The Devil's Elixir

20

“Where are you?” Walker barked into the phone.

“I’m in the Barrio,” Ricky “Scrape” Torres replied. “It’s all gone to shit, man. I’m hit.”

Walker could hear the strain and the desperation in his bike brother’s voice. “What? What the hell happened?”

“The fucker just came out of nowhere and jumped us. One minute he’s behind the gates in the warehouse, next thing you know he’s got his gun in Booster’s face. I was going for my piece and he shot me in the shoulder, man. I’m bleeding bad.”

“What about Booster?”

“He’s down, man. This fucking security guard put one in his back when we made our move. I don’t know if he’s dead or what.”

“Goddamn it,” Walker spat, his veins swelling with fury. “How the fuck did he get the drop on you?”

“I don’t know. We messed up, all right? But I need help here, I’m losing blood, I need someone to fix me up.”

Walker thought for a second, and as he did, he saw the rest of his guys staring at him, concern and anger burning in their eyes. Then his gaze settled on the Mexican, who was also watching him—the goddamn Mexican and his fucking fed from hell. He cursed inwardly at having brought this down on the club, at not having pulled out as soon as he became aware that an FBI agent was involved. He’d been blinded by the easy money he’d been paid for grabbing the others for the Mexican, and he’d had no reason to suspect that this last snatch would turn out to be such a disaster.

Regardless, they were in it now, and he had a man down in the field. And Eli “Wook” Walker always took care of his men.

He asked, “You said you’re in the Barrio?”

“Yeah, I just crossed under the bridge.”

“What, on foot or you driving?”

“On foot, man. The car’s history.”

Walker wasn’t worried about that. It was stolen anyway. “Can you drive?”

“Yeah, I think so. But I need to jack me a ride.”

Walker thought it over quickly, then said, “Okay, get yourself some wheels and head out to the grotto. Think you can make it there?”

“I guess.”

“Do it. I’ll send someone around to sort you out.”

“You gotta do it fast, man,” Scrape pleaded. “I’m wasting here.”

“Just get your ass over there as soon as you can and sit tight. You’ll be fine.”

Walker hung up and found himself facing a wall of questioning stares. Before he could start filling them in, the Mexican spoke up.

“Is there a problem?”

Walker was in no mood to cajole the man. “Yeah, I’d say there’s a fucking problem,” he growled. “I’ve got one man down and another with a slug in his shoulder because of you.”

The Mexican got up from the couch, calmly, and took a step toward Walker, sending a ripple of tension across the room. The rest of the bikers straightened up and inched forward threateningly, clearly ready to rumble, as did Navarro’s two aides.

Navarro stilled his men with a small, calming gesture without even looking at them while studying Walker with a curious smile on his face. “Because of me?”

“You should have told me the bitch had a goddamn fed for a boyfriend from day one,” Walker hissed.

Navarro remained calm. “Well, you did know she was ex-DEA. And if you and your babosos hadn’t been so pathetically incompetent, the boyfriend wouldn’t have been around, would he?”

Something about the way the Mexican spoke tripped a small circuit deep inside Walker’s brain. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it made him uneasy. Still, the man was standing there, mouthing off in front of Walker’s own crew and doing it in his own fucking clubhouse. Not too many people had done that and lived long enough to brag about it.

“Listen to me, you wetback sonofabitch. I don’t know what you’ve got yourself into or what the hell this is all about, but I know we’re done here. So how about you get that chickenshit shrink of yours out of my basement, give me the rest of my money, and get the fuck out of my face while I’m still feeling charitable.”

Walker stared down the Mexican as a loaded silence choked the room. From the corner of his eye, he could see that his men were ready to deal with any threatening move. There were six of them facing three Mexicans in the room and one outside, odds that Walker was more than comfortable with. He knew the Mexican’s heavies had to be packing, but his own guys weren’t exactly there to play bingo and their guns were also ready to rip.

The Mexican seemed to read the situation the same way and after a few seconds of deliberation, his body language eased off. Then he spread his arms wide in a brotherly, conciliatory gesture, and shrugged.

“I understand you’re angry right now. I would feel the same way. But we’ve done good business together in the past, and it seems a shame to me for us to throw that away and kill the chance of doing more good business in the future because of this. So how about we shake hands and conclude this unhappy experience and move on without poisoning our relationship with any further disrespect? Deal, amigo?”

Walker eyed the man curiously. The Mexican just stared at him with a cordial, even expression.

The man had indeed paid them good money in the past for relatively easy work, and the pragmatist within Walker agreed that there was no need to kill off any future prospects between them. And given all the heat that the club would probably be facing after the shoot-out, Walker preferred not to have four more bodies and a whole lot of forensic evidence to bury, to say nothing of a potential Mexican shitstorm from the wetback’s compadres south of the border.

Walker nodded. “Deal.”

The Mexican spread his arms wider and gave him a look that was part reproachful and part relieved, then stepped toward Walker and brought his arms together, his hands inviting a handshake.

Walker shrugged and took a step in himself, and extended his hand.

Walker’s gaze locked onto the man’s eyes, and the same circuit in the biker’s brain tripped again as the Mexican’s hands wrapped themselves tightly around his right hand. And in that instant, the Mexican’s eyes hardened, giving Walker a peek into an abyss of darkness he knew he’d encountered before as he felt something sharp cut into the inside of his wrist.

His skin lit up with a burning sensation, and Walker flinched and tried to yank his arm back, but the Mexican’s grip stayed solidly locked on his wrist and held it there for a moment longer while his icy stare dug deeper into him—then Walker tugged back and pulled himself free.

He studied his wrist with confused, angry eyes, saw the small spouts of blood appear from where he’d felt the cuts—then he looked up to the Mexican’s hands.

“What the fu—”

Walker didn’t have time to finish the word. From either side of the Mexican, the two sicarios—professional gunmen—were whipping out their silenced handguns and unleashing a torrent of rounds with deadly accuracy.

Three seconds later, Walker’s men were all dead or dying where they stood.

Walker’s jaw dropped an inch as he stared in disbelief at his fallen brothers and watched in dumbstruck shock as the two enforcers went around calmly pumping confirmation slugs into their heads, then he tore his gaze off the slaughter and swiveled it back onto the Mexican—and then two things hit him.

The first was who the Mexican really was.

The second was a complete and sudden loss of feeling in his arms and legs.

He just fell to the ground, collapsing on himself like someone had turned all his bones to Jell-O.

Walker couldn’t move anything. He couldn’t even twist a shoulder or lift a finger to straighten himself out. Nothing worked. The realization sent a rush of terror through him as he just lay there, on his side, his cheek and nose squashed up against the wood flooring, his eyes locked at a disturbing sideways angle and giving him no more than a close-up view of the dust and the scrapes that littered it.

The Mexican’s boots edged closer until they were right up against Walker’s face, and from the corner of one eye, he could see the man towering over him and looking down at him like he was no more than a cockroach.

Then he saw the Mexican’s boot rise up.