by Carolina Mac
“Go ahead.”
“If I’m elected Governor of Texas I want you to work for me.”
“I may work in connection with the Capitol, but I don’t work for anybody.”
The Judge leaned forward, annoyance creeping into her voice. “You worked for Governor Richardson for years. I know you did.”
Blaine shook his head. “I worked through his office on a different level.”
“What level are we talking about? You lost me.”
“I pick the cases that I take, but sometimes urgent cases are directed to me.”
“By whom?”
Blaine tipped up his Corona and finished it. “That’s something I can’t discuss.”
Blackmore Agency. Austin.
AFTER dinner with the Judge, Blaine relaxed on his front porch steps with a Corona in his hand. He’d spent a half hour glancing through the photo albums that Lil had picked up from the album lady, and they were well put together. No ribbons or hearts, but well thought out and tastefully displayed.
Every time I see pictures of my family I nearly come unglued. I wish I knew the truth.
Thank you for reading.
I sincerely hope you enjoyed The Turn, book seven in the Blackmore Agency Series. If you would like to continue to book eight in the series, Final Table, I’ve included some pages for you.
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Author Notes from Carolina:
Rolling along with the Blackmore Series and hoping all of you are enjoying Blacky and the Agency Crew as much as I enjoy writing them.
A special thank you to the fans who take the time to reach out and share their ideas, support, and opinions. You know who you are, Holly, Lynn, June, Dorothy, Shelley, Diane, Wendy, Shirley and Freda, Jerry, Dawn, Alice, Billy and Melinda, Jim and Gayle, Ava, Terry, Renee, Dolly, Tammy, and Celestia, Pat, Barb, Phyllis and Robin to name a few. If I missed you here, message me and I’ll add you to the list.
Any mistakes in any of my books are mine and mine alone.
To access my author page on Amazon and see all my books published so far, click here.
Carolina Mac is the author of forty-five books in four different series. The Regulators biker series, The Quantrall PI series, The Paradise Park series and The Blackmore Agency series. Kin is an ongoing serial. Carolina lives with her family in Ontario, Canada.
CHAPTER ONE
October 28th.
Apache Springs Sheriff’s Office. West Texas.
“WATCH the store while I’m gone, Doris, and keep an eye on the Watson boys if they wander in. I think those sons of bitches have been lifting smokes when your head is turned.”
Doris muffled a giggle and peered at the Sheriff over her glasses. “Oh, I don’t think so, Sheriff, those boys are barely into their teens. Way too young to smoke.” She focused her attention on her calculator, adding up the receipts from the previous day.
Sheriff Newcomb hitched up his uniform pants. They were riding low, weighted down by all the gear on his belt, and forever tripping him up. He shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out the keys to the SUV. “Doris, would you keep an eye open anyway?”
“Course I will, Sheriff, don’t I always?” She pointed a stubby finger at the land line beside the cash register. “Should I relay any emergency calls to y’all?”
“Of course, but I doubt there will be any. The town’s been pretty damn quiet since the DEA shut the bikers down.”
Doris shot the Sheriff a worried glance. “Y’all aren’t gonna make trouble where there isn’t any, are you, Stan?”
The Sheriff chose not to answer, and instead waved an arm in the direction of his Deputy who was helping himself to a nutty buddy from the ice cream freezer. “Let’s go, Ronnie.”
They drove north through the business section of Apache Springs. Three blocks of store fronts, the businesses inside barely hanging on. The Asian couple who ran the cleaners had given up and moved back to El Paso. A red and blue ‘for sale’ sign decorated the front of their building. The co-op had added a large hardware section when Hank went broke and now they did double duty. Angela’s diner was a bright spot—good food people could afford. Angie had to let her cook go and cook herself. She did double duty too but managed to stay open. The bank had gone on reduced hours to save manpower. If you needed to access your account on any day but Tuesday or Thursday, the ATM was your only choice.
Stan operated the only gas station for twenty miles and stocked essentials in the attached convenience store. He kept more grocery items on hand now that Harrison’s Grocery called it quits, but he had not room for produce. The locals had to drive for miles or grow their own. The last building heading north was the New Moon Motel. Stan glanced at the parking lot to see if Karen Rose had any customers. One truck. He didn’t know how long she’d be able to hold out.
Ronnie ate his ice cream in the shotgun seat of the Sheriff’s SUV and never uttered a word until he was finished. The second he crunched the last of the cone he asked in his whiny twang, “Where we going, Sheriff? We get a call?”
“Nope, no call, son. Heard a couple rumors about the Varmints. Old Petey Price thought he saw three or four Harleys together—like in a convoy—heading east off the highway up here a piece. It’s my duty to see where the Varmints hightailed it to and it’s my duty to see if the bastards have set up another meth lab.”
Ronnie shook his blond head so hard his hat almost fell off. “No, it ain’t Sheriff. Ain’t one bit your job. We crossed the county line ten minutes back and that means it ain’t our problem. You’re heading into the mountains again, ain’t ya?”
Ronnie Slater was worse than nothing as back-up. Couldn’t lick nothing tougher than an ice cream cone, but he was the only choice. Nobody else in town wanted the job. It paid next to nothing with the county holding tight to its purse strings—so tight, in fact, Stan had to run the Sheriff’s Office out of the back room of his gas station. He paid Doris to run the store and pump gas and act as dispatcher for him on the side. He was lucky he had a uniform to wear and the county vehicle to drive. Didn’t even have a fuckin holding cell.
“Just for a look-see. Nothing else.” The Sheriff flicked on his blinker and turned off route fifty-four. “Recon only.”
“We went this way last time,” Ronnie ragged on and the Sheriff turned up the volume on the radio. “Drove for miles around these winding dirt tracks and never found dickshit. Remember that, Sheriff?”
“Have a smoke, Ronnie, and shut the fuck up.”
Ronnie pulled a pack of Spirits out of his shirt pocket and lit up. He lowered his window and puffed away silently for the next five minutes.
Stan turned down another narrow dirt road running through thick bush and brush. No buildings except the odd hunting cabin. They were climbing now, circling around and through the Apache range. They approached a crossroads—two dirt roads intersecting in the middle of nowhere.
The Sheriff stopped the SUV, looked to the left and then to the right and pondered his decision for a minute or two.
“Which way, Sheriff? Ronnie asked in a whine. “Are we fuckin lost?”
“How could we be lost? We have GPS.” Stan glared at the skinny kid. “And wipe that fuckin ice cream off your face.”
Apache Mountains. West Texas.
SANTANA leaned back in the only chair on his newly constructed deck and filled his lungs with fresh mountain air. From where he sat the mountains surrounding him looked more like big tree covered hills. None were high enough to have snow caps, but they were called mountains all the same.
October. He’d hoped to have the clubhouse up and running by now, but things took time. Even longer when you delegate
d physical labor to an army of idiots whose best skills were toking and drinking beer.
But the lab was his first priority—it supported the club and made all other projects possible. Out of sight, about a quarter mile back in the bush, hidden in the trees, it was running at peak performance. He’d hired some guys that were long on experience and knew what the hell they were doing. After his crew had been arrested at the last site, he’d had no choice but to look for new people. New people. Better people. Their second shipment was almost ready for delivery. Twice as much product and twice as much income for the club.
His second project since moving here onto the club’s hunting property and target range, was the clubhouse. There was no meeting place and no place big enough for poker. The boys liked a game every night, and this far from bars and strip joints what the hell else were they gonna do?
The boys had hauled their personal mobile homes here and set them up—twenty or more set on blocks in kind of a semi-circle backing into the forest, but they had no sewage system or running water—not yet. Things took time.
The boys bitched and hollered about bringing their women to stay with them permanently, but Santana had vetoed that idea until they had running water. No choice. Women needed water more than men.
Hondo had come up with a temporary solution to the sanitation problem one Sunday when he ripped off a half-dozen ‘Johnny on the Job’ portables from a construction site. The portables helped out, but the camp needed something more permanent.
“Hey, boss, see you for a minute?” hollered Gage from the doorway of the newly erected building. It was one of those prefab deals that came in sections. All the boys had to do was read the directions and put the fuckin thing together. Could they do it? They hadn’t managed to finish it yet. “Need your opinion on a couple of things.”
Gage Garland was number three man in the club. Enforcer, collector and all-round handyman. He was about the tallest of all the boys at six feet three or four and he worked out every day to keep in top shape. He hadn’t liked the idea of moving the club into the mountains and starting a new venture, and he’d voted against it at church, saying they were better off moving closer to El Paso where they had long-established customers. Everybody knew and respected the Big-V in the city, and the El Paso cops tolerated them. Hated them like poison but tolerated them.
Santana strolled across the hard-packed dirt in front of the new building, a space that eventually would be a parking lot for customers or poker players if he decided to let a few outsiders play when they ran a big tournament. Yep, it was all coming together. He went inside with Gage to see what the problem was.
“The electrician wants to know where the air conditioning unit is going to sit, so he can run the wires from the panel.”
“It’ll sit outside on a slab,” said Santana. “It’s marked on the plan. Can’t anybody fuckin read?”
Gage looked up and he wasn’t smiling. “Guess I didn’t notice it, boss.”
Santana grabbed the blueprint out of Gage’s hand and pointed. “How could you not notice it?”
“Sorry, boss,” said Gage and changed the subject, “Hear anything from Roberto?”
“Not yet. He had to drive to San Antonio to get the right fuckin cards. The plastic-coated ones that don’t fuckin split.”
Gage checked his messages. “The tables are ready. I’m renting a truck and picking them up tomorrow.”
Santana nodded. “Good, let’s have a meeting later and work on a final list of shit that needs to get done.”
“Sure, boss.”
Santana lit up a smoke, leaned on the wall and watched his dream take shape. With the Banditos pushing them like they were, this would be the best thing for his club. They just didn’t know it.
His cell rang on his belt and he glanced at the screen.
Parker at the gate.
PARKER had only been with the club for a couple of years, but he liked the guys and enjoyed the lifestyle. He was younger than a lot of them but got along okay with most.
He had grown up in Vegas and been a member of The Rule when Ogilvie got out of prison and took the club down. Wanted in Vegas for a couple of robberies gone sour, Parker had laid low in Mexico for a while, then crossed back stateside and worked as a bike mechanic in El Paso. That’s where he met Hondo. Hondo like him. Thought he was a decent mechanic, and sponsored him into the Varmints. Best move he’d ever made.
He’d been on gate duty for a couple of hours, sitting on a log some ways back from the road and invisible in the trees with his new Windham Blackout slung over his shoulder. Nobody was coming to the camp, as far as he knew, except for Roberto—big boss’ go-to—who’d gone to San Antonio for shit they needed.
When he heard the engine laboring up the incline, he jumped to his feet thinking it had to be Roberto. His heart skipped one when he saw the logo. Fuckin Sheriff’s ride. He grabbed for his cell and called Santana.
“Sheriff’s vehicle approaching the gate.”
Santana paused for a minute then said, “Smile nice and let him in. Tell him to follow the trail.”
“Roger that, boss.”
Parker stood in front of the closed gate, his gun hanging loosely at his side. “Hey there, Sheriff. Ain’t you out of your territory?”
“A bit, but I’ve been curious where you boys got to.”
Parker flashed a friendly smile. “Now you found us. Want to talk to the boss,” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder, “or you and your Deputy heading back home?”
“Santana available?”
Another grin. “Sure is. He’s got no quarrel with y’all. Follow the two-track and you’ll see him. Hang on until I get the gate for you.”
SANTANA sauntered from the unfinished clubhouse to his own trailer and sat on the deck waiting for the Sheriff.
It’s gotta be that asshole Newcombe.
He lit up a smoke and watched the trail until the nose of the white SUV poked through the trees.
Sheriff Newcombe stopped on the road when he saw Santana waiting for him on the steps of his deck. “Been looking for you boys for a while.”
“Why?” Santana strode around the SUV and stood at the open driver’s window staring at Stan Newcombe. The Sheriff’s flabby face was flushed bright pink—the asshole was scared shitless. “We ain’t on your turf no more.”
“I like to know where all my problems are located,” said Newcombe.
“You ain’t a real Sheriff, Newcombe, and you sure as hell don’t deserve to wear a badge. You ain’t nothing but a snitch for the DEA. How much they pay you for selling me out?”
A group of Varmints had gathered around the SUV.
Newcombe’s hand shook as he reached for the ignition. No time to turn the key.
Santana took one step to his left, away from the Sheriff’s window.
Gage stepped in, raised his Glock and pulled the trigger. The noise was deafening as the nine millimeter bullet penetrated the Sheriff’s left temple.
The scrawny Deputy screamed as the Sheriff’s body lurched sideways onto the console. Blood and brains exploded out of Sheriff Newcombe’s head and splattered all over Ronnie’s scrawny arms and his clean uniform.
Hondo reefed the passenger door open, grabbed a toothpick arm and jerked the deputy out. With one crack Hondo broke the kid’s skinny neck and tossed him on the ground.
“Bury them deep in the bush so the dogs won’t dig them up,” said Santana. “I’ll think about where we’ll dump the truck.”
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