Chapter 17

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Brodie

The engine of the motorcycle screamed as he headed in from the desert to the bad part of Farmington. His thick jacket, armored jeans and leather gloves stopped the cool night air from making him cold. On his face his thick beard which hung down his chest made sure he never felt a chill there either.

As he hit the city limits he slowed down. There was little chance of cops at this time of night, but there could be other traffic. Drunk drivers in particular.

He headed through the nicer areas, the sound of his motorcycle setting dogs barking as he rolled on through. Most of the town was asleep, it was after midnight.

When he reached the bad part of town he slowed down further. It seemed the city didn't much care for this neighborhood, and it showed in the potholes and cracks which ran through the streets.

There was more life in this neighborhood at this time of night. Despite half the houses being boarded up, the other half were almost invariably lit. People stayed up late around here.

When Brodie reached the house of the Mexican gang leader he propped his bike up outside and turned off the engine.

From inside loud Spanish language rap music poured out. It sounded like there was a party going on.

He strode up to the front door, his powerful legs crunching stones and gravel into the ground as he walked up. Let's get this over with. I got all kinds of better things I could be doing with Lucy. He grinned at the thought of holding her legs down behind her head as he had her. This chick is old lady material. The things she can do with a dick...

When he reached the front door he drew a breath and tried to regain his focus. He had to sort this shit out, then he could go back to the clubhouse for his evening fun.

With a large meaty fist he hammered on the door. He wasn't gentle; the music inside was far too loud for a soft, polite knock. The door shook in its hinges as hammered half a dozen times.

With his sixth smack on the door he was surprised when it opened and a frightened young Mexican kid opened the door. He must have been right there. The teenager was holding a gun, but it wasn't pointed at Brodie. Not yet.

"I wanta speak to the boss." Brodie's deep voice was powerful and had to be obeyed. The kid nodded and ran down the hallway to what Brodie guessed was the living room, and the source of the music.

Brodie stood on the steps, waiting for perhaps a minute before the boy returned, gesturing for Brodie to come in.

As he walked towards the room the music was lowered. Good. We'll be able to talk instead of shout.

The living room was filthy. Brodie shook his head to himself as he surveyed the wreckage. On the floor were empty 40s and bottles of tequila. The threadbare carpet was burned with black holes, and he could see the remains of a couple of blunts.

There was a dirty sofa and half a dozen lawn chairs scatted around the room. Each one held a Mexican. They looked at him expectantly.

"I've come to clear up a misunderstanding."

One of the men yelled something in Spanish. The teenager who'd led him here nodded and ran off out the other door of the living room to the kitchen.

"Oh you have, have you?"

"We don't want no beef."

The kid ran back in and handed a bottle of beer to Brodie, who took it in one of his giant hands.

"No beef?" The man who was their apparent leader raised an eyebrow at him. "You don't want no beef huh?"

Brodie's voice was strong and confident, "That's right. We get it. That shit today was obviously a misunderstanding. We ain't gonna do shit with the Koreans."

The sitting men exchanged heated words. Brodie didn't understand any of them. He took a swig of his beer and waited.

Finally the leader stood up.

"A misunderstanding? Let me show you something."

Brodie nodded. The Mexican approached him and indicated towards the door the teenager had disappeared back out of again.

Brodie walked across the room, his long legs allowing him to cross it in just three steps. His heavy boots knocked bottles and chip packets out of the way.

He walked into the kitchen where the nervous looking kid was staring wide eyed at him.

Goddammit. On the ground was a large sheet of plastic.

Brodie went to turn around and started to speak, "Look, I don't know what you thin--".

His words were interrupted as the three grim looking Mexicans in the doorway unleashed a hail of bullets into his solid frame. As he dropped to the floor the last words he heard were, "He was my son fuckhead."

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