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re not the president of this town.”
“That would be mayor. Towns have mayors, not presidents, dumbass,” I counter. “And you’re right. I’m not the mayor. That’s why we can beat the shit out of you and get away with it.”
“I ain’t scared of you.”
I move closer to him and he staggers back a couple of steps, nearly tripping over his own feet, his eyes widening. I laugh and Pete’s face darkens, a scowl crossing his lips. He puffs himself up again, putting on what he thinks is his scary face. But he simply looks like a pouting, petulant child to me.
“Yeah, you really are scared of me, actually. I can see it in your eyes, Pete. And you should be,” I tell him. “Now, I should just kill you outright. But you’ve caught me at an interesting time in my life and I’m feeling generous, so I’m going to give you this one last chance. Get the fuck out of Blue Rock tonight or I’m going to have no choice but to kill you for real.”
“Go fuck yourself,” he spits.
For a big man, he’s fast, and he moves quicker than I anticipated. His fist slams into the left side of my face and I stagger to the side, dropping my bag in the process. The contents of my dinner hit the ground and split open, spilling onto the sidewalk which pisses me off. I manage to stay on my feet, but the son of a bitch packs a pretty good pop that has my ears ringing and my head spinning. Gritting my teeth, I launch myself at him—and he just stands there like a goddamn idiot.
I drive my fist into his gut and the breath is driven out of him with a loud “oomph”. Pete doubles over, gasping for air, so I grab him by the hair and yank his head up then deliver a hard shot to his jaw that sends him staggering to the left. Pete keeps his feet though and bull-rushes me. He slams me into the wall, caught between the brick and his bulk, very nearly taking the wind out of me.
I bring my elbow down on the back of his neck at the same time I’m propelling my knee upward. His head is caught between the two and his jaw is slammed shut with a loud clacking sound. Pete staggers backward, a dazed look on his face. I step forward and deliver another blow to his midsection then grab his hair and raise his bloodied face to me again.
“I gave you a chance to get the fuck out of here,” I tell him.
I deliver a flurry of quick shots to his face, drawing more blood from his nose and mouth. He groans miserably, his voice thick and wheezing. I’m just about to drive my fist into his face again when I’m caught up in the red and blue strobe and loud chirp of a police siren. I give Pete one more hard shot to the nose, feeling it crunch before I let go of his hair. He falls to the ground with a sound like wet meat hitting the pavement.
Sheriff Singer gets out of his SUV and steps over to us. He looks down at Pete, the look of distaste on his face clear then turns to me.
