by Wolfe, Layla
Wolf muttered. “Other than getting to blast away at some guys.”
“Whoa, whoa!” said Sax, pointing at Tobiah’s screen. “What the fuck? Go back. Go back.”
“What’d you see?”
“I swear to fucking God, there was a strange fluorescent green patch behind that shed. Didn’t really seem to fit in. Right behind the weed whacker and ladder that were leaning against the shed, back—yeah! That’s it.”
Tobiah grinned widely. “That’s right. You’re a gemologist. You can see the different—what the fuck? That’s a dude!”
Sax leaned so close he practically breathed on the screen. “Damned right that’s a dude. Not just any dude. That’s fucking Santiago Slayer.”
For it was the erstwhile bounty hunter, clinging to the side of the shed like a chameleon. Slayer clutched the siding of the shed as though he had suction cups on his fingers, dramatic as if someone had a camera on him. His wide eyes darted theatrically from side to side as though he waited for his close-up, and he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his flashy polyester outfit. True, he seemed to be wearing tennis shoes now instead of the pointy white things. He was a true lounge lizard, even in the harsh mountains.
Tobiah chuckled. “Who the fuck is Santiago Slayer? Sounds like a reject from the X-Men.”
“Pretty much,” Sax agreed.
Wolf said, “I’ve heard of Slayer. Traffic cameras caught him hanging some guy from a bridge in Mexico. That’s how he earned his bones.”
Sax should explain to his associates. “The Flagstaff sweetbutts were desperate to get Tormenta, so in addition to hiring me—for free, you know we’re not getting a fee—they got ahold of Slayer. The more the merrier, I say. I’m not threatened by honest competition. Let me go pay him a visit, make sure he doesn’t fuck up our scenario. Meanwhile, you’re on radio, right, Wolf?”
Wolf tapped his little earpiece. “Ten four. I’m ready to roll. If you’re over there, you roll from that side. I’ll roll from here.”
Sax gave him a thumbs up and walked uphill, skirting the driveway, making sure he couldn’t be seen from the house.
Santiago Fucking Slayer. Actually, Sax was impressed the former soap actor had gotten this far without their Facebook knowledge. How had Slayer done it? He obviously had other sources, and Sax found himself actually curious about how the guy had gotten this far.
However, nothing stopped him from surprising the hell out of the guy. That was an opportunity Sax couldn’t pass up. He came around the blind side of the shed, literally tip-toeing in the fresh pine needles. Slayer was too occupied with hugging the shed’s wall and remaining as flat as possible. When Sax reached an arm out and touched Slayer’s polyester sleeve, he hadn’t calculated how far the dandy would jump. About three feet, as it turned out.
Actually, Slayer drew his piece in the blinking of an eye. Sax hadn’t calculated that, so he drew his piece, too. It was a Mexican stand-off with the actor’s perfectly coiffed hair gleaming in the soft rays of the sunrise. He looked ripped from the frames of a telenovela about a guy hiding in the wilderness from his evil twin brother. But you never knew how itchy a man’s trigger finger was, so Sax played it safe.
“Slayer,” he acknowledged.
Slayer nodded tightly. “Saxonberg.”
“Let’s lower our pieces. We’re not the fucking enemy here.”
“Agreed.”
Simultaneously they lowered their pieces. When Sax holstered his in the back waistband of his jeans, Slayer holstered his in a hidden shoulder holster.
Sax tossed his head. “How’d you find this place?”
Slayer tossed his head, too. “None of your business. I have many fingers in many pies all across this great state. How’d you find it?”
“Facebook. One of the women who’s paying you was murdered by Tormenta yesterday.”
Slayer’s deeply tanned face blanched. “Which woman? Not Rhetta! Don’t tell me it’s Rhetta! We’ve been close friends since the chanting, swaying, meditating days!” He referred to their relationship up at the ashram, the ashram The Bare Bones had taken down to the ground.
“Not Rhetta. The older woman, Brenda Ridings.”
“No! Not Brenda!” Placing the back of his hand on his forehead and looking to the heavens, Slayer pirouetted about in seeming agony. He couldn’t have known Brenda well, since Rhetta was his sole contact with the sweetbutts, the one who’d hired him. But he’d met her at least once at the bar where Sax had run into him again, and his pain seemed real. “Those bastards!” he hissed, his nostrils flaring. “I am even gladder than ever that I am here to avenge the maiming of poor Hassie Casselbeck—”
“Cassie Hasselbeck.”
“—and to right a grievous wrong from ever happening to any other woman!”
Although overly dramatic, Slayer did seem sincere, and Sax felt a kinship with him. “Okay, then. I’m not taking a fee for this, so if you happen to pick off Tormenta—he is in the house, isn’t he?”
Just then Sax’s earpiece beeped. A small, tinny Wolf said into his ear, “Confirmed guy in shower is Tormenta. He’s gotten out, getting dressed.”
“Copy that,” Sax told Wolf. To Slayer, he said, “Listen. Some men are about to come out of that front door any minute now. I’m going strictly for Tormenta. I’ve got a man down the hill who’s going to come running up—”
Slayer wasn’t listening. Fire was in his eyes. “I will shoot anyone related to Tony Tormenta! Anyone who ever knew, loved, or sat next to Tony Tormenta will go down by my knife! His sicario killed the only person I have ever loved, and for that I hung the pendejo from the Rio Magdalena bridge! I tell you, Saxonberg, this is more personal for me than it is for you.” He poked Sax in the chest, right in his bulletproof vest. Sax didn’t appreciate it, but he needed to keep his eye on the prize, not get all carried away with drama. “There is much more at stake for me regarding amore, honor, pride!”
That was probably true, but it also gave Sax the uneasy sense that Slayer was a loose cannon, unpredictable and liable to go off on a tangent at any moment. Wolf’s tinny voice came again in Sax’s ear. “Door’s open. Get into position.”
Shoving past Slayer without giving him any intel, Sax again drew his piece and, using the two-handed teacup grip with the barrel pointed at the ground, peered around the edge of the shed. Sure enough, two men in shades emerged from the front door, leaving it open. One of them clicked a remote control and the detached garage door went up, revealing another couple vehicles, one an armored SUV.
“Not Tormenta,” Sax told Wolf.
“Yeah, I see,” said Wolf, obviously much closer now.
But this was good enough for Slayer. All riled up with emotion and barely-suppressed rage, Slayer burst forth into the clearing bordering the driveway. Sax’s jaw dropped. The guy was hardly stealthy—more of a kamikaze pilot uttering a piercing, siren-like wail of agony.
The two goons, of course, looked at Slayer as though watching a movie. This was probably the last thing they expected, and Slayer easily nailed both of them, one right through the forehead. Slayer pumped his fist while Wolf murmured in Sax’s ear,
“What the fuck? Why the fuck did he do that? I thought we agreed to wait—”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Sax barked. “I don’t want to be associated with this clusterfuck.”
Meanwhile, two more goons had emerged from the front door, naturally to see what the fuck. Slayer took time off from his dancing to pop off another one through the heart, giving the second guy time to duck and cover behind a big flowerpot containing a saguaro cactus. Sax started to race downhill the way he’d come, behind the shed. No one need ever know he’d been there.
But something wouldn’t let him. It was like Slayer was on a suicide mission, dead set on proving his bravery in a foolish shoot-out he was bound to lose. He wasn’t even wearing a bulletproof vest. Did he have a fucking death wish or something? Did he want it shouted from the rooftops that he was a fucking hitman there
to off Tormenta? Except, you know, minus the part where he actually offed Tormenta?
Sax’s body acted before he engaged his brain. He found himself racing into the clearing, too, wrenching Slayer’s pistol arm just as he squeezed off a few shots into the glazed ceramic cactus pot. Sax disarmed Slayer easily, transferring his Sig Sauer into Slayer’s left, non-dominant hand. This might slap sense into Slayer’s mind without actually neutralizing him—for Sax didn’t want Slayer shot, either. Just to take a few seconds to breathe.
“Down the hill!” Sax ordered the enthusiastic actor.
Slayer was already transferring his piece back to his right hand to shoot at the flowerpot some more. “I only got three of them!” He pointed to the men sprawled in various positions, with various head and body wounds. “I want to get all of them and this pendejo won’t come out! Salir de detrás de esa maceta, cobarde!” Come out from behind that flowerpot, you coward!
“That’s enough,” said Sax, his hand on Slayer’s forearm trying to lower his shooting arm. “Tormenta isn’t going to come out now. He’s the one we want.”
In fact, two more goons had appeared, but not at the door like fools. One was at a front window, now shooting at Sax and Slayer. Another seemed to be shooting from the garage, behind the SUV.
“We can storm the house!” cried Slayer idealistically.
Sax actually heard the bullets cracking past him. It had been a long time since he’d heard that noise. Four or five hit the metal shed where they’d been hiding. It was only a matter of seconds before one of them hit flesh. “It’s Tormenta we want, and we’ve lost the advantage of surprise! This is your last fucking chance, Slayer, but I’m out of here!”
Sax was at last forced to abandon the melodramatic hitman when Slayer twirled about, a new flesh wound gouged in his hip. This might enrage Slayer even more, so as Sax ran down the driveway, he pointed into the sky and bellowed at the house.
“Look! A drone! It’s the federales spying on you with drones, Slayer!”
That shut up the shooters long enough for Sax, and now Slayer, to make their getaway. As Sax hotfooted it down the gravel drive, he met Wolf Glaser, who jogged on past just long enough to shoot at the guy in the garage. Sax could hear the unmistakable sound of bullets piercing a so-called armored vehicle, and Wolf’s jubilant “Ha ha!” rang in his ear.
Sax didn’t break his stride when he met Tobiah fumbling with his computer screen. “What the fuck, Saxonberg? Telling them to shoot my drone?”
“Abort, you dumb shits!” Sax called. “Where’s your vehicle?” he asked Slayer, who was admirably keeping up with the much more fit man.
Slayer panted, “My Fiat is down on the main street. I smartly did not wish to come up the drive—”
Sax was busy whipping branches off his scoot. “Never mind. You’re coming with me. You can get the cage later, when it’s not so hot here.” As much as he didn’t relish the idea of riding two up with the loathsome thespian, time was of the essence now, as even Tobiah came hauling ass down the hill without his beloved quadcopter.
Tobiah was throwing the iPad into the van’s driver’s seat, but he paused in the process of launching himself inside the vehicle. His remarks were directed straight at Sax. He was remarkably calm, for a guy who had just done the James Brown away from some major Mexican cartel gunmen. “Thanks a lot, Doctor Saxonberg, for losing my drone. The last thing my screen showed was Tormenta standing at the door pointing right at it with a fucking semiautomatic in his hand. Then the screen went blank.”
Sax was getting on his saddle, handing Slayer his brain bucket. “How much can those things cost? Five hundred dollars?”
“Whoo hoo!” cried Wolf Glaser like Tarzan, leaping into the van’s passenger seat. “I totally buried that moron hiding inside the garage!”
Tobiah didn’t seem to notice. He slammed his door but spoke out the open window as he started up the boxy vehicle. “It wasn’t the damned drone. It’s the fact that I registered it under warranty online.” His voice finally became a shade more hysterical as each word came from his mouth. By the time he finished, he was nearly crying with frustration. “I never thought I’d use it for anything like this. Now that they’ve shot it down, they can get the serial number and figure out who we are. I wanted to be sure it was under warranty in case a part broke! I was only trying to be safe, like any normal drone owner would!”
Sax allowed the downtrodden Tobiah to peel off before he did. He’d ride chase. Slayer could shoot at anyone who tried to follow them, though none did.
“That’s kind of idiotic,” Slayer said in Sax’s ear as they drove off at a sedate speed. Never in a million years did Sax think he’d be riding down a country road with Santiago Slayer’s hands clasping his waist. That’s what this fucking world has come to. Slayer was calm now, as though he’d worked through his love-fueled rage, and everything was out of his system now. “He registered that little helicopter online and then took it to a shootout with thugs?”
“Isn’t that like the pot calling the kettle black?” Sax raged. He wasn’t sure which stunt was stupider, Tobiah’s online secretarial skills, or Slayer’s grand performance in Tormenta’s parking lot.
All Sax knew at that moment was that he’d have to rethink his entire approach. And Tormenta wasn’t going to be staying at this particular hideaway one more night.
CHAPTER NINE
BEATRIX
For the second time in my life, I was learning a great lesson. Love can urge us to a place of shelter and security.
I used to find this safety only in my faith, at the abbey. My spiritual director trained me to discern, think, and pray—to pray my way out of the pain caused by the only man I’d ever loved. After many years of following and obeying my calling, I thought I’d found some semblance of security. No one would come up the mountain in Boulder to my safe place and hurt me ever, ever again.
Now that I was falling in love again, I was terrified. The sort of man Sax was, in particular, scared the bejesus out of me. The first man, Baldy Avery—just his name was like a sword through my gut—was also a biker. Fresh out of my junior year in high school, he took me by storm—ruined me, devastated me. That explains my attraction to my old sweetbutt friends in The Bare Bones. It was my type, my spirit, the things I desired in life. Danger, excitement, thrills. The opposite of life in the abbey, now that I think on it.
Not only was Sax a biker, he was an itinerant biker. The two things that terrified me most on the planet. He was a nomadic bad boy, the worst sort of star to hitch your wagon to. Was I doomed forever to make the stupidest, most damaging choices in men? That’s one of the reasons the convent had been my safe haven. I was safe from being forced to make asinine, life-altering decisions like this. Things were much safer up there in more ways than one.
While Sax was gone on his urgent mission to track down Tormenta, there was a monthly fish fry at The Citadel. This was an ordinary thing with brother clubs such as the Assassins of Youth and the Baal’s Minions, and we certainly weren’t going to cancel it thanks to Tony Tormenta. The mood was subdued after the death of Brenda and there was a little shrine to her set up inside the hangar. A ceramic cholo, toy motorcycles, photos of Brenda, pieces of her jewelry. The heavy scent of Tuzigoot’s deep-fried battered catfish swirled around us as we gazed at the remainders of Brenda’s short, happy, turmoil-filled life. Was this all life boiled down to? I silently said a few prayers, because I hadn’t given up everything to do with my former faith.
I’d been to many fish fries, and this time they just posted a few more guards around the mesa, the access road. The band played outside on a stage, not nearly as good missing their lead guitarist, Roman Serpico, still off on honeymoon. I hoped he didn’t find out what was going on. If he came to avenge his father’s death, he could ruin whatever plan Sax had going. And bliss was so difficult to come by these days. Roman should be allowed to enjoy his little slice of heaven before returning to this hell.
“I’m so sorry about th
e circumstances of this party,” Harte said to Cassie and me. I’d seen the bartender pour him a tequila and orange juice, unusual for such a clean liver as Harte. “I don’t know what the fuck has been going on around here lately, but it’s got to stop.”
Cassie stroked Harte’s leather-clad arm. She had improved much more than anyone had expected, although her face, a patchwork of red lines, was still too tender and raw to have the plastic surgery she needed. “Don’t worry about it, Harte. It’s hardly your fault. I blame Leo for continuing to do business with that motherfucking Tormenta. I’m praying Sax is wherever right now, putting an end to him.”
Setting his drink on a speaker, Harte fumbled with an unlit cigarette. We were outside in the vast parking lot that faded out into a revetment area where they used to park airplanes and jets. It was easy to see for miles in every direction, one of the advantages of the location. “I just have a terrible feeling I might’ve somehow contributed to it.”
I thought I knew what Harte might be about to say. “You mean that you told Leo about our bounty.”
Harte reluctantly looked up at me from beneath a curtain of shimmering, squiggly ginger locks. “Yeah,” he said shortly, then looked back at his cig. “I stupidly trusted my father. I’m starting to have serious, grave doubts about him. The way he’s running this club, the choices he makes.”
That was a serious admission, especially to divulge to sweetbutts, who normally had no business knowing anything about inner club doings. I felt that Harte seemed closer to us, that he didn’t feel part of the club—that in a way his palling around with his club brothers was more of a charade than an expression of his innermost feelings. He seemed to feel he could be more himself around us. That was why he’d been the only one to come running when Cassie was slashed.
To encourage him, I said, “I agree. I think he’s been making some idiotic decisions lately. I don’t know what’s gotten into him—greed, maybe—but he’s doing some wrong things. Ever since Panhead went up the river, things have been strange. And Tormenta seems to be running sweat shops all over Arizona.”
