by Domino Finn
"I know he was your friend," said the president. Diego stared at the label of his beer and thought about playing pool with the kid the previous morning.
"He was smart," said Diego.
"He came through for us. And so did you."
It didn't protect him, in the end, thought Diego. Another sip of the cold beer convinced him to come clean. "I thought I wanted this, Gaston, but I don't. The brotherhood is solid—the MC, the riding—but the drugs are just stupid, man. Chasing money like this will always lead to death."
Gaston scoffed. "People will always take what someone else has. You can't avoid it by standing on the sidelines."
"That's bullshit, Gaston, and you know it. Sure, shit could happen to anyone at any time, but don't dismiss your part in this. Drugs, guns, the cartel—you're pushing the limits. You're inviting this kind of thing. You might be okay with that. I'm not."
"You're good at it."
"Yeah, well I was good at my last job too." Diego thought about the Commissioned Corps. A paid government assassin. He had to quit to save his soul.
The president wore a disappointed look. He leaned his back on the bar and glanced at the rest of the guys. "So you're out?"
"If you'll let me. I figure that's an easy call since I'm not a wolf."
"The other guys don't care about that anymore. You've proved yourself."
"It won't change my mind."
The big man sighed heavily and searched for a drink. "I won't give you any trouble, Diego. As long as you take some time to think about it first."
"That won't be a problem. I'm seeing this through until Omar gets avenged. I told you I was getting those pricks."
Gaston smiled and nodded softly. "That's one thing we can agree on."
The two men stood wordless while they took in the scene at the roadhouse. A live band began playing in the other room. They were some kind of rockabilly group, the fifties meets distortion. A thickening crowd wildly hopped beside the small stage. Up on the wooden level of the main bar, the tables had all filled out. Plates of burgers and ribs passed around. The outside patio was no different, although perhaps cooler. Friends stood around fire pits and laughed, unaware what Sanctuary really was.
Diego always liked Sycamore Lodge. It was the unofficial turf of the MC, maybe more official now that Melody owned it. It didn't feel the same, though. Not without Omar.
The front door swung open and Maxim Dwyer entered. He wore his black suit and white panama hat, and Diego noticed that his gun was holstered on his belt. The detective's eyes scanned the interior and landed on Diego and the Sons. He moved through the room, taking in all the customers like he was looking for somebody, and knocked his hand twice on the wood of the bar. Without a word, the bartender poured him a bourbon, neat.
Diego pushed away from that same bar, a feat that was more difficult than it should have been. His tolerance wasn't what it used to be. Gaston, however, patted him on the shoulder.
"Let me take this one."
The biker read the urgency on Gaston's face and acquiesced with a welcome slump onto a barstool.
"Also," said Gaston, before he turned away, "keep what we talked about to yourself. No sense distracting the other guys with your news yet."
The president of the Seventh Sons went to have a few words with Maxim, and the two filed down the back hallway and outside into the yard.
Chapter 27
The smoking pit, as some called it, was just a stretch of dirt in the backyard of Sycamore Lodge. There was no place to sit except for the small stoop immediately next to the door, so patrons wandered in the empty space whenever they needed a moment of downtime. The smoking pit was a graveyard of customer complaints and underhanded plots, scattered cigarette butts, like headstones, the only evidence of the past.
It was out here that Maxim had fought for his life against Deborah, one of the Paradise Killers and ex-president of the Seventh Sons. Now, he had words with her successor.
"What the fuck do you have me involved with?" demanded Maxim, his mask of complacency torn away. Gaston and the detective stood against the back wall at a distance from the few smokers who might overhear. "Am I protecting a bunch of murderers here?"
Gaston worked his jaw, unused to this sort of antagonism, but he took Maxim seriously enough. "It wasn't us. I swear."
"You don't know who could've done Doka?"
"No way. Hell, everyone thought Diego killed him last year."
Maxim moved his face closer to the bigger man's and affixed him with his best glare. He looked Gaston in the eye, trying to glimpse any sign of deception. The Seventh Sons president showed nothing but weariness.
"Diego said you backed us. You released Clint. That says something, right?"
"I don't think he's involved," admitted Maxim. "But he's being an asshole with that fancy lawyer. You too, getting in my way at the clubhouse."
"That's a sensitive area," said Gaston. "It's in both our interests for some things to stay hidden."
Maxim winced at his inclusion in the motorcycle club's inner circle. Partners in crime, partners in time. Gaston was a fool if he thought the detective would be a partner in anything illegal.
"Look, I'm trying to protect you guys. I can't do that if the Seventh Sons keep turning up as subjects of an investigation. And stop getting arrested by other departments."
"We weren't charged."
"Yeah, well, you might be next time."
Gaston sucked his teeth. His patience with the lecture was wearing thin. "I'm telling you. Someone is gunning for us. Setting us up in all this. Those cops in the state police were working off federal guidelines. It didn't come from in-house. They're building a case."
"I don't want to hear that," fumed Maxim. "That means you're fucked. The mayor or the judge or whoever's in your pocket can't help you with the feds."
The president smiled slightly. Maxim thought it was defiance. He'd hit close to home with the line about the judge or the mayor, but Gaston didn't reveal anything more.
"We're clean," affirmed Gaston. "We don't hold product."
"I know," said the detective with callous bitterness. "You're just escorts. Charging a tax. That doesn't make it legal. I can't watch out for you with those charges." Maxim turned away from the man who wielded so much power in this town. "I won't."
Gaston looked away too. The tough guy facade came back. "No one has clean hands in this town. Not the Seventh Sons or the CDC. Not the mayor. Not Sergeant Hitchens, for all his righteousness. And certainly not you after you took that briefcase full of money."
Maxim's eyes were lasers, turned to burn holes right through the man's skull. Even Gaston, the wolf, knew not to look directly at the detective after that accusation. Maxim hated that Gaston was able to say that. He hated that he had given the president cause to say that.
The briefcase had been Deborah's "go" money. When she had commandeered Sycamore Lodge with a handful of hostages, the briefcase was the only thing that stood between her and a free ticket out of town. Gaston had given it to Maxim as a bargaining chip: the money brought her to the table. But with her death, and the ensuing chaos, the briefcase had all too easily disappeared.
Clint James had mentioned the missing money to Maxim in the interrogation room. Now Gaston was showing the detective that the Seventh Sons meant to hold it over his head. Just another insurance policy.
Gaston moved as if he was ready to go inside. He took a few steps away and paused, waiting for Maxim's next move. The detective remained silent, staring at the rough wood texture of the wall. He felt the heat radiating from his face, his anger evident.
"Is this the Pistolas?" asked Gaston, breaking the air.
Maxim didn't look at him. "I don't know."
They allowed the silence to linger as they considered the possibility. Then Gaston scoffed. "They don't have the balls. Let me know if the Seventh Sons can help with anything on your end. But don't worry about us. We can handle ourselves."
Gaston started to leave, but
Maxim's gravelly voice had the final say. "That's what I'm afraid of. I don't want any more incidents. I'm serious."
The detective was left alone in the smoking pit except for a drunk sleeping on the steps. Even though he was in an open field, he felt the walls closing in, constricting his breath. It wouldn't do to get worked up, he thought. He just needed to focus on following the evidence and keeping the peace. But somehow, between the FBI and the motorcycle club and the dirty mayor, his career felt like a house of cards.
Chapter 28
Kayda nodded thanks to Officer Gutierrez as he pulled away in his cruiser. She'd run into him at the police station when she asked after Maxim. Since she didn't have a ride anymore, he offered to give her one.
She had initially thought he just wanted to get laid. While he had played it suave and showed off about being a cop, to his credit he didn't make any moves. A cool gentleman throughout their encounter. That was nice in a way, and disappointing—he could at least have asked for her number.
Kayda sighed and rubbed her right side. The hikers that had picked her up lived in Flagstaff. They'd kindly dropped her off in Sanctuary on the way back. In the second-floor clinic, Kayda had completely downplayed the extent of her injuries. She'd told them that she fell down a hill and scratched herself up. Somehow that was less embarrassing than crashing her motorcycle on the side of the road.
The doctor had reported what her body already screamed to her: her rib was cracked. That was good news. Better than a break. After her injuries had been wrapped and treated for infection, she was free to leave. Her first thought, since she was at the police station, had been to talk to the police. So here she was, at Sycamore Lodge, under orders not to drink or be active.
The first one she could control. She had a feeling she'd be breaking the second.
Kayda had never seen the roadhouse before. She'd heard about it, of course. Carlos had taken to it, said it matched his rough exterior. In a way, the venue was what she imagined.
Bars used to intimidate her. This place and the ones back on the reservation were not what she would call classy. Or safe. It wasn't until New York when, for the first time, she'd actually had fun going out. Those establishments were upscale and trendy, of course. She could get dressed up in a little skirt and sip drinks with blackberries in them. Sycamore Lodge? It wasn't that type of bar. The patio was full of brash locals spilling beer on each other. Through the open front door, all she saw was a red haze signaling danger to any cautious enough to pay attention.
Unsettled by her sudden shift of confidence, Kayda almost decided to stay outside and wait for the detective. Then she noticed the row of Harleys lining the side of the building and remembered her primary mission: to make peace with the Seventh Sons.
Without a doubt, she knew she was in the right place—where she was meant to be. If the sky hadn't been blanketed in darkness, she was confident the crow would be visible above.
The first thing Kayda felt as she entered the lodge was that she didn't belong. She was an intruder and would be spotted as one immediately. And true to her thinking, several patrons did turn their heads and regard her with amusement. But, it turned out the world didn't revolve around her. Everyone forgot about her grand entrance within seconds.
The police detective was nowhere in sight but Kayda immediately recognized the group of bold men to her left. They occupied the entire side of the bar, more space than they needed, yet remained unchallenged for the seating. The men each had attitude; they steamed with residual anger. These were the bikers, the Seventh Sons. She could simply talk to them and see what they knew. In this bar, this public space, she would be safe.
Kayda approached and noticed the biggest man was an Indian, sitting alone at a table. He was gruff, wearing his hair in a topknot and shaved on both sides. His ripped up jean jacket was cut to reveal lean but rippled arms. He was a scary guy, but Kayda thought she could soften him.
"Are you the Seventh Sons?" she asked timidly.
A few of the men glanced her way, but the Indian didn't even raise his eyes from his drink. "Not today," he grumbled.
The response surprised her. She suddenly felt self-conscious. A couple of the bikers, one at the bar and another along the wall, eyed her, waiting for her next move. At first, she decided to run away. Get back outside. Then she realized she was being tested. Maybe, rather than appearing meek, it would be better to double her efforts.
The girl cleared her throat a little too loudly and shot her hand out to the big man, looking to gain his trust, or at least his attention. "I'm from the Yavapai-Prescott Tribe," she announced.
Two wooden chairs scraped the floor as their occupants rose. The Indian man remained seated but darted his head in her direction, rage fueling a rumbling in his throat. "What the fuck did you just say?"
Crap, thought Kayda. She had finally gotten his attention.
The big man stood, his full height several heads above the young girl. Kayda panicked and took a step back. She said the first thing that came to her.
"I'm looking for Detective Maxim Dwyer!" she cried out. Then she realized that name-dropping a police officer might only enrage the gang more.
The biker at the bar, with wavy black hair and a goatee, sprang between them. "West Wind," he cautioned as he pulled her away. "We don't need this tonight."
"We don't like people asking after us, girl," he said, not advancing but not backing down either. "Especially not Yavapai."
"I'll handle this," assured the other biker. He dragged her, not too gently, to the other side of the room, where the bar ended, next to a hallway.
Kayda noticed the men staring at her. Then she took in her savior. He was a cute guy, thin but well built, tanned. His eyes struck her as being pure black. The midnight sky was nothing compared to them.
"My knight in shining armor," she said.
The man smiled cordially and bowed his head with a ridiculous sense of confidence. "Diego de la Torre, miss." He rolled his Rs in an exaggerated fashion when he pronounced his name. It seemed to be a regular part of his repertoire.
"Kayda," she returned. Short and simple was best, she thought.
"Kayda," said Diego a few times, familiarizing his lips to the sound. "That's a nice name. Kayda."
"Thank y—"
"How many kinds of stupid are you, Kayda?"
The girl was aghast at his sudden one-eighty in attitude. "We're past the flirting, are we?"
He laughed a little and shook his head, peering deeply into her eyes, looking for something. She was about to say something, but he relaxed. "I thought you were here looking for a fight. Don't you know the Yavapai aren't welcome in Sanctuary?"
"Oh," she murmured, mostly to herself. She glanced back to the other Seventh Sons and was glad to see them ignoring her. "I've never been here before. I—my brother used to come here a lot."
Diego nodded and asked the bartender for two beers. "Times have changed. I bet that was a long time ago."
Kayda allowed a wistful look to crack her playful front. "It was. He's dead now."
"Sorry," Diego said, biting his lip. He grabbed the beers and handed her a bottle. They both filled the silence by taking a sip.
Kayda felt stupid. She knew she didn't have a plan. In a way, she thought that was the beauty of it. Screw trying to coordinate a series of carefully implemented ideas. The motorcycle accident had taught her that nothing went as planned, anyway. She figured, as long as she ignored any semblance of strategy and had no expectations, nothing could disappoint her.
But then she recalled her brother Kelan speaking to the tribe. She could see his soul bared to them, wounded, writhing in agony. There was no love lost between the Yavapai and the Seventh Sons. In retrospect, walking right up and introducing herself to them was the most insulting thing she could have done.
Diego's voice was softer now. He spoke less like an instructor and more like a friend. "So what are you doing here?"
The girl shrugged. She decided to throw caution to the
wind. Ignore the politics. Forget the flirting. She knew it would make her sound like a naive little girl but it had to be said anyway. "The violence needs to stop. I don't want my people getting hurt anymore."
"And why would they get hurt?"
"Don't treat me like a kid," she admonished. "It's already started." Kayda stomped her foot onto the wood floor. "I want it to stop."
The biker smiled at her. At first, Kayda thought he wasn't taking her seriously, but it was something else. She had trouble reading him. "Are you some kind of respected leader on the reservation?"
A sharp laugh escaped her lips before she could kill it. "Just the opposite."
He thought a moment before he spoke, but she never got to hear his answer. The police detective, Maxim, stomped by them, from the back hallway. He saw her and passed, then did a double take and backed up.
"Kayda Garnett."
"I was looking for you, Detective. And the Seventh Sons."
He raised a single eyebrow. "Call me Maxim. And why would you do that?"
"Look for you?"
"Look for the Seventh Sons."
Kayda took a swig of beer and set the bottle down on the bar with some force. "To make peace with my people."
Maxim turned his head to Diego and they shared a patronizing look. Kayda pursed her lips, ready to object, then felt cool liquid on her hand. Her bottle was bubbling over. She snatched back her hand and wiped it on her jeans.
She could tell they fought off smiles.
"What's this about?" asked Maxim, pointing to Diego's bottle.
"It's how I grieve," he answered. "You two know each other?"
"We do. But do you? You know who she is?"
Diego turned to her. "Should I?"
"This is Carlos Doka's younger sister."
Diego coughed up some beer mid-drink and it was his turn to wipe his hands clean. Kayda wanted to laugh except she didn't know what the problem was. She hated not knowing. Suddenly she grew tired of feeling embarrassed. She was tired of being treated like an outsider, even if it was true in this case. She thought she could trust the cop, but why had she been flirting with Diego?
