He turned around, then slapped the side of the truck. The moment his hand hit metal, the tarp covering the bed of the truck was shoved aside, and three of Lynch’s men hopped out. Like Titus, they were mostly young and had shaved heads.
One of the guys handed Lynch a crowbar, and the group shuffled up to the back door. They waited a moment, then Titus killed the power to the building by cutting into the circuit breaker box and opening all of the breakers. Even with the power out and the alarm system disabled, Lynch still wanted to move quickly. In and out as fast as possible.
He slammed the straighter end of the crowbar under the handle’s faceplate and pried. After two blows, the leverage was too much. The handle gave way and they pulled the door open.
Lynch led them inside. It was dark and eerie. A small back room that opened up to a massive wide-open space filled with every motorized toy a kid-at-heart adrenaline junkie could ever want. Rows of brand-new top-of-the-line motorcycles, ATVs, speedboats, and go-karts.
Lynch took three steps down the center aisle before the beam of a blinding flashlight flicked on and shined into him, stopping him in his tracks.
“Hold it right there!” a voice called out.
A middle-aged security guard stepped out from the shadows. He was short and slightly overweight. He had curly hair and a thick mustache.
Lynch eyed the man, who had his Ruger 9mm handgun in one hand and the flashlight in the other. The barrel of his weapon was staring straight at Lynch’s chest.
The white supremacist leader raised his hands, then slowly stepped toward the guard.
“Easy,” Lynch said, creeping closer while his men stayed back, their hands hovering over their own handguns. “Nobody has to get hurt here.”
“You stay right there!” the guard snapped. “I’m calling the police.”
Lynch took another slow step. Then another. He closed the gap to ten feet. As the guard was about to order him to freeze again, Lynch cut him off.
“But how are you going to call the police while holding your flashlight and gun?” Lynch said, speaking calmly. Like they were at a damn friendly gathering.
“I mean it!” the guard snapped. “You don’t move another inch.”
Lynch did move another inch. More like six of them. He was messing with the guard, almost wanting the obviously inexperienced man to flip the script and take the shot.
Stopping five feet from the guard, Lynch reached slowly for the revolver on his hip. Pinching it with his right thumb and index finger, he pulled it free, held it out, then dropped it to the ground.
As the weapon rattled at his feet, Lynch held out both of his arms, palms up.
“Go ahead and cuff me,” Lynch said. “I’m unarmed.”
The guard hesitated. Seeing the flat gunwale of a speedboat beside him, he got an idea. Leaving the flashlight switched on, he balanced it on the fiberglass, the beam shooting straight at Lynch. Then he cut the rest of the distance between him and the white supremacist leader with his weapon raised.
He grabbed a pair of handcuffs from his belt, slid one open, then locked it around Lynch’s left wrist.
“We really don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Lynch said. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
“I… I have to do my job…”
He was about to click on the other cuff when Lynch said, “I know.”
Just as the words left his lips, Lynch snapped his right hand down, snatched a concealed switchblade from his pocket, then stabbed it up through the base of the guard’s jaw. Blood spurted out and the guard groaned. Lynch knocked the weapon from his hand.
Lynch forced the guard to the ground, keeping him quiet as he shook and struggled for the last few breaths of life. When he went motionless in a pool of blood, Lynch rose to his feet, then grabbed his revolver off the floor.
He met up with his men and continued across the space. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he’d lost three minutes thanks to the punk guard. But he’d had no choice. They’d been caught off guard and couldn’t risk firing a weapon. Someone nearby could hear.
The jet skis were each resting on a heavy-duty flat steel dolly. Kicking free the wooden blocks, Lynch and his men carted three of the small watercraft through the aisles, the wheels squeaking as they pushed them toward the back of the store. They were big and powerful, with 1500cc engines capable of propelling them up to seventy miles per hour. The fine pieces of engineering had a price tag of twelve thousand dollars each, but Lynch preferred the free route.
Once at the back, Lynch pulled a nylon rope that caused the big garage door to rattle open. Just as the outside came into view, Titus backed a trailer he’d stolen into the building. Lynch and his men rolled the jet skis over, slid them onto the trailer, then strapped them down. With his men climbing back into their hiding place under the tarp in the bed, Lynch waited for the truck to pull out, then shut the garage door.
He exited via the back door they’d broken, then slid into the passenger seat.
“What the hell took so long?” Titus asked as he drove them out of the lot.
Lynch noticed a splotch of blood on his left forearm. Casually, and without remorse, he wiped the red liquid away with a rag.
“Holy shit,” Titus said, noticing the blood. “What the hell happened?”
Titus made sure that the coast was clear, then pulled them out onto the main street. Lynch kept a sharp eye out on the road, his gaze scanning between the windows and rear mirrors. There was only one car in sight, and it was heading in the
