The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2)

by Domino Finn

  Maxim forced himself to take a breath. "Tangentially."

  "I'll take that as a 'yes.' Just don't make any assumptions about the Seventh Sons. That's all I'm asking."

  "Ditto," said Maxim as the FBI agent turned to go. He kind of smiled and shot Maxim a parting glance before heading out.

  "Fair enough."

  Raymond Garcia was a tough read for the detective. He seemed like a decent cop. His head was a little too far up his ass, but that wasn't the worse he'd seen.

  Maxim took a few steps from his desk, stretching his legs. He eyed the three men in the front room. Hitchens instructed Kelan and Garcia on the procedure for the escort. The FBI agent, of course, made changes to the plan. Maxim chuckled and studied the men's boots. Garcia had a black pair of steel-toes. Kelan wore sand-colored desert boots. All the mercenaries wore similar clothes, Maxim knew. They thought of themselves as their own private militia force. He applauded his foresight in asking Renee, the clinic nurse, to spirit away Kelan's boots so he could steal a quick impression.

  And now they had to let the Yavapai man go. It was a shame, but it had to be done. Too many uncertainties still surrounded the homicides.

  Just then, as if to bring clarity, the audible rumble of motorcycles grew louder. Maxim quickly realized that the racket was caused by more than four engines. He hurried to the front door of the marshal's office and joined the others in gaping out the window.

  A line of beat-up motorcycles rode down Main Street. Eight, ten riders wearing black jackets with a skull and crossed pistols. Most of the Mexicans lined the block at an even spacing and remained on their bikes. Two of the men parked across the street and approached the huddled Seventh Sons.

  Maxim snickered. "What was it you said about presence being proof of involvement?"

  Agent Garcia didn't answer.

  The Pistolas were in Sanctuary.

  Chapter 35

  The smoldering expression on Gaston's face was almost enough to counter the bravado of the ten Mexican gang members surrounding them.

  All the Seventh Sons were on their feet, facing the street. The road had essentially been closed off by the parade of motorcycles. Their choppers were old and of varying makes: Harley, Buell, Indian, Yamaha. Most of the riders stayed on their bikes, killing the engines and sitting with arms crossed, bandannas over their mouths. If they had weapons, none were visible.

  Sergio Lima flipped up the collar of his jacket as he approached. It hid most of his neck tattoos, making him look clean-cut with his bald head and thin mustache, except for the teardrop next to his left eye. Hector Cruz trailed behind like a loyal dog. The older man was sweaty and looked the worse for wear after their ride.

  "What is this?" demanded Gaston. He would have normally felt safe in front of the marshal's office, but this move by the Pistolas was a bold one. If they had wanted to make a statement, it was a success.

  "Just passing through," said Sergio. "Heading back to Cali. Figured we'd say hi."

  "How'd you know we were here?"

  The Pistolas president shrugged. "Figured you'd be at the bar or the clubhouse. We were coming from out east so we checked the town first. Our type tends to stand out." Sergio's eyes ran up and down Main Street. He briefly checked out the post office and fire department, but it was all in anticipation of commenting on the building they were parked in front of. "You filing a police report?"

  "We got business with someone inside," said Gaston gruffly. He was pissed off and didn't mind showing it, but he wouldn't give the Pistolas the satisfaction of acting like their entering Sanctuary was a big deal. He wasn't going to ask twice.

  "Business, you say? That's funny, because that's why I'm here." Gaston narrowed his eyes but Sergio replied with a smile. "You see, the way I do business is, I receive money and perform a service, or I pay money and receive a service. And since I'm not speaking in hypotheticals, I was wondering what the fuck I paid you for two days ago?"

  "That wasn't on us."

  "What good are escorts if they can't protect a shipment?"

  "It was state PD. They knew something was up." Gaston felt like an idiot explaining something to Sergio that he had probably set up. "They were waiting for us."

  "Don't care. Your job is to avoid that."

  "El Paso has people in New Mexico that are supposed to have a handle on that. We know those cops but we can't buy the whole state. Something came down on them from above, and don't think I don't suspect you."

  A few paces away, Hector Cruz grumbled. Sergio tilted his head dismissively. He didn't bother defending his club or denying anything. He just spoke as if the point was inconsequential and moved on. "Reparations must be made."

  "That's not a problem," said Gaston. "I've already got a plan for the next load."

  "It's too late," snapped the Pistolas president. "You already missed another shipment." Gaston was taken aback by the news. "That's right. We sent a truck yesterday."

  "Why didn't you tell us about that?"

  "From what I hear, you guys were locked up. Besides, this trouble with the police, these murders—El Paso doesn't like that kind of attention."

  Gaston stepped into the little punk's face. West blocked Hector from moving in, but no scuffle took place. This was the wrong place and time for anything to happen, and both clubs knew it.

  "Fuck this," said Gaston. "You can't just roll into my town and tell me things are changing. Business was fine for a long time before you came into the picture. You don't run things. You're not even old enough to buy a drink."

  "I haven't yet found the bartender who won't pour me a cerveza." Sergio Lima turned to the side, disengaging from Gaston's face-off. "I may be young, but I'm used to getting what I want. It's all I know."

  The bigger man scoffed. "Well, I'll give you a crash course in business. I'll go to El Paso myself. Get you shut out for this."

  "You're too late there, too. I already talked to them. That's where we came from. You're done."

  "Bullshit."

  "This is just a courtesy visit on our way back home. The Seventh Sons are out. The highway is ours. Stay out of our way and we'll leave you be." Hector Cruz laughed heartily. Sergio watched him, proud to give the man his moment, then continued. "In the interest of not letting things get ugly, El Paso forgives the debt you owe them. As long as you stay away."

  That was all bullshit. Nothing this skinny kid said could be real. Even if he had worked something out with the Mexicans in Texas, it could be undone. The Seventh Sons had a strong claim on the Interstate. No matter what happened, Gaston would dare them to ride through Arizona.

  "Oh. One more thing," said Sergio. "We want that Albuquerque leverage you have. It will be useful to El Paso." Gaston felt his eyes go wide.

  "What's that?" asked Diego, approaching. "What is it you want?"

  "Nothing," said Gaston.

  "It's not nothing if—"

  "Diego!" barked Gaston, throwing his hand up. Now wasn't the time to explain. Fucking Diego was being a pain in the ass lately. Gaston was trying to give him some leeway, but questioning his leadership in front of another gang was not gonna fly. Already, Hector and Sergio traded a glance at the exchange.

  It didn't surprise Gaston that the Pistolas knew about his leverage. The blackmail threat allowed the Sons to put the squeeze on the Albuquerque city council, and thus, El Paso. It helped solidify their Interstate pipeline. Without it, the MC could be more easily cut out.

  "Not a chance," stated Gaston flatly.

  Sergio's dark eyes tensed. His show of force wasn't having the intended effect. Gaston made sure the little punk knew that. Sergio recovered, and the two Pistolas backed up, gloating.

  "Think about it," he urged. "Come up with a number that's reasonable. You might need the cash to go into another line of work."

  Gaston laughed in their faces. "Nothing changes," he said firmly. "Anyone you send through Arizona is going to be accountable to me."

  Sergio frowned, passing looks to the other Seventh So
ns present. "Your MC looks smaller than usual." His gaze rested on Diego, and he smiled. "Guess there's one less chicano in the club now, huh?"

  Chapter 36

  "This is it," said Maxim.

  The police were staring out the window, tentatively watching events. The Pistolas were about to be on their way without any violence—then something sparked an argument. The Mexicans cleared off their bikes and converged on the pack of wolves.

  Maxim turned around and pointed at Kelan. "Stay inside," he commanded. He drew his Glock from his waist, locked eyes with Hitchens, and nodded towards the door. Maxim was the first out; the sergeant and Garcia trailed close behind. They sprinted across the wide plaza as the crowd of bikers readied for a fight, which at the moment still looked to be in the shouting stage.

  "Police!" he screamed. "Stand back!"

  Both clubs quickly parted for the authorities. Maxim scanned everyone for weapons. Nobody was armed with anything other than fists.

  "Back up!" he ordered, waving the Pistolas across the street to kill the last vestiges of a scuffle. That's when he noticed a muscled man with sunglasses lying on his curbed motorcycle. He had prison tattoos on his bare chest and stomach. Likely more all over his arms under his jacket. The man grimaced while he clutched his chest. One of the Pistolas helped him up. The skinny kid who had started the argument glowered at Gaston, eyes wide.

  By the smirk on Gaston's face, Maxim could easily guess what had happened. Somebody just pissed off the wrong werewolf.

  Hitchens and Garcia spread out, weapons still drawn. They helped line up the Pistolas across the street. Two of the bikers moved to pick up the toppled motorcycle.

  "Leave it for now," ordered Maxim. "What happened here?"

  The Seventh Sons and the Pistolas alike said nothing. Tight lips, all of them. It didn't matter. Maxim wasn't going to arrest somebody for two seconds of tussling, especially when the visitors had asked for it.

  "You," said Maxim, considering the skinny kid. "Come here."

  "Sergio Lima," said Agent Garcia, behind him. Maxim turned as Raymond approached them. "A fresh face in the Pistolas. Their new president. An up and comer."

  Maxim couldn't hide his surprise. Their president was nothing more than a kid. He had his own gang?

  "Who are you?" asked Sergio.

  "El federal," answered the shirtless Mexican.

  Garcia waved the other man over. "Hector Cruz. El Mecánico. The Mechanic. He's a fixer, not only of bikes." The man in question approached. Hitchens put his hands up to stop the other Pistolas from getting closer.

  Maxim studied the two men, or the kid and the man, and immediately knew he had a problem. Hector had a life of prison advertised all over him. If it wasn't obvious from his tats, his dead expression told the story. In some ways, Sergio appeared the opposite. The ink on his neck was crisp, more professional. Even the teardrop was done with skill. He could have passed for a nice kid. He even had a cool attitude. But his eyebrows outlined ruthless eyes that had seen more than his years should've allowed.

  "We haven't met yet," said Sergio, extending his hand to Garcia. The FBI agent only returned a snort. Sergio shrugged. "That's okay. Maybe next time you're at La Cascada we can talk."

  Maxim shifted glances between the two. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Garcia knew about the Pistolas, but how did they know about him? The detective looked at the agent inquisitively, but Garcia just shook his head. It wasn't something they could talk about right now.

  Hitchens was busy patting down the line of Pistolas and asking them questions. So far, he hadn't turned up anything. Maxim knew he wasn't going to. The motorcycle club wouldn't have rolled into Sanctuary and camped out in front of the marshal's office if they were carrying. But it was good he had them here just the same.

  He inspected the line of bikers. None of them resembled the gunmen in wolf masks, but it was hard to be sure. Automatic weapons didn't afford a lot of time to notice details. He decided that failure to make a positive ID couldn't rule them out.

  "What are you doing here?" asked Agent Garcia.

  Sergio shrugged again. "It's a free country."

  "Yeah? Who told you that?"

  Sergio let out a slight chuckle.

  "Where were you last night?" asked Maxim.

  "What, that thing at the bar? You got us wrong, homie. We were in Las Cruces last night."

  "Where's that?"

  "New Mexico," answered Garcia. "Just outside of El Paso, Texas. But the more important side of that border is Ciudad Juarez in Mexico. Las Cruces is just where these guys congregate."

  Sergio nodded with a smile. "That's right. At the bike show. At least a hundred people must have seen us."

  Maxim swallowed. That would have meant the Pistolas had been riding for the better part of the day. It also meant that Sergio Lima had better connections than Garcia thought. Texas was the border crossing for the Mexican Mafia. If a ratty California gang was doing business that far east, they must be important to someone.

  "Do you know anything about the murder of Omar Rivera?" Maxim asked.

  The kid looked bored already. "Who?"

  "You know anyone in the New Mexico State Police?"

  "Nah. I don't like pigs."

  Maxim scowled. The kid had said it with complete abandon, daring the detective to do something about it. If the FBI wasn't around, he might have.

  Hitchens returned. "They're clean. No guns, no drugs." Maxim nodded. He was still deciding how much shit to give the Pistolas for their little stunt. He could book them, impound their bikes, give them something to think about. If they were known gang members, their fingerprints would already be on file. That reminded Maxim to check their boots. To a man, they each wore cowboy boots, some leather, some scaled, but all with flat, pointed soles. Nothing like the prints he was looking for.

  "You got nothing on us," said Sergio.

  "No? What's this?" Maxim grabbed the president's leather jacket and pulled, spinning him like a child till he was facing the other way. A large patch was stitched into the back of the black leather. Two crossed pistols behind a skull. The Pistolas were regular old Mexican cowboys. "Colors are illegal in Sanctuary. I could cite you for wearing these alone."

  "That's some bullshit," said Hector. Sergio just stared at Maxim stubbornly.

  "Lucky for you," interjected Garcia, "we're gonna let you go with a warning." Maxim shot the agent a fiery look but was ignored. "Why don't you and your guys stay in California? Out of Arizona and out of trouble."

  Sergio raised his arms in surrender. "Whatever you say, federal."

  As the Pistolas hesitantly moved to their bikes, Maxim exchanged looks with Garcia and Hitchens. The sergeant had seen his rank pulled but didn't appear upset about it. Hitchens was just happy to have the outlaws leaving.

  Sergio Lima passed Gaston sitting on his bike. The bigger man wore a silent smirk. "Pathetic," said the Mexican. "You can't even control the local police."

  Maxim glared at the cocky kid, but the gangster didn't turn back to him. He signaled his boys to leave. The motorcycles blared to life in unison, a heavy sound that filled the street, and buffeted the onlookers with vibrations as they passed.

  As soon as it became quiet enough to speak, Maxim's features transformed. "What the fuck was that about?" he asked pointedly, but when he turned, Garcia was already marching back inside.

  Hitchens let a hiss escape his lips. "A catastrophe avoided, at least." Then he followed the FBI agent.

  The Seventh Sons relaxed on their bikes again, lounging as they had been the entire morning, as if nothing had happened at all. Gaston innocently chewed on a stub of a toothpick. Diego moved to his Scrambler.

  "Good to see the police are still in charge," he said, donning his gold helmet.

  The detective scowled and left them at the side of the street. The Pistolas were just one of his problems today. Another one was still inside. Two, if he counted Garcia, which he was beginning to.

  As Maxim entered
the marshal's office, he saw Kayda limping awkwardly down the stairs. "Are you okay?" He moved to support her. "What happened?"

  The young girl shrugged him off coldly. "It's nothing. I just tweaked my rib." After another rigid step and another wince, she finally leaned on his shoulder for support. The second she hit the bottom floor, she pushed him away. She was a stubborn one.

  "I saw those guys before," she said, pointing out the window. "They were the same ones who were headed south yesterday morning. They rode right past me."

  Maxim pondered that. That was right after Omar had been killed. Their alibi for last night may be solid, but the early hours of the morning could have found them miles from Texas. But if the Pistolas had been at the clubhouse, why would they have headed south towards the reservation?

  Agent Garcia returned with Hitchens and Kelan Doka in tow. Kayda's eyes lit up at the sight of them. "Wait up," she said.

  Kelan's dark expression revealed his ill humor. "I got nothing else to say to you."

  "Fine," she said stubbornly. "I wasn't gonna talk to you anyway. Just wanted to ask if I could get a ride back to the reservation."

  "Find another way," said her brother.

  "Nah," cut in Agent Garcia. "Jump in with us. It'll give us a chance to talk."

  Maxim thought it was interesting that there was animosity between the girl and her half brother. He wondered what that was about. Maybe she knew something. Maybe he could corner her and get her to turn against Kelan.

  The detective waited by the door as the escort crew headed out and disappeared around the corner. The Seventh Sons were watching, but they were also in the middle of some kind of argument. Big surprise with them.

  It had been a shitty morning. Tensions in Sanctuary were high, and Maxim didn't know how much longer the police could contain the situation. After last night, he didn't even know if it was fair to call it contained.

  One thing was sure. He was damned happy that the Pistolas and the Yavapai were clearing out of his town.