Bandit slipped into the luxurious Corsa tan leather seat, next to a beautiful Redhead dressed to kill and took a slug of Jack Daniels. Suddenly, his mind felt at ease and the long day took it’s toll. He sensed fatigued, yet her dazzling eyes energized him. She slipped her delicate alabaster hand over his thigh, and he came alive again.
“I may be able to help with your predicament,” she almost whispered. “My name is Melody.” The aroma of her perfume swept over him like the scent of rose pedals with a hint of opium. “But we need to move. Can someone pick up your bike. I can have you in the city in half the time.” And she revved the V-12-cylinder Ferrari engine. “Plus, a full tank of gas.”
Bandit began to melt, sensed a sexual escapade, questioned the motives and reached for his cell phone. He called his Las Vegas connection, “He Joe, I’m in Whiskey Pete’s truck stop. Can you stash my bike?”
“I’m on it,” Joe said, “Are you with Melody in the red La Ferrari?”
“Yes,” Bandit said. Joe knew the action and the players. Perched in Mr. Primm’s penthouse suite, he looked down at Bandit’s chopper and the Aperta Ferrari on the sizzling asphalt parking lot below him.
“Do you know who owns that car?” Joe said.
“I’m going to find out real soon,” Bandit said. Bandit studied Melody’s soft as silk features and her clear eyes. He rolled the dice with a woman once more. She wasn’t tweaking and didn’t appear to be a drinker. He endeavored to look deep into her soul to get an inkling of her intentions. The sun began to descend over the mountains and he needed to move. He knew they would be running directly into the sun until it dove into the Pacific. He stepped out of the Ferrari and grabbed his bedroll. Tossing it behind the seats of the stunning four-million-dollar car, he slipped into the engulfing sportscar seat. She gunned the first hybrid Ferrari, and it burned out spinning a 180-degrees of smoldering rubber aiming it back at the freeway.
She hit the freeway as if Las Vegas exploded and the neon shrapnel screamed in their direction. In less than a minute they flew west toward the San Bernardino mountains at over 100 mph.
Bandit studied the digital dash and the finely detailed interior of the Italian sportscar as they whipped over the dry sandy California border and up the Mountain Pass grade blasting toward Baker 50 miles away. She was right, the gas tank was full, but he wondered how many gallons it would take them at high speeds until they needed to refuel. He had a van that could easily make it from the coast to Vegas without a gas stop.
“Okay,” Bandit said. “What gives?”
“Covid hit Vegas hard,” Melody said. “The mob needs money. The group in LA milked Vegas for decades and now Vegas needs them to hold up their end of the family business.”
“Isn’t there more than one mob?” Bandit asked.
“There is only one Italian family in Vegas, the same one since the beginning,” Melody said and whipped around two semis at 115 mph. “There has been other gangs and drug lords from Mexico, Columbia and Armenia but they don’t stick around long. They either do business with the family or are exterminated.”
The High Desert Mountain Pass to Baker, California reached 4,730 feet, the highest of the San Bernardino mountain range in California and they flew over it, like they were screaming along a flat, empty go cart track. Nothing stopped her peddle to the metal game. She paddle-shifted only a handful of times then returned her hand to Bandit’s thigh and squeezed gently.
They blasted over the Mountain Pass in 25 minutes, much of it jamming past 18-wheelers in the emergency lane kicking up gravel, sand, discarded hubcaps and beer cans. They blew through Baker, 50 miles from the Nevada border in a hot flash. The town of 735 folks was nothing but the only break in the desert between Barstow and Nevada.
“So, what’s the deal?” Bandit asked. “You know my situation.”
“Yes,” She muttered staying focused on the road and darting into the fast lane to pass another line of semi-trucks. “I know the boss in LA and they’re in a jam.”
“How can you help me save the Cantina?” Bandit pried.
“I need to talk to Domenic Cavaliere,” she said. “He’ll…”
Her conversation was abruptly interrupted by a blaring siren. “Fuck,” Bandit said. “I had a feeling.”
On their tail the California Highway Patrol bullhorn blazed. “Pull over, Now!”
They looked at each other and she signaled and backed off the gas for the first time since they rolled out of Primm. ?
“I could out run him,” Melody said. Her eyes searched for answers.
“You can’t outrun anyone out here,” Bandit said. “There’s nowhere in this desert to run and where the hell would you go?”
Suddenly her confident demeanor turned dour. Shaken, she looked at Bandit. “I can’t go back there.”
“They’re after you?” Bandit asked.
“Sorta,” Melody said.
“See if they’ll take you to San Bernardino,” Bandit said as she pulled to a stop in the dusty emergency lane two miles west of Baker.
The tall officer was at the door with his weapon drawn. “Get out,” he ordered, “and face the vehicle.”
She shut off the engine and opened the door. “Take the car,” she said as she stepped into the evening heat and the officer immediately cuffed her.
“I’ll be back,” Bandit said as he muscled his way into the driver’s seat.
“Can he take the car,” Melody asked the officer.
“They want you,” The officer said leading her back to his patrol car. “He better take it. There won’t be anything left of it, if it’s left out here. Scavengers will tear it apart.
Bandit looked in the rearview mirror at the cop, as he pushed her head down and into the back seat of the CHP cruiser. She was a magnificent beauty. And there was something sincere about her. But he needed to keep moving.
He fired the car to life but waited for the Cruiser to take off first. The setting sun let him know he had less than 2 hours to make his move in the city. He had a name, Cavaliere.
The 2017 top dollar, open-top Ferrari drove like a dream and Bandit thought about the girl and those magnificent tits tenderly screaming to be unleashed and caressed. But he had to focus. He dialed Marko his most trusted companion for over two decades.
“Have you heard anything?” Bandit said.
“No, Sammy is researching the mob in LA,” Marko said.
“I have a name,” Bandit said. “See if you can set up a meeting with Dominic Cavaliere away from the Cantina. We are rolling the dice once more.”
“I’ll bet a redhead has come into the picture,” Marko said.
“How the hell did you know?” Bandit said.
“Joe Zanelli called,” Marko said. “And what’s with the car?”
“I can’t get anything past you,” Bandit said pushing 90 mph as he approached Barstow, then Victorville and Hesperia before the final pass down into Riverside county and LA.
“I’ll let Sammy know,” Marko said. “He’s looking into the downtown guys.”
“Keep me posted,” Bandit said and hung up. As he rolled into Barstow and Victorville he thought about the girl and what to do about her, or worse, what they would do. He made a call to some club guys in Berdoo. “Hey Glen, could you check on a girl they hopefully booked into the county jail in Berdoo?”
“Sure,” Grubby Glen said. “What’s the deal?”
“Her name is Melody, if that’s really her name,” Bandit said. “And she’s got a problem with the Vegas mob.”
“We can’t go there,” Glen said. “Sorry brother, I would like to but…”
“I understand,” Bandit said. “I’ll go another route.” Suddenly a fog swept over him. He liked life to be clean and simple. Too many irons in the fire. There was now a girl involved and a redhead–and a knockout redhead. What the fuck happened to her?
He called Marko back. “Hey, track this number
702-722-7777. Find out where her phone is?”
“Will do,” Give me a minute,” Marko hung up.
Bandit flew through Hesperia and started down the notorious Cajon pass, home of thousands of deadly accidents. It was steep and snaky and his phone rang as he darted between big rigs.
“The phone is at 847 E. Brier Dr in San Bernardino near Colton,” Marko said. “That’s out of your way, but she’s part of a package, I’ll bet. She and the Ferrari belong to a heavy in Vegas.”
“I suspected,” Bandit said.
“Take the 215, if you haven’t past it,” Marko said, “to the 10 Interstate heading south. You gotta be close.”
“Got it,” Bandit said and started to map quest the address.
Officer Troy Vanderbilt slipped Melody into a holding cell.
And returned to his desk where he sereptiously made a call back to Vegas. “I have her.”
“How about the car?” a gravelly voice scratched the phone, obviously a lifetime smoker.
“Some biker has the car,” The officer responded. “You asked for the girl.”
“I don’t give a fuck about that girl,” The voice snapped. Suddenly his demeanor changed, as if someone through a 440-Volt circuit breaker. “There are thousands of sharp looking broads in Vegas and only one of those cars. Throw that broad into the streets. Go find my Ferrari.”
“But what about my gambling debt?” Office Vanderbilt asked.
“The car,” The phone went dead.
“Yes sir,” Troy said and hung up. He was a tall, blond kid in great shape, but he had pushed his luck on the black jack tables in the wrong Casino. Hell, at any casino, when the patron asks for the house to front him, he better be able to back it up.
He returned to the holding cell. The girl hadn’t uttered a word and that impressed him. Most broads were either screaming their guts out with threats or trying to give him a blow-job for a break. This girl sat quietly and beautifully.
“You’re free to go,” the officer said. “They don’t seem to be too concerned about you, but the car…”
“Hmmm,” Melody said. “I rolled the dice that I could escape the bullshit but took the wrong train out of town.”
“Do you know where the biker was going with the Ferrari?” Troy asked.
“I don’t know, but I could hope,” Melody said.
Officer Troy couldn’t get enough of her stunning beauty and dreamy countenance. He also knew he wasn’t following the CHP rules and who she came from. The quicker she strolled out the station doors, the sooner he was off the hook, but then he had another problem.
On the other hand, he had a tough time allowing her flowing red hair and bright green eyes out of his site. He followed her to the chipped Formica counter and watched as she retrieved her belongings. The sanitized hallway contained nothing but squeaky-clean, bleak surfaces except for a scratch or two where fights broke out or drunks fell against the wall. Melody’s appearance was in strict contrast to the drab. Everything about her contained glistening, bright colors and purity.
Melody turned to Troy and nodded,” Officer,” she said and spun on leopard high heels, skin-tight blue denims cupping her stellar ass perfectly and that 5’6” body started to march toward the exit.
Troy followed her every delicate move with his anxious blue eyes. At her second stride he heard another sound coupled with the clip of her high heels against the polished linoleum deck, the rumble of a high-powered engine and then the crisp European bleep of a potential sportscar horn. Melody’s pace quickened. Two more strides and her hand rested on the release bar to freedom. As the door popped open, she turned and smiled at the officer. “The game isn’t over yet.”
Stunned Troy wasn’t sure what to do next. He wanted to confirm that the sound came from the sought after
Ferrari titanium exhaust pipes. The counter-shields of frosted glass were too high preventing inmates from seeing the administrative staff who had access to exterior windows. He made his way along the corridor and reached for his keys to unlock the employees only door to the offices.
Bandit pushed open the door. “Your car madam,” Bandit said.
Her smile beamed as she slipped into the contoured leather seat and he blasted down Brier Street to Tippecanoe and flew south to interstate 10. “Anybody following?”
“Not yet,” she replied peering out the narrow rear window. “But soon. They weren’t after me. They want the car.”
“Are you disappointed?” Bandit asked.
“No, relieved,” Melody said and wrapped her arms around Bandit’s big bicep. “This is perfect.”
Bandit steered the sportscar onto the 10 freeway and nailed it. He looked at his watch, almost 9:30. “You got that right.”
“We have a deadline to meet,” Bandit said as the rear wheels broke lose as he entered the fast lane and shifted.
His phone started to ring. Melody answered, “Bandit’s phone, hold on.” She hit the icon for the speaker. Even her hands were as pure as white chocolate.
“I can’t reach Domenic, what’s his name,” Sammy said shaken. “He’s sealed away from the outside world, and his lieutenant is even more threatening. They’re talking about burning the Cantina down if we don’t come across.”
“This is bullshit,” Bandit said. “He’s not the only one who can burn buildings. Do they have a clubhouse, a bar, a casino?”
“I spoke to a number of my clients in downtown,” Sammy said. “They have been working with these family guys for years, no problem. But this new lieutenant flew in from
Vegas and has been wreaking havoc with the guys and downtown business. A couple of the nicer guys are gone and all their wealth shipped back to Vegas.”
“See what you can find out about this guy and where he lives,” Bandit said. “Let me get back to you.”
Bandit turned to Melody. Her face was a dream, a complete dichotomy to his circumstances. He could tell she was anxious to say something. “What?”
“The lieutenant is Ricky Santori,” She said. “He’s a badass when he deals with groups outside Vegas. When he’s in Vegas, not so bad. He likes power, but right now he’s doing the mob’s bidding. His job is to send tons of cash to the mob or die trying. If he doesn’t succeed he will never make it back to Vegas alive.
“Everyone has a deadline,” Bandit said, “What’s yours?”
“Never mind that,” Melody said. “Let’s stay focused on this game.” She squeezed his arm and kissed his cheek.
“What do you know that could help, anything?” Bandit asked as they flew along the 15 freeway to the 210 west. They were flying into town and the clock continued to tick as it neared 11:00. They could arrive in Los Angeles in time, but where?
“I need to get word to someone above mister badass,” Bandit said. “What’s the relationship between Domenic and Ricky or is the old man being pushed.”
“Domenic is old school,” Melody said. “No one will push him far.”
“That’s cool, but we are out of time to negotiate. Everything is in play now. The cards have been dealt,” Bandit said. “We’ve got to get back to the Cantina, quick.” He shifted onto the 57 South, to the 60 and onto the 91 Artesia Freeway where he ran into a traffic jam. Five lanes of solid congestion locked down.
He called Marko, “Get all the girls out of the Cantina and arm it to the hilt. Remember when we thought about having a bike show in the dining room?”
“Yeah, I get it,” Marko said.
“This car will be center stage,” Bandit said. “Do you still have that grenade launcher? I’m losing my patience with this bullshit.”
When they set up the Cantina, one of the garage doors lead to an interior wall with a door big enough to roll bikes or commercial refrigerators into the galley or the dining room.
Bandit’s mind was on fire as it neared 11:30 p.m. and he slipped along the emergency lane onto the 710 Long Beach freeway south or west to the coast. He had been up for almost 48 hours with just a couple of hours of tentative sleep.
“What are you thinking,” Melody said.
“The Art of War,” Bandit said. “It’s always a roll of the dice, but if you follow the right path…Who the hell knows.”
On the other side of town, two black sedans loaded with armed thugs and several 5-gallon gas containers in the trunks drove steadily toward San Pedro.
“We will run all of San Pedro to Downtown LA before I’m done, Ricky started to light a cigarette.
“Wow,” Billy, the heavy said, ”Not now boss. I can smell gas.”
“Are you afraid?” Ricky sneered asserting his power.
“Your call boss,” Billy said and left it alone.
Ricky put the cigarette away, although he wanted one. ?“We’re going to make a major statement in Pedro. No one will fuck with us after this.”
The driver, Anthony was an original in the Cavaliere family, the oldest guy in the vehicles at 52. He looked in the mirror at Ricky in the back seat. He knew the city. He knew the gangs, the black neighborhoods, the Hispanic drug thugs, the car clubs, the bike clubs and bikers. It was all about who was willing to do what it took and he knew bikers wouldn’t stand down.
Ricky was a neighborhood bully, his neighborhood. His strength held sway on his streets, but they were stepping into areas where they didn’t belong. Anthony knew the risks. He also knew that if he questioned Ricky, he would set himself up for a fall during this operation and the bastard wouldn’t bat an eye.
Bandit spoke to Marko as he pulled off the 405 freeway onto the Harbor Freeway leading directly to San Pedro and the Port of Los Angeles.
“You run a tight ship,” Melody said as he hung up.
“It’s a team deal,” Bandit said.
At 11:45 the fire engine red Ferrari slid into the Cantina Parking Lot and drove toward the open garage door at the back of the Cantina facing the harbor.
Margarete opened the passenger door for Melody. ?“Come with me,” she said and looked at Bandit. “She’s a pistol.” She took Melody to her little Ford Ranger pickup and drove her immediately out of the parking lot to a save haven.
Bandit slowly rolled the Ferrari with 20-inch forged gold wheels, into the dining room. The crew spread the tables and chairs to make room. It was like a jewel in customized photo studio.
“Let’s move,” Bandit said pulling his bedroll out of the interior.
The two Sedan’s closed in on San Pedro at a solid clip and the suited thugs cocked their automatic weapons.
Swinging off the freeway at Harbor Blvd, they were less than a minute away from the Cantina.
The brothers, Buster, Jeremiah, Rusty and Zack parked their bikes at the very end of the Cantina pier overlooking the main channel, out of harms way. Between Harbor Blvd entrance and the Cantina was 100 feet of empty parking lot. Some 25 feet in front of the Cantina the brothers pulled up a line of Cantina Vans and friend’s vans and pickups, at least ten of them formed a barrier, like wagons preparing for an Indian raid.
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The brothers got in various positions behind the vehicles with their weapons. One more vehicle needed to move and Frankie couldn’t get it started. An old cop sedan, Frankie pumped the throttle and spun the starter motor, but it wouldn’t fire.
Marko and Bandit ran to the vehicle. “Stop,” Bandit shouted. “Put it in neutral.”
Marko and Bandit pushed the sedan a few yards from the entrance, blocking it, but with enough room for a couple of cars to enter the parking lot. “Get out Frankie,” Bandit instructed. “Get to your position.”
Marko ran to his pre-designated spotters location and loaded his anti-tank weapon, as the two, dark, tinted-window, sedans started to turn into the parking lot. He was dressed like a commando, wearing a carbon fiber bullet-proof vest and knives, holsters, a 9mm Browning and several spare clips. He wore lace-up combat boots and camo-pants.
Bandit was just beginning to back away from the barrier sedan as the cars entered. He raised his arm and signaled to the brothers for action pivoting his right finger in the air.
Anthony, the stunned driver wasn’t sure what to do. He entered the parking lot but was confined by two vehicles forming a V.
“Get out Ricky ordered,” The doors flew open and the mobsters piled out except for Anthony.
Marko attempted to fire his weapon, but Bandit was in the way and he hesitated. The gangsters started to fire, but they didn’t know what the hell to shoot at. They fired at the sedans blocking their way, and then at the vans at the other end of the parking lot shielding the Cantina.
Bandit pulled his .38 and dove to the pavement and realized his predicament. He moved to the center to allow Marko’s his first critical shot.
Marko fired one round at the junk sedan’s trunk. The vehicle exploded and Bandit took the advantage to run for cover.
Frankie crept through the shrubbery to another old, discarded van on the street. It was a donation from one of the brothers. He climbed in the driver’s seat and was forced to roll down his window. The putrid smell of gas fumes filled the cab. He held his breath and started the Van.
Anthony, also an Army veteran, saw their situation unfolding, but couldn’t back up with the guys using the open doors for protection. He could see the opening to back out, but then suddenly the exit was blocked with what appeared to be a homeless van.
Their other vehicle was empty. It was also partially blocking his exit. Anthony looked in the rearview mirror and saw the driver get out of the van and disappear. They were surrounded by trouble and fire as he sat in one of two rolling Molotov cocktails.
Ricky’s phone rang in his pocket. The second barrier sedan caught fire.
“What,” Ricky snapped at the phone. The phone indicated the call came from his target, the Bandit’s Cantina.
“Ricky, this is Bandit, you need to get your guys away before that van behind you explodes,” Bandit said.
Ricky spun around and saw the van impeding his exit. ?
“Are your trunks full of gas?” Bandit asked.
“Yep,” Ricky admitted.
“Here’s what I suggest,” Bandit said. “You step around the bushes into the parking lot by yourself, unarmed. I’ll move the van and let your guys go. Once they are long gone I’ve got something that will make your day.”
“What the…” Ricky started to say.
“Listen asshole,” Bandit interrupted. “One slip and every one of your pals dies in flames. I’ll take care of you myself.” He hung up.
Anthony was immediately at Ricky’s side, “What does he want?”
Ricky explained. “Just do it,” Anthony said and instructed his guys to stop shooting and get back in their cars.
Bandit and the brothers waited until Ricky crawled through the parking lot landscaping and emerged onto the asphalt, stood up, attempted to brush himself off and walked to the center of the parking lot.
“Take off your overcoat,” Bandit ordered from the corner of a Cantina Van. “Open your suit coat and turn around.”
As he did Frankie crawled out of the bushes, only to have a large 45 colt shoved against his neck by Billy. Billy wasn’t the brightest bulb in the kitchen, he just did as he was told and wasn’t scared. He drug Frankie to the car where Anthony saw him rounding the corner with Frankie and yanked his door open.
“What the fuck?” Anthony said going nose to nose with Billy in the dark. They were similar in size, about 5’8”. Billy’s nose was busted and scarred. Anthony remained fairly clean, he looked senior and put together. Billy looked like a thug.
“It’s one of his guys.” Billy said slamming skin and bones, Franky against the side of the car.
Anthony looked at Billy and at Franky. ?“What’s with the van?”
Franky panted, visibly shaken. “If I don’t get over there, it’s going to explode. It’s fulla gas cans. I gotta move it soon or you’re fucked.” Franky lived on the streets all his life. He encountered the worst life had to offer and Bandit brought him on board. For the first time in his life, he had respect and a place he could call his own.
Billy was one of Ricky’s guys, but he wasn’t completely without a logical mind. “But what about Ricky?” He said to Anthony.
Anthony’s mind spun with explanations, such as fuck that sonuvabitch, and then he looked at the creeping line of burning fuel spreading closer to his sedan. He looked at it and back at Billy. No time for reasoning.
Anthony pushed Billy aside. “Get in the car,” Let’s get the hell out of here, before we’re fried. The intense heat grew. “Move that fuckin’ van asshole.”
Frankie had only a few steps to reach the van at base of the driveway. He felt the heat and didn’t hesitate to climb in, pray that the van didn’t explode and turned the key.
He started the homeless van and was instructed to take it somewhere safe quickly. The sedans immediately pulled back into the street and headed north on Harbor Blvd. The gangsters rolled with windows down to air out and cool the interior.
Bandit approached the gangster standing in the center of the parking lot as Buster and a couple of other guys approached the burning sedans with fire extinguishers. They could hear fire trucks coming in the distance.
The brothers moved fast to clear the parking lot as Bandit, Marko and Ricky walked toward the Cantina entrance.
Bandit looked the gangster over. He wasn’t anything to write home about, sorta skinny with a pock-marked face and lousy thinning hair. But he held an evil countenance and confidence. Every feature held a nasty, no good characteristic. His cocky air had cracked but only by a sliver.
Bandit looked at Marko as he reached for the big oak entry door and each one of them pulled it open to reveal the Ferrari gleaming in the entry way to the dining room.
Ricky almost snapped to attention, as he eyed the car and his focus fell to the personalized license plate, which read: 1VEGAS. His eyes grew wide. “That’s my boss’s car.”
“Nobody fucks with my boss.”
“You were about to burn his car to the ground,” Bandit said as they were both eyeball to eyeball. Ricky’s eyes smoldered. He didn’t get the opportunity he had, but that’s the way his mind worked. Suddenly he made a move and pulled a knife from his waistband.
“I was hoping you’d do that,” Bandit said and popped him in the right eye with a quick left jab. Bandit moved left and with Marko’s training pushed the knife hand out of harm’s way. He had a choice. He could have grabbed the knife hand and yanked it upward and drove it into Ricky’s throat. Instead, he positioned the stainless stiletto under his chin and sliced an X, kicked his right foot and pushed.
The gangster slipped and fell to the polished wooden deck.
Ricky jumped to his feet, felt the blood dripping down his neck and charged. Bandit pulled his little, snub-nosed .38 from his waist band and blew a hole in the top of Ricky’s left polished Italian loafer. He went to the deck writhing in pain.
“That’s the last break you’re getting from me, you idiot,” Bandit said. “Get in the car and drive it back to your boss in Vegas. Don’t ever come back to LA. If you do, you’ll be dead before you reach Disneyland.
Marko approached Ricky with a bottle of antiseptic alcohol and poured it into his foot wound. Once more Ricky screamed. Marko retrieved the knife and tossed it to Bandit. He helped Ricky into the car. “Fortunately, it has paddle shifting,” Marko said and tossed him the keys. You better get the hell out of here before the boss changes his mind.”
Ricky almost past out from the pain. Sweat poured from his face as he wiped his eyes and fired the car to life. The slightest movement caused his foot to scream.
“Nice knife,” Bandit said of the 5-inch stiletto with engraved ivory handles. “I’ll add it to my collection.”
They watched as the Ferrari lumbered out of the parking lot where Frankie swept debris away after the cars were cleared. Bandit took a deep breath.
“I’d like to be there when he is forced to stop for gas,” Marko said.
“It’s good to be back,” Bandit said.
“But what about the Redhead,” Marko said.
“Shit I almost forgot,” Bandit snapped. “Can I borrow your chopper. I gotta ride.”
