“I’m looking forward to it, darling.”
“Labrys…” These endearments were really getting on Shea’s nerves.
“Yes?”
“Never mind.”
—
Walking down the hallway toward the Pineview Elementary main office brought back a flood of memories—the smell of Elmer’s glue, the sound of safety scissors cutting brightly colored construction paper, and her father’s booming voice arguing with school administrators over the school’s prohibition against little girls playing kickball.
She strolled past an exhibition of third-grade artwork, a bulletin board festooned with pumpkin and skeleton cutouts, and a poster announcing the upcoming county fair. Beyond that stood the glass-enclosed principal’s office. The door squeaked as she pulled it open.
With her arms wrapped tightly around her skull-and-crossbones book bag, Annie sat slumped on the same wooden bench outside the principal’s door that Shea had warmed more times than she could count. As Shea approached, Annie looked up, her mouth a thin line, eyes defiant. Shea offered her a knowing smile.
“May I help you?” asked the receptionist. The nameplate identified her as Esther Cavanaugh. She was a stocky woman wearing oversize, red-rimmed glasses and a white turtleneck underneath a maroon corduroy jumper that looked homemade.
“I’m Shea Stevens, Annie Wittman’s aunt. Y’all called me to come in.” Shea unzipped her leather jacket.
“I’ll let Principal Howell know you’re here.” She picked up the phone, delivered the message, and hung it up. “The two of you can go right in.”
“Come on, Doodlebug. Let’s see what kinda trouble you’re in.”
Shea opened the heavy wooden door. A man with a gaunt face stared up at her from behind a mahogany desk. “Please come in and have a seat.” He gestured to the smallish chairs in front of the desk.
Annie climbed up onto one of the chairs, her feet dangling several inches above the floor. Shea closed the door and took a seat beside her.
Principal Howell adjusted his glasses and narrowed his gaze at Shea. “Ms. Stevens, what happened to your face?”
“I got mugged last night.” Close enough to the truth.
“So there’s not an abusive situation at home that I need to be aware of?”
“Thanks for your concern, but no. Now, ya mind telling why I’m here?”
Principal Howell sat up tall with his elbows on the desk, his fingers forming a tent. “Ms. Stevens, earlier today during recess, Annie’s teacher informed me that your niece struck another student.”
“He was calling me names again,” said Annie defiantly.
Principal Howell narrowed his gaze. “Young lady, you will speak when you are being spoken to and not before.”
Shea felt a twinge of fire at his scolding of her niece. She turned to Annie. “Who called you names?”
“Jeremy Pierce. He called me Little Orphan Annie and said I was white trash.”
Shea raised an eyebrow and turned to the man. “Is this the kid she’s accused of hitting?”
“It is. Her teacher, Ms. Hargrove, witnessed it.”
“Well shit, if someone called me that, I’d deck ’im, too.”
“Ms. Stevens, we do not tolerate profanity in this school. Neither do we tolerate physical violence.”
“Oh, but you tolerate name-calling and bullying?”
“Ms. Hargrove made no mention of such statements from the boy Annie assaulted. And even if she had, it does not excuse hitting another student.”
“My niece has survived a horrible trauma, a helluva lot worse than anything she could have doled out to some snot-nosed brat who thinks it’s okay to bully girls.”
“Which is why we’re not filing criminal charges against Annie. But we are suspending her for three days.”
“You’re kicking her out of school for defending herself?”
“She’s not expelled, just suspended. For now. I can have Ms. Hargrove email you her assignments so that she doesn’t get behind in her studies.”
“And the kid who was bullying her? He getting a suspension, too?”
“As I said, I have no corroboration of Annie’s claims of verbal harassment.”
“So he gets off scot-free. Well, aren’t you just the paragon of justice.” Shea wasn’t entirely sure what a paragon was, but she had heard the expression used once or twice.
“Ms. Stevens, we have a zero-tolerance policy toward violence. I suggest if your niece has trauma-related issues and is unable to keep herself from lashing out at others, you look into getting her counseling.”
“And I’d suggest you have a talk with that kid and his parents. Because if I hear he’s bullying my niece once more, him getting walloped by Annie is gonna be the least of his worries.”
“Ms. Stevens, are you threatening one of our students?”
“I’m just saying karma can be a real bitch.” Shea stood up. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s blow this joint.”
Annie stuck her tongue out at Howell and followed Shea out, dragging her book bag behind her.
“I saw that, young lady!” Howell bellowed.
When they reached the parking lot, Shea handed Annie a small leather jacket and helmet, taking her book bag and securing it in her motorcycle’s saddlebags.
“Are you mad?” Annie asked as Shea fastened the strap on the girl’s helmet.
Shea frowned. “No, I’m not mad. A little frustrated, maybe.”
“Frustrated with me?”
“Not you, kiddo. Just the situation.” With her own helmet in place, Shea threw a leg over the bike then helped Annie onto the passenger seat. “Don’t worry. I got sent to the principal’s office a bunch of times for punching some smart-mouthed kid.”
“So what I did wasn’t bad?”
Shea sighed. “Thing is, I understand why you did it. Unfortunately, doing it can get you in a lot of trouble. When I was a kid, you get caught fighting, they make you clean erasers for a week. But these days, it gets you kicked out or worse. Best thing to do when they start calling you names is walk away.”
“But it’s not fair. Why should he be allowed to call me names? It hurts my feelings.” Annie’s voice cracked with sorrow.
“I know, Doodlebug. It ain’t fair. But sometimes it ain’t about fair. It’s about surviving. Understand?”
Annie nodded, the helmet exaggerating the movement like an oversize bobblehead doll.
“Now that we got that settled, I’m gonna need ya to stay with a friend of mine for a bit while I go take care of some business.”
“Do I know ’em?”
“You mighta met her at the Bike Night party. Her name is Orphan.”
“That’s her name?”
“Just a nickname. She’s part of the Athena Sisterhood MC.”
“She really an orphan like me?”
“Yeah, she is. Lost her folks a few years back.”
“Okay.”
“All right, now hold on!” Shea started the motorcycle and revved the engine as loudly as she could, setting off a few car alarms in the process. Annie squeezed her tight and they raced out of the parking lot.
Chapter 19
Shea held the door for Annie as they entered LezBeans. The place was still busy with their midafternoon crowd. Nita waved and stepped out from behind the front counter. “Oh my Goddess, Shea, what happened to your face? Did ya get in an accident?”
“A fight actually. Some guys caused a bit of trouble at yesterday’s bike night event.”
“Damn! Well, knowing you, I’m sure you gave as good as you got.”
Shea shrugged.
“And who is this little cutie pie?” Nita kneeled down to Annie’s height.
“This is my niece, Annie.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Annie. How’s your day going so far?”
“I got kicked out of school.” Annie’s lower lip poked out in a pout.
“Uh-oh.” Nita looked up at Shea.
“Some kid at school was harassing her
and she stood up for herself. So naturally, they suspended her for three days.”
“Ain’t it always the way. Blame the victim.” Nita smirked. “Well, chin up, Annie. I’m sure you’ll be back in school before you know it.”
“Listen, Nita, you seen Deb in here?”
“Yeah, she and another member of her motorcycle gang grabbed a table twenty minutes ago. Looked almost as beaten up as you. Must’ve been one helluva fight.”
“It was.” Shea ruffled Annie’s hair. “Come on, Doodlebug.”
Shea found Labrys and Orphan at a table tucked in the far corner of the café. Labrys’ face was swollen, but most of the bruising was expertly covered up by makeup.
Labrys jumped up and wrapped Shea in a hug that lasted a moment too long for Shea’s comfort. She stepped back and Labrys gave her a wink. “They really beat the hell out of you, too, huh? Thank goodness you don’t get by on your looks.”
Shea ignored the remark. “Labrys, Orphan, I think you met my niece, Annie, last night.”
“Good to see you again, Annie.” Orphan reached out and shook Annie’s hand.
“Good to see you,” echoed Annie shyly.
“I ’preciate you looking after her,” said Shea. “With a little luck, maybe Labrys and me can get you-know-who off our backs and in jail for good.”
Orphan handed Shea a piece of paper. “Here’s my address where you can pick her up afterward.”
Shea folded it and put it in her pocket. “Annie, I’ll pick you up in an hour or two, okay?”
Annie nodded.
Labrys zipped up her jacket. “Enough chatting. Let’s ride.”
—
Shea rode north along the Ironwood bypass with Labrys on her five-o’clock riding a red and ivory Indian Roadmaster. The air was cool as they flew past ranches with names like the Rolling J and the Lazy 8.
The stash house was off Jefferson Highway, a few miles on the other side of the Church, a former church that now served as the Confederate Thunder’s clubhouse. Shea didn’t like the idea of driving past the Thunder’s base of operations, but coming from the south it was unavoidable.
Assuming they weren’t spotted, they would drive down the unmarked road where the stash house sat on land belonging to the club. Shea hadn’t been there in nearly two decades, but shortly before her death, Wendy had confirmed the club still used it.
It was almost never guarded and rarely visited unless the club needed to drop off or pick up contraband—guns, drugs, and the like. Shea was hoping the large plastic bins filled with hex that the Thunder stole from the Jaguars would be there, possibly recut with rat poison.
As the private drive to the Church came in view, four bikers riding side by side—outlaw style—crested a distant hill. Oh shit. Shea ducked down onto her tank, flipped down the tinted visor inside of her helmet, and twisted the throttle, hoping the extra speed would make them less easy to recognize. In her rearview mirror, Shea saw Deb tuck in close behind her.
Thundermen blasted by in a flash, the rumble of the Harleys drowning out the roar of the wind. Shea spotted One-Shot and Monster, but wasn’t sure about the other two. Had they recognized her?
Shea’s heart pounded in her ears. She watched her side mirrors to see if the Thundermen turned around. They didn’t.
A honk from Labrys caught Shea’s attention. She glanced up to see she was drifting off the road. She straightened out, narrowly avoiding a large rock. Shaken and embarrassed, she revved her engine and raced down the two-lane highway.
Her body was charged with adrenaline. They needed to get to the stash house, take photos of whatever contraband they found, and get the heck out of there before anyone showed up.
A half mile farther, Shea turned down an unmarked dirt road and Labrys followed. The road was riddled with ruts and pockets of loose sand, making the ride treacherous. Periodically, trees and bushes on the side of the road smacked against Shea’s legs, no doubt adding to her collection of bruises.
The road ended in a clearing in front of a small wooden cabin. Shea killed her engine and Labrys followed suit. The smell of autumn was in the air. Among the overwhelming green of ponderosa pines and juniper, a few deciduous trees were showing off the last of their fall colors.
“Was that them we passed on the road?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this.” Labrys’ usual confidence was fading.
“If they were going to come after us, they would have done it already. We should be okay,” Shea said, trying to convince herself as much as Labrys.
“If you say so.”
“Besides,” said Shea drawing her Glock. “I brought along some insurance. We’ll be fine.”
The wood of the cabin was gray and worn. A large rusted padlock secured the door, covered in peeling green paint.
Labrys lifted the padlock and let it whack against the wood. “Now what?”
Shea pulled a narrow leather case from her jacket and opened it. “Not a problem.” She fished out two thin pieces of steel, an L-shaped tensioner and a pick with two triangular tabs on the end. “One of the few useful skills Ralph taught me,” Shea said tersely, referring to her father.
Labrys looked around with a grim expression on her face. “Just hurry. This place gives me the creeps.”
“Relax. We’ll be in and out in no time.” Shea set the short end of the L-shaped tensioner in the padlock’s keyhole, her thumb resting lightly on the long end. Then she inserted the pick above it and worked the tumblers. Shea visualized the inside of the lock, feeling as she went which tumblers were set and which ones still needed to be. A few moments later, the cylinder turned and the padlock popped open.
“Damn, girl. Color me impressed.”
“It’s all in the touch.”
“Shit, you can touch me like that anytime.”
“You had your chance,” Shea said in a humorless tone.
“Maybe I’ll have a chance again.”
Shea glared at her. “Is that why you want me in the club? So you can seduce me?”
“No, I want you in the club because you’re a badass feminist.”
“Uh-huh, right.” Shea removed the padlock and opened the door to reveal a pitch-black room. She tried the pull string of the bare bulb near the inside entrance. Nothing happened. “Either the bulb’s blown or they got no power. Run back to my bike and grab the flashlight outta my tank bag.”
“Excuse me? You giving me orders? You’re the one who wants to be a prospect.”
Shea rolled her eyes. “Forget it. I’ll get the goddamn flashlight.”
She walked back to her bike and pulled a flashlight out of her tail bag. As she closed the bag, she thought she heard a rumble like thunder in the distance. She froze for a moment and listened. Nothing but the breeze blowing through the trees. “Geez, girl, getting all jumpy.”
She hustled back to the cabin, stepped inside, and flicked on the flashlight. The odors of mildew, gasoline, and animal feces hung heavy in the air. “Smells like some rats have been making their home here.” To her right, several assault rifles leaned against the wall: AR-15s, AK-47s, Steyr AUGs, and a few others she didn’t recognize.
“Damn,” said Labrys, mouth agape. “What’s with the fucking arsenal?”
“Some they use, others they sell.” Beyond the rifles sat a can of gasoline, a case of tequila, and a few boxes of rat poison. At the far end she found boxes of ammunition stacked on top of two large red plastic bins.
“Hot damn, they’re still here,” said Shea, giving one of the red bins a kick.
“What’s in there?”
“The dope they stole from the Mexicans. Probably worth a few mill on the street. Help me with these boxes.”
“What’s that sound?” asked Labrys.
Shea stood still and heard a rustling in the corner. “Just a rat, most likely. Maybe a skunk.”
“No, that rumbling.”
Shea listened again and heard it, too. She hoped it was thunder or maybe a passing
jet. But as it grew louder, she knew it wasn’t. “Shit, we gotta get out of here. Run!”
With no time to relock the door, the two of them rushed back to their bikes. Shea pulled on her helmet without bothering with the chin strap. She turned the key, hit the starter, and Sweet Betsy roared to life. Deb started her bike but bobbled the clutch. The motorcycle jerked and tumbled on its side. Deb frantically struggled to right it.
“Leave it!” shouted Shea. “Get on the back of mine.”
“I’m not leaving my bike.”
Shea’s survival instinct screamed at her to save herself and drive off. But she couldn’t bring herself to abandon Labrys to the Thundermen’s brutality. She kicked down her side stand and ran to help Labrys lift her bike. At nearly half a ton, there was no way Labrys could lift the heavy touring bike on her own.
“Grab the rear seat. I’ll get the handlebars,” Shea instructed. “Now lift!”
Shea put all of her strength into her legs and pushed the bike upward. Pain erupted in her shoulder and back. The bike rose a foot off the ground before the seat slipped from Labrys’ hand, forcing Shea to lay it back down. Before they could try again, four Confederate Thunder motorcycles roared into the clearing.
Chapter 20
After meeting with Shea Stevens, Rios had uncovered numerous complaints filed against the Confederate Thunder over the past year. But despite the mounting evidence, no charges had been brought against the club. This included the bloody clash last August between the Thunder and the Jaguars street gang that had left several of the Mexican gang members dead. District Attorney Lloyd Russell’s office had cited a lack of evidence implicating the motorcycle club. Ever since District Attorney Lloyd Russell was elected the previous November, his office hadn’t prosecuted a single case against the club or its members. The question was why.
It was no secret that the DA had limited courtroom experience, and had until recently worked as a second-year associate for a personal injury firm. Many believed he got the job because his father was a major contributor to the Cortes County Republican Party. Was the inexperienced Russell afraid of losing in court? Or did his reluctance to prosecute run deeper than that?
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