Neon Nights Chapter 25

“Mind if I talk to Avery?" Marc asked an Everest of a man standing watch over Satan's yacht.

The man didn't acknowledge his presence with anything but a stiff middle finger.

"Ouch. You don't even know why I'm here. What if I have a check for him?"

The giant stared at him squarely in his eyes, took a hard step in his direction, and extended his middle finger aggressively as if the wagging would help get his point across. This time though, Marc grabbed it, and before the man could realize what had happened, he was face-first on the ground with his wrist locked behind his back.

"Can I go speak to him … please?"

The man struggled under the intense pressure against his shoulder joint and couldn't muster a coherent response beyond grumbles and curses. A crowd of onlookers started to gather and gawk.

Marc looked up and saw Avery leaning over the railing, watching the commotion below. He waved his hand casually in their direction. Up close to the big man now, Marc got a better look at the tattoos

on his neck—Satan on a Harley, swastikas, and a curling wave with the letters WW in the crest.

"You work for Billy?" he asked. "Get my lawyer."

"It's cool. Since you've written half the information we need on yourself, it shouldn't be hard to tie you to things."

He slipped on a set of zip tie cuffs he produced from his tuxedo trousers and left the man writhing on the ground like a calf at a rodeo. Marc smoothed his tuxedo out and walked to the boat entrance.

"Sorry for the inconvenience. It'll only be a minute. Avery, I'm hopeful we won't have a repeat chase where you jump off that deck and try to swim to safety. I don't have the right shoes on. Why don't you come down the steps, please, and keep your hands where I can see them? I need to talk with you."

Avery strode forward like he was the master of the universe, and three girls accompanied him down a red staircase, over which a sign read “Welcome to hell.”

DJ Midnight seemed like a real likable fellow.

Marc kept his hand over his holster and waited for them to find a seat on the bottom deck.

Avery took a seat and casually crossed his leg over the other.

"You looking for my dad to get you fired and sued, Detective? He's here now. We can make it real quick and painless."

“Where’s your boy Ryan?” Avery shrugged.

"You know, I deal with people like you every day, and the thing I see over and over that takes them down is their arrogance. We would probably never get them reeled in if they didn't have it. Lucky for us, they always do. Their egos and the need to be a big shot in front of their partners in crime are their Achilles’ heel. I'm so close to you two, I can taste it. I know you are behind these pills and the murder of your friend. I'm so close to having everything I need to lock you up for your natural-born lives."

Marc sat down on one of the tables mounted into the boat's deck and leaned in closer to him, watching Avery’s face intently.

"And guess what? You've got another death on your hands. One of the girls that was in the hospital passed away last night."

Avery looked bored, like Marc had just read him a recipe from an eighteenth-century cookbook.

Marc caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head slightly to see what it was.

"Again, huh? You never really learn, do you, Detective? My son has nothing to say to you."

Avery sat up straighter now and smirked. "I didn't peg you as the rave type, Brad."

"What's not to love? Just because I'm a little older than the kids here."

Marc laughed.

“Jokes! I didn't know you could be funny too. What a welcome surprise."

"Don't come near my son again. I'm filing a suit in the morning for harassment and a civil suit for the emotional distress you have caused these young men. Should be more than enough for the city to fire you."

"Your son and his friend are involved in something much bigger than their tiny brains can comprehend. They think they're in a rap video, that they can deal out these pills, have kids die, run their little high society cartel, and have no consequences because they have an Ivy League attorney on their side."

Brad fired an icy look at his son on the couch.

"My son is an epic disappointment to me, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let some hick town cops harass him and ruin his life because that guy can't do his job and find the real cause of his problems."

Marc looked at Avery, whose head hung lower now, clearly stung by his father's words.

"Your son and his friend will make a mistake. One that you cannot correct for them. When they do, I'll be right here to pick up the pieces. You can hide behind your degree, but they can't forever."

Marc walked off the boat and back onto the dock. He looked down at the man on the dock and back up to Brad.

"You represent him too?" "No," Brad said.

"Perfect, he gets to go with me then. I'm sure he will have no trouble telling me about what the boys were getting into here on the boat." Marc pulled out his phone and called the number Sergeant Russell had given him at the mobile command.

Alec and three security personnel walked over.

"I would not have let you in had I known what kind of disruption you would cause here, Detective. This is an important event for me and not the image I want to convey."

Marc put up his hands in mock surrender. "I've got what I need, thanks."

"Very well. Then you will be headed out, I trust?" Alec asked him. "Yep, though I suspect you will see me again soon."

Carly and Marc stood out by their vehicles and dialed the chief's phone number.

"You know, I just closed my eyes?" the man said in an irritated tone.

"Chief, we need to hit White Wave in the morning," Marc said, excitement building up in his voice.

"Why?"

"Between the mad scientists going on record that the bikers are a big-time customer and the gang’s members running security at the fundraiser at the festival tonight, their fingerprints are all over this.”

Marc could picture Rome pressing hard against his tired eyes with his thumb and index finger, trying to massage his brain into activity.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"Carly and I are down here now, and I just sent up a guy to Russell who was running security for the frat kids."

The chief was more alert now. "Game plan?"

"Thinking SWAT at 5 or 6 a.m. when the party winds down over at the White House. Most everyone will be passed out in those little cottages."

The line was quiet as the man considered the plan. "What don't you like about it, Chief?"

More quiet.

"I like it," Rome said.

Marc smiled at Carly and gave her a high five. "That's what I'm talking about."

"Get with Ruiz and tell their guys to be ready," Rome said. "Thanks, Chief," Marc said.

Rome took an opportunity to get a dig in.

"You're really going to leave, huh? You won't miss this stuff at all? Just going to live like a hermit and leave the rest of us here to fight crime solo?"

Marc looked at Carly, who put her hands up in mock defense.

Rome continued to push.

"Do whatever you want, Marc. Life is too short if you are unhappy. I think you will find that your blood runs too fast to pack it up and slow down because some ghosts won't leave you alone. Tell them to get lost so you can get back to work."

Javier “Javy” Ruiz was a bad ass dude.

Growing up on a dirt floor in Mexico, he made his way to America at seven years old, stashed in an oversized box with air holes cut into it. His parents had given their life savings to a stranger to get their only son over the border where his uncle could raise him and after a childhood spent laboring in the fields, he had the chance to go to the Army at eighteen and never looked back. After a dozen years in the Rangers, a Purple Heart, and three tours in Afghanistan, he came to East Bay to lead the SWAT team. His physical stature was small, but the way he carried himself made him seem ten feet tall. Ruiz was also incredibly kind and generous and could turn the switch on and off in his personality.

When it was game time, though …

"You guys want to do some work in the morning?" Marc asked the man when he picked up the phone.

"Always! What have you got for us, amigo?"

"White Wave headquarters out in the woods. 6 a.m. That's not too early for you, is it? I know you're not in the military anymore, so I want to make sure you haven't gone soft or something."

Marc heard a hand slam excitedly on a counter and a boisterous laugh come through the phone.

"Brother, I'm up at 3:15 every morning with no alarm. We'll be ready."

"5 a.m. debrief at the station; strike at 6," Marc said.

"Rock and roll!" Ruiz shouted so loudly through the phone that Marc had to pull it away from his ear.

What had started as a drizzle ten minutes earlier had quickly turned into torrents of rain that pummeled the earth below, adding another level of complexity as Marc tried to navigate the darkened highway. Intense flashes of rain slowed him to a crawl, and his wiper blades were asked to do things they had never signed on for. In collusion with the wind, the water from the sky seemed to be angry at something and had decided to take it out on any poor sap dumb enough to thumb their nose at it. He gripped the wheel with both hands as the storm pushed the truck around the lane.

Two miles from his exit, a set of headlights appeared behind him. It was a welcome sight to have someone else on the pitch-black section of the road in this weather. His hands clamped down tighter on the wheel as the rain continued to search for another level of intensity, like an overachiever trying to get into an Ivy League school. Pulling off the road so close to home seemed silly, but he started to think that's exactly what he should do. His speed had slowed to about

twenty-five, and half of that number didn't look out of the realm of possibility.

The vehicle behind him didn't seem to feel the same way and approached him at what looked to be double his speed.

What an asshole.

Marc hit his lights to show the guy he needed to chill out.

The vehicle bore down on him, and Marc smashed the accelerator trying to get out of the way, the truck moving faster than he felt comfortable with given the weather. If he could make it to the exit, he could bail off the road and circle back behind the guy to pull him over.

Behind him, the truck was now close enough that the fog lights and off-road beams knifed through the darkness and reflected off his mirrors, making it harder to see than it already was.

Marc's speedometer fast-tracked its way to seventy-five as puddles of standing water on the road caused brief moments of lost contact with the pavement, his tires finally biting back down and hurtling him forward like a cartoon character after a long windup. The exit was only a quarter of a mile away now, and if he could dart off it at the last second, he could finally shake the guy loose and slow down via a long ramp off the highway.

Only he wouldn't get the chance to put the plan into action.

He felt his head jerk forward as the lifted truck smashed into his back bumper, forcing his smaller truck to squirrel across the lane at high speed. The exit was so close now he could make out the letters on

the green sign. Through force of will and some dumb luck, he managed to keep the truck on the road and braced for another impact as the larger truck lined up another shot and connected with his back left quarter panel.

The skid started slowly at first, a sickening feeling of helplessness washing over him before it gave way to a spin.

One spin.

Then a second.

Marc tried to finesse the wheel, but there was no way to regain control on the rain-soaked road.

The last thing he could process was an oncoming jersey barrier that looked like a very deadly way to put the dizzying ride to a stop.