by Bella Knight
Echoes of a MC
The Nighthawks Motorcycle Club
Bella Knight
Book
12
Edited by
Natasha Lind
Contents
1. Tracks
2. Exfiltration
3. Songs of Victory
4. Valhalla
5. Highway to Hell
About the Author
Afterword
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1
Tracks
“Murderers leave strings. The trick is to follow them back to their source.”
Bannon was pissed. His secret weapon, his Spider (his Gunny), was in his safe room. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Safe rooms were for clients. Important clients. Terrified; important clients. Not for his own ops manager.
Daisy Chain, their ace-in-the-hole hacker, was deep into military files, ADA cases, and God only knows what else. It would seem that the dead District Attorney, Ray Evars, was an ass… but a halfway decent ass. He had not been told that Wraith had exonerated a man brought to trial. That obviously wasn’t right. He had been killed, Bannon suspected, to cover that up.
Killing someone at a public park after a huge public event like the Renaissance Faire seemed to be an idiotic move. Maybe the doer or doers thought that Wraith and Saber made good patsies, maybe leave some evidence somewhere to say that they did it because they were actually at the Renaissance Faire. But they had been with too many people, literally never alone, except to stand in a very public line with cameras to use the public toilets. They had also been nearly the last ones out of thousands to leave. The shooter (or shooters) hadn’t known that Wraith was there for far more than sparring. The doer (or doers) probably thought her still weak, but the woman had powers of recuperation that had shocked and stunned them all.
Frenchie was running it down. Quantico had finally wised up and given the special agent a star spot on the Las Vegas team, down from the tiny Reno office. She had FBI resources, but Bannon knew the players intimately. He’d testified in that court, protecting a client from her drug-taking mother. He’d met Ray and his five-thousand-dollar smile that oozed sincerity. The man was a courtroom ninja, sneaking into territory that blew juries’ minds.
Ray dirty? Bannon could believe it, but the reality was that Ray Evars had family money, from an olive king named Pietro Evarro in Italy, from three generations back, that had moved to America. In fact, his grandson Rafael “Ray” Evars was now the proud owner of a sold-out condominium project, and a lot more. According to Daisy Chain and Nico, the real estate stuff was legit, and the man was only hiding behind one shell company, not ten.
So, who the hell had a case prosecuted where the suspect had a clear DEA-agent alibi for the time of the murder, and why? What was the point? To try to paint Wraith as brain-damaged and feeble? To try to get prior cases she’d testified for, thrown out of court? To get any future cases thrown out?
He texted her with the future-and-prior cases idea and received a text back. Already on it. He sighed. He loved her quicksilver mind, always two steps ahead of him, and he was no slouch.
He sent her another text. Judge Markan?
Not paid off, trying to find out what was said in chambers to Defense Attorney Leah Sakanski and ADA Rumin Kelis. Kelis had to have known.
Wraith knew these players even more intimately than he did, having testified in dozens of trials as an ex-DEA member, often loaned out to the ATF, and sometimes to the FBI, for sting operations.
He decided to quit ruminating. Wraith was safe. She slept surrounded by an ATF agent, Saber, and a Valkyrie, Sigrun. Their triad seemed to work, and as long as Wraith was happy, everyone at High Desert Security and Protection was happy. She also had a rotating team of Valkyries, Iron Knights, and Soldier Pack as the second and third layers. Real agents with real credentials, and a boatload of favors they could call in. They were all working the case in some way or another. His principal was safe, and he had six more principals right now, and in the heart of the city.
Daci Samar was smart, cool, collected, and fifteen. Bannon had been running around the woods with a heavy backpack on, shooting at tin cans placed in trees to get in the military as soon as possible. Daci was a sultry soul singer, and one of the most intelligent young women Bannon had ever met. She was part of Gregory’s record label, dubbed the “Teen Queens” by the outfit, for their high talent and low drama. She had blue-black hair, caramel skin, a largish nose, and a quick laugh. She was even quicker with a snarky comment that made even the most hardened soldiers who were guarding her, laugh. Her father, Rudi Samar, had the dual job of protecting his daughter from crazed fans who believed themselves to be in love with her, and protecting her brand and the assets derived, thereof. Rudi got smart and hired Bannon for the protection, and then he hired a top-notch accounting firm to guard the assets.
Fredi Racau was a French photographer; turned vlogger, a blonde haired, blue-eyed, tiny fountain of elegance, and she’d built a rabid fan base. Normally, she wouldn’t need protection, but she’d bought a Vegas apartment, and she’d been at the site of a terror attack and had reported on it in real time, making her a hero as well —and quite a substantial target.
Ken Wang was a super-sharp Taiwanese businessman who dressed in three-thousand-dollar suits, and who was in the process of buying two hotels. He needed physical and technical security, all while making a multimillion-dollar deal.
Ismael Farid was a thin, sharp-faced, Saudi businessman. He was attempting to get himself, and his entire family, out of oil, entirely. He was on the selection committee for a site. A semi-secret, low-earth-orbit rocket that could get people and materials from one continent to another in an hour to ninety minutes. His wife Fatima was an actual rocket scientist, who went back and forth between couture and lab coats, with a scarf covering her hair, advising both the committee and her husband. She spent her time correcting at least two technical problems herself, during business meetings. She did so with a New Mexico ba
sed rocket company.
Kanjiro Yin and Royal Meyer were separate clients involved in business with each other. It was a highly technical arrangement, and both sabotage and industrial espionage had happened in the past to both clients.
Wraith had brought in several Soldier Pack members who had wanted to either work part-time on bikes, or who disliked working on Harleys. It was fiddly, difficult work, involving physical and mental strength. And it wasn’t for everyone. Bannon and Gregory had spoken to them separately, and now Bannon had three more, smart, highly-trained operatives.
Wraith moved people around like chess pieces, even with the mystery of her past as a federal agent, and someone possibly trying to frame (or even kill) her. Someone was trying to take her off the board, and Gregory couldn’t let the person (or people) attempting to do that, win.
He sighed, then put on his best suit in his elongated, private bathroom/changing room. He put on his silver cufflinks and stepped out for the Yin/Meyer conference.
Wraith smiled, looking at the cameras. The hallway camera showed a James Bond-like Bannon heading down the hallway in black Armani. Staff Sergeant Tori was behind her too, having temporarily taken some time out from her Harley work to protect Wraith, and also to get to know Bannon and Gregory’s business a little more.
“Bond, James Bond,” said Tori, grinning.
“Eyes off Bannon’s butt. And, aren’t you supposed to be Bonnie now that Bonnie’s in the hospital?” asked Wraith.
“Ghost and Killa split up to make it easier, and they just finished off two bikes, anyway,” said Tori. “And, I’m only here for two hours. We’re almost done with the bikes for Henry, and we’re going to make double, so he can sell all he wants. I sold two of the ones I did on my own. Man, Harley people are hyper picky. They have an image in their minds. So, I check colors, and then make it as perfect as I can.”
“Polish that chrome,” said Wraith.
“You have no idea,” said Tori. Then, they both broke down, laughing.
Daisy Chain called in. “Report,” said Wraith.
“Fucking dirtball; Rumin Kelis tried to throw you under the bus,” said Daisy Chain, indignantly.
“Figured,” said Wraith. “Man was trying to fast-talk himself out of fines or even the obstruction of justice.”
“The defense attorney had already put all of your proof about contacting the ADA into a court document. The asshole didn’t have a leg to stand on. The entire trial messed with the court’s time and had a chance of putting an innocent man in prison.”
“Innocent of that particular crime,” said Wraith. “Rolly is the last person I would call ‘innocent.’”
“Given. And there was a lawsuit filed the next day against the city. Two million.”
“Bet that’ll get settled for a mil,” said Wraith. And the judge?”
“Threw the book at ADA Michael Kellers and his second chair, Rudi Meyers. Both of them first tried to say that you were mistaken, or that they believed you to be mistaken. Judge Jensen blew her top, in that word-biting way she has, that’s almost like shouting.”
“Wait. Who recorded this?” Wraith suspected Daisy Chain had heard a recording, a real no-no in chambers.
“Not telling,” said Daisy Chain. “Anyhoo, then they all blamed it on Kelis. And, get this, Kelis was ordered to come to her and explain his actions. She raked him over the coals. Said she wouldn’t trust anything he said in her court, ever again.”
“Oooh,” said Wraith. “He would hate that. Both being ordered around by a judge, and then dressed down…”
“And being held in contempt of court,” said Daisy Chain.
Wraith and Tori whistled. “What the? Shit, did he go to jail?”
“No jail time, but he had to put an unspecified amount into the fund that will eventually go to Rolly when he wins his suit.”
“Fuck me,” said Wraith.
“No wonder someone wants you dead,” said Tori.
“It gets worse. Kelis had to admit that he never told, and that he prevented Ray from being told, because the man he was prosecuting had a DEA-agent alibi.”
Wraith just sat there, and was finally able to squeak out, “And… how many daily, then pretrial meetings, did Kelis et al attend, without telling Ray?”
“The judge asked the same question. She even took his phone and counted. Twenty.”
“Twenty,” said Wraith. “He’s going to lose his job.”
“And possibly both ADAs,” agreed Daisy Chain.
“And possible perjury, trying to get a DEA agent —me, to say I was lying.” Wraith was incensed. “Wait, now Judge Jensen is in danger.”
“Already texted Frenchie; agents are hanging around her chambers and her courtroom,” said Daisy Chain.
“Don’t know if it’s just one or all three,” said Wraith.
“Still digging,” said Daisy Chain.
“Killer. Someone’s a killer.” Wraith stretched, grimaced, and said, “Thank you, girlfriend.” Daisy Chain was already gone, without a goodbye.
“Well,” said Tori, “they won’t attack you in person. Too many people know their faces.”
“It’s in the court cases,” said Wraith. She tapped her earphone. “Gregory, the Farids, in fifteen.” She watched him cross his office to change his own suit.
“Good,” said Tori. “More Armani.”
“Hey, he’s taken,” said Wraith, tapping into her own private database.
“Not dead, I still have eyes,” said Tori. They both laughed.
The Farids selected two sites, one in New Mexico, and one in central Texas. They flew out that same night on their private jet, having invested their own money in the project as well. Bannon came back to find Sigrun sketching on his wall. He realized she’d taped up paper that matched the wallpaper, and then he relaxed.
“Report,” said Gregory.
“I think that my mural will win my team the scholarship in Fine Arts,” said Sigrun.
“Excellent,” said Bannon. “I take it Wraith is still alive?”
She snorted. “Her weapons have weapons.”
“True,” said Bannon. “Any further information?”
Bannon’s earpiece rang, and Sigrun resumed drawing on his wall. “My wife doesn’t know about this stuff. We’re getting into ugly territory. The judge has a gag order, and the FBI has; not one, but two, full-scale investigations that involves people in suits talking to their sleeves.” Bannon snorted. “Good. So, we’re out of it?”
Sigrun made a noncommittal noise. Wraith spoke into Bannon’s ear from her safe room as Bannon sat down at his desk. She said, “About my cases, I know what I, specifically, testified to in what courtroom with which judge and ADA, and second chair. Most of my stuff involved dead people or people already in jail for other crimes, so there were a lot of plea bargains. Some that went into witness protection. So, not as much testifying as you may think. Which is how the DEA likes it, actually. As little time on the stand as possible, preferably in a closed session.”
“Okay,” said Bannon.
“Here’s the kicker,” said Wraith. “I was supposed to testify in a case that was nasty. A woman, a cartel, lots of dead bodies. She won’t plea to a single thing, although there’s so much evidence convicting her, it will be easy. I was supposed to testify to a few things, where she was, what I saw and heard, etcetera. Crime scene collection’s not my thing. So, if I were discredited or dead, and she were somewhere else? The cartel has a shit ton of money. Case number 2, same thing; different cartel. The man literally tried to kidnap me and sell me into slavery.”
Bannon’s eyes flew open. “I take it that didn’t go well for him?”
“Not at all. The thing is, the other agent that was there is under deep cover and might not even surface in time for the trial. They’re trying to drag him into a hotel room with an ADA in another city to interview him. If this is what I think it is, that will get lost, and there will be another attempt to discredit me. Guess who’s on both cases?”
“Ooh, I like it. But, two pigs. I think Second Chair Rudi Meyers is innocent and being duped by the baddies,” said Wraith.
“Can we take them down?” asked Gregory.
“If we ask very nicely, we may be able to see the bodycam footage. They still have a lot of digging to do. But, desperate people do desperate things, so I think…”
The lights went off, and yellow LED lights went up. Sigrun put her pencils back in her case at her feet, and suddenly had a silver gun in one hand and a silver knife in the other. Bannon had an expanding baton in one hand, his gun in another. Wraith touched her bone-conduction earphone and said into everyone’s ear, “We are under attack. Sigma; Sigma One.”
Sigrun smiled a particularly vicious smile. “Hold on, baby,” she said. “I’m tired of your getting injured. Looks like the Ren Faire was just practice.”
Wraith said, through their special channel, “Don’t get slagged.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Sigrun.
The cartel boys liked big guns, and preferably ones that shot a lot of bullets. Darina Atanas was smarter. A lot smarter. She had her men for that. Dimo was her main shooter. He shot with precision, not a spray of bullets. A semiautomatic that only shot three bullets at a time. Konstantin was her second. He liked automatic weapons, but Dimo had trained him for more precise kills. Together, they went after a security agency. It was after hours, the clients long gone. Besides, they had seen the guards. They were missing legs, arms. They would have to be slow.
Gregory was still on the premises, talking with Thandie Wells and Sayan on his headset. They had been doing a sitrep on their client, Daci, the soul singer. They handed her off to swing shift for a performance at the House of Blues, and the swing operatives reported that they were just exiting the club. Thandie and Sayan intended to take Daci on a whirlwind of interviews in various studios the next morning, from news outlets to online vloggers, and Gregory made sure the schedule was nailed down and that his client got home early. The “Queen” that Gregory had that morning was now long gone, on a plane back to her native home, Dallas.
