Echoes of a MC (The Nighthawks MC Book 12)

by Bella Knight

  Four boys ran in, and Henry gave them a look. They sat down, and began speaking in a mix of Paiute, which Henry and David answered, and Apache, which Nantan and Chayton answered.

  Next, a little girl with blonde hair came in, and Ivy moved to let her sit in between her and Callie. Mike came in, and took the last chair. David stood and sang, and they fell on the food like wolves. Everyone talked, ate, laughed. Jerry felt like his head was in a blender. He got through the food part, and slipped out onto the porch.

  The little girl followed him out. She took his hand, and led him to the pasture. “This is a good place to be quiet in your head,” she said. She climbed up on the fence, and he leaned on it.

  After a time, Robert came out with several cans of Coke in his hand. He put the cans on a little table, and then he dragged out a rolling toolbox, a small basket of rags, and metal cleaner. Damia took Jerry’s hand, and led him to Robert. She sat him down in a plastic chair, put a tool in his hand, poured metal cleaner on a rag, and put the rag in his hand. She dragged over her own chair, poured metal cleaner onto a rag, selected a tool, and sat down.

  “We have to be quiet,” said Damia. “We might hear the owls.” They sat there, cleaning tools, sipping Coke, in the encroaching dusk, listening for the owls. A peaceful time that was worth its weight in gold.

  Arizona Ragnarok

  Rachael Mayes, otherwise known as Gramer, or “Fierce” in Old Norse shot a 9 into the corner pocket. Message received, was the code sent to Arlen Thanh, otherwise known as Saber, who was shooting the strangest game of pool ever seen. Instead of a triangle and break, he put balls all over the table and used straightforward shots and various tricks to shoot the balls in. Saber called it his “warmup.” He then took on comers, to earn beer money only, nothing that would piss off anybody except the truly drunk —or stupid.

  Saber’s current undercover persona was Ran Tran, a nasty little arms dealer. He’d traced the line from the ancient weapons traded for drugs all the way back to Ruden Wang, a “collector.” Ruden collected and sold weapons, most of them highly illegal. He had a turned and twisted procurement officer deep within the US Army, and there was a military officer deep inside ready to take that man down with extreme prejudice. That little major was going to be doing major time in Leavenworth. Saber was deep in, as the major’s go-between.

  Saber’s message had been, Fortress involved. Rabbit warren. Women and children. This was every federal organization’s fear. Insane people often surrounded themselves with innocents. Big sale happening in two days.

  U.S. Marshall Mayes didn’t mind spending an hour or two a few times a week in a pool hall on a widened part of the road, basically a roadhouse for the beer-and-pool set, in Arizona, near the Nevada-Arizona border. It didn’t interfere with her day job; even the afternoon meets like this one, spinning people from Los Angeles and Las Vegas into the system that would hide them. It was popularly called the Witness Protection Program, or WITSEC. She had four she was watching in the little Arizona town just outside Flagstaff. One was an ex-mobster, the improbably-named Mookie, now running a thrift shop. The second was a doctor fleeing, from being forced to give a Russian mobster a new face. She delivered babies, and ran a side business of getting women out of violent situations, which made her far happier than she had been in Boston. The last two were sisters who had seen a murder while driving home from college. They had gotten teaching certificates online, and were now working to teach bilingual Spanish/English classes at a private school.

  She sent the 6 ball into a pocket. We’re on. She grinned at the shot, something she would have been expected to do. She also felt the thrill, the little push that said, Operation on. WITSEC had numbed her butt. She needed to move. She’d taken climbing classes from Rota, and Skuld had thrown her around on mats until she was bruised, but she needed more.

  She turned, and the skinheads and survivalists (Saber’s mark was hiding behind) stood. Something had spooked them. They abandoned their beers, and stared around them.

  Saber made another shot, the 8 ball. That one meant, Danger. She grinned, and they both had a pool cue in one hand, and the other on hidden weapons. Gramer slipped a hand in her pocket, and her .22 (not her normal service weapon) was hidden there. She centered her body weight, bent her knees, and made herself ready.

  Gramer wasn’t ready for a shot from behind. It hit her shoulder, spun her forward, and she let herself fall, using the cue to hold her weight while looking as if she was falling uncontrollably. She had enough time to sight and shoot. The shooter fell, a man with dark hair, eyes, and a HATE tattoo over the knuckles of his shooting arm. Saber was at her side, digging into her pockets while slipping something into her left pocket. He pulled out her phone, and sent a coded text. He pretended to smash the phone with his boot, and she let herself roll onto it, gurgling as if it were her last breath. He turned, made a motion, and the two at the bar were running, with Saber hot on their heels.

  Well, then. She slipped her hand into her left pocket, pulled out the pressure bandage, and grinned. She slipped out her hidden phone; a tiny one, and read the code. She laughed as the shit-kicker boots of a cowboy walked up to her. He was on the phone, calling Eduardo, whoever the fuck that was.

  He knelt, avoiding the blood, and helped her to apply the pressure bandage to her neck at the shoulder on the left side. “I’m a county supervisor,” he said. “I think you’re more than some woman in a bar. I’m Regis.”

  “Gramer,” she said. She remembered that was her Valkyrie name. But, that was okay, because they would be there soon. “US Marshal,” she sighed and said. “Get everyone off the street. Ragnarok… coming. Good… kind.”

  “Death for the bad guys?” he said, rolling her onto her side in a bid to help gravity keep her blood inside her. He put his own shirt underneath her head, then pressed down, making her moan out in pain. She slipped under.

  Sigrun had a herd of kids at the massive table, War, who now called himself Warren, bashing his way through coding class. Dina and Sondra, the munchers, munching their way through a bowl of fruit and nuts. They were working on a project to make a warren —a rabbit kind, in the central courtyard. Dina couldn’t hold tools yet, but she was getting stronger. They had to design and implement it, including electrical with a solar panel to keep the rabbits from roasting in summer and freezing in the Vegas winter winds. Wraith was in the back, her murmured voice bending its way out of the office.

  Sigrun’s phone vibrated. She looked at the text, and she heard Wraith’s voice suddenly get clear and calm. She grabbed the traveling food, including homemade fruit, nuts, granola bars, and cans of soda. She slipped them in the pack. She ran to her own bedroom, slid into her leathers, and slipped weapons into her boots, sleeves, and a gun in the small of her back. She grabbed the same weapons and clothes from the main bedroom, with its enormous king-sized bed occupied by a cat, and dumped them in the office on Wraith’s desk.

  She stepped out, her earbud in her ear. She was ready.

  Yancey strode into the front office. She swung behind Jaime Choi’s desk, waited until he put someone on hold, took his earpiece out of his ear, and shoved it into her own. She took his arm, and hauled him out of his chair. She shoved him toward the door, and he found himself running as Gregory ran past him. He made it into the elevator to their private garage.

  “Where are we going, boss?” he asked. The door opened, and he ran with Gregory toward Gregory’s bike. “And why?”

  Gregory handed him a helmet and a built-in headset, and put one on his own head. Choi put it on, and hopped on behind Gregory. Gregory drove in the Evade manner, which meant he made the Harley growl as he used backstreets to get where he was going, fast.

  “Valkyrie down, just over the Arizona border, US Marshal, Saber’s takedown is jeopardized. He sent the code out without having any idea that he now had three kids.”

  Jaime leaned with a turn. He understood now. He had a foster parent license. He could be at the house when the Valkyries took ca
re of emergency Valkyrie business. “I’ll text my husband later.”

  “Bring Kat over, along with Sarah,” Gregory said. “It’s a huge house. One dog, one cat, and they get along.” Gregory took a curve smoothly.

  “Is Saber okay?” asked Jaime.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said Gregory. “You’ll have to stay indefinitely. You’ll have full service and protection.”

  “Good.”

  Jaime did calculations. His almost-adoptive daughter, Sarah, was already under protection from her accountant that oversaw, and had been attempting to steal from, her trust, from after her mother died. The accountant was under indictment, and they were attempting to get legal control of the trust, and to allow Jaime to legally adopt his daughter.

  Gregory spoke. He said, “Daughters are your daughter’s age, she’ll love them. One severely malnourished, getting her weight back.”

  “Pizza and caramel popcorn night,” said Jaime. He composed the texts he would send in his mind.

  “Good,” said Gregory. They were in front of a huge house, with a lawn that sported a doggy-doodoo bag, trash receptacle, with blue bags ready to go above it. There were spiky plants and rocks, in shades of silver and green. Jaime slipped off, gave back the helmet, and then sent his two fast texts. One was, Bring over Sarah, and clothes and food for three days. He typed out the address. The second was, Two girls, one boy, all Sarah’s age, one recovering from malnutrition.

  He didn’t have to knock. Wraith nearly dragged him inside. “Younger ones, this is Jaime Choi,” said Wraith. “Mama and I have to go. We have a sudden Valkyries thing. Jaime is awesome and has a girl your age, and the most amazing spouse.” She kissed his cheek. The dog sniffed his feet, and the kids all waved.

  “Carry on,” he said, as more Valkyries slipped out the door to the garage, and the Harleys ripped to life.

  “Someone’s in trouble,” observed Warren.

  “Yes, and the law is on our side,” said Jaime, crossing to the kitchen. A cat attacked his feet, and then ran away. He laughed. “Our people will fix it.” He entered, and started opening cabinets. “So, make-your-own pizzas?” He narrowed his eyes. “After homework.” Three pairs of eyes looked at him, then he could feel the concentration resume onto their screens. He washed his hands, took out the flour, and got started.

  Saber traveled in the back of a car. Rat was murmuring, spreading hate under his breath. “Fucking cunt killed Spike,” he said, then described the things he planned on doing to her corpse.

  Saber kept his voice calm. “Neck shot. She’s dead.” He took a breath, let it out. He hoped she wasn’t. She was Valkyrie-tough.

  “Gonna…” Rat let the ugliest words flow out of him, each word uglier than the last.

  “Anybody know why Train shot her?” asked Saber, adding a frisson of steel to his voice.

  “He saw her talking to a cop,” said Bullseye. “She’s one of them.”

  “He’s gone too,” said Saber. “We’ve got to do our deal. This isn’t my thing.”

  “Fuck-fuck-fuck,” said Rat.

  Saber sucked in air through his teeth. These guys were spinning out, and that wasn’t good. Not at all.

  Rota and Skuld met up with them just past Kingman, at a truck stop lit up like they were trying to personally prevent darkness throughout the planet. They were met by Sokn, which meant “attack,” a Valkyrie with charcoal skin, snapping black eyes, and the muscles of a rock climber.

  “I’m the sheriff for this county,” she said. “Saber informed me about the compound. Hear it’s got tunnels, a rabbit warren. A standard hate group, with survivalists. Truck drivers, warehouse workers, bartenders in shit-kicker bars, rodeo workers, cashiers. If they even have jobs. Clean-shaven, lots of muscles on the guys. The women don’t wear prairie dresses, but they are covered. Jeans, T-shirts, like the men. Hard drinkers, drink a lot of beer. They police their brass, make their own ammo, and have lots of guns, using a shooting range on the back forty. Hear rumors of an urban fighting range inside the compound, for the race war.”

  Wraith snorted. “Lovely people.”

  “It gets worse,” said Sokn. “They decided they needed more and bigger guns. Rocket launchers, stuff like that. They are harboring Ruden Wang. Ruden doesn’t look Asian. He’s had some eye surgery. Anyway, he’s nasty, had an in to get army weapons. The military removed this after Saber gave them a heads-up about the weapons he was supposed to supply, and how to get them. Now, Saber is posing as Ran Tran, a nasty little arms dealer, their conduit to US Army weapons. They’re anarchist, and are willing to work with one of the yellow races —that would be Saber, to steal from the government they hate. They’re planning on killing Saber, as if they were planning on sneezing.”

  Wraith’s face got stony. “Not gonna happen. You know we’re under High Desert’s license. We’re here for our principal, Saber, to keep him alive. We want to leave lots of people in these.” She held up a plastic bag filled up with plastic ties. The Valkyries each held up their own ties.

  “Arrests,” said Sokn. “That’s my sister those bastards took down. She’s still breathing. The US Marshals are pissed. They’ll be here come morning, but we don’t have time to wait. They’ll push up the date.”

  “And Saber will be dead,” said Sigrun. “Recon?”

  “Drone,” said Sokn. “Nailed down tight, perimeter patrol, twice the normal guards. Dogs, too, German shepherds.”

  Rota grinned. “Got sleepy snacks,” she said. “Like Scooby snacks, but the dogs will wake up happy and relaxed in a few hours.”

  “I love you very much,” Sigrun said to Rota, accepting a tube of the snacks. Everyone else got their tubes, too.

  “The problem with stun guns is one shot and you’re done,” said Skuld. “I’ve got two specials; scientists in a trailer in the desert came up with them. Six shots, the wires just fall out.”

  “Awesome,” said Wraith. “I’ll take one.” She took it. “Great feel.”

  “Tiny wires,” said Skuld. “Bring it back and I’ll get more wires for you.”

  “So, fast, silent,” said Sigrun.

  “Duh,” said Wraith.

  “Have fun storming the castle,” said Sokn. Everyone snorted at the line from The Princess Bride. “The van will be on the south side, the bikes the southwest side, the raiders the north side.” The raiders were Iron Knights and the Valkyries who were still on their way. They would be called in, either by cell phone code or by a certain number of shots fired into the air. “We’ll be expecting for you to get the women and children out, or for us to come in and get them.”

  “Need more vans,” said Wraith.

  “And, a lot of the women firmly believe in the crap they’re spouting,” said Sokn. “Be ready for resistance.”

  “Resistance…” said Sigrun.

  “Is futile,” said Wraith.

  “Go,” said Skuld.” They melted into the dark, their jangly bits tied or taped down, and they melted into the hot desert night.

  Jakob Rantry (Jack) walked his dog back and forth. It used German commands. He’d learned them. Sit, stay, attack. He was confident in his skills, learned from the man who became his father. Shoot, hide, move, then shoot again. They had killed a bad woman tonight, and the yellow man had crushed her phone so she could not call for help. He said he sent a message to his own people to bring the guns. Jack had seen a bunch of numbers, nothing that made sense. Jack was always right. So, no one knew if they would receive guns by dawn or not.

  He heard a tiny scratch. The dog whined, and jaws snapped shut, twice. He strained, looking for the one who was throwing things at his dog. He was hit in the back of the head, and fell soundlessly to the ground. “Sitzen,’ said a voice behind him. The dog sat, and received a normal dog treat from Sigrun. Sigrun put the boy in plastic straps, on his wrists and ankles. He smelled okay, so the dog was not concerned. “Kommen.” The dog followed her. It had been undernourished; their new masters didn’t understand how much food a German shepherd actually n
eeded, and their voices were rough. This new one smelled like food and sunlight, and so he followed.

  Rota slid up the watchtower on the right. The watcher got an elbow to the face, and a smack to the back of the head. He went down, and was put into plastic ties. She took the radio off his belt, and slithered back down. She made her way to the watchtower on the right.

  Skuld moved quietly to the left. She took out two at once with her knife handles. She got them in twist ties. She went along the wall.

  Wraith was furious. Saber had asked for help, without even knowing that he was the father of three children. He’d been in the deep dark for a while, in shark-infested waters. He’d be pissed if he went to Valhalla without meeting his children, and even upon meeting him there, she would be hard pressed to explain her being unable to get to him.

  She found the kitchen; the ancient plates and silverware were put away, dented and blackened pots scrubbed to within an inch of their lives. There was a large electric pot of coffee. Wraith slipped past.

  Women bunked in a room nearby; Wraith could hear them breathing. She slipped past the storeroom, and avoided the room with the sleeping sounds. She slid left; right; left, the rabbit warren heading deep. She found a door down, and took it. She slipped the door closed, and heard a sentry walking through the halls. She waited, waited, and slammed the door open. He fell, and before he could scream, she cracked his head into the floor. She slipped him in behind the door, put on the plastic ties, and slipped him down the wooden stairs and left him in a storeroom underneath. Blonde hair, clean-shaven.

  She went down a twisty hallway, until she heard the scrabbling of dog claws on concrete. She threw out the sleeper snacks, and the dog snuffled, and then ate. It breathed gently. She crept around, and found a German shepherd, undernourished.

  She scratched the dog behind the ears, and said, gently, “Bliebe,” the command to stay. The dog laid quietly. She slipped forward, and found doors. She popped one open and found guns; black and gleaming, on racks. Grenades were on special holey shelves, their pins sticking out. She grinned, shut the door, twisted the bolt, and superglued it shut.