by Domino Finn
West watched them from the raised porch of the clubhouse. "He'll only come through if he does his job," he grumbled.
"You weren't here last year," said Omar, already sitting on his Harley. He wore a brown leather bomber jacket with the collar up. "He helped the club out when we were in a bind."
"I've heard the stories," said West. "But I haven't seen shit yet."
"And you're not gonna see any today either," cut in Gaston. "Things are gonna go smoothly today. We're just riding in a show of force, but nobody's gonna shoot anybody." The president walked away to ready his Harley.
Diego turned around as well. He was hoping if he ignored the Apache, he would go away. But the man was tenacious. Diego heard his boots hit the dirt and approach him.
"I'm not worried about things going smoothly. I'm worried about shit hitting the fan and relying on a weakling to watch my back." West stopped right behind Diego. "You haven't proven yourself to me. You haven't even been bit."
Diego turned around. Some of these guys, West included, liked to scuffle to settle differences. With their inhuman strength, that would never be a fair fight. He knew that. He had to accept that. But he didn't need to put up with the trash talk.
"I've been bitten before." Diego pulled a sleeve back and exposed the scar on his left forearm. During the club's conflict a year ago, Maxim and Diego had gotten into a shootout at the train yard. Carlos Doka, one of the Yavapai Indian werewolves, had almost killed him. Instead, Diego had stabbed him near the heart with his silver knife. That was how he'd lost the weapon. The wolf scampered away with it embedded in his chest. It was unlikely that he lived the night.
The biker pulled his jacket sleeve back down. It wasn't his only scar. It wasn't the only time he'd been bitten by a wolf. When he had worked for the Commissioned Corps, he hunted them. That was his job. That's why his training had allowed him to fight the stronger opponents. And that's why he wasn't scared of West. But there was a time and place for everything, and Diego didn't have his silver knife anymore. Besides, he told himself, the wolves weren't his enemies now.
West Wind snickered. "You let that mercenary live. He got away." West spat on the floor. He hadn't dealt with the Yavapai outfit before, but he hated them anyway. Diego wondered if it had something to do with his Apache blood. "But it's not the same, Diego. You got the shot. You didn't need to beat the disease. Not like everybody else here."
The other bikers were silent. They weren't even pretending not to be watching. Diego knew they liked him, but he also knew that West was right. They all shared a bond that he would never know. His vaccinations permanently protected him from their affliction. Beating the disease, surviving something with a near one hundred percent fatality rate, was something they were all proud of.
Diego decided not to suck it up this time. He knew he was being reckless, but it was a reckless kind of day. He was about to ride out to a meet with a rival gang. Who was West next to that?
"Let's get something straight, asshole," Diego said, stepping forward to the Apache. "You're the new guy here. You might have wolf blood, but you're a loose cannon. And if anybody hasn't proven themselves yet, it's you."
West glanced at the other bikers and let out a guffaw. To a normal human, Diego would have taken that moment to knee the man in the stomach, but wolves were too strong. The blow wouldn't do any damage and would just open him to retaliation. Instead, Diego leaned in and grabbed the duffel bags behind him. With a sharp tug down, West was pulled backwards by the neck and lost balance. Then Diego used that moment to ram his shoulder into the big man, knocking him to the floor.
The Apache fell to his side and rolled over the bags. With a mix of embarrassment and frustration, he threw the straps away and sprang up to meet his attacker. Immediately, Gaston and the other Sons grabbed hold of him.
"Lay off!" screamed Gaston. "Damn it! I need every one of you in the game."
There was a bit of a struggle, just enough for West to show that he wasn't backing down easily, but then they all relaxed. West clenched his jaw and fumed, never taking his eyes off Diego.
"It's easy to talk shit," said Diego, "when you're nearly invincible. You might not mind riding into enemy territory knowing that you'll be healed up in a few days. I don't have that fucking luxury. And on top of making sure things go smoothly, I don't need you breathing up my ass."
West didn't make a move. The others let him go and patted him on the back. Everybody knew Diego was right. Even West. Fighting amongst themselves now was the last thing they needed.
Gaston nodded and addressed the MC. "These guys are dangerous. The Pistolas used to be a small club. Local. But they've more than doubled their membership. They've made deals with San Diego and Los Angeles. It looks like they own the California desert now. Until we settle this dispute, our main line is at risk. And I don't want stupid grudges getting in the way."
The president turned to the newest club member. "He's coming along with us, isn't he?"
West didn't respond. Then Gaston turned to Diego.
"And I have no idea why you would pick now of all times to make a statement. Maybe it's 'cause you knew we would stop West 'cause we don't need this shit now. But you'd better watch yourself. I won't stop what you start again. You wanna rumble, that's on you."
Diego and West made sure to stare each other down during the speech.
"I'm not kidding," continued Gaston. "The Pistolas should not be taken lightly. They've made a lot of moves in a short time. As we found out when Diego discovered their money van, we were one of those moves. We know for a fact that they tried to cut us out. And for all we know, they still want to."
"They have to cut out my heart before they cut me out," said West.
Gaston nodded. "Don't think they won't. Word on the street is that their new top tier is ruthless. They've used clever tactics to one-up their competition. They play nice at first. One second, you think they're business partners. Then they shoot the shit out of you. Their MO is to shoot you in the back twice."
Omar chimed in. "I still don't know why we don't just take them out."
Gaston shook his head. "We can't shit on El Paso like that. In the end, we are middlemen. That means we'll always be sandwiched between supply and distribution. That's why we have the setup between California and Texas. It's perfect for us, but part of the job is dealing with scumbags who don't want us around."
"Not to mention we need to keep a low profile for the CDC," added Diego. If anyone was a constant reminder of the agency's oversight, it was him.
Diego had never liked the illicit activities of the club. He had no interest in the drug business. But there was something romantic about the way the Seventh Sons did business. It wasn't about drugs or guns or an empire—it was all territorial. The Sons owned Arizona, and if anybody wanted a piece, they had to go through them.
"One last thing," said Gaston. "Without Clint, it's six of us. We need to watch our backs. The Pistolas are big. They'll likely show up with more men than we have."
West recovered the duffel bags from the ground. "Yeah, well we have fewer bodies but better firepower." He gave two of the bags to Curtis and Trent and kept one for himself. He unzipped it to show it off. "Adaptive Combat Rifles."
Diego recognized the sleek black weapon. They were replacements for Army carbines. "Bushmaster ACRs?"
"Nah," said West Wind, grinning like a toddler up to no good. "Remington."
"That's the military model. They're illegal for civilian use."
"Damn right on both counts. Fully automatic selective fire, 6.8 mm Special Purpose Cartridge assembly—this is the perfect urban warfare weapon."
"They also look like the same assault rifles the Yavapai used to carry." Diego leered at Gaston. "Where'd we get these?"
West laughed. "I thought you didn't want to know about the club's extra-curricular activities?"
Diego tilted his head. "It's a little late for that."
"These rifles are contraband," instructed Gaston. "Keep the
m out of sight. Do not get caught with them. Everybody else's sidearms are fine. You know what kind of ship I run. I like legit guns. We don't wear colors, so we won't be breaking laws anywhere. Just in case, we'll have Omar scout ahead." Gaston turned to the kid. "Then you'll ride behind us, making sure we're not followed. I don't know what Maxim is up to but he can't trail us on this one. Understood?"
Omar nodded and zipped up his jacket. Everyone else straddled their bikes. Diego's black Triumph Scrambler had a shiny wax coat. He hoped it, and all of them, would come out in the same condition.
"Let's play it cool," Diego said. "I don't want shit to get ugly. I don't want to have to kill anyone."
West scoffed but didn't say anything. The others started their motorcycles. Gaston walked his hog beside Diego.
"Make no mistake. I know you're buddies with that cop, but the boys in blue ain't your brotherhood. No more one foot in and one foot out. You're riding with us now. You need to jump in."
His throttle roared and Gaston sped ahead. A cloud of dust swirled as the Seventh Sons rode out in force.
Chapter 6
Maxim Dwyer took the steps down two at a time on his way to the morgue. Waiting was a big part of the job. Sitting in a car, expecting a phone call, getting a hold of the judge—the wheels of investigation turned slowly but steadily. Maxim was accustomed to it. But for some reason, waiting on autopsies always got the better of him.
Working a body was an urgent affair. Fresh murders needed big breaks in the first day or two to show promise of being solved. Luckily, Sanctuary was a small town. The marshal's office was rarely overloaded. Maxim would have weeks to work the case before anybody batted an eye. It was an atmosphere that allowed the detective to really get involved with the background players and make sure all loose ends were tied off. But none of that meant that he didn't need that big break first.
Although the ME had only gotten the body a few hours ago, he was already finished with the preliminary examination.
That was another great thing about small towns. The facilities and funds were limited, but they didn't need a lot of manpower for immediate results. Large cities had morgues with waiting lists, pathologists that needed to examine several bodies a day. Not so in Sanctuary. They didn't even need a full-time medical examiner.
Dr. Medina was fairly young, not yet in his forties. A short man with a clean appearance and a strong hairline, he was well liked in town. Not strictly a pathologist, he primarily worked as a general practice physician. Out of necessity he had garnered a background in forensics, and now, whenever the marshal's office needed an autopsy, they contacted him.
The detective glanced at the sign above the doorway to the morgue: "Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae." Below the Latin inscription was the English translation: "This is the place where death rejoices to help life." Maxim entered the tiled room and pulled a paper mask from a dispenser box hanging on the wall. He nodded to the doctor as he approached his workstation. The skinned body rested on a stainless steel table that was slanted to allow blood to run into a drain. The ME had cabinets and a counter with a sink running alongside him, giving him easy access to his tools. Above the table was a large light in a metal housing that could be adjusted to ensure that every nook in the deceased could be carefully scrutinized. The white tile floor beneath them resembled a walk-in shower, with its own slope and drain, reminding Maxim that the entire workstation was meant to be sprayed down and sanitized between jobs.
Once he fit the mask to his face, Maxim spoke. "What do you have?"
Dr. Medina was wearing scrubs and a paper hat in addition to the same mask. It was obvious the examination was over, but his latex gloves were clean, indicating he had put on a fresh pair.
"The victim is a male. Thirty-five to forty-five. I'll know more after we send the DNA out. Since you are light on identifying factors, I tried examining the skull for any indicators of race."
"You can do that? Based on the shape of the skull?"
"Yes and no. Geography plays a much larger part in biological imprints than the familiar concepts of race. Various traits can be indicative but not conclusive. X-rays of the skull gave me some clues, but direct examination of the teeth was more valuable. They are well spaced. The incisors are scooped in the back. Additionally, they exhibit minor sclerosed dentition. I see some thinning of the root canal but nothing that would cause damage to the teeth. Combined with the long strand of black hair you found, I think it's fairly safe to say this man is of Native American ancestry."
Maxim nodded. He was more concerned with the "when" than the "who" right now. Identifying this body was going to take time. If his DNA was in the criminal database, it would be about a week before that came back to them. Maybe less if they could rush it.
"Have you narrowed down time of death?"
Dr. Medina nodded. "I'm getting to that. Lividity can be difficult when a body is skinned, but certainly not impossible. Blood vessels get congested either way. The draining of the blood, however, is trickier. Depending on how much has exited the body, the aftereffects can vary. Take a look at the shoulders."
Maxim examined the body more closely but it turned his stomach. The paper mask did nothing to soften the stench. The detective had seen plenty of corpses, bloated and discolored, in his career. What they had before them, however, was something out of a horror movie. The body's chest cavity was still open, its ribcage spread apart. Usually corpses were sewed up pretty quickly. It was surreal.
"That bluish color?" asked Maxim.
"Yes, it is very slight. This wouldn't often be the case with dead bodies suspended upside down. But then you have this," he said, pointing to the neck. "Both carotid arteries have been cleanly severed."
Maxim hadn't noticed before. Picking out details on a corpse of bloody muscle and fat was hard. "Sliced through the neck and drained."
"Exactly," affirmed the doctor. "Once the heart stops, the only pressure on the blood comes from gravity. Blood that would have settled in the shoulders found an outlet. Now look at this."
Dr. Medina motioned the detective over to his side of the table. Maxim stepped around and saw the man holding his finger to the hole in the skull, tilted upward. "This is a rough trajectory of the bullet. The shooter was below the head. Or, in the case of the body being suspended upside down, standing above him. The lack of skin has prevented any recovery of powder burns, but this angle suggests the gun was held close. This man was executed before the skinning happened."
Maxim nodded. "No sign of torture then?"
The doctor bit his lip and adjusted his wire glasses with his forearm. His gloves were no longer clean. "There's no hard evidence of torture. It's impossible to tell with the missing left thumb, for instance, but the muscle tearing indicates animal tampering more than anything else. The actual kill and postmortem skinning show a skillful hand. Nothing sloppy about it." Maxim wanted to ask about the chest wound, but he suspected he was drawing the ME off subject and annoying him. He let Dr. Medina finish.
"We got lucky with the gunshot wound. First, it was a .22 caliber bullet. It bored through the skull and shattered, bouncing around the brain. Sudden death. No exit wound. That itself is not too uncommon. But the entry wound nearly sealed up as the skull caved in on itself." Maxim thought he knew where the medical examiner was headed. "Surprisingly, the skull fracture didn't result in massive blood loss."
"The blood didn't drain from the head," said the detective.
"Exactly. There's enough congealment in the capillaries of the head to gauge lividity. Judging from what I've seen, this man was killed between 12 and 1 a.m. this morning."
That was exactly what Maxim was looking for. If the body was discovered between 5 and 6 a.m. then the window for its drop-off was still wide.
"Last year I saw an elk drained in three hours. Is that about what we're looking at here?"
"Maybe four hours," said the doctor, "including skinning."
Maxim nodded. That meant that the man could hav
e been murdered anywhere. An hour, maybe two, away. Not in Sanctuary. But, with the hunting background of the kill, likely somewhere in Sycamore.
"What about identifying markers? Are we lucky on that end?"
Dr. Medina quickly shook his head. "Not quite. DNA will be our best bet. There's no skin for tattoos or fingerprints. No sign of dental work. I can give you the X-rays but there's no guarantee a dentist has these on file. It's safe to say that John Doe never got braces. The teeth are crooked, but strong. The gums are healthy. In fact..." said the ME, moving back to the counter to check his notes, "the man was exceptionally healthy, discounting his murder. I sectioned his coronary arteries and saw no signs of heart disease. His lungs were pink. Usually, a man his age will show some signs of wear."
That last fact struck Maxim as strange. While an anomaly to the medical examiner, the detective knew of another reason this man may have been free from degenerative disease: it was possible he was a werewolf. If that were true, then maybe the Seventh Sons were involved with the murder after all.
"What material was the bullet?" he asked. The doctor gave Maxim a strange glance. "I mean, was there anything special about it?"
Dr. Medina took another step and pointed to a clear bag on his desk. Maxim picked it up and saw four bullet fragments inside. Lead.
"I'll have those sent for ballistics," said the doctor. "The largest fragment looks promising, considering."
Maxim nodded and put the bag down. Would a single bullet to the brain be enough to kill a wolf? He remembered needing to fire into Deborah's heart multiple times. The old Seventh Sons president had been especially powerful, though. She couldn't be put down without silver. For his theory about this man being a wolf to hold up, there needed to be additional explanation.
"Did you test against the blood on the skinning knife?"
Maxim had tried to dust the knife for prints but it was clean. He recalled how close it was to the body when he found it. Not immediately obvious, but it would have been sloppy to miss it. Almost as if the killer wanted the knife to be found.
