one of the highest auto theft rates in the nation. Because of that, they had the strictest license and registration laws. The Mexicans would buy anything we wanted to get rid of. Hell, with all the shyster car lots in this town, that’s how they got rid of all the ones that they couldn’t unload on anyone for what ever the reason. Be it a rolled back odometer, fake or questionable title, what ever. The Mexicans would take it. They wouldn’t pay you shit for it, but it would damn sure disappear. They kept few if any records so there was likely no paper trail. Charles thought it was total irony that Nevada would spend more money, pay more attention to and worry more about how they were loosing money than they did about anything else. They didn’t care about the kids that were there. That is why he loved it in Vegas. It made things easy for him. He was tired of that old van. Anyway, he didn’t need that thing around. The kid may spot it and recognize it and that would only lead to more trouble for him. Yes, that was the thing to do. Just dump the van and move on.
Chapter 15
The Guardian had made his way back to his bike. He kept a large van, just for such purposes. The motor was a large 454 with more power than a Mack truck. The suspension had been reinforced with a heavy duty suspension and tow package. The plates weren’t traceable as they were a weld job he’d done from two separate plates he had acquired.
He drove the two hundred miles back into Vegas and found the bike just where he had left it. It sat, undisturbed just the way it was when had had parked it. He had made sure that he had gotten rid of his black clothing and put on something less conspicuous before he had left.
After quickly looking around the area, opening the two back doors, pulling the ramp out from inside, he walked over to the bike. The bike kicked to life, he climbed on pulled it up into the van. He tied it down good and secure. He checked to make sure no one saw him and drove away.
As he rode away thoughts of what he was doing and the things he was about to do flooded his mind. He didn’t like what he had to do. Something had to be done. Things just could not go on the way they were.
He knew that he couldn’t get all of them. That was just an impossible task. His focus would be on the ones that were continually getting away, always escaping the hands of justice. Those were the ones he would go after. If the laws couldn’t catch them, he would see that they got their just rewards in his own way.
There were those caught, yes. Punishment for their crimes was minimal. The problem was that the majority of them were getting minimal sentences, probation or some sort of psychological treatment. This had proven repeatedly that it didn’t work.
One other problem was, you couldn’t stop them from being what they were. At least that’s what they said, but the Guardian knew better. There were ways. He couldn’t stop them from thinking their evil thoughts, but they’d have one really hard time acting on them.
No, he couldn’t get them all but he damn sure could take care of the more serious ones and as many of those as he could.
He was secure out in Chloride where he lived. There wasn’t much left of the once thriving mining town. The population was only 323. At one time in the early 1900’s it was over 2000. It only consisted of about one square mile. The streets were mostly dirt, and when it rained most of the main road, Missouri Ave. was a mess with the dirt and gravel. What would be left after the rain would subside.
The main store was a little, ramshackle place. It was a Visitor’s Center. It also consisted of the “Mine Shaft Market.” Allen, the owner was a friendly, personable guy. There was a Rat Pack Porch in front of the building. The folks, invited to sit a spell and just converse or relax. They could share a tale or two or just sit and do nothing but listen to the others tell their stories if they had one. He kept saying
Chapter 15
The Guardian had made his way back to his bike. He kept a large van, just for such purposes. The motor was a large 454 with more power than a Mack truck. The suspension had been reinforced with a heavy duty suspension and tow package. The plates weren’t traceable as they were a weld job he’d done from two separate plates he had acquired.
He drove the two hundred miles back into Vegas and found the bike just where he had left it. It sat, undisturbed just the way it was when had had parked it. He had made sure that he had gotten rid of his black clothing and put on something less conspicuous before he had left.
After quickly looking around the area, opening the two back doors, pulling the ramp out from inside, he walked over to the bike. The bike kicked to life, he climbed on pulled it up into the van. He tied it down good and secure. He checked to make sure no one saw him and drove away.
As he rode away thoughts of what he was doing and the things he was about to do flooded his mind. He didn’t like what he had to do. Something had to be done. Things just could not go on the way they were.
He knew that he couldn’t get all of them. That was just an impossible task. His focus would be on the ones that were continually getting away, always escaping the hands of justice. Those were the ones he would go after. If the laws couldn’t catch them, he would see that they got their just rewards in his own way.
There were those caught, yes. Punishment for their crimes was minimal. The problem was that the majority of them were getting minimal sentences, probation or some sort of psychological treatment. This had proven repeatedly that it didn’t work.
One other problem was, you couldn’t stop them from being what they were. At least that’s what they said, but the Guardian knew better. There were ways. He couldn’t stop them from thinking their evil thoughts, but they’d have one really hard time acting on them.
No, he couldn’t get them all but he damn sure could take care of the more serious ones and as many of those as he could.
He was secure out in Chloride where he lived. There wasn’t much left of the once thriving mining town. The population was only 323. At one time in the early 1900’s it was over 2000. It only consisted of about one square mile. The streets were mostly dirt, and when it rained most of the main road, Missouri Ave. was a mess with the dirt and gravel. What would be left after the rain would subside.
The main store was a little, ramshackle place. It was a Visitor’s Center. It also consisted of the “Mine Shaft Market.” Allen, the owner was a friendly, personable guy. There was a Rat Pack Porch in front of the building. The folks, invited to sit a spell and just converse or relax. They could share a tale or two or just sit and do nothing but listen to the others tell their stories if they had one. He kept saying
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