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

by Domino Finn

"Hmm. I don't see anything like that here. He doesn't look like he's been embedded on the West Coast."

  "Damn." Maxim was sure that Garcia had ties to Cruz. He was about to assume he'd just struck out and thank Lawrence, but then he remembered something Sergio Lima had said. His alibi for the attack last night. He was in Texas. "What about Texas? Any mafia ties with Mexico?"

  "Oh, well sure. That's all over the place. It looks like Garcia split his time between the Midwest and Texas, the latter all dealing with border smuggling."

  That was it. Sergio was a new West Coast player with contacts in Mexico, and the two sides were trying to squeeze the Sons out of the middle of the sandwich: Interstate 40 in Arizona.

  "When was the last time Agent Garcia dealt with the gangs down there?"

  Hendricks muttered to himself as he looked. Maxim figured he wasn't especially happy doing this for him, but it beat whatever else he had scheduled for the workday. "Let me see. It's been a while. Agent Garcia transferred—"

  Maxim waited a moment. "What?"

  "Uh... Hold on."

  "What is it?"

  "Um, I shouldn't really be divulging this stuff, Maxim."

  "Come on, Law. It'll just take another second."

  "No. I could get in trouble for this. I gotta go."

  "Law!"

  It wasn't a strong appeal and it didn't work. Lawrence Hendricks hung up the phone.

  So Maxim had stumbled onto something sensitive. Something Raymond Garcia hadn't told him. Maxim glanced at the closed door of the marshal's office and wondered if Boyd knew what was going on.

  It didn't matter. Either he did and he wouldn't say anything, or he didn't and would warn Maxim not to poke into the matter. Besides, if Maxim was right, then Garcia had more going on with the Pistolas than even the FBI knew about. If that was the case, Marshal Boyd was surely in the dark.

  Maxim thought about the baseball metaphor as he depressed the switch hook with the telephone receiver and got the dial tone back. His third swing wasn't a strike but it wasn't a hit either. It was more like a foul: not quite good, not quite bad. Just a precursor to his next attempt.

  Maxim Dwyer cleared his throat and hit redial.

  Chapter 39

  It didn't take too long to catch up to the Pistolas. Ten of them were side by side, riding high and tight. They weren't running from the Sons. They were taking their time. Enjoying the road trip.

  What cocky bastards.

  Diego figured he would give them a large cushion. The Interstate was a long road and the Pistolas didn't have many route options. It was a straight shot to California. Just as the biker considered how easy tailing the club would be, their silhouettes on the horizon turned off. They must have been stopping.

  That was odd. They'd been heading west, about to leave the confines of Sycamore and head into the desert flatlands. Instead the Pistolas were exiting.

  The Scrambler accelerated ahead. Soon, Diego realized the Pistolas had transferred south onto State Route 89. That was trouble.

  Diego generally avoided the 89. It was Yavapai territory. Besides, Interstate 40 led right to Joshua Tree, and Diego had used it before heading south to Palm Springs in the past. There was no need to cut south in Arizona.

  But the Pistolas were an Imperial Valley outfit. The south of the south of California, and beyond. Their stomping grounds extended to Calexico and Mexicali. Without a beef with the Indians, they could ride home this way without trouble.

  Satisfied that the mystery was solved, Diego followed the bikers onto the state road. A nervous flutter filled his stomach as he broke club protocol. Ironically, the rest of the Sons might be doing the same thing, minutes behind him. Kelan's police escort was sure to come this way. Would the Seventh Sons follow?

  Diego decided that it was unlikely. Even if they did move south on the state road, they would stop once the confines of Sycamore forest ended. Past that, they would be riding into Chino Valley and the Quad-City area, and that was looking for a fight.

  Good thing that's what Diego was in the mood for.

  In his haste to make the detour, Diego rode a little too close to the Pistolas. He relaxed his grip on the throttle and eased the bike down. Ten was too many.

  It wasn't long before they left the trees behind. The hilly terrain smoothed into a valley as the sand commandeered the landscape. Visibility suddenly exploded and Diego felt like a fish out of water, and there were no fish in the desert. He slowed down even more to compensate, but was disconcerted when the Pistolas pulled over to the side of the highway and huddled together.

  They must have spotted him.

  The biker slowed to a rolling crawl, sizing up the Mexicans. It was still ten against one, no matter how many times he counted. But Diego's shotgun was a pretty slick plus one. He patted the Benelli M4 in the holster and remembered that the Sanctuary police had searched the Pistolas. The pack didn't have a single gun. Still. Diego figured he only had ten or twelve shells total. The numbers weren't favorable.

  Diego parked on the shoulder. He was still far enough to hope he hadn't been seen, although the dust he now kicked up was likely to attract attention. Were they talking about him? He lifted his visor to get a clear view of the group but the sun was too bright. Diego could only open his eyes to slits. He gave up and shut the visor again.

  The Pistolas, interestingly enough, split off into two groups. Six of them waved and continued south. The remaining four rode into a rest stop ahead. No. That wasn't right. Diego squinted. They moved slowly along an access road before the rest stop. From this distance, Diego hadn't even seen the street there. And no wonder: the small dirt path led to a nondescript building surrounded by a chain-link fence on one side and a crumbling wall of concrete, which lined a dried-up creek, on the other. Diego couldn't make anything of the place but he imagined it was condemned, proof that the desert sucked even stone and metal dry.

  And for some reason, the four Pistolas pulled into the property.

  Immediately, Diego considered that this could be a trick. A decoy, a ploy to protect Sergio. All the bikers had helmets and bandannas covering their features. It wasn't easy to make out which group Sergio was with. But one of the four men wore his jacket open, exposing a bare chest. That was Hector Cruz—the Mechanic, and Sergio's right-hand man. If he was staying behind, no doubt the club president was as well.

  If not a decoy, then was this a trap? Were the other six men really leaving? It was possible they only pretended to start back to the Imperial Valley. They could wait for Diego to sneak after the smaller group and come at his back. He would be cornered.

  What were the other possibilities? This building could be a safe house. The Sons kept them. They were a California MC, but they might be moving into Arizona. Was that possible without Gaston knowing? It would be a ballsy move, being sandwiched between the Yavapai and the Seventh Sons. Then again, so was riding into Sanctuary.

  The biker decided to wait. Hector and the others disappeared around the side of the building. The larger group faded into the horizon. Diego sat there, and not a whole lot happened until a white Ford Explorer raced by him. Diego turned away as soon as he pegged it as the FBI vehicle carrying Kelan. With a smile, the biker realized his helmet covered his face anyway, and it didn't matter which way he faced. Diego's entire outfit was matte black except for his metallic gold racing helmet. It was a distinctive look. If anyone glanced his way and knew what to look for, they would've spotted him.

  The Explorer didn't stop or even slow down. Diego twisted his body while straddling his bike and checked north. Sergeant Hitchens drove by in his brand-new police cruiser. This time Diego looked straight at the vehicle, but the glare on the windshield blocked his sight of the officer.

  Diego waited some more, this time for a different set of bikers. The Seventh Sons never came into view. As he'd predicted, they didn't follow the escort past Sycamore's border. They would not be encroaching on Indian territory.

  Good, thought Diego, they weren't doing anything st
upid. As for himself, well... Diego wasn't one to look inward. He relied on other people to tell him when he was fucking up. That's why he never carried his cell phone and usually did things alone.

  After a time, Diego was satisfied that things were quiet. He killed his Triumph's engine and walked his bike ahead on the shoulder. As the little dirt road came into view, he noticed the highway bridged over the tiny creek. A little stone wall marked the overpass, but he could pull off the road on either side and lead his bike down into the ditch. This, he decided, would keep his actions out of view. Instead of following the Pistolas the same way in, he could hike up the desolate creek bed in silence until it met up with the property's stone wall. It was perfect.

  Diego eased his helmet off. Hot air blasted his face and it felt like heaven. The dust didn't matter. It was movement, breeze against his scalp. Diego removed his gloves and ran his fingers through his tattered, wet hair. He unzipped his jacket before deciding to pull it off altogether. He would have considered going shirtless like Hector, but Diego decided that he wasn't a douche bag. The biker slid his shotgun into his grip and headed up the creek.

  It was quiet as he approached the wall. It was made out of cinder blocks, and not all of them had agreed to stick together anymore. The mortar was worn down. The paint chipped along with the cement. It was as if everything in the desert was trying to propagate more desert; dust to dust.

  As Diego advanced, he almost plodded right into a rattlesnake. It coiled away from him then froze. The biker gave it a wide birth, wondering if his armored boots would have protected him. Weren't rattlesnakes supposed to, you know, rattle? Diego chuckled. He pictured chasing the Pistolas, shotgun in hand, on the border of enemy wolf territory, only to be taken out by a snake.

  He reminded himself that he was in the desert now; everything was trying to kill him.

  Diego trudged up the creek bank and pressed himself flush against the cinder blocks. It wasn't a high wall to begin with, and it was shorter where the top row of blocks had been stripped. A quick peek over revealed the side of an old administration building. Simple architecture, flat roof, scant window placement—whatever purpose the building served, it wasn't a house.

  The yard was empty. Diego moved along the wall to get a better view. Sand and dirt, cracked step stones, a couple of smaller buildings in the back, all lined with a metal fence except for the wall along the creek bed. Diego didn't see the motorcycles. His gaze swept past the property but there was nothing but hills and trees. He was sure the Pistolas were here. The bikes must be on the other side of the building.

  Well, he thought, no time like the present. He laid the M4 on its side along the top of the wall and boosted himself up and over. He landed in a crouch, acutely aware of the lack of brush to camouflage him. He retrieved his shotgun and scampered against the building, keeping out of sight of the windows.

  Diego slipped around the corner of the building. The back wall had two windows and a door between them. The biker tried to peek inside but the dimpled jalousie panes were closed. One of the glass sheets was missing, but cardboard or something closed it off. In fact, the entire window was covered from the inside. No visibility in or out. Diego ducked below it anyway and tried the doorknob. It was locked.

  As he leaned his head in to listen, the door shook and he heard a slam in the distance. Diego froze. It was just a vibration. Someone had closed the front door on the other side of the building. Diego pulled up the ghost ring sight of his shotty and checked both sides of the property again. He was stuck out in the open here. He could either run back to the wall or try to make it to one of the smaller buildings farther into the yard.

  While he debated his options, an engine came to life. A motorcycle. It came from the side of the building, where he assumed the bikers had parked. Shit. They were taking off already.

  Diego quickly slid along the wall toward them, ducking the next window. He raised the shotgun vertically to keep it from poking around the corner and giving away his position. He listened. It only sounded like one bike, and it hadn't moved yet. The rider was waiting for something.

  "Don't move, holmes," said a guttural voice behind him.

  Diego's instinct was to spin around or dash past the corner, but he knew better. Guns were on him. He turned his head slowly and saw Hector Cruz and a man with a bandanna over his face holding pistols to his back.

  "Drop that 12-gauge real slow," said the older man.

  "Good eye." Diego decided he still had a chance to escape around the corner. Without fully turning around, he lowered the M4 to his side, holding it harmlessly by the barrel, and stepped away from the corner. As he moved, he glanced to the side of the building. It was a dirt driveway with four parked choppers. A lone rider cut the engine of his motorcycle and raised a pistol.

  Diego dropped his shotgun to the dirt.

  "You a real stupid ése for rolling up to us with that," said the guy standing next to Hector. Diego couldn't make out his face, but it wasn't the president. Neither was the other one behind him.

  "Where's Sergio?" he asked nonchalantly.

  "Who's asking?" shot back Hector.

  The biker bowed with a smile. "Diego de la Torre, at your service. You guys buying property in Arizona now?"

  Hector grunted. The old man was permanently in a non-shit-taking mood. Too hardened to give a fuck. If Diego was gonna get out of here, he would need to do it by appealing to somebody else.

  "I need to talk to Sergio Lima," he stated again.

  "Chupame."

  "If you don't mind, maybe one of your boys would rather take you up on that."

  Somebody rapped Diego on the back of the head. He started to fall forward but caught himself. The banger behind him wiped off the bottom of his pistol and told Diego to shut up. The man picked up the shotgun and checked Diego's belt for other weapons. "What's a mierda like you following us for?"

  Diego's hand went to the back of his head to soothe the pain. The blow had slightly dazed him. Luckily, he didn't feel any blood. "I'll only talk to Sergio."

  "Sergio's not here," said Hector.

  There were four bikes and three of them. He knew one person was missing. Still inside, probably. It made sense that it was el presidente. "Too bad for you then."

  "Why's that?"

  "I want out of the Sons."

  The three men stared at him suspiciously. Of course it wasn't going to be that easy, but it was an opening.

  "Que come mierda."

  Diego shook his head. "Es verdad. It's true. I don't want to end up like Omar. I know who you guys got backing you."

  Again, the three men eyed him. This time they didn't have anything to say.

  The back door clicked and opened, and out strutted Sergio Lima. He smiled magnanimously and approached Diego. He was a skinny kid, especially up close, but his face was cold, his eyes calculating. He didn't just luck into the head of the MC.

  "Entonces, you want to move out to Cali?" he asked.

  Diego blinked away their disbelief. "Or stay in Arizona. Help you expand."

  Sergio scoffed. "That's bullshit."

  "The Seventh Sons are bullshit," Diego replied. "Besides, I'm not really one of them."

  "I could've told you that. What'd you think would happen hanging around a bunch of gringos?"

  Sergio and, in turn, the others relaxed. They were casual, in control of the situation and knew it. "Compruebe el frente," barked Sergio to one of the guys wearing a bandanna. He nodded and went around to check the front of the property. The president turned back to Diego. "Where are the others?"

  "They're not here," answered Diego. "I swear. It's just me."

  "Why?"

  "'Cause you killed Omar, right?" Diego clenched his jaw and tried to hide his distaste. He wanted them to admit to killing the kid. He needed to know. Maxim and the police would take forever with the evidence. The biker didn't even know if the Sanctuary detective had any power over a California gang.

  Sergio nodded slightly, an implicit
acknowledgement of the deed. "Can't say that you're stupid to wanna ride with us. But I can't just take your word for it."

  "Let me help you," persuaded Diego. "I can do things you can't." Hector sneered but Sergio just raised his eyebrows expectantly. "I know the Sanctuary police."

  Sergio nodded. "Sí. But if I'm to believe you, I need more than your word. I need proof."

  "What do you want?"

  "Fotos. Blackmail documents. There's a councilman in Albuquerque who works with La Eme. He has... unfortunate habits. The Seventh Sons have proof of this. Photos of him with crack whores, high out of his mind. It would destroy him."

  Diego realized this was the leverage the Pistolas had mentioned to Gaston. They were trying to free the squeeze Gaston had on the Albuquerque councilman. Remove the Seventh Sons from the equation.

  "That's why you were at the clubhouse," posited Diego. "It was supposed to be empty. You set up the drug run to be intercepted, to get us in jail. You probably even did it with help from the councilman, promising to relieve him of his burden. He co-opted Gaston's police support." Sergio smiled as Diego retraced the plan. "But you didn't expect Omar to be there. He was supposed to be in jail with the rest of us. You wanted to search the clubhouse for the blackmail photos, but instead you walked into a gunfight, then you had to hit the road."

  "I just wanted what was mine," declared Sergio.

  Diego's face darkened. So it was club business that had killed Omar. Drugs. Money. A play for power. Was he even surprised?

  The fourth banger came back to the yard. He nodded to Hector and Sergio. No one else had followed Diego there.

  "What about Doka?" asked Diego. "Did you kill him too? Start all this shit with the Yavapai?"

  The three men glanced at each other. Sergio laughed. "Relax, homie," he said, patting Diego on the cheek. "You're starting to sound like a cop."

  The kid annoyed Diego. It was his smugness. His attitude of superiority. Diego just wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, like the adults in his life should have. Instead, he simply smiled.