The Black Goat Motorcycle Club

by Murphy, Jason

  He thought of the barn and swallowed hard. He should have done something. It was his job, right? Still, he had sat there, hidden among the cacti with his trembling fingers on the ignition as the heat from the mid-morning sun threatened to bake him alive.

  The roar of motorcycles. Some laughter. A few screams. Begging. Tears. A gunshot. A scream.

  Guilt, hot and thick, curdled in his throat. He banged a palm on the steering wheel and fought back angry, impotent tears. He needed help. Backup. He’d fucked this up so bad he deserved to be fired (or whatever they did with agents who wrecked everything so completely). Reaching forward with a quivering finger, he again tried to dial headquarters from the phone embedded in the dash.

  NO SIGNAL.

  He wailed on the wheel. "Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!"

  Headquarters didn't know where he was,or that his partner was dead. They didn't know they needed to send backup. All they knew was that he was in Arizona, following up a lead. Well, the lead had panned out and here he was, running for his life with the Black Goats trying to crawl up his ass. Maybe he shouldn't have taken the crate. Maybe he should have just made note of the gang’s location and driven back to Tucson - back to fucking civilization - where he could get a cell signal and let his boss know that he and Burke found the Goats. And the crate. Now he had it in the back of the truck. Castle had the one thing Gideon and the Goats wanted more than anything. He had it and the suburban was overheating and low on gas. He was going to die.

  An intersection came up in the highway and he almost passed it. Castle braked, the tires throwing up angry shrieks and smoke. The burning smell could have been the tires or the engine, or both. The road sign at the intersection pointed west:

  TRIBES 20 MILES

  Loose, panicked thoughts whipped around his brain, trying to come together into some sort of plan. He'd been there last night. It was a quiet town with few places to hide, but maybe - just maybe - the Goats wouldn't suspect he'd double back. Castle closed his eyes and tried to squeeze the exhaustion away. A quick prayer to whoever was listening escaped his lips. That was it. That was the plan. Double back through Warner and lay low in Tribes until he could get in touch with headquarters. He gunned the engine and wrenched the wheel to the right.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tribes Memorial Hospital

  11:56 AM

  Hank sat in the empty lobby. After about an hour of Elena Solis' constant jabbering, arguing, and gossiping, he'd checked out. If Bullet wanted to do the work, she could have it. He sat in one of the chairs, which must have been over fifty years old, and tried to drink the clock away. He pulled from his flask to the point where he didn't care if anyone saw him. Nathan knew. Hell, he'd offered the kid a slug. But no, the kid just laughed and waved him off. He looked up at the clock again, and then checked his watch. Both of them confirmed that time had slowed to a complete fucking standstill. He looked at his phone, hoping for an exciting email or maybe a text from one of his regular casual distractions wanting dinner and sex tonight, only to be reminded that mobile service in Tribes, Arizona, was about as likely as a busload of burlesque dancers breaking down in the hospital parking lot. And now his flask was empty.

  "So there's none left for me?"

  Bullet leaned in the doorway. Hank sat up straight. He'd written her off, but now, he was just buzzing enough and she was just friendly enough for something wolfish in him to stir.

  "Ah, no. Sorry. That's it. I figure the hangover will kick in around five this afternoon. Then listening to Otero is going to get really fun."

  She plopped down into the chair next to him.

  "Don't you always keep a spare in your office?"

  "Oh, you mean the tequila? Yeah. It's in there. Behind a locked door."

  He nodded to the heavy, wooden door at the end of the hall across from the nurse's station.

  "Oh, right. I'd heard about that."

  Chagrined, Hank nodded. "Yeah, apparently it's not my office any more. Or Dr. Maynard's. Queen Bitch has set up shop. Didn't even give me a box of my stuff."

  "Want me to pick it?" Bullet cocked an eyebrow.

  "Pick it? Like pick the lock?"

  She nodded.

  "You can do that? Where'd you learn that?"

  She shrugged. "I've got skills."

  Like skills you learned stripping at the Blue Bunny? Hank almost asked.

  "I kind of want you to do it just to see the look on her face."

  And for a brief second, Hank's mind raced with all sorts of lecherous possibilities involving splitting his spare bottle of tequila with Bullet.

  A clatter came from the emergency room.

  "Whoa! Whoa!" Nathan yelled.

  Nurse Otero's nasal voice said, "Young man! Young man, this is not a playground!"

  Bullet was on her feet and moving before Hank could manage to stand.

  ***

  When Hank sauntered into the emergency room, Nathan and Bullet steered a wide-eyed Rudy Solis away from a mess of toppled ether and oxygen tanks.

  That mouthy little bastard, Hank thought.

  He looked innocent, but Hank was sure the kid had knocked over the tanks, poking around where he shouldn't be. And now Elena Solis was up off of the table, waving her bandaged arm at Nurse Otero.

  "No. You don't speak to him like that, lady! That's my son. You do not speak to him like that."

  Hank watched Nurse Otero struggle to rein in her own fury. "Ma'am. Mrs. Solis, please. This is not a place for your child to run around unattended. This is a hospital-"

  "I know what it is. You don't tell me. I know what it is."

  "This is a hospital and there is equipment around here that can be very dangerous-"

  Elena Solis waved an immaculately manicured finger in Otero's face. "He didn't hurt nothing. You need to treat me and him with respect. You have to respect me."

  Flustered, Otero's lip thinned. "I have respect for you, ma'am. Please - "

  Elena cut her off, yelling to the boy, "Rudy, ven aqui conmigo."

  The boy broke way, acting more like an innocent toddler than the twelve year old shit that Hank knew he was. Elena put her hand on his back and led him back to the table where she was recovering. She looked back over her shoulder at Otero.

  "You don't speak to him, Simone. You don't speak to him."

  She crawled back up on the table and resumed acting gravely injured. Nathan looked back at Hank and made an exaggerated wincing face. The woman's wounds were fine. The skin of her forearm was scorched, leaving some nasty blisters, but if she took care of it, it probably wouldn't even scar. They sprayed it with disinfectant, gave her a painkiller, applied antibiotics, wrapped it up, and sent her on her way. Then she got 'dizzy' and started asking what it was they'd given her. There was drama. It happened all the time. Some asshole needed attention or wanted to feel like they were in control, so they acted out, demanding butlers and handmaidens instead of healthcare professionals. Whatever. A trip to the ER was probably a vacation for some of these knuckle-dragging -

  And then Otero was laying into Bullet again. She couldn't unleash on a patient, so the fury she choked down found the closest target.

  "Why aren't those tanks contained? They should be secured. If one of them fell on him we'd have a huge lawsuit on our hands. Is that what you want?"

  Hank watched Bullet's eyes go from amused to steely.

  She leaned a bit to look Otero in the eye. "It's your emergency room, bitch."

  Otero's jaw went slack. "You . . . I . . . "

  Nathan jumped in. "I'll take care of it! It's fine. My fault. I'll take care of it."

  Hank frowned at the kid falling on the grenade. He wanted to see Otero on the receiving end for once.

  Otero scowled at Nathan. "You do that. I don't want to have to write anyone up."

  She stormed off, slamming the door to what used to be Hank's office.

  Bullet exhaled, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. Hank sidled up next to her.

  "I guess now woul
d be a bad time for me to ask if she's got my tequila."

  Bullet started to crack a smile, but the automatic doors at the back of the emergency room opened and her face went slack. Hank turned, trying to get a look. On the other side of the ER stood Whitey, frozen in the doorway with a wheelbarrow in front of him. Even from where Hank sat, he could see the big guy shake, could register his terror. Everything in the hospital paused under a sudden weight of silence. A dirty foot hanged over the lip of the wheelbarrow. Inside it was Whitey’s shotgun and a naked, dead man.

  "I think I fucked up," Whitey said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Warner, AZ

  12:30 PM

  The internet cut out again. Scarlett Snyder slammed the mouse down repeatedly as the page just froze in mid-load. On the third slam, the very red, very fake fingernail at the end of her index finger spit in half.

  "Oh cheese and rice," she muttered.

  She'd just had these done and it had cost her an arm and a leg. She spun in her chair and went back over to the check-in desk of the Purple Sage motel, hunting for her nail file. Now it was ruined. She blamed Doyle. Doyle was a cheap son of a gun and ran the only internet business in town. Over the summer, she'd complained about outages over twenty times. He said it was the heat. Then he said it was the wind. Then he said something about internet protocols or some other nonsense she didn't give a fart about. She just wanted to Facebook with her sister and maybe shop a little bit. There wasn't anything else to do.

  Tourist season in Warner, such as it was, had passed. During the summer, hikers would pass through on their way to hike the Huachuca Mountains or camp in the Coronado Forest. Some rowdy students from Tucson would stop here, one of the only motels in the region, on their way to drink, or screw, or buy marijuana in Mexico. But this was November and now she only got the occasional backpacking hippie couple or soldiers on leave from Fort Huachuca hooking up with some town bimbo - probably Mina, the dumbass who'd gouged her on the manicure.

  The office windows of the Purple Sage Motel started to vibrate. At the end of Highway 50, she spotted them. The bikers rode three wide up the road. They moved slowly, as if to announce their presence. Scarlett made her way around the counter to get a better view. They stopped in the middle of the intersection, looking around. She nudged her glasses up the bridge of her nose for a better view. They looked hard. Even from here, she could tell. They were coated in road dust and the way they sat in the middle of the street was diffident, as if daring any passing cars to honk. Fortunately, it was Warner and the streets were usually empty. One lone Chevy sputtered by, giving them a wide berth. They ignored it. After a moment, a tall, skinny fella pointed to the Purple Sage. The engines revved and they moved down the block to her parking lot.

  Scarlett instinctively backed away from the windows. She reached for the phone to call Sheriff Larson. There was nothing to report, not really, but she reckoned he'd want to know. As she dialed, the gang rolled into the lot, eased off of their bikes, and looked around. None of them came towards the office, not yet.

  "Sheriff? Hi there, it's Scarlett up in Warner.

  Yeah.

  No, not really.

  No. Just a bunch of rough lookin' biker fellas rolled into town.

  No problems yet, but . . . they don't look like they're here to go sight-seein' or nothin'.

  Yeah. . . I just figured you'd want to know.

  Well, I don't know. It's like they're lookin' for somebody.

  Okay.

  Okay. Thank you, Sheriff. I'll see you shortly."

  She hung up the cordless, but didn't feel any better. The bikers were poking around, trying to peek into rooms. She should say something, but what? What could she do? They'd just laugh at an old woman like her. And it might just make things worse.

  Then it clicked. It was the FBI looking fellow they were trying to find. He hadn't said he was FBI, but his unmarked suburban and his black suit made it pretty obvious. He was nervous and spoke like he hadn't slept in a few days. It wasn't any of Scarlett's business, but she had really wanted to ask why he parked behind the motel. All of the rooms faced the street. There was nothing back there.

  She walked to the back of the office to check. The black SUV was still there, backed up to the wall. As everything came together, the waffles she had for breakfast soured in her stomach. Sheriff Larson was a good forty-five minutes away, all the way over in Tribes.

  She rushed back up to the front, just in time to see the big, burly woman kick in the door to room twelve. Scarlett gasped and fumbled to close the shades so they wouldn't see her. Two bikers slipped into room twelve, guns drawn. The FBI agent was in the next room, room thirteen. Room twelve had a couple of hippie hikers. From inside the office, she heard them scream. Three gunshots.

  As the bearded man with the cane watched, the big girl moved over to room thirteen. The door splintered in the frame with one kick from her steel-toed boot. Scarlett found herself crouching now. The gunmen entered thirteen. She shook, but couldn't look away. She waited. No gunshots this time. The gunmen stepped out and shrugged back at the man with the gray beard. He held up a hand. Everyone stopped. At the far corner of the building, the tall, skinny one waved to them. They trotted after him, all but the bearded one, moving like wild dogs on the hunt.

  Scarlett rushed back to the window in the back of the office. A few bikers had surrounded the suburban. They tried the doors. Locked. One of them went around back and cupped his hands to peer through the car's window. The rest of them rounded the corner, closing in on the SUV. The biker behind it yelled something to the others and smashed the back window with the butt of his gun. The glass shattered.

  The brake lights came on and the engine roared to life. Startled, the bikers took a step back. The suburban tore into reverse, throwing up sand. It crashed into the back wall of the Purple Sage, pinning the biker. The building shook with the impact. Scarlett screamed. A framed picture of the local little league team fell from the wood paneled wall. Gunfire cracked as the bikers unloaded on the vehicle. The windows erupted into spider-webs. The car shifted into gear and careened through the vacant lot behind the hotel. Scarlett watched through parted fingers. The suv fishtailed in the dirt and she waited for it to tip over. The bikers scattered. They hooted and hollered. Some gave chase on foot, others raced back to their bikes. The black sport utility corrected, barreled through a ditch, and then tore off down the road.

  Scarlett slid down to the floor, feeling exposed even behind the plywood walls of the back office. A feverish prayer to Jesus tried to take shape on her lips. She should probably call the sheriff back now.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tribes Memorial Hospital

  12:45 PM

  They stood over the body in the bed. Everyone was quiet. He was a scrawny man, no taller than 5' 5". His flat nose looked like that of a boxer. He was unshaven and filthy, covered in scars and crude tattoos. The right leg was a bloody mess with everything below the shin missing. The back of his head was a bloody crater. Just outside the room, Whitey paced, still clutching his shotgun by the barrel.

  "I guess we should call Sheriff Larson," Nathan said, barely above a whisper.

  Otero snapped out of her haze. "Nathan, go watch over Mrs. Solis. Make sure that son of hers doesn't get into anything."

  "She's going to ask - "

  "Don't tell her anything. It's none of her business."

  Nathan nodded and disappeared, offering Whitey an uncomfortable smile.

  Otero frowned. "I'll notify the Sheriff about Charles."

  Bullet and Hank just looked at her, confused. "Oh. Whitey," Hank said, realizing who she was talking about.

  Hank looked back. He could hear the giant old man sobbing quietly in the hallway. Hank looked over to Nurse Otero. "Give me just a minute with him, Simone."

  She gave a terse nod and Hank excused himself.

  Whitey stopped and shrank even more when Hank approached him. Hank reached out and put a reassuring hand on the man's arm.


  "Alright. Walk me through this again, Whitey."

  Whitey threw his head back and raised his arms, "God dammit, I just don't know, Dr. Hank!"

  Hank gently reached out to take the shotgun from him. "Okay, well let's just put this down for a second."

  He propped it against the wall and saw Otero watching their exchange. Taking Whitey by the arm, he led him down the hall of the west wing. "So you thought you heard a coyote last night . . . "

  "No. No. I didn't think. I heard it. I saw it. It was there in the trap. And there was a whole pack of them running around."

  "So you went out there."

  "Yeah, the little thing was struggling. I didn't want him to suffer. So I shot him."

  "And you're sure-"

  "Damn sure, Doc. Damn sure."

  "Cause you smell like whiskey right now, Whitey. Worse than I do. Were you drinking last night?"

  "Yeah, but I wasn't three sheets or nothing. I can handle my booze. And I had a little reefer."

  "That's it? And you're sure you found this guy in the trap? The same trap where you shot the coyote?"

  "Yeah, Doc. Same place. I checked the others and . . . it was just him."

  He started sobbing again. Hank lowered his head. This whole damned backward hellhole . . .

  A scream came from down the hall. Both of them spun. It sounded like Otero. Bullet stuck her head out into the hallway.

  "Doc! Hank! Get in here!"