Bandit dismounted from his chopper and looked it over. The outline of the rugged San Bernardino mountains sliced a jagged silhouette into the fading sun. The blistering desert temperatures would drop significantly in the next two hours. Bandit pulled on his long sleeve shirt covered elbows stretching his back muscles to relieve the stress.
Julio approached and handed Bandit five 20s. “I’ll get the gas and pay you the rest next week,” Julio said. “I can’t thank you enough.”
Maria approached and wrapped her arms around Julio and squeezed him. “Thank you, Bandit. I was terrified,” Maria said.
Bandit looked at her for the first time. She was at least two inches taller than Julio, slender with long wavy black hair. She followed Julio inside the station and returned with her thick robust hair pulled into a ponytail and held with a new hair band. Her delicate face was more exposed. Even disheveled and blasted by the desert sands, she was beautiful. She washed her face in the restroom and her cheeks naturally glowed from the sun’s wicked rays while heading away from the Nevada desert.
“Do you know who took you?” Bandit asked concerned.
“They were Latino,” Maria explained. “Probably couldn’t get jobs without green cards.”
“So, they were illegals?” Bandit asked listening intently.
“There should be no such thing,” Maria responded her lips tightened. “There should be no borders. They were undocumented, so the government suppressed them. They can’t get a job, subsidized food, shelter or free healthcare so they deal drugs.”
“So, they are victims?” Bandit’s lips tightened.
“Yes, victims of your white privilege,” Maria snapped.
Bandit knelt down beside Julio’s bike to check the handful of rivets in the brake drum holding the sprocket in place. He wondered.
“Where are you from?” Bandit asked.
“I grew up in Wilmington next to the port,” Maria calmed some and put on some lipstick in Julio’s mirror. “My father runs an auto shop. But he’ll be out of business soon as we ban gas cars to save the planet.”
“Didn’t he give you a home and an education?” Bandit asked wondering what the hell he was doing in this blistering gas station and not flying home to save his business. He looked up at Julio for a clue.
Julio knelt on the other side of his bike and whispered. “Bandit, I didn’t know,” Julio said. “We just met.”
“What do you mean,” Maria got upset and start to raise her hands in an emotional gesture. “We won’t need to work at all in the future. We can’t continue to contribute to global warming. The government will pay us to stay home.”
“Aren’t you bothered by the growing homelessness in Wilmington?” Bandit asked and looked at Julio.
“More victims,” Maria snapped. “They won’t be homeless for long. We are working to change the constitution to make having a home a human right. Shouldn’t we get going?”
“On my fossil fuel motorcycle?” Julio asked. “And so, a drug addict can choose to get high, choose to steal from his family and employer and he’s the victim?”
“Better not ask her about critical race theory,” Bandit said, refueled and returned the line to the gas pump as a flying monster, dusty black SUV screamed off the freeway in their direction. “We better roll Bandit said and pulled a .38 snub nose S&W out of his vest pocket. “Your call Julio.”
Julio jumped on his motorcycle and fired it to life. He looked back at Maria beginning to approach, dropped it into gear and peeled out.
Maria looked wide-eyed as Julio sped out of the sandy parking lot and onto the on-ramp.
“Your choice,” Bandit said to her. “You can run into the station and call the police you want defunded or what the hell. You can help your poor cartel victims. See ya.”
Bandit tossed his leg over his engraved leather seat, aimed his pistol into the air and fired three times. The SUV braked momentarily. Bandit shoved the weapon into his vest and darted out of the station lot and onto the freeway, leaving Maria standing in the center of the lot as the black SUV skidded to a stop and the doors flew open.
Maria stood alone in sand coated asphalt, in the waning sun, as the swirling wind swept the sand around her fossil fuel produced running shoes. Hispanic goons jumped out of their vehicle with weapons ready, grabbed the girl and shoved her into the back seat.
The driver, a muscular thug with tattoos up his neck and a gold tooth turned to Maria sitting center between two cartel soldiers holding AR-15s while stroking her exposed thighs. “We going to have fun tonight, mi pequena dulce,” he said and shifted the big SUV into gear.
The two bikers slid and swerved through the hills and into Barstow, and then Victorville. Bandit indicated for them to roll off the freeway in Hesperia near one of the rare spots for land speed racing, El Mirage, a dry lakebed. He had a distinctive wave of arm and hand signaling, but he made it clear what he had in mind.
“What the hell was that?” Bandit said.
“I met her at a college dance,” Julio said. “She seemed alright.”
“I need to get back to the Cantina,” Bandit said. “I have an entire family of workers who need their jobs, shelter and the city is trying to take everything away. They’re trying to ruin us with taxes, mandates and even violence. We just want to provide our community with tasty tacos, cold brews, chilled margaritas and friendship. What could be wrong with that. I need to move.”
“Can I come along?” Julio asked and Bandit nodded.
“Let’s ride,” Bandit said
The cantina was a maze of activity. Frankie set up tables out back for the swap meet, including a buffet table for Cantina munchies for customers. Margaret took calls from Vendors who read their Cantina Food Drive signs posted all over the city. Bikers locked down and out of work for months wanted action.
Marko watched the news closely. The city shut down the police, took their powers, released prisoners and made new arrest rules. A guy could virtually rob a liquor store and not be arrested unless he shot someone. Or he could be arrested and immediately released. Some smaller towns in California were advertising gun classes and carry permits so folks could defend themselves.
He watched the gang news in the South Bay region, which included Wilmington on the fringe. Three major gang bangers, who were arrested for violent crimes were released recently and area shootings escalated. One of them hailed from San Pedro.
Marko, who spent several tours in Afghanistan, trained troops, worked in special forces didn’t like the growing acrid smell of Los Angeles. The streets deteriorated weekly from once a great and diverse city to bedlam, filth and violence.
Marko looked at the expansive Cantina dining room, empty for months. This was the first chance they had to open the patio, but there were still mask mandates. How the hell could someone drink a margarita smile at a pretty senorita and wear a mask. It was insane.
Marko’s phone rang. “I’ll be home in a couple of hours,” Bandit, the man generally of a few words said. “Everything okay?”
“We need to watch our backs this weekend,” Marko said. “I’ll fill you in when you get back.”
“I’ll need a stiff Jack on the Rocks,” Bandit said.
Across the town of San Pedro stood several section 8 apartment houses, duplexes. Kids grew up in the seaside village of drugs, violence and state aid. Many of the women who lived there had one baby after another to augment their income and prevent losing their cheap homes.
The plain jane concrete structures were built in the ‘60s across Harbor Blvd. from the main channel of the port. The kids had the run of the area. They could climb over the seaside steel railings and clamor along the rocks grabbing crabs and tossing them into the deeper channel waters as massive container ships slipped through the sea-green waters to their designated docks.
For every duplex containing a family living off the dole the next one contained drunk, abusive parents, who were angry with the world for not giving them everything they wanted. The alcoholics beat each other and their kids. Cops were called by neighbors constantly, but they rarely came anymore.
Then there were the drug dealers, who moved bags of cocaine and more recently meth. The rows of homes filed an entire city block. Drug dealing became a competition from the southside units to the north side. Occasionally, there were fights and drug hold-ups. The competition extended to the cops. There were San Pedro cops, LA sheriffs, Harbor units, and drug enforcement. None of them were ever effective at eradicating the drug trade.
This night wasn’t any different, as Carlos Medina returned to the hood looking for cash and trouble. Recently, involved in another drug firefight, he killed one competing dealer and wounded another one. Released after just six months in jail under the new progressive Los Angeles regime, he showed up in the projects.
Carlos was broke, unarmed, hungry and horny. He slid out of the cab at a sporting goods store, ran in and bought the largest folding knife he could find, which was against his parole requirements, but he didn’t care.
Next stop, the projects in Pedro where he jumped out of the cab after threatening the cabbie and throwing 20 at him to cover the 50-buck fare. Carlos wasn’t a big man, at 5’6” tall and just 145 pounds he was slender and slimy like a lizard, but tatted extensively, including his neck and hands.
He strolled deliberately up to the metal mesh front door sporting gang tags and threw open the door and barged into the living room. Three couples sat in the sparce room smoking weed, drinking beer and watching TV.
“I need a blow job,” Carlos demanded and all the guys in the room looked at their ol’ ladies and back at Carlos. They knew he was a badass and knew that their next choice could end their life or lose the street broad next to them. Carlos scanned the broads. One was slender and white, one fat Hispanic with big tits and one who looked like she would put up a fight, mixed race with lots of tattoos.
The brothers looked the same, but they were all Hispanic or mixed race. One, the skinny one wanted to reach for his 9mm stuffed into the couch. One just froze and the one with big arms attempted to stand as Carlos pulled out his nearly switchblade and snapped it open. “This blade is brand new and wants action,” Carlos said.
“Welcome home, brother,” The big Mexican said and got to his feet. He pushed the girl with big tits off the couch and onto her knees. “She’ll take care of you.”
“While I take care of business,” Carlos said. “I need a Glock, five clips and cash. The Cartel is coming to town. We need to get ready. No punks allowed.”
He wound his hand into Sofia’s mass of hair and pulled her toward the bedroom on all fours. He slammed the door and ripped off her top. Here big breasts poured fourth and he fell in love with every inch of them as tears rolled from her eyes. She knew she was messing with the wrong crowd, but her low self-esteem guided her into the wrong neighborhood. Now she would pay for bad choices. She just hoped she would be alive when the night ended.
Bandit and Julio slid up in front of the Cantina and kicked out their kickstands. Mandy approached with a tumbler of Jack on the rocks and a big smack on the lips for Bandit.
She gleamed from the tips of her polished toenails to her flowing hair and crimson lips. Just the elements that made Bandit’s heart pound. He kissed her deeply and then kissed the too-soft nap of her neck.
Margaret pranced out of the Cantina with a Corona for Julio and a curious gaze. She looked at Bandit’s embrace and then to Julio without the girl.
Marko approached, “What happened to the girl?”
We rescued her from the bad guys, but couldn’t save her from herself,” Bandit said. “She chose the dark side. Are we ready?”
“Yes,” Marko said and Frankie who stood off by the front door of the Cantina holding a push-broom and beamed with pride. “Frankie had a lot to do with promotion and setting up the swap meet vendor areas. Margaret handled the deposits for vendors. We are doing good, but I need to discuss security with you privately.” Marko’s face turned sullen.
Bandit stepped off his bike and followed Marko into the Cantina dining room and up to his office. They sat at Bandit’s wooden desk made from an old wooden hatch cover and he set his tumbler of Jack on the polished surface after a serious slug.
“What’s up?” Bandit asked. Tired to the bone, he knew something serious was brewing. Marko a man of action and resources didn’t hesitate to handle stuff on his own. Whatever bothered him reached beyond his comfort zone.
“This city is going bad,” Marko said. “Nothing makes any sense. They are letting killers out of jail early, seriously early. Unfortunately, there are rumors of the Mexican cartel moving into San Pedro. Everything progressives want is hurting America. Nothing works, from school programs to the homeless and now this prison release bullshit.”
“Okay,” Bandit interrupted. “This is not like you. Get down to the specifics.”
“They kicked a couple of gang bangers loose recently, who moved into the Pedro projects. “These thugs are threatening local drug dealers with the cartel and killing anyone who doesn’t agree with them. There’s been four murders in less than a week. I’m seriously worried about our event this weekend. They want to make a big play in Pedro and show their dominance.”
“And the cops won’t do anything?” Bandit questioned.
“Yep, they can’t,” Marko said.
“I’m sure you’ve handled security here?” Bandit asked.
“Yep,” Marko said. “But…”
“I’m going to make a call or two,” Bandit said. “And I’ll try to get some sleep. What time are we getting started?”
“Breakfast burritos by the Chinaman at six,” Mark said, smiled and stood up. Bandit noticed two .45 mm semis stuffed into his double-breasted shoulder holster under his zip-up sweat shirt. “Glad you’re back.”
“See you at six,” Bandit replied, and they shook hands. Marko liked a fight, but he also loved his Cantina family. He didn’t show it much, but the Cantina crew was his only family, and he couldn’t stand to see any of them hurt.
Morning started with a bang as the sun cut through the seaside cloud cover and warmed the asphalt on the pier behind the Cantina. Small craft destined for Catalina island motored and sailed out the main channel.
Skinny as a rail Franky checked his vendor spots behind the kitchen and in the motorcycle parking area. He held out the Harbor Boulevard parking for customers. Mandates prevented the dining room from being open to the public. But they could set up outdoor dining as along as each table was 6 feet apart.
The Chinaman set up a massive Spanish platter of breakfast burritos. The girls filled two galvanized wash tubs full of ice, water jugs and Corona beers. Vendors rolled in and Margaret collected funds and checked them off. Then Frankie guided them to various spots and allowed them to unload their bikes and parts.
Within two hours all the spots were filled, and vendors sat on the beds of their trucks or in plastic lawn chairs to greet their customers. Riders started to arrive on bikes and in their pickups.
At nine o’clock action was happening all around the Cantina. Tina, Mandy and the buxom blond Sheila wandered through the asphalt isles with platters of Taquitos and mimosas to the delight of the vendors and customers. “This is the best swap-meet I’ve ever attended,” said a young Hispanic rider carrying his plastic bag full of motorcycle foot pegs, a used CV carburetor and a container of zip-ties.
Frankie and Marko watched the parking lot and the swap-meet from the top of the Cantina, overlooking the Spanish tile roof with AR-15s at the ready and pistols on their hips. Marko texted Bandit at 10:30, “Check this,” he wrote and sent an unfolding news story. Two gunmen attacked a woman who had arrived in front of a local elementary school to pick up her 12-year-old cousin. As the young girl approached the sedan the gunmen opened up on her aunt, the driver. Surrounded by other parents’ vehicles, they were cued-up to collect their kids from a morning gathering at the school, when bullets flew.
The Hispanic gunmen riddled the woman in the driver’s seat with 9mm semis, two apiece, so 32 rounds. The pretty child jogging toward the back door was killed by a stray bullet and another youngster got hit by an arrent bullet ricocheting of a concrete school pillar. Women screamed, cars peeled away from the scene, kids collapsed and cried out for their parents.
Police didn’t arrive with emergency vehicles for 30 minutes. The strike, a retaliatory effort by some of the released drug gang members. They suspected the woman spoke to the police on the DA’s behalf and came to take revenge.
Just 10:30 on a Saturday morning. Bandit closed his phone and sighed. He didn’t know whether to feel sorrow for unnecessary violence or relieved that the Cantina still embarked on its efforts to survive without violence so far. But it was only 10:30 a.m. and his pamphlets advertised staying open and rocking to the tunes of the Chi-Lites until 11:00 p.m. on a Saturday night.
It was their last-ditch effort to stay alive on the streets of Los Angeles. They had to make a go of it, or… Bandit didn’t know.
At noon Bandit took a burrito and a corona to Julio, who had volunteered to assist with security. Julio positioned himself behind an oleander bush, near the entrance to the Cantina parking log. Jeremiah had arrived to relieve the watch with his hand-built assault weapon. “Just three hours,” Bandit said suspicious of Jeremiah’s ability to sit still the entire time.
Jeremiah crouched down into a low patio chair as sirens filled the air. The entire team scanned the area for trouble. Margaret came to Bandit’s side. “I need to show you something,” she said as black and whites and emergency vehicles sped passed the Cantina parking lot.
Bandit returned to the bar inside the Cantina and her laptop, which was dialed to the news. A young couple on their morning bicycle ride along harbor boardwalk was attacked by a homeless couple who had a history of mental illness and drug use. The city of Los Angeles taxed the public severely to give homes to the un-homed but prevented the police from acting and had no mental health facilities to help. The couple were brutally knocked off their bikes and stabbed to death in the open. Bandit shut Margaret’s lap-top and shook his head and then checked his watch. It was just noon.
Less than a mile away in the second row of the projects Carlos did a line of meth. It was milky, coffee colored and strong. He had been up for three days since his release and fucked all three girls in the duplex by force, threatening their lives and the lives of their suitors. He stabbed one of the guys to death while demanding a blowjob. “You don’t think I mean it,” he snarled after killing her boyfriend.
The noon-day sun was beginning to bother him even though all the shades were drawn, and all the lights were out, unplugged, or knocked over. His cell phone rang and his skin crawled. He didn’t want to speak to anyone. He wanted only sex and to watch as he forced the fat girl with big tits to go down on the skinny broad. The remaining inhabitants prayed something would happen and they could escape.
“What?” he said into the phone.
“Senor Carlos,” Manuel said quietly into the phone from Mexico City. “We had a deal. Nobody goes back on a deal with us.” The phone went dead.
Suddenly Carlo’s dick went limp, and he pushed the girl away. He made a deal with the wrong crew in prison. They killed a guard who bothered him. Wrong move and they would come for him, no matter where he was. He couldn’t hide. Riddled with fear, the meth didn’t help. “Who’s got a car?” Carlos spat.
At 2:00 Bandit spotted Jeremiah roaming the isles of the swap-meet trying to score and negotiate with the sellers. He had an eye on a 5-speed Harley trans but wouldn’t pay the asking price.
Bandit took his spot watching the entrance from behind the large, colorful, poisonous bush and waited. Mandy brought him an energy tea, three taquitos and a pile of the Chinaman’s superior guacamole laced with spices and slivers of Jalapeno peppers.
She knelt down to cuddle with Bandit and allow him to touch her silky thighs. “Everything okay?” She asked and kissed his unshaven cheek.
“So far so good,” Bandit said and kissed the top of one of her gently exposed tits. “I don’t know about this city, thou.”
Speedy approached wearing his set of full coverage racing leathers. “Bandit, you need to see this.” He looked stern and concerned. Speedy was a gray-haired emotional lifetime rider.
“Excuse me, baby,” Bandit said and stood. “I wish… better go.”
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She touched his arm and nodded understanding.
“What is it?” Bandit said and followed Speedy briskly into the empty Cantina bar. A flatscreen television was still on and a reporter stood on the sidewalk in front of a club in Long Beach, the Martini Bar while reporting. Up on the screen popped a prison photo of a young black gangbanger. The reporter explained that he was sentenced to 10 years for aggravated assault and other violent acts. The governor of California released him after just a year, some new BLM program.
He entered the bar where supposed competing gang members hung out and while taking a selfie started to fire a pistol machine gun capable of blaing 500 rounds a minute. He killed six and wounded 27 patrons in the crowded bar. Bandit unplugged the television and returned to his post.
Speedy ran after him. “What do you think?” he asked urgently. “I’ve got to get out of here.” He briskly headed to his performance FXR that was virtually outlawed in California by the California Air Resources Board. He fired it to life and the pipes roared under the Vincent Thomas Bridge where the Cantina was located.
Bandit watched him pull out of the Cantina Parking lot and onto Harbor Boulevard and then roll up the onramp to the bridge. He listened to the highly tuned 124-inch twin-cam scream up onto the iron bridge and head in the direction of Long Beach. “You may be right,” Bandit thought as listened to the hot rod sing into the distance.
Margaret came to Bandit’s side in front of the Cantina carrying the cash box. She was a very fit 5’3” inches tall and a delight to work with. Excited she said, “We are doing good, really good.” She started to open the box and Bandit closed the tin lid and steered her back inside the Cantina.
“We don’t need to advertise our success,” Bandit said. Margaret, about five years older than the other girls matured and became a crew leader.
“I understand,” She said. “I got excited. We might pull it off.” She put her hand on Bandit’s forearm and stared deep into his green eyes. “I’ll go wherever you go.”
Bandit took in what she said and started to respond when a text pinged him from his cell. He looked at his phone and Marko reported, “Another one.”
Bandit looked at his phone and clicked the link. Another manhunt. A tall middle-aged black man ran into a cheerleader practice in Banning’s Landing High School yard and stabbed a girl to death in front of the team, coaches and parents. He didn’t say or do anything else, except to run back to his compact and leave.
Bandit looked at his phone and then to Margaret. “Another murder at the Wilmington High School,” Bandit said. “Better get to my watch.”
As the sun started to set in the afternoon, some vendors departed while others wanted to hang for the evening festivities. The Chi-Lites a Chicago R&B group set up on Marko’s makeshift stage to play live toons for the evening crowd.
The Chinaman, Juan and his kids set up an evening dinner buffet after sliding two picnic tables together. They charged for dinner. An hour later Margaret took a handful of cash and prepared to hit a local liquor store for more tequila, limes and margarita mix.
Carlos left the duplex in a huff. His paranoia on over-load he couldn’t take a shower for fear of being attacked or snitched off by the others. He grabbed the fat broad’s car keys, a $100 bucks and the last of the meth and scrambled out to her Toyota SUV.
He drove down to the 22nd Street Landing facing the Cabrillo Marina and pulled into the parking lot. He stopped abruptly and called the designated number. “Ola,” came the answer.
“I’m here in LA,” Carlos said trying to act calm. “What can I do for you guys?”
“Write this down,” the voice said directly. “I’m going to give you an address. Take care of the whole family.”
Carlos’ mind spun with mixed thoughts. They had one guard killed for him, but now they wanted him to kill an entire family. His paranoia prevented him from inquiring. “Will this settle my debt?” He asked.
“First, we need confirmation,” the voice returned, and the phone went dead.
Carlo’s needed a tank of gas and some ammo for the revolver he stole from the guy he stabbed. He didn’t like the 6-round .38. Would it be enough to do the job? He wanted an 8-round .45 semi and a couple of clips, but he had no notion of where he could find the gun or the funds to buy it. He was terrified. He might be watched now.
And what about the cops. They were on their way to the duplex as he snorted another line and attempted to decide.
As the sun set over the harbor and the colors of stacked containers changed to richer hues and sailboats returned to their slips. The lights sparkled around the harbor and Margaret reached for her purse.
The brothers at the Cantina relieved the watch positions. They only had a few hours left to raise the funds. San Pedro and the Cantina became home to bikers and locals over the last decade, but life in Los Angeles changed and forced folks to give up motorcycles and move out of LA and California. Bike shops closed and bars went out of business. A brother could lose everything for altering his muffler, but if he murdered his neighbor, he’d be released early. Hell, in Los Angeles he could get a free home and drugs forever.
Mandy came to Bandit’s side and wrapped her arms around him. “It happened again,” she said and hugged him almost desperately. “Club member entered a bar in North Long Beach and opened fire. He killed a member of a rival club and his four associates. I’m with you if you’ve had enough of California.”
Bandit kissed her and he looked out over the crowd behind the Cantina having a great time, like the old days. The Chi-Lite’s tunes were the best, full of love and rhythm. He turned to see Margaret getting into her Ford Ranger truck. He looked up to Marko who shrugged. “Where the fuck is she going?”
“She’s going on a liquor run,” Sheila said cleaning off one of the tables.
Carlos’ dark, almost black pupils were a large as saucers in his eyes as he drove, his mind spinning like a turbo in a car at 150,000 rotations per minute. He didn’t know which way to turn, but he needed cash fast and pulled into a liquor store on Avalon, jumped out of the SUV weapon drawn, meth powder around his nose. The parking lot was bordered with homeless tents, drug addicts and bums hoping someone would buy ‘em a beer.
He stormed in the door as Margaret approached in her all-white ranger with a little over 200,000 miles on the clock. Her son, the drug addict took everything from her. She couldn’t afford to buy a newer car and now he was on trial. She signaled left to cross the oncoming traffic and enter the parking lot shaped like a large asphalt L.
Carlos didn’t hesitate to hide his intentions and pointed his pistol at the tall Chinese owner behind sheets of moderately thick plexi-glass.
“You better have a bundle mutha-fucker and give it to me quick,” Carlos snapped and cocked the weapon.
The middle-aged Chinaman stood up tall but didn’t reach for his cash register. Instead, he took a step back and raised his hands. “Don’t shoot,” he said.
Margaret started to make the turn, but a homeless woman, who paid no attention to action in the street pushed her stolen grocery cart into the driveway. she was taught to disrespect working folks in gas-powered cars. She could walk, block, disrupt and ignore traffic everywhere. It was called civil disobedience. People in cars were bad, destroying the planet and should be shunned, so while talking to herself she pushed the stolen grocery card in front of Margaret’s Ranger deliberately.
Just as Carlos’ first round cracked the plexi-glass, the Asian owner reached for his sawed-off 12-guage shotgun under the counter behind him.
Margaret heard the explosion and then another one. She backed up slightly and decided to drive two more blocks to the grocery store where the lime supply would be guaranteed.
Bandit stood on the curb and waited for Margaret’s return. As he did, a large black contingent of the Chosen Few motorcycle club guys arrived as planned, parked out front and while some took security positions others came to party. Then the Street Rod Club arrived in hotrods and filled the parking lot, followed by Margaret’s rusting Ranger.
Bandit followed her inside to where she parked. “What the hell,” he said pulled her out of the cab and gave her a hug.
“More trouble on Avalon,” Margaret said shaken. “That’s the last booze run I make here.”
“We’re getting the fuck outta here,” Bandit said.
The kid from Cantina ran to Bandit’s side. “How about Sturgis?”
“You got it,” Bandit said as Marko approached.
“I’m in,” Marko said.
