The Night Horde SoCal: Fire And Dark Part 7

The sound of an old-fas.h.i.+oned alarm clock, the Big Ben kind with bells on the top, dragged Connor out of a deep sleep. Cracking one eye open, he saw the fuzzy image of a woman sitting up and reaching for something.

The noise blissfully stopped just as he recognized Pilar and remembered that he was sleeping in her bed.

An unusual development, to wake in the morning in a woman's bed. Usually, he made a point to bring his little bunnies back to the clubhouse. This chick was rocking his world a mite.

She turned to him and pushed his hip. "Hey. You awake?"

Opening his eyes fully, he stretched and reached out to twist a hank of her wild hair around his finger. "Yeah. Morning."

"Morning. I got to get going. So you do, too." With that, she pushed his hand away, tossed the sheet back, and stood up. She grabbed at something on her nightstand and then put her hands in her hair-oh, she was pulling the mop back into a ponytail.

The next thing she did shook the last of the sleep right out of Connor's head. Naked, she walked to her doorway and leapt up, catching a bar installed near the top. Her house-duplex-was old, with high ceilings and tall doors. That bar was pretty high off the floor. She had decent ups for a girl.

As he lay there, watching, she started doing pull-ups, totally naked. Christ almighty, she had muscle tone. Her back and shoulders flexed and rolled in ways he'd never seen a woman's body do before. His hand eased over his belly, under the sheet, and grabbed hold of the part of his body that found her exertions most interesting. After a few seconds, he realized he was jacking himself off in rhythm with each pull-up.

He hadn't noticed before now, but she had another tattoo, at the small of her back. On any other woman, he'd call ink there a tramp stamp. But Pilar-no, she wanted him to call her Cordero-Cordero had a firefighter's cross there. That cross had a particular name, and Connor knew that somewhere in the reaches of his head he knew it. To distract himself-he wanted to see if he could get her to let him in before he left, and he didn't want to f.u.c.k up her sheets-he searched for the name.

Maltese Cross. That was it. Cordero had a Maltese Cross at the small of her back. Too bada.s.s to be a tramp stamp. But Connor grinned at the irony of putting a symbol of that kind of strength-of heroism-in the place of a so-called 'tramp stamp.'

Unwilling to let go of his c.o.c.k, but needing more distraction, he looked around her bedroom. She had eclectic taste, for sure. All of her color choices were bold, and a lot of her furniture was just plain weird. There was a table in her living room that looked like photos had been glued all over it and then sh.e.l.lacked. And a chest in here had the rough texture of raw granite, but it was clearly made of wood.

Both the living room and the bedroom were painted a warm yellow. All the woodwork trim was white. Her iron bed, with ornate headboard and footboard, was painted blood red. Dark reds and blues seemed to feature prominently. She had lots of strange and funky knickknacks and artwork. It was a cozy, weird little house.

Finis.h.i.+ng her set, she dropped back to the floor and turned around. She wasn't breathing heavily, but her bronze skin had a faint sheen to it.

First thing she noticed was what Connor's hand was doing. When she lifted an eyebrow at him, he let go of his c.o.c.k, which was near to screaming for some relief. "Wanna help me out with that?"

She walked to her dresser. "Dude, no. I told you. Up and out. I need to get a run in and shower before work. You need to go." She opened a drawer and pulled out some clothes.

As she s.h.i.+mmied into a pair of form-fitting running shorts, he sighed. He could almost feel his b.a.l.l.s turning blue. Rubbing his hand over the empty s.p.a.ce in the bed where she belonged, he said, "I could work you out right here."

"Contrary to popular belief, s.e.x isn't that great for exercise."

"The way we f.u.c.k, it is."

She stopped in the act of grabbing one of her sport bra things, with her hand still in the drawer, and grinned at him. For second, his c.o.c.k got all hopeful. But she shook her head. "No. You gotta go."

"Fine," he sighed, and stood to look around for his jeans. They'd tossed their clothes all over the room last night. He found them and stepped into them, wedging his protesting c.o.c.k down into the denim, and Cordero bent over and dug a pair of running shoes out from under her bed.

d.a.m.n, that a.s.s. He couldn't resist-he reached out and gave it a swat, and she jackknifed up and swiveled around. He gave her an impish grin, and she returned it. "Dios mio. Get dressed, you fool."

Seeing her resolve, he got dressed.

She walked him to the door, on her way out for her run. Before she opened the door, though, he caught her hand and pulled it around his waist. "I want to see you again."

At first, her eyes went soft, and she smiled a smile he found encouraging. Then something moved across her face like a shadow in s.h.i.+fting light, and she stepped back.

"This is nothing, right? We're messing around is all."

He didn't like that she'd said that, and he didn't like that he didn't like it. When his reaction pulled him up a bit, it took him a half-second too long to respond. Just enough for her to take another step back and give him a wary look.

He caught her hand before she could move any farther away. "Yeah, absolutely. I want to f.u.c.k you again, play with some of the toys you've got in that drawer, but that's it. In fact, I'm probably going to grab some p.u.s.s.y as soon as I get to the clubhouse. I got me a set of blue b.a.l.l.s this morning, thanks to you and your Playboy Centerfold Workout. How many reps was that, anyway?"

Her smile returned. "Fifty."

"Nice. I could top that, of course. Double it, even."

"Yeah. We'll test that theory someday. But not now. C'mon, dude. Time to go." She pushed him to the side and opened her door.

He was on his bike and headed back to the clubhouse before he realized that they hadn't exchanged numbers. Exchanging numbers wasn't a thing he did, so it hadn't occurred to him.

Oh well. He knew where she lived and worked, and she knew the same about him. They'd figure it out.

In the meantime, he definitely needed to grab some club p.u.s.s.y, if anybody was still around and conscious from last night. He needed to get both of his heads straight this morning.

Meeting on a Sunday was unusual. The shop was closed on Sunday, and the Horde tended to use that day to chill out and recover from the weekend. But they had big business to discuss-on more than one front.

So the club was arrayed around the table, several of the guys looking like they could use a nap. Connor felt pretty refreshed, however. He'd been up early, but he'd slept hard. Cordero's bed was comfortable, with a nice, firm mattress.

And when he'd gotten back to the clubhouse, he'd found Fawn, one of the newer girls, in the kitchen, cleaning up. She'd reset his heads nicely. After he sent her on her way, he'd slept another couple of hours and had a hot shower. There was something to be said for rising early.

Not a lot, but something.

"Let's get to the business we all know about first: La Zorra's job. Trick-you got anything for us?"

Trick sat forward. "Yeah. I went out to Demon and Faith's place and knocked the rust off. I'm sharp again. With my M25, I can hit the center of the ribbon on a can of PBR at nine hundred yards."

"Nine hundred yards?" J.R. interjected. "That's...about half a mile!"

"Yes, it is," Trick's answer was matter-of-fact, despite the staggering impressiveness of his claim. "Of course, I was in the desert, no obstacles. I won't have the luxury of that distance in downtown L.A."

"From a rooftop, though, we could set you up a couple of blocks off." Sherlock swiped his fingers on his tablet and put a map of the Los Angeles financial district on the back wall, which they kept blank and white for that purpose. "In about a week and a half, Cartwright is going to be speaking at a lunchtime event in Pers.h.i.+ng Square, which is this green s.p.a.ce here, just on the southeast edge of the financial district." As he spoke, a red line circled a little rectangle of park on the map. "Here's where they'll set him up." A new picture came up as an inset overlaid on the map, showing an odd, purplish-blue monolith with green s.p.a.ce and concrete benches around it. A short red line appeared as Sherlock indicated where Cartwright would stand.

"This building"-another photo came up over the map, this of a tall, but otherwise nondescript gla.s.s box of a skysc.r.a.per-"is four blocks away. Well within your range, T. Here's the line of sight from its roof." The photo that came up this time showed a direct view to the park, apparently from that weird building. The next photo showed the same view on zoom, with a red 'X,' which was apparently where Trick's target would be standing.

From his seat near the head of the table, Connor could see Trick studying all the images closely. Trick looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock. "You got a street view of that distance, too?"

"Hold on." The projected image went dark, and Sherlock swiped and tapped at his tablet. As he worked he said, "You know there's no clear shot from street level."

"I know, Trick answered. "Not what I'm interested in."

After a couple of minutes, the back wall lit up again, and Sherlock put several images up in a grid. "Best I can do-street view of the route between the points, and the view in all directions around the building."

"Good. That's what I wanted." Trick leaned forward and studied the images. The rest of the Horde sat quietly and looked, too. Connor a.s.sumed they were doing what he was doing: trying to figure out what Trick was looking for.

Finally, shaking his head, Trick turned back to the table. "There are cameras everywhere. We're being spied on every time we turn around, and people just let it happen. We should be burning the place down over s.h.i.+t like that." Connor could sense the general eye-roll around the table as it seemed like Trick had a rant building, but he let his quiet outrage drop and looked at Sherlock, asking simply, "Can you do something about all those?"

Bart was the one who answered him. "To an extent. We can loop dead s.p.a.ce into some and obscure others, but if we interfere with too many, that itself could raise a flag. It's the financial district. Those f.u.c.kers are paranoid. Typical crooks, always sure everybody else is crooked. So we need to get you close before we start messing with the surveillance."

"Which is where we hit our first snag," Sherlock added.

Seeing the problem, Connor laughed. It was a real problem, but it was also funny as h.e.l.l. When everybody turned to him, he explained, "It's you, T. You stand the f.u.c.k out."

And then everybody turned to Trick and took him in: long, thick, dark blond dreads and a bushy, wiry, dark blond beard. The tats that covered his arms and hands they could deal with, but they couldn't exactly give him a head transplant. And it was July in Southern California-August at the time of the hit. He would stick out more in a ski mask than he did looking like f.u.c.king Medusa.

Hoosier c.o.c.ked his head toward Trick. "How about a trip to the barber, brother?"

Every head swiveled back to Trick. That boy loved his hair. Had Connor not known Trick, he'd have expected that head of his to smell bad. It looked unwashed. But Trick was fastidious about his hair and hygiene. Sometimes it took the guy almost an hour to get himself ready in the morning. When he worked or rode, he wore his mop tied back with a piece of hemp, but otherwise, like now, he left it loose to drape down his back and over his shoulders. He was practically a girl about that hair.

Connor's mental observation was reinforced when, reacting to Hoosier's question, Trick did a protective sweep and flip over those thick snakes and looked, for a brief second, like the world's ugliest princess.

But his eyes were wide with shock. He was distraught at the suggestion.

"Hair grows, T," Connor said, trying to sound rea.s.suring. "You can grow 'em back."

Trick turned hot eyes on him. "I haven't cut my hair since I got kicked from the service. Ten years. It's more than just hair. It means something. This..."-he turned to Hoosier-"are you s.h.i.+tting me?"

Connor's father spoke calmly. "We don't have another sniper, brother. I know what we're asking. I get it. But there's n.o.body else can do it, and you are easily identifiable. Our goal here is to get up and out and none the wiser."

"We haven't even voted on the f.u.c.king job yet!" Usually, Trick was calm and quiet, but this discussion had him agitated.

Still speaking in that careful, steady voice, Hoosier said, "We agreed we'd set a plan first and then vote on the job. Now we know the plan. You can vote against it, no judgment at this table. But this is the plan we're voting on, and it requires you to get military sharp again."

Again, Trick put his hands protectively to his hair. This time, though, he caught himself doing it and dropped them to the table. "f.u.c.k me."

When he didn't say more, Hoosier turned to Bart and Sherlock. "Okay. Let's hear the rest of the plan. Then we vote."

After all the details were laid out, with more photos and maps projected onto the wall, Hoosier called the vote. When it came around to Trick, there was a weighty pause, and then he said, "Aye. And f.u.c.k you all."

The vote was unanimous. They were doing the job for La Zorra, taking out the District Attorney for L.A. County. Without knowing why she wanted him dead.

When that business was finished, Hoosier said, "We have a new issue, too. Most of you know, but let's lay it out. Connor, Diaz, and Sherlock had an interesting afternoon yesterday. Connor, let's hear your take."

Connor described the scene at the High Life, and Diaz and Sherlock added bits as they saw fit. He left out the part that Pilar and Hugo were Aztec family. He didn't think it was pertinent to the Horde's specific problem, though it was certainly pertinent to Pilar's.

When the story was told, J.R. spoke up. "I'm not clear-why were you charging into Aztec turf? To do a favor for some piece of a.s.s you don't even know?"

A surprisingly strong bolt of anger went through Connor's head at that. Before he could retort, though, Muse leaned in. "She asked for help. We help, right? That's how we keep the citizens friendly. They know they can come to us when they can't go to Sheriff Montoya."

J.R. shook his head. "Yeah, but we help with petty stuff. We don't get involved in internal trouble on somebody else's turf."

"It's not internal trouble. Her brother isn't in." Connor could feel the kind of tension coming on him that usually needed a fight before it would dissipate.

And J.R. leaned in and poked some more. "But he did something to p.i.s.s them off. That shouldn't be our problem. This is about you chasing some sweet Latin p.u.s.s.y and dragging us all with you."

"I want you in the ring after this," Connor snarled. He was angry because J.R. was suggesting he'd dragged the club into trouble over a chick. He was sure that was the source of the anger. He was sure he wasn't feeling some sense of protectiveness for Pilar's honor. That wasn't it. Couldn't be.

J.R. blinked-he was slight, and Connor could break him in half if he had the will to do so-and if this kept up, he might. But then J.R. grinned. "Fine by me."

Hoosier cut in, slapping his hand down on the table. "Fight it out in the ring if you want. But on the point that matters in here-I okayed their field trip yesterday. There wasn't time to vote it, so I made a call. Now we might have a beef brewing with the Aztecs, and if so, then that's on me. They're not much of a problem on their own. Esposito is a c.o.c.ky s...o...b..he could've just been popping off. The bigger issue is that he's bent over to the Fuentes cartel. I don't want to be the cause of s.h.i.+t rising up in Mexico. La Zorra has a truce with them. If what we do here f.u.c.ks that up there, we will have a problem. So be sharp and pay attention."

He sat back in his leather chair. "That's all I got. If J.R. is set on being an idiot, then by all means, you two go fight it out. But brother, you're in the wrong. Also, you p.i.s.sed him off and he's got five inches and sixty pounds on you. Maybe you should just f.u.c.king apologize while you can still walk."

Connor just smiled.

"Can you take Lana for a minute?" Demon's wife, Faith, leaned over the back of the sectional and held her daughter out.

Connor set the television remote down and took the pretty little infant into his hands. "Sure thing. Come see Uncle Conman, cupcake." He settled her on his chest, and she immediately went for the cross hanging from his neck, pulling on several hairs as she tried to shove it in her mouth. "Ouch. That's mine. Have this instead." He put his hand up to her mouth, and she sucked on one of his rings, and his finger, instead.

As Faith led Tucker, Lana's older brother, down the hall toward the bathroom, Connor looked back. "She's changed and all, right?"

"Yes," Faith sighed theatrically. "I promise you won't have to do anything but be charming."

"Good. I got that down." Connor loved babies-when they were dressed and quiet and didn't stink. He didn't mind them when they weren't quiet, either, up to a point. He could deal with a little squalling, as long as they settled down when he turned on the charm.

He loved all the club kids. But this little girl was the sweetest thing he'd ever known. Maybe because she was Faith's, and Faith had been special to him since they were kids. She was like his little sister. He'd felt it hard when she'd run away back in the day. But it wasn't until she'd come back home, about a year and a half ago, that he'd fully realized how much like a sister he'd felt her to be.

Her daughter was like a perfect little doll, with wisps of pale hair and huge hazel eyes. And she hardly ever cried-not with him, anyway. She was a watcher. Not even four months old yet, but Connor could tell. This little miss took things in and thought about them before she made a decision.

They were all at Connor's parents' house for dinner. It was a thing that his mom, Bibi, had started doing not long after Demon and Faith got married. She wanted her family together at least once a week. Horde family came and went all week long, to drop in for a bite, expected or not, or to help out with some home repair, or just to hang out. But this core group-Connor and his parents, and Faith and Demon and their kids-Bibi wanted them to sit down like a family. Both Faith and Demon looked on his folks as parents, too, which was fine with Connor.

He felt closer to Faith than to Demon. He and Demon had met when Connor was a Prospect and Demon had started hanging around the club, back in the day, when they'd still been in L.A. So they'd started off with Connor thinking of him as inferior. And then right after Demon got his patch, there'd been that whole bulls.h.i.+t with Faith and her father, and it was just tough not to think about all that.

He loved Demon as the brother he was, and they had an ease together, but they weren't confidants. When Connor needed to bend an ear, he went to Trick. And Demon went to Muse.

Demon came into the room now and sat on the other side of the sectional. "You good with her?" he asked.

"You know I am, brother. I love this sweet little thing." His hand was dripping wet with her drool now, though, so he s.h.i.+fted her into the crook of his arm, and Demon handed him a teether and a cloth diaper. "How's Tuck doing?"

Demon grinned like the proud papa he was. "He's real good. That preschool is helping. He's catching up. When they took him from Kota, he was about a year behind in everything. Now he's almost on target."

It had been about a year and a half or so since the state had taken custody of Tucker from Demon's junkie ex. "That's great. That kid's been through some life already."

His grin fading, Demon nodded. "Yeah. But it's good now. Faith's adopting him, and he loves his baby sister, and it's good. Life is good."

"Yeah, it is."

The young boy in question came in just then and put his hands on his hips. Tucker was nearly four, but he was small for his age, the byproduct of being born to a junkie mom and being stuck in her barely-conscious 'care' for his first two years. All of his problems could be put down to that. And his recovery since was due to the loving family that now surrounded him.

"Pa!" Tucker nearly shouted. "Granny say wash your hands and come eat."

Demon turned and smiled at his son. "Okay, Motor Man. Just me?"

Tucker thought about that and then shook his head. "Unca Con, you eat, too. But not Lala. Mommy gave Lala a b.o.o.b already."