“Jesus Christ.” Taff rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “Can’t see a thing.”
Wyatt was slowing. He had to, he couldn’t see either. “Do something, Taff. Clean it.”
“With what?” Taff shouted then spluttered. “Damn it.”
The van lurched to the right, pitching Taff back into the van to collide with Wyatt.
Wyatt’s foot slipped off the gas, and the van ground to a halt in a ditch.
“This is a shitshow,” Wyatt said, drawing his weapon and opening his door. “And whoever is chasing us down is gonna take a bullet.”
Taff was already climbing out. “It’s Arturo’s sidekick. That prick with the goatee.”
“Asshole.” Wyatt wasn’t surprised. “What’s he want?”
“I’ll give you one guess.”
Wyatt didn’t need to guess. Goatee hadn’t been happy with the deal from the start, and it was clear he’d decided to take matters into his own hands.
“Three with him,” Taff said, using the van door for cover as the four bikes loomed out of the dust storm.
“Good, that’s two each. Shouldn’t be a problem.” Wyatt rubbed his gritty eyes, then spotted a bottle of water in his door. He squirted it over the windscreen, washing away the worst of the dirt.
“What the fuck?” Taff frowned at him.
“We’ll need to see where we’re going at some point.”
The sound of the engines grew to a roar. When they were only ten feet away, the noise stopped and the bikes came to a halt.
“What the hell do you want?” Taff yelled as the dust settled.
Goatee got off his bike and yanked his frayed black t-shirt straight. He held a Glock in his right hand, business end pointed at the ground. “I will take one crate of the goods.”
“Like fuck you will,” Wyatt snapped. His pocket vibrated. His phone. He ignored it.
“You really think you can negotiate?” Goatee gestured to the bikers around him, all at the ready with a variety of weapons.
“If you had any cash to buy them, we’d negotiate,” Wyatt shouted. “But I’m guessing that’s not the case.”
Goatee laughed. “We’re just taking back what’s ours. At the price Arturo let them go … you were stealing.”
“It was a deal,” Wyatt said with a growl. “Now get the fuck out of our way.”
His heart was thumping. There was no chance Goatee was going to back down. His narrowed eyes and thinned lips screamed determination.
“Go get a crate,” Goatee said to his cronies.
“Over my dead body,” Taff said, raising his weapon.
“That can be arranged,” Goatee said.
The bikers stepped forward, guns aimed at the van.
Taff shot the dirt in front of the one closest to him. A burst of sand shot upward. The biker jumped back, then retaliated.
The incoming bullet hit the van’s passenger door, the sound making Wyatt’s ears ring.
“Shit,” Taff said, his brow now popping sweat.