9. The Roadblock

Chapter Nine

Mercedes, Number One

Roanoke City, Strike County

The next step for Mercedes to do was to notify the Numbers. The other six county leads could make their own decisions about new racers challenging their czars. After all, they weren’t on the list. Although, with the way Wolfie drove, it was still a surprise to Mercedes that he hadn’t at least made the list as well.

“And you’re just going back to the Keg like nothing happened?” Trick asked.

Mercedes had a twin on either side of him as he crossed the alley behind the club. “What am I supposed to do?” Mercedes asked. “Bury my head in the sand?”

It was a tempting notion. Three days had passed since his name was added to the list and Corey was still trying to talk to him.

“Then watch his name plummet right off that list,” Pop said on his other side. “No way.”

“I think you’re enjoying this too much,” Trick said. “This is his life we’re talking about.”

“You sure do nag a lot for the younger brother,” Pop said.

Mercedes eyed each of the twins before pushing his way into the Kegasaurus. The pounding beat pulsed through his veins as he navigated deeper into the strobing light show. Throngs of men from the Racing Track, the Suppliers’ Union, and the Psypher Network congested the dance floor around the stegosaurus statue. Women were there too, either connected to one of the guys from the syndicate or belonging to the Network, but they were outnumbered four to one. A small strip along the right hand side of the club had dining tables opposite the L-shaped bar on the left side of the door.

“This is serious,” Trick shouted after Mercedes over the noise.

Mercedes stopped and spun to face the thirty-two year old. Pop was just behind his brother. Mercedes put a hand on Trick’s shoulder. He might have been Pop’s younger brother but he certainly was like an older brother to Mercedes.

“I know you’re just looking out for me,” he said. “But I have this handled. So please. When was the last time you were in Roanoke? Just try to enjoy yourself.”

“But—” Trick started.

Pop clapped him on the back, gave Mercedes a wink, and guided his brother away through the crowd.

“Get laid or something,” Mercedes called after them.

“I’m married,” Trick called back.

Mercedes shook his head and turned away from them.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Buster’s voice said from behind Mercedes. Mercedes spun around as Buster grabbed him. “Wanna dance?”

“You’re persistent,” Mercedes said. “One dance couldn’t hurt.”

Buster grinned and Mercedes followed the younger man to the middle of the dance floor where the beat was at its loudest and the bodies at their thickest, directly in front of the stegosaurus’ nose. Mercedes was forced against Buster as he danced next to him. He needed a smoke.

“I’m thinking of trying out for racer,” Buster said, shouting over all the noise despite how close he was to Mercedes’ ear.

“Why?” Mercedes asked. “It’s more dangerous.”

“I heard you only date racers,” Buster said.

“Not exclusively,” Mercedes said, thinking again of Corey.

“You wanna go out sometime then?” Buster asked.

“No,” Mercedes said. He peeled away from the bookie. “I gotta go.”

Buster stopped moving and stared at Mercedes. He threw up a hand before turning and forcing his way back through the crowd to the Keg’s back door.

The club hadn’t felt the same since Mercedes had heard the news. Right now, he needed something more laid back and maybe just a drink.

Mercedes got back in his car and drove the short distance from the Kegasaurus to Legal, Stunt’s bar. He parked across the street in the Psypher Network’s secure garage before entering the front door.

The lighting was dimmed and silverware clicked harmoniously against glass plates as people chattered softly. Mercedes found Charm on one side of the room, enjoying a meal by himself while flipping through a newspaper. He avoided looking at Charm as he moved through the bar. He really didn’t want to get into it with Charm.

Stunt was behind the bar in front of a group of patrons. Not wanting to bother the man, Mercedes took up residence on a bar stool at the other end of the counter. “Can I get you anything, Mister Mercedes?” the waitress asked as he sat down and grabbed a copy of The Pitstop Articles out of the table cubby.

“Just a light whiskey,” Mercedes said. He didn’t even have the energy to correct the waitress on her use of the honorific.

The girl nodded and moved away to get his drink.

“Hey, Mercy, check it,” Stunt said.

Mercedes spun in his bar stool to face the old man at the other end of the room. Stunt stood behind the bar top near the TV, with the remote held weapon ready in one hand while he leaned on the counter with the other.

Mercedes’ gaze trailed from Stunt to the box TV that hung in the air above him. Images flashed across the screen alerting Mercedes that it was tuned to Channel 9, the national news. He leaned forward, cupping his chin in his hands as he rested his elbows on the bar top. It didn’t come as a surprise to him that Stunt was showing the news. Reporters often caught hot action clips of him evading the police. They’d play these clips repeatedly on the evening news cycle until something more interesting came up, usually another clip of Mercedes or another racer who got busted.

They were falling like flies in Roanoke City these days. Mercedes wondered if the caliber of racer had dropped or if the caliber of law enforcement had risen. After all, Corey had only assumed control of the task force within the last six months, since its previous commander retired.

But Stunt wasn’t showing Mercedes any of that. Instead, the images on the screen were that of Capitol Hill, the Lincoln Memorial, and the White House, where huge crowds of people had gathered outside.

“Washington?” Mercedes asked, tone belying his disinterest.

“The election,” Stunt returned. “Poll results are coming in hourly. The incumbent is ahead by only a small margin.”

“And?” Mercedes asked. He had never registered to vote himself. It wasn’t just that he didn’t understand politics; it was that he just didn’t care.

“I think you ought to care a bit more this time,” Stunt said as if reading Mercedes’ mind. “Stella Stark’s opponent is Taurus Cherrywood and his running mate is Melvin Chase.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Mercedes. He recalled seeing Cherrywood and Chase election signs all over the city for the past few months, but there was more to it than that.

“The governor?” he asked, sitting up straight and focusing completely on the TV for the first time. Ranger had said something about that, hadn’t he?

Currently the screen showed an image of a well-dressed and tailored woman standing on the steps of the White House with an older man in a tan suit at her side and a secret service detail around them.

“Former governor,” Stunt said. “He’s been in Washington for just under ten years now as state senator.”

“So a Raymond politician is running for president?” Mercedes sighed. “Who cares?”

“Raymond native, born and raised,” Stunt said. “From Fez up in your pal Ranger’s domain.” The screen faded out and was replaced by a shot of the senate house where two more men faced a crowd. Mercedes didn’t recognize the front man but the one at his side looked vaguely familiar, especially in the face. The caption said, Opponent: Senator Taurus Cherrywood (R—Oregon) and Running mate Senator Melvin Chase (R—Raymond).

“And vice president, actually,” Stunt said then. “Point is, this is the closet an islander has ever been to a spot in the White House. And, if you’ve been following his campaign at all—”

“No, not interested, but try speaking to Ranger. He seems to be,” Mercedes said. So what if a man from Raymond took office? He was just another politician. Just another arm of the executive branch, who had, so far, decided to stay out of Mercedes’ way.

“He has a plan, Mercy,” Stunt said. “The Roadblock. It is one of their main platforms.”

Now Stunt had his attention. “The Roadblock?” he repeated. Was that the thing that Ranger had tried to talk to him about a few days before?

Stunt nodded and clicked up the volume as more election results flooded the screen. President Stark was now down by five percent as results from Texas, New Hampshire, and Oregon came in.

“That’s expected,” Stunt said instead of answering the question. “Texas always goes red, the senator is from Oregon, but New Hampshire? Ha!”

“Stunt,” Mercedes said. “What is it?”

The waitress returned then and Mercedes accepted the drink from her.

“Chase’s plan is to end the street racing industry,” Stunt said. “He’s going to have good leverage for it now too, since you’re FBI’s most wanted.”

“I’m third on that list,” Mercedes said. He was starting to need a smoke. Coming to Legal hadn’t been such a good idea.

“It’s not just that,” Stunt said. “The Cherrywood campaign trumpets that putting an end to the street racing will not only keep the roads safer but will put a dent in the international drug trade coming through Raymond ports as well as the massive auto theft industry the Suppliers’ have got going on. They haven’t even mentioned the Network’s activities.”

“Your branch is more discreet than the other two,” Mercedes said.

“This could be a serious problem, you know,” Stunt said.

“When will we know?” Suddenly, Mercedes felt like a jerk for brushing Ranger off about this.

“Tonight,” Stunt said.

“I have to call the Numbers.” This was starting to be bigger than Mercedes’ name being added to a dumb list. “Call me…when it’s over.”

A meeting at the barn was certainly in order. It had been a few months since the last one, so Mercedes decided to give its caretaker, Number Five, a call. With a final nod to Stunt, Mercedes slid off the barstool and left without even touching his whiskey.