32 - Dev

*We can do this one of two ways. Either way, I’m walking out of here, and you’re not. – Dom*
After grabbing a quick bite to eat and promising to come back to see the bunnies when she had more time, Dom went to the address that Miller sent her. It was exactly as she expected it to be. A couple of rundown houses with Nazi and confederate flags all over the place. There was a fence surrounding the compound, sort of. It looked like it would fall over if she touched it.
Not that she was going to touch the tetanus infested metal.
Before getting off her bike, she pulled off her gauntlets and pulled on a pair of black latex gloves. She tucked her glasses into the small holder attached to the gas tank.
The man that was sitting on the porch of the biggest house looked like he was either coming down from a high or waiting for it to kick in. if this was their security, Miller would not have to worry about scrubbing any camera footage.
She walked past him with no objections or questions. To him, she was probably nothing more than a ghost as she passed. Maybe a drug hallucination. The men she found inside were no better. A few women were scattered through out the building in very similar states of fake euphoria.
The stench of unwashed bodies, stale urine and old vomit assaulted her senses and made her eyes water. Swearing softly, she decided that opening her mouth was a huge mistake. That was a taste that she could live without.
Passing through one room, she saw a pregnant woman passed out. Small shoes and a few scraggly and rough looking, and very naked, knock off Barbie dolls. Shaking her head, Dom snapped a few pictures on her black phone and sent them to Miller.
Leaving the room with the woman and toys, she continued her search for the club president, Dev. It didn’t take long for her to find the man. He was exactly as Miller had described.
Neo-Nazi skinhead model A.
Shaved head. Blonde eyebrows and goatee. Pock marked cheeks. Swastikas and other Nazi symbols covered his arms and neck. The wife beater shirt he wore was clean, but the boots and jeans were not.
He wore a Brotherhood cut with Dev on his nameplate, President was underneath it.
Dom closed and locked the door to the small room. Both took a little effort to get the door to settle into its correct spot so that the latch would engage. After making a slight adjustment, the cheap barrel bolt slid into place.
It would not keep a normal person out. But the others in the house were weak and stoned. They would have to figure out which of the doors they were looking at needed to be opened. And possibly make it stop moving.
Walking behind the cheap second-hand desk, she straddled the man in the office chair. Smiling, he caressed her denim clad legs as he slowly woke up.
He took in the tattoos on her arms, chest and neck. Then he looked at her face with the cold gray eyes, dark eyebrows and slightly crooked nose. Her lips were tipped up into a smile that bordered on a sneer.
She had a teal green Mohawk that was braided behind her. It reached her midback and slowly transitioned from the bright green to black. She was not exactly a beautiful woman, but those who dealt with her, never forgot her.
“You’re not one of my regular girls.” Dev smiled at her.
“It takes a special kind of crazy to have me as a regular.” Dom admitted as she pulled a large knife out from under her cut.
She smiled at him and his eyes widened with fear. “We need to have a talk.”
“How the fuck did you get in here?” he demanded as he tried to move her off him.
“Through the front door,” she motioned towards the front of the house with her large knife, his eyes tracked the movement. “You lack decent security.”
“Fuck you,” he sneered.
“I admit, I could fuck someone. Saw some prime pussy earlier. Some hot cock,” she smiled as she pressed the tip of the knife to the underside of his chin. “But there is no way that I would ever fuck the likes of you. When was the last time that you washed *anything* of yours?”
“Bitch.” He spit out at her.
“Very much so,” Dom proudly admitted. “Now, you need to answer a few questions, and don’t make me angry.”
“I won’t like you angry…?” he smirked.
“You won’t survive me angry,” she grinned at him as she nicked his skin with the blade.
An hour later, she walked out of the house. Once again, no one paid attention to her. She straddled her bike and called her contact. After relaying the information, she started up the engine and headed west.
Before she was in Texas, the DEA, city police and parish deputies moved in on the would-be compound. The group was new to the drug trade and broke the cardinal rule of dealing.
You don’t use the product.
They were all so stoned out of their minds, they were in jail before it dawned on them what had happened.
Dev sat in an interrogation room when a well-dressed older man stepped in. He had dark hair with silver at the temples. His eyes were cold brown, almost black. His suit was not a name brand but was tailored to his wiry frame.
He was slender and tall, his slim body making his five feet eleven inches seem much taller. His dominating air made him appear even larger. There really was nothing about his looks that made him stand out.
Dev was certain that the man was older, but not certain by how much. Maybe a few years. Maybe a few decades. When he tried to describe the man later, all that he could think was average looking.
The man placed a finger on a scar in front of his ear, “I’m in,” he moved his hand and looked at the handcuffed prisoner.
“I’m here to make a deal with you.” Dev nodded at this statement. “You are going to answer all of my questions. You are going to cooperate. You are going to tell your men to cooperate.”
He started each sentence with an emphasis on the *You are* telling Dev that these were non-negotiable. These were stated as facts, and the man, who never gave a name or an agency, expected nothing less than for the statements to be adhered to.
“What do I get?” Dev demanded.
The man gave a mall lopsided smile. “The lady with the Mohawk and tattoos?”
Dev smiled. Yeah. He would cooperate if he could get his hands on her. He tried to reach up and touch the spot under his chin where she had nicked him. The handcuffs running through the bar on the table prevented him from raising his hands very far.
“I’ll cooperate. So will my men.”
“Good. I’ll let her know.” The man pulled out a legal notepad and a rough pencil from the generic black messenger bag that he sat on the table.
“When do I get her?” Dev asked as the other man sat down across from him.
“Who?” he asked the prisoner with a confused look on his face.
“Mohawk.” Dev sneered.
The man roared with laughter. “You misunderstood. Your cooperation won’t get her. It will keep you safe from her.”
“I’m still going to jail.” He said confused.
“Definitely. You help, your men help, your stays will be much more comfortable. And a hell of a lot safer.”
“Safer? From her?” Dev scoffed. “I’ll be in jail. Surrounded by fucking cops.”
The man chuckled. “That’s never stopped her before. You break the deal, doesn’t matter where you are or who’s protecting you, she will kill you.”
It was the ease that the man said it that scared Dev. That, and the cold glee that was in the man’s eyes. As if he was just waiting for Dev to mess up so Mohawk could come kill him.
Asking his first question, the man glanced at his watch. The shorthand language that the man wrote in looked like nothing more than gibberish to Dev. He didn’t care. He just wanted to get the hell out of here.
Surprisingly, the man only asked a handful of questions. Looking at his watch with each question. When he was done, he pressed a finger to the small scar near his ear.
“Leaving now,” he said and then placed his notepad and pencil back into the bag and left.
Less than ten minutes later, two uniformed officers walked into the interrogation room and introduced themselves as officers with the local department.
“Where’d the other guy go?”
Confused, the first officer told him, “No one else has been in here.”