why were the detectives already in their clubhouse bar, pushing questions about the truck that was hi-jacked just out of town?
Nolan remained silent as the detectives walked through the bar fishing for information like the rest of them. He listened as hard as he could to what the detectives were asking, and he ran the numbers in his head on what they knew and what they didn't.
Once the cops were gone, they had a meeting in the back office. Alan "Prez" Bowser was already off the phone with the run down from his sources.
The cops had recovered the stolen rig. They got to it before the Mexicans could begin parting it out. They brought it back whole, backed by some serious governmental cooperation, and had it returned to California for investigation and CSI. Nolan whistled, unable to hide his impressed expression.
"What the fuck was so important about these cigarettes?" Rick asked.
Alan shrugged, "Does it matter? Maybe it will matter later, when we plan another job like this, but for right now what matters most is that they had the truck on satellite tracking. The truck is recovered and I doubt any of you have thought to wipe prints out of the trailer or the cab, including you Sarge."
Nolan looked over at him, and shrugged, "Can't say I did. Thought the Mexes would have a day at the very least."
"Well they didn't and you were the one in the cab," Alan said, looking at him like he was looking down the barrel of a gun.
Nolan didn't like the glare, "So, what are you thinking Prez?"
"I'm thinking our chopper-shop in Eureka needs a new manager for about a year." Alan told him.
Nolan's heart dropped. He was going to be chilled, put down on ice. "Ah shit," he breathed out. "This could pass Prez. We don't need to go that far, do we?"
"Less than 24 and they have the truck, satellite GPS locations and then in our clubhouse bar? What do you think?"
Nolan ran the numbers through his mind, "Fuck," he sighed.
"Yeah, fuck," Prez agreed, nodding his head. "You take off now. No patch on your back either. I've already called the shop, and they are getting you a place to live."
Nolan got up, pulled off his leather vest with his member’s patch sewed on the back and laid it on Alan's desk, "This really sucks," he sighed, and walked out of the back room without looking back. For the next year he was Nolan Pierce, and just Nolan Pierce. Manager of a car and bike shop in the small town of Eureka. It was better than being in a prison, but not by much.
Nolan mounted his bike, started the engine and let it idle with its throaty chug while lighting a smoke and inhaling the blue mist. Then he exhaled the cloud up into the sky above him. A year, a fucking year. Maybe more if the heat wouldn’t die down. What was the big deal about this load? He shook his head. It didn't matter. He was iced.
After finishing his cigarette, he called the bitch he was living with, told her the score and instructed her to pack the place up. He wasn't even going to drop by the house. She whined about the work, but she would do it any way. She wasn't his woman, she was a club bitch. She belonged to whatever patch holding member decided he wanted her for a while.
Mary was good to him for the last year though. He didn't love her of course. The rule of thumb was not to fall in love with club bitches. But she put out well, and kept the house in good shape. She kept herself in good shape too. "Mary, in the back of the closet, under those web boots of mine, there's a loose floor board. The contents are yours. You did good for me, but I can't take you with me. That will set you up until someone else recognizes your assets."
She was quiet for a while and then said, "Thanks Sarge. It was good, right?"
"Yeah, it was good. Best I've had. Later."
"Later," she said and hung up the phone.
Ten grand and some coke should have held her better than she deserved. But she was right, it was good
Nolan remained silent as the detectives walked through the bar fishing for information like the rest of them. He listened as hard as he could to what the detectives were asking, and he ran the numbers in his head on what they knew and what they didn't.
Once the cops were gone, they had a meeting in the back office. Alan "Prez" Bowser was already off the phone with the run down from his sources.
The cops had recovered the stolen rig. They got to it before the Mexicans could begin parting it out. They brought it back whole, backed by some serious governmental cooperation, and had it returned to California for investigation and CSI. Nolan whistled, unable to hide his impressed expression.
"What the fuck was so important about these cigarettes?" Rick asked.
Alan shrugged, "Does it matter? Maybe it will matter later, when we plan another job like this, but for right now what matters most is that they had the truck on satellite tracking. The truck is recovered and I doubt any of you have thought to wipe prints out of the trailer or the cab, including you Sarge."
Nolan looked over at him, and shrugged, "Can't say I did. Thought the Mexes would have a day at the very least."
"Well they didn't and you were the one in the cab," Alan said, looking at him like he was looking down the barrel of a gun.
Nolan didn't like the glare, "So, what are you thinking Prez?"
"I'm thinking our chopper-shop in Eureka needs a new manager for about a year." Alan told him.
Nolan's heart dropped. He was going to be chilled, put down on ice. "Ah shit," he breathed out. "This could pass Prez. We don't need to go that far, do we?"
"Less than 24 and they have the truck, satellite GPS locations and then in our clubhouse bar? What do you think?"
Nolan ran the numbers through his mind, "Fuck," he sighed.
"Yeah, fuck," Prez agreed, nodding his head. "You take off now. No patch on your back either. I've already called the shop, and they are getting you a place to live."
Nolan got up, pulled off his leather vest with his member’s patch sewed on the back and laid it on Alan's desk, "This really sucks," he sighed, and walked out of the back room without looking back. For the next year he was Nolan Pierce, and just Nolan Pierce. Manager of a car and bike shop in the small town of Eureka. It was better than being in a prison, but not by much.
Nolan mounted his bike, started the engine and let it idle with its throaty chug while lighting a smoke and inhaling the blue mist. Then he exhaled the cloud up into the sky above him. A year, a fucking year. Maybe more if the heat wouldn’t die down. What was the big deal about this load? He shook his head. It didn't matter. He was iced.
After finishing his cigarette, he called the bitch he was living with, told her the score and instructed her to pack the place up. He wasn't even going to drop by the house. She whined about the work, but she would do it any way. She wasn't his woman, she was a club bitch. She belonged to whatever patch holding member decided he wanted her for a while.
Mary was good to him for the last year though. He didn't love her of course. The rule of thumb was not to fall in love with club bitches. But she put out well, and kept the house in good shape. She kept herself in good shape too. "Mary, in the back of the closet, under those web boots of mine, there's a loose floor board. The contents are yours. You did good for me, but I can't take you with me. That will set you up until someone else recognizes your assets."
She was quiet for a while and then said, "Thanks Sarge. It was good, right?"
"Yeah, it was good. Best I've had. Later."
"Later," she said and hung up the phone.
Ten grand and some coke should have held her better than she deserved. But she was right, it was good
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