by CJ Lyons
She hung her head, blinked fast, trying to force back the emotions that suddenly overwhelmed her. Some professional. She raised her head, ready to let Markle off the hook and beat a hasty retreat with at least some of her dignity intact.
Markle surprised her. He stood, left his desk, and closed the door, shutting out the sounds from the outer office. He gestured to the chairs but Caitlyn shook her head; she didn’t trust herself to move without crumbling into a giant jellyfish of grief. Markle leaned against his desk, facing her, but staring past her, giving her some privacy.
“Was Sean Tierney a good deputy? Yes. One of the best. Stubborn, but with a good head on his shoulders—always seemed to understand the truth behind the truth, if you get my drift. Good people skills. Had a way of sizing up a situation, or a person, real fast, then surprising them by coming at things from a whole other direction from what they’d expect.”
“But then, why—” She couldn’t finish, the image of her father’s bloody corpse choking her into silence.
“Why did he do what he did?” She appreciated his tact. So many cops would have used shorthand—ate his gun or the like. “I’m not sure. Sean was, well, intense is the best word for it. He’d get an idea in his head and you couldn’t knock it loose with a two-by-four. And loyal—guess that was his downfall. Too damn loyal. He just couldn’t accept it that Eli Hale, his best friend, would go and do something like what he did to Tommy Shadwick.” He grimaced. “I guess, in a way, what Eli did broke Sean’s heart. You ask me, I think he did it because after being betrayed like that, after realizing how wrong he’d been about a man he trusted, he just couldn’t face thinking about what else he could have gotten wrong.”
Markle pushed off his desk and reached past her to open the door once again. “I hope that helps in some small way, Agent Tierney.”
Her smile was bitter. “Yes. Thank you. I guess it does.” Then she remembered why she’d come here in the first place. “Did Eli Hale have any connection with the Reapers?”
He looked surprised by the question. “No. Hale always stayed clear of any of that. Hardworking family man, surprised us all when he killed Shadwick. Guess it just shows how little you know about anyone.”
“What about my dad?”
“Involved with the Reapers? You mean other than arresting them?”
“Yes.”
“Guess maybe through your mom. But I doubt it.”
“My mom?” Now it was her turn to be surprised.
“Well, her brother. Jimmy McSwain used to ride with the Reapers. Was about ready to join them for real, until your dad set him straight.” They reached the outer door, and he opened it for her. “You take care now.”
She walked through the door and was halfway to the Impreza before she realized it. Uncle Jimmy had almost joined the Reapers? She couldn’t picture him without a suit, much less hanging out with a bunch of bikers. The thought of Uncle Jimmy in biker leathers made her smile. A little piece of family history best left buried.
She got into the Subaru and debated. Where to next? It was only nine forty, plenty of time before brunch and the archives wouldn’t be open yet.
Nothing she’d learned here explained why the Reapers were so damn interested in finding Lena. God help Lena if they found her before Caitlyn did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A bright light stabbed at Bernie’s eyes. He squinted them tighter, squirmed in his chair. His arm throbbed with pain and a metallic taste filled his mouth. Lena. The leopard. It was going after … “Lena, look out!”
He opened his eyes and she was right there. Sitting beside him at the table. “It’s okay,” she said. “You had a bad dream.”
Maybe he was still dreaming. To have her here, in his house, taking care of him. Best dream ever. “What happened?”
“The leopard clawed you. I stopped the bleeding but I think you should see a doctor. I’m worried about infection.”
His arm felt heavy; even turning his head to look down at it hurt. But he couldn’t leave her. Not with the Reapers after her. “You, you said you came looking for me. Last night. You knew my name.”
She got up, poured him a glass of water, and handed it to him. “I was looking for the owner of this land.”
“You want to buy the Teddy Roosevelt?”
“No. I’m interested in the freedmen’s land. I found an old copy of the pact that said it was in this corner of the reservation. Your land and the national park share boundaries with it. I was going to ask permission to cross your land, see if there was any evidence of my family ever living there.”
He frowned. The water wasn’t helping to clear his head. Of course, it was hard to think with her big doe eyes staring into his like he had the answers to everything. “Freedmen land? What’s that?”
“Land the Eastern Band granted their emancipated slaves. Including my family.”
“And you think your family lived up there?” He shook his head, regretted the movement as pain shot down his arm. “No one has ever lived up there. Hunted, yes. But lived, built homes? No. It’s too steep, rock ledges, crevasses, waterfalls—about the worst land you could imagine to build on.”
She sat back, disappointment clouding her face. Bernie was sorry he was the one to put it there. “No houses? Not even back over a hundred years ago? Maybe there’s just no evidence of them left anymore.”
He couldn’t bear to tell her no. “Maybe. But we have more important things to worry about. You know people are looking for you, right?”
She pushed her chair back, got up to stand behind it, as if she needed protection from Bernie. “Are you the one who drugged me? Why? What do you want? Is it about my father?”
Bernie couldn’t face her. He stared down into the empty glass, trying to make sense of how tangled everything had gotten. He’d only been trying to do the right thing. How had it all gone so wrong? “I was trying to save you. That night when you came to the clubhouse—”
“I was looking for you.”
“Something you said upset Poppy—he’s the leader of the Reapers. Anyway, he sent Weasel—you don’t want to meet Weasel, believe me—after you. They were going to hurt you. So I, I—” He fumbled for words to make what he’d done seem less awful. There weren’t any. “I needed to get you out of there fast and quiet, so I gave you the drugs I had for the animals. And I brought you here.”
She backed away from him, as far back as she could go, until the wall stopped her. “What do you want?”
“Not me. I only wanted to help. I had no idea the drugs would make you so out of it for so long—you were singing and talking gibberish. That’s why I locked you up when I had to go back to work. If I didn’t show up, they’d know and come looking for you here. So I had to leave. But I was worried you’d hurt yourself or wander off and get lost or something. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you that long.”
“How long? What day is it?”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Two days. You left me two days in that room?”
“A day and a half.” Her eyes widened with anger, and he held up his good hand. “I’m sorry, Lena. But they were going to hurt you and I couldn’t let that happen. I was trying to protect you, save you.” He hung his head. “Guess I didn’t do such a good job of it.”
So typical, his father’s voice echoed through his brain. My son, the loser. Dad was right. He was a loser. Only now it was Lena who might pay the price.
She was silent for a long moment, thinking. “Why? What do they want from me?”
“I was hoping you could tell me so we’d know what to do next.” His stomach churned, acid biting the back of his throat. He fumbled in his pocket for his Tums. “Because I have no idea.”
* * *
Caitlyn decided that despite the sheriff’s request, her only option was to talk with Oren Parker, aka Poppy. Given what she’d seen last night, they were probably still at the clubhouse partying. She might even run into Jacob Clay, aka Goose, again—or better yet Weasel, aka
Lionel Underwood.
Too bad she didn’t have enough proof to arrest the men; wouldn’t that be a great way to start the day? But they didn’t know that. She might have enough leverage to get a few answers and a direction to follow.
Unless Paul turned up something in his research, learning why Lena had been at the Reapers’ clubhouse was the only clue Caitlyn had left.
Both the clubhouse parking lot and the old service station across the street were filled with motorcyclists registering for the poker run, tinkering with their bikes, vendors selling official, licensed Reaper paraphernalia, and food stands. There were even several TV news crews covering the festivities. A Reaper directing traffic stopped her.
“Spectators can park down near the river,” he told her, gesturing to a narrow lane on the other side of the clubhouse. “There’s free public parking down there, plus a picnic area.”
The temperature hovered slightly above freezing, but apparently to the Reapers this was picnic weather.
“I’m here to see Oren,” she said, hoping Poppy’s real name would get her in.
He frowned and tapped his Bluetooth, passed on her request. “Name?”
“FBI Supervisory Special Agent Caitlyn Tierney.” Technically she wasn’t here on FBI business, so she didn’t show him her credentials, but it wouldn’t hurt reminding Poppy that she had a bit more clout than the locals.
The frown turned into a scowl. Then he gave her a grudging nod as he hung up. “You’re clear. Go down the drive, past the trailer, to the large white house.”
Past the trailer translated into a mile along a gravel drive that climbed up a bluff overlooking the river. The topography and crowded evergreens shielded her from view of the clubhouse, the road—well, just about everything and everyone.
She called Paul, to let him know where she was. No answer. Great. She left a voicemail, hoping he hadn’t forgotten his phone in the room. Constantly hounded while at work, he tended to disconnect from communications devices when off duty.
A large white house sat in a clearing that hugged the side of the mountain on one side and had a sheer drop down to the river below on the other. It could have come out of a Norman Rockwell painting. True-blue Americana.
Except for the thirty-odd assorted Harleys parked in the grass and along the drive. Each accompanied by a Reaper.
The drive was circular, which gave her some comfort as she pulled past the glowering bikers. The lane behind her was too narrow to turn around. She decided to forget about confronting the Reapers’ leader, simply follow the drive until she was headed back the way she came, and get the hell out of there. Talking to Poppy one-on-one or even half-a-dozen-on-one she was comfortable with. Three dozen to one? No bet.
She almost made it. But just as she passed the house the men up ahead mounted their bikes and blocked the road. The ones behind her closed off any chance she had of backing up. Seemed like Poppy was as anxious to talk with her as she was with him.
Too bad. She shifted down to second and steered the Impreza across the lawn. He could bill her for the landscaping later. Despite the ground being a bit soft from the melted snow and frost, the Subaru responded nicely, barely a shimmy when she splashed through a large puddle.
Unfortunately, the Reapers had her outnumbered and outflanked. Before she could reach the road again, they had her surrounded, circling their bikes in ever-tighter circles until she had to choose between stopping the car and running one or more of them down.
Mood she was in, she actually considered the later. But they hadn’t shown any weapons, hadn’t threatened her, were merely trying to intimidate her, so she stopped the car. Besides, if she had run them down, the paperwork would have taken the rest of the weekend—and who would look for Lena?
If she wanted answers she had to play by their rules. They stopped, their bikes circled bumper-to-bumper, revving their engines until the noise was enough to shake the ground. Bullies.
Play by their rules? They had no rules, other than their code: till Death do us part.
Smart money and the FBI’s bible would have her remain in the relative shelter of her vehicle. Just sit there and ignore their rude gestures as they laughed at her and suggested couplings that weren’t anatomically possible.
She thought back to the agent in training she’d made cry two days ago. The bad guys are just as blinded by adrenaline—and in this case, testosterone—as the good guys, she’d told her. Think beyond that, search the possibilities.
Great advice. So what possibilities did she have here? The Reapers didn’t want her dead—that would bring a reign of terror down on them, unwanted scrutiny from every domestic law enforcement agency, local, state, and federal. They did want to send her a message, that much was as obvious as a gorilla beating its chest warning off the competition.
What were they competing for? Lena?
Why?
The rank and file wouldn’t know. Poppy might. Which meant getting out of the car.
Only question left was whether to play it like a wolf in sheep’s clothing or a sheep in wolf’s clothing. They were used to treating women like property. Should she go all meek and docile? It had saved her and Paul last night.
Or give in to her anger and face them head-on?
Then it struck her. They played by their rules—and they’d be assuming she’d be playing by the feds’ rules. Which would basically prevent her from striking first or doing anything other than defending herself.
She glanced at all the mirrors in turn as she pulled her ASP from her pocket and made sure her Glock was clear of her coat. She’d be most vulnerable when she climbed out of the driver’s seat. Only one chance to get this right.
A few of the Reapers got off their bikes, including one guy the size of the Jolly Green Giant who climbed off a lovingly restored classic Harley with a custom paint job complete with a naked blonde named DEEDEE.
Time for Caitlyn to unleash her inner bitch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The sheriff’s station made sense, Goose thought as he followed Tierney’s Subaru. But Poppy’s home? On the morning of a run when the national president had just arrived?
Woman was either a fool or had a death wish.
He sped down the drive to Poppy’s house, hoping he was in time to see which. Not that he cared, of course. He had to stay focused on the money. Three million cash. Nothing to sneeze at. Virtually untraceable, given that it came from illegal drug, weapons, and prostitution transactions.
Despite the Reapers’ focus on racing and partying, Poppy and Caruso had built a finely tuned criminal enterprise. Almost seemed a shame to throw a wrench in the works. But three million was too much to let the opportunity pass.
When Goose arrived at Poppy’s house he saw Tierney had also thrown a wrench in the day’s program. The Daytona Reapers, freshly arrived after tearing up the highways in an all-night party/predawn run, had her little Subaru Impreza WRX surrounded. He held back to see how she’d get herself out of this one.
One thing about the fed. She was damn entertaining to watch in action.
One of the Daytona guys, nicknamed Tiny because he was built like a brick wall, got off his bike and lumbered toward Caitlyn’s door. Tierney didn’t wait for the Reaper. Instead, she threw the door open and popped out of the car in one fast movement. Tiny stopped, shooing the rest of the crowd of Reapers back. Not because he was scared of the gun in Caitlyn’s hand—he wanted room to maneuver.
Caitlyn stared him down. Tiny just smiled and shook his head like a buffalo getting ready to charge. The air was so cold his breath steamed, heightening the illusion. But Caitlyn didn’t back away or retreat to the relative safety of her car.
Instead she flipped her left wrist, snapping open a weighted extendable baton. Now she had the longer reach, despite Tiny’s towering almost a foot above her. His smile turned into a grin, enhanced by the fact that he was missing a few teeth. Beauty and the Beast.
Tiny shuffled like a boxer, moving to his right. Caitlyn did the
same, moving to her right. She was also smiling. Why was she smiling? Goose wondered. It was a real smile, showed her dimple, so she wasn’t faking it in a show of bravado.
She twisted her wrist, making the ASP crack through the air like a whip, took one more step to her right—and he had his answer.
“Move another step and DeeDee gets her head gasket blown off.” She placed the muzzle of her Glock against the naked woman painted on Tiny’s Road King Classic.
The Reapers didn’t gasp but the air clouded as they all exhaled simultaneously and bared their teeth. You could mess with a man, but mess with his ride? A hanging offense.
No Reaper would risk Tiny’s bike. Without shedding a drop of blood, Caitlyn Tierney had taken the entire crowd hostage.
* * *
Caitlyn used the ASP like a lance, touching a Daytona prospect on the shoulder. “You. Run inside and tell Poppy I’d like a word.”
No one moved while the prospect jogged to the house, up the porch steps, and vanished inside. Well, no one moved unless you counted various grunts and growls and hissed promises as movements. Caitlyn decided it was best to ignore them.
Thankfully the prospect returned before the fire in the not-so-Jolly-Green-Giant’s glare could spontaneously combust. “Poppy says come on inside.”
Right. Like she was an idiot. “Out here will be just fine, thank you.”
The prospect turned toward the house with an elaborate shrug. Moments later Poppy appeared, accompanied by a second man. If Poppy was a cross between Willie Nelson and Jerry Garcia with Charlie Manson’s dead eyes, the second man was more of a John Travolta minus the Pulp Fiction suit. He wore jeans, biker boots, and a black tee under his black leather cut, but no tatts were visible; he was clean-shaven with a haircut that spoke of an hour in a stylist’s chair and a twenty-dollar tip.
She would have pegged him for a hanger-on, some banker biker wannabe, if not for his eyes. Same I-always-get-what-I-want stare as Poppy. Like the men around them were objects, not humans. Then he drew close enough for her to read the patches on his cut. National president. This was Caruso himself honoring her with his presence.
