We’d been running tactical training exercises in these damp, miserable woods all week, and although Taxi assured me I was making progress, I wasn’t so sure. Taxi said he’d never seen more “raw shooting talent” in anyone before, but I wasn’t so sure. Having my father as my first teacher, it was hard for me not to compare my skills to his. His shots were always clean as a whistle and I never saw him miss a target. Not even once.
“And make sure you don’t driiiiift,” my mentor sang softly, continuing his effort to rattle me. Not that I needed any help in that department. It had taken almost two hours of crawling on my belly through high grass to reach this spot. I was dressed in a Ghillie suit, with a fully loaded drag bag in tow. I was exhausted, cold, and most of all, nervous of missing my target.
“Oh, and Trouble. Would this be a good time to tell you that I can totally see you?” Taxi asked, smugly.
I had no idea if Taxi was telling the truth, but given that he was a decorated FBI marksman, and I’d never worn a Ghillie suit before, he likely was. For all I knew, I stuck out like a bunch of fucking broccoli. The camouflage suit only weighed five pounds, but with all its branches and covering, I felt like I’d been swallowed by a Christmas tree.
I did my best to block out Taxi’s distractions and the thoughts of my father, re-lined up my shot, took a breath, and exhaled. My finger barely covering the trigger as I calculated the precise moment to fire.
Thwack.
Before I could get my shot off, a paintball exploded against my right leg.
“Mother fucker!” I screamed and I looked down to see the branches covering my burning thigh splattered with yellow paint.
I’d taken enough shots during Taxi’s training exercises over the past week to know he’d fired this one from close range. Really close.
“Take your shot,” Taxi said calmly.
“I’ve been hit,” I replied.
“Are you dead or wounded?” he asked.
I sighed but didn’t answer. Another paintball exploded eight inches from my head, and there was no way Taxi missed by accident. I reset for my shot, controlled my breathing, and tried my best to concentrate on my target. A plush toy cat set on top of a high tree stump. I gently squeezed the trigger, and my stomach sank as the bullet missed its mark by at least six inches. My intended target taunting me with his big stupid orange face and dumb yellow grin.
“Shit,” I whispered, and awaited my punishment.
I didn’t have to wait long. This time, Taxi delivered a headshot, which didn’t so much hurt, due to the helmet I was wearing, but was humiliating, nonetheless. I turned my head toward the direction of the shot and could now see Taxi, dressed head to toe, in his own Ghillie suit, no more than ten yards to my right.
“How long have you been there?” I asked in utter disbelief, rising to my feet.
“Would it piss you off if I told you the entire time?” Taxi asked, grinning as he stood.
“How?”
“When you’d move, I’d move.”
“So, you saw me come out of the woods?” I asked
“Saw you, heard you, smelled you.”
“Shit,” I said in utter defeat.
“I told you before. There’s nothing I won’t do to protect President Garfield,” Taxi said.
“I hate that stupid cat,” I said.
“And he hates Mondays,” Taxi replied before asking, “You know what I hate?”
“What?” I asked begrudgingly.
“Dead team members,” he replied.
My eyes darted to the ground.
“Look at me, Trouble.” Taxi said, firmly. “You are more than capable of making this shot, but you were spun up. Your technique is improving, but you’re still inside your head.”
“I know,” I said.
“Acknowledging your weaknesses isn’t enough. Controlling your breathing isn’t enough either. You have to be able to control your emotions in the field or you are going to miss your target, or worse...”
“Oncoming enemy forces,” I said.
“They’re always out there, and you’ll never see them coming unless your head is on a swivel at all times. You got that?”
“Roger,” I replied.
“Good. Let’s go get some chow. Keeping the president safe has made me hungry for lasagna,” Taxi said, pointing to the plush cat, who’s suction cup paws reached out toward us.
“I can’t,” I replied. “There’s a big club party at the Sanctuary today and I kinda have to be there.”
“Oh, that’s right. Cricket invited me but I’m packing up the last of my things and turning the keys over to the landlord this afternoon so I’m afraid I’ll have to miss the festivities.”
“That’s too bad. It’s gonna be a packed house,” I said, before asking, “What does Garfunkle the cat have to do with eating lasagna?” causing Taxi to stare at me blankly.
“Garfunkle is a folk singer.” Taxi pointed to the stuffed animal in the distance. “That beloved cat’s name is Garfield. He hates Mondays and loves lasagna. How do you not know this?
I shrugged.
“What kind of childhood did you have?” he asked in disbelief.
“Can’t tell ya’,” I replied.
“I’d hoped by now, you could tell me anything, Trouble,” Taxi said, softly.
I chuckled nervously. “No, I mean, I can’t tell you, because I never had one.”
Taxi studied me silently, before saying, “Doctor Fenton is going to have a field day with you,” before turning and heading out of the brush.
“Who’s Doctor Fenton?” I asked, walking almost double-time in order to keep up with Taxi’s pace, my drag bag feeling at least five pounds heavier than it did this morning.
“She’s the chief psychologist at Quantico. She’s the one that will oversee your psych eval.”
“If I agree to go,” I said, already running out of breath.
“You’ll also have to beef up your cardio,” Taxi said.
“If I agree to go,” I repeated.
Taxi spun around and stopped dead in his tracks, causing me to run into him, damn near bouncing off his chest.
“I get on a plane for Virginia in two days, Trouble. You need to decide right now if you’re going to be on the seat next to me or not.”
“I told you not to pressure me.”
“Pressure you? I’ve been nothing but patient with you, but we’re out of time.”
“How can I leave Portland now? How could I even think about leaving the club after all they’ve done for me, and after everything that’s gone down over the past year?”
“You mean, how could you leave Doozer?” Taxi replied.
My eyes darted to the ground, but Taxi’s stern, but caring voice pulled my focus back to him.
“Trouble. You need to figure out what’s best for you and your future. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity that you’re being given, and I strongly suggest you take hold of it.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have anything to lose,” I said.
“Hey,” Taxi snapped. “I’m putting my ass on the line for you. You’re the youngest, and by far the least experienced, person I’m recommending for this team. And if this team fails, I can pretty much kiss my career with the FBI goodbye. Not to mention all the good we’re trying to do.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Button that lip,” Taxi growled. “How the hell do you think I’m gonna look to my new boss, when the cadet candidate I recommended doesn’t show up for her entrance interview?”
“Taxi, I’m not trying to—”
Thwack.
Another spray of yellow followed by another sting. This time on top of my right foot.
“Would you please stop shooting me?” I yelled.
“I need an answer,” was all Taxi said.
“Minus isn’t gonna be happy.”
“You let me deal with Minus,” Taxi said.
I bit my lip. “Doozer is not going to take this well.”
/>
“He’ll understand,” Taxi said.
I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, he’s gonna lose his shit, but if he cares about you, he’ll support your decision.”
Taxi was right and I didn’t know which idea scared me more. The possibility of Doozer being angry about me going to Virginia, or of him being supportive. If he were gung-ho about the idea, I’d have one less excuse for staying. But there was one more possibility.
“What if he doesn’t care at all that I’m leaving?” I asked softly.
“Something tells me, that’s not going to be the case.” Taxi replied.
* * *
Doozer
“The left side is still too low. Raise it up about three inches,” I called up to Tacky, co-member of the newly assembled Burning Saints decorating committee. He was balanced at the very top of a ten-foot aluminum, A-frame ladder. His boots covered the red and black safety sticker which read, “WARNING: DO NOT USE AS A STEP.”
“How about that?” he asked after adjusting the wrong side.
“No, your other left, dumbass.” I yelled.
“You wanna climb up here and hang this fuckin’ thing?” Tacky asked.
“No way,” I replied. “This is our tallest ladder and you’re the only one stupid enough to stand at the top of it. Besides, only your freak monkey arms can reach the rest of the way.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a mean fucker first thing in the morning?” Tacky asked, raising up the sign which read, “CONGRATULATIONS CHAMP.”
Clutch, our club’s Sergeant at Arms, and his wife, Eldie, had recently adopted two kids they’d taken in off the streets. Alejandro, who we all called “The Kid,” was a scrappy seventeen-year old who Clutch almost murdered the first night they met.
The Kid had stolen and trashed Clutch’s beloved 1971 Barracuda, Lucille, as his initiation into a rival club of ours called Los Psychos. We eventually made peace with Los Psychos, and it didn’t take too long for Clutch to take a shine to the kid. They bonded quickly over boxing and eventually began to repair Lucille together. Shortly after taking Alejandro in, Clutch and a very pregnant Eldie began fostering his eight-year-old sister, Celia. Callie, Sweet Pea’s old lady, is a lawyer and helped big time with their adoption process. Through her connections and expertise in family law, she was able to cut through years of red tape.
Alejandro was proving to be a boxing phenom, winning his first three amateur bouts, two by way of knock out. Making his father and trainer, Clutch, the happiest member of our club. His most recent victory was for the local Golden Gloves title which meant he could now qualify to compete at the state level.
“Right there. That’s better,” I said once the sign was level.
“That’s exactly where I had it the first time!” Tacky argued.
“Keep on giving me shit and I’ll kick this ladder out from underneath you. I think Sweet Pea’s old wheelchair is still around here somewhere,” I said.
“Mean and in a shitty mood,” he said, climbing down. “Come on, man. Decorating ain’t so bad. It could be worse. Cricket has Spike power-washing the driveway right now.”
Tacky wasn’t entirely wrong about my mood, although, it had nothing to do with decorating or with the early hour. It had everything to do with the fact that I’d woken up alone. Again.
Since Trouble and I started bunking together six months ago, mornings had become the best part of my day. Especially when she’d get up first. Trouble was horniest in the morning and there was nothing better than being woken up by her ass grinding on my cock. But there had been no grinding this morning, or yesterday, or the two days before that. In fact, I’d barely seen her all week, let alone spent any amount of quality time with her.
Quality time? Jesus in a Chrysler, I sound like a fucking chick.
“There, I told you it was straight,” Tacky said, backhanding my chest as he admired his handywork.
“Come on, let’s go see what the queen requires next,” I said, and we headed for the kitchen.
The Sanctuary was packed to the rafters. Minus had made it crystal fucking clear that this party was a mandatory event. All Saints on deck. Officers and senior club members were already cracking beers and jokes while us younger soldiers and prospects kept ourselves busy.
The kitchen was in a state of what you might call ‘controlled chaos.’ Cricket, Minus’s old lady and club den mother, was busy calling out instructions to her team of apprentice chefs… a group of Saints, dressed in leather, denim, and white aprons.
“Socks, please check on that last batch of cupcakes, sweetie. I need to know the moment they are cool enough for Hacksaw to start frosting them.”
“Sure thing, boss lady,” Socks replied affectionately.
When Cutter appointed Minus as club president, he also asked Cricket to join him. His idea was for her to act as a sort of business manager for the club. Minus and Cricket were to work hand-in-hand to secure the club’s future. Cutter’s plan worked out better than he could have imagined. Minus and Cricket were rock-solid partners, and the club was flush with cash even though we’d ended all street-level business almost three years ago. Minus had already been tested several times by outside clubs since his appointment and had proved to be a great wartime president and leader. The club also loved Cricket and I didn’t know a single member that wouldn’t take a bullet in the face for her. Still, I couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of bikers in aprons. As much as Cutter wanted the club to clean up our act before we all ended up in jail or dead, I’m sure even he could never have envisioned Burning Saints frosting cupcakes in the Sanctuary kitchen.
“How’s the sign looking, boys?” an extremely focused Cricket asked, while vigorously stirring the contents of a large metal bowl.
“Just like Warthog,” I said.
“How’s that?” Cricket asked, without looking up.
“Straight and high,” I replied, stealing a freshly baked cookie from a nearby tray.
“I saw that,” Cricket scolded without ever looking up from her bowl.
“Damn, boss lady. Your kids aren’t gonna get away with shit.”
“Kids? I think I’ve got my hands full with just the one for now,” she replied with a chuckle.
“This is true.”
Minus and Cricket’s son, Cutter Randall ‘Little Cut’ Vincent, was not quite one year old and already hell on wheels…in a good way.
“Things might slip a little when we have more,” Cricket continued. “Of course, we should probably get on that, huh? Minus and I are already three behind Clutch and Eldie.”
Besides their two newly adopted children, Clutch and Eldie were also proud parents of twin daughters, who’d spent their first precious moments of life in the neonatal intensive care unit at OHSU. The babies were born prematurely, which I guess is common for twins, but the girls arrived six weeks early, and things were pretty touch and go for a while.
I laughed and asked, “Anything else you need me and Tacky to take care of?”
Before Cricket could answer, the kitchen’s back door swung open and Kitty walked in, his frame, blocking the entire doorway. “Hey, little man,” he said. “You got a minute?”
“Yeah,” I said, and followed him back to his makeshift office.
“Remember that judge you asked me to look into?”
“Yeah.”
“Got a flag.”
I’d had him investigate Judge Snodgrass over a year ago, and even though nothing linking the judge with my father had come up initially, Kitty had assured me he’d keep digging. If there was any kind of connection between my father and the Judge, he’d find it.
“What did you find?” I asked and he handed me a sheet of paper.
“It’s a business license for the Mayflower Development Corporation that was filed back in January,” he replied.
“What’s the Mayflower Development Corporation?”
“From what I’ve been able to find, they are a residential housing developer
,” Kitty said.
“What’s so interesting about that?”
“Look at who applied for the license,” he instructed.
I scanned the paper and found the name. “Patricia Snodgrass?”
“The judge’s daughter,” Kitty said.
“Okay? So, judge Snotty’s daughter is into real estate. So what?”
“Here’s what,” Kitty said, grinning proudly before handing me another piece of paper.
“What is this?”
“It’s a 2702-B tax form, courtesy of the Internal Revenue Service.”
“Do I want to know how this document came into your possession?”
“No, you do not, little man. Besides, the important thing isn’t how I got it, but what’s on it. Check out who’s listed as the owner of the Mayflower Development Corporation.”
“Who’s Leo Vox?”
“Not who, but what,” Kitty said. “Leo Vox is a shell corporation owned by a single person.”
“Who?”
“Berto Mancini,” Kitty said.
“My father?” My heart sank. “What the hell is my father doing setting up a shell corporation, and what does it all have to do with Judge Snotty and his daughter?”
“This is all I have for now, but I’m gonna keep digging. If there’s anything interesting to find, I’ll fuckin’ find it.”
“Thanks, Kitty,” I said.
“Any time, little man,” he replied and walked away.
I walked back to the kitchen, my head spinning, just as Trouble entered, looking like a soggy pile of leaves. Her camouflage suit was soaking wet and riddled with bright yellow paint splotches. She was shivering and looked completely miserable.
“Holy shit, it’s Swamp Thing!” I cried out.
Trouble ignored my comment and turned to Cricket. “Sorry about your kitchen, I’ll clean up the mess.”
“It’s okay, sweetie. It’s just a little water,” Cricket replied.
Doozer (Burning Saints MC Book 5) Page 6
