by Domino Finn
Maxim paused as he took in Diego's words. "You're saying the Yavapai killed Carlos Doka without Kelan's knowledge?"
"Think about it. With Doka dead, Kelan becomes the de facto head of the mercenaries. What if they're gunning for him next? What if he was supposed to get shot up alongside Clint?"
Maxim did remember that Kelan had ducked away from the gunmen when the shooting started. "It sounds plausible," he finally admitted. "But there's something we're missing. Why now? After nine months, why is Doka killed now? Why tie it to the Seventh Sons?"
It didn't take Diego long to come up with the answer. "They're working with the Pistolas."
All things being equal, Maxim wouldn't have considered an agreement between the Pistolas and the Yavapai. The mercenary outfit was too small to rely on. More likely the Pistolas would just steamroll them along with the Sons. But the Yavapai did give them leverage. Perhaps the Pistolas didn't want to move into Arizona and needed small players to support them. Perhaps the Mexicans didn't care about Chino Valley and Prescott—nobody else did. Or maybe the Pistolas needed some deniability. The Yavapai and the Seventh Sons had a very public feud. Perhaps all this was a way to keep the cartel out of the news.
"That might explain the coincidence of the Yavapai showing up at the clubhouse after Omar was left for dead," said Maxim. "Once the Pistolas told them what happened, Hotah and his guys had to clean up the mess."
"It also explains the safe house."
Maxim cocked his head as he lost Diego's train of thought. "What safe house?"
The biker sighed as he considered how much to say. "There's a building off the 89, between Paulden and Chino Valley. I followed the Pistolas there after they left Sanctuary. I wondered about them having a property in Arizona. It's on the edge of Indian territory—maybe the Yavapai own it."
"You got an address?"
"No. It's just out of Sycamore, sandwiched between a dry creek and a truck stop." Diego almost said something and then took on an excited tone. "I think it should be empty soon. The Pistolas will be preoccupied. If the Yavapai who killed Omar are hiding somewhere, it's a good start."
"Slow down," urged Maxim. "You said you were at this building. Did you see the Yavapai? Any sign of them?"
"No..."
"Don't go over there. Let me get a warrant. Backup."
"Do you have enough for a warrant?"
Maxim suddenly felt very aware that the new moon was tonight. With Hitchens and Cole gone, the marshal's office wouldn't be properly staffed. The FBI might be able to help with manpower, but things would take longer.
"We need to observe the location," Maxim finally said. "See what's going on there. Establish a pattern of business."
"Fuck that. They killed Omar."
"Goddamnit, Diego. I'm telling you to stay away from that property. This is a police investigation. You can't just run around with guns like an outlaw."
"Once these guys find out they're wanted, they'll be in the wind. That's if the police didn't stir up the reservation enough already."
"Just wait Diego. I'll be there tonight. Your whole club should be hiding out while they turn anyway. Don't try to do anything alone. Don't be reckless. Think about your sister, man."
Diego considered the appeal. He sounded subdued; he was so close to what he wanted but had to give it up. "Fine," was all he said. Then he hung up.
Maxim shook his head slowly and checked the time on the dashboard. Still a half hour to Flagstaff. There was plenty of time.
The detective wondered what Diego had meant about the building being empty soon, that the Pistolas would be preoccupied. There was likely some club business going down that Maxim wasn't privy to. Hopefully that business would keep them clear of the Yavapai.
But then Maxim thought about Diego's nature. He was a lone wolf, ironically the only member of the club who wasn't a wolf. He'd been mentoring Omar, helping the kid out. Maybe Diego had needed to feel like a big brother again after his sister had left town. With the kid dead, Diego was bound to be desperate. He had his brother's blood on his hands.
At that moment, Maxim realized that he and Diego didn't only differ in their senses of responsibility. They also had opposing ideas of duty. Of justice.
Diego de la Torre would kill a man for revenge.
The biker's hesitant agreement to stay away from the safe house didn't instill confidence in Maxim. Unfortunately, the detective was too far away to do anything about it personally. If Diego wanted to head to Yavapai territory, he could be there very soon.
Maxim made one last call.
"Hitchens, buddy, you driving north on the 89 now?"
"Sure am. The reservation was a bust. The boys are in hiding."
"Forget about that. There's a property I want to get eyes on. The Yavapai might show up there."
"Right now?" The sergeant became exasperated. "Maxim, you know I need to go 10-7. I can't be on the job anymore tonight. The moon's not gonna stop for this."
"It's not that. I'm afraid Diego's gonna ride south to do something stupid. You might cross paths on the highway. If you do, pull him over, take him into custody—whatever you can to protect him."
Hitchens sighed as a form of complaint. "If I do detain him, I'll need to transfer him to you."
"Yeah," said Maxim, beginning to relax. "I can do that."
"Okay, Detective. What if I don't see him?"
Maxim considered it. There was no way Diego would actually stay put. "Then head for the clubhouse. Pick him up if he's there."
"Fine, Dwyer, but that's about the limit of what I can do. Take my advice: sit on any leads you have. You know as well as I do that the best time to take these criminals down is in the early morning. In light of the new moon, they'll be sleeping it off extra late tomorrow."
It sounded sensible. "What about you, Barney?"
"Well, you're fucking with my beauty sleep, but Cole and I will be at the station first thing. 6 a.m. Call me if you need us sooner."
Maxim nodded. "Sounds like a plan."
Chapter 44
Several eight-by-ten photographs were arrayed across the pool table. They were images of Albuquerque City Councilman Eduardo Chavez. Despite the high quality of the physical prints, the source material didn't hold up. The pictures were grainy. The lighting varied from decent to horrible. They wouldn't win any photography awards, but they were still worth a lot, especially to Councilman Chavez—the pictures unambiguously presented the politician in a moment of weakness. Two prostitutes had alternated snapping photos of the councilman in various compromising positions, half naked and ignorant of their actions. This was in no small part made simple because of his inebriated state: the man was clearly smoking crack cocaine in two of the shots.
While the pictures would normally be humorous to the Seventh Sons, they stared at the pool table in a somber mood. Gaston knew it couldn't go unsaid, even if they all knew it.
"These are the reason Omar's dead. The Pistolas lured us away from the clubhouse so they could break in and steal our blackmail evidence. The kid fought back and the Mexicans panicked. They left the clubhouse without getting a chance to search it. Without getting these."
West Wind, Curtis, and Diego remained silent. They hadn't known the details of the MC's leverage until now. Gaston figured he owed them the explanation.
"Diego says Maxim has proof that the Yavapai finished Omar off. They're the ones who killed him, even though the Pistolas started it."
"Started, ended," said West coldly. "They both need to go down for their part."
Diego nodded, but Curtis remained deep in thought. Gaston knew he was the voice of reason. He usually didn't like it, but he wanted his input now.
"Curtis?"
The man kept his head down and rubbed his chin for a moment before answering. "It's not just the Yavapai and the Pistolas. What if El Paso's involved too?"
"So what?" asked Diego. "They're over there. We're here."
Curtis shook his head. "The point is, the Pistolas aren
't just a bunch of Mexicali rejects. They're stronger than they look."
"So are we," said West.
"I'm just saying that we can't fight them both at once."
Gaston stopped them before it devolved into a pissing match. "He's right. The Pistolas are pompous and will push around whoever they can, but they have connections we want to keep happy."
"They need to pay," said Diego.
"And they will. With their wallets. But the Pistolas are too important to El Paso now. If we attack the hand, the head will get angry."
Curtis nodded his support. "We don't need a third enemy."
"But El Paso is probably behind all of this," protested Diego.
Gaston nodded. It was a possibility. "But they haven't made a move against us yet. My guess is they know what the Pistolas are doing—maybe are even encouraging it—but they want to be kept isolated. They need us cooperative if this doesn't work out."
West grumbled. Diego's eyes shot to the floor. It wasn't a popular decision, but it needed to be made. Gaston was not about to take on the Mexican Mafia.
"And how can we work it out?" asked Curtis, apparently on board.
"That's the best part. When Diego talked to them, they gave us a way out. I'm gonna give them the leverage they want." Gaston began stacking the pictures together into a manila folder. "Sergio wanted to meet him solo in the closed diner off the 66. They said the bloodshed ends if they get these."
Curtis was cautious—he liked to play the percentages—and this point irked him. "No offense, Diego," he said, "but you walking into something like that alone isn't gonna work."
Diego didn't respond. Everybody knew that Diego wasn't as strong as the rest of them. "That's why Diego isn't doing the job," said Gaston. "I am."
"I'll get your back," said West.
"No. Sergio's supposed to make the meet personally. If he sees more than one person, he won't show."
"He might not show anyway," said Curtis, "since you're not Diego."
"That's true," admitted Gaston, "but he'll see I have this." He waved the manila folder in his hand. "Sergio wants this whether it's from me or Diego. He'll come inside."
"And if it's a trap?" asked West.
Gaston smiled back. He welcomed the challenge. "They won't be able to beat me during the moon phase. Those punks have no idea what we're capable of."
Now the Apache smiled too. If it came to blood, the MC couldn't lose tonight. It was clear West hoped they would start a fight.
"But what about Omar?" asked Diego with a scalding tone.
"You said it yourself. Hotah and his men killed him."
"But the Pistolas tried."
"And failed. Listen, Diego. I get the rage. I want to tear their heads off too, but I need to think about the future of the MC."
"You mean the bottom line, don't you? That's why you didn't want me going after the Pistolas back in Sanctuary. They're your golden ticket."
"It's not like that," said Gaston, hackles rising. "What I said before still stands. The Yavapai are the enemy. They're the ones we need to take out. And we'd be able to look into it if you didn't tell your cop friend about that safe house."
Gaston was heated. The emotions that he'd been trying to hold in were coming out. He understood that Omar's death shook everybody up, especially Diego, but lately the man was questioning every one of his decisions. He'd been a solid member so far, but maybe it would be better if he did leave the club.
The president collected his temper and put his hands up to quell the protests. "I don't want any arguing about this. You did a great job finding the safe house, Diego, but the cops will be on top of it tonight. As we all know, the new moon means we need to lie low. The marshal's office has worked with the CDC before. They can do it again. Any major wolf activity will get us hunted. We can't afford that."
Everyone traded glances. It was frustrating for the club to have their power but not be able to use it. But staying alive was the priority. The CDC was the most dangerous to them.
"Now," continued Gaston, "we've got a few hours till we turn. We need to handle things perfectly. I'll meet Sergio by myself and get him to agree to terms with the peace offering. Curtis, Trent is still watching over Clint at the Flagstaff hospital. You need to go down and get him out of there. We can't have him turning in public. And we especially can't have any injured deputies or civilians, so be stealthy about it. Get back to the clubhouse if you can. Otherwise, just wait the night out in the wild."
Curtis nodded.
"What do you want me to do?" asked West.
"You and Diego should stay here. Hotah and his guys are MIA. Who knows? They might try to come at us right here. You should be ready for that. With any luck, Curtis will get back here with the others."
"The Yavapai are not going to come at us here," said Diego. "They never have, except when they knew Omar was alone and hurt. You just want us locked down."
"And is that a bad thing? I just explained why we need to stay hidden tonight."
"I'm not a wolf," Diego shot back. "I'm free to go out tonight. I told Maxim about the safe house because he's trying to catch killers. If I have a chance of getting to them before he does, then I'm going to take it."
"Don't be an idiot. It's dangerous out there."
West Wind shook his head. "Your balls drop all of a sudden?"
"You guys don't get it," said Diego. "It was never about the danger, it was about the reason. Omar's a pretty good one. I'm going out there."
Gaston just laughed. He couldn't believe what a pain in the ass Diego had become.
West's face darkened. "Diego, the cops are gonna be out there. I can't back you up."
The biker turned his back to them. "I never asked you to."
"You tied our hands with this," said Gaston. "The Sanctuary police have silver bullets."
"You're worried about getting shot?" he asked. "Welcome to my world."
The president clenched his jaw. "I don't want you getting shot either. Sitting it out is the smartest play."
"No way," said Diego. "I'm not selling Omar out for fatter pockets."
Gaston slammed his fists on the pool table. "You're full of shit, Diego!"
"No!" he yelled back. "This club is."
Diego moved to leave. Gaston stomped after him into the living room and spun him around.
"You son of a bitch. I'm the head of this MC and you're gonna listen to me."
Diego scoffed and peered at the others. "You call this a pack? I don't want any part of the Seventh Sons, then. You hear me? I'm out. The police aren't gonna stop me. This club's not going to stop me. Nothing can stop me until I get my hands on Omar's killer."
They watched as Diego stormed out of the clubhouse. The Triumph's engine came to life and Diego rode away. Gaston kicked over the coffee table.
Diego was going to get himself killed.
Chapter 45
Maxim Dwyer leaned against the dirty stucco of the second-floor breezeway. The motel wasn't fancy, but it wasn't one of those run-down pay-by-the-hour dives. It serviced Flagstaff tourists—campers and others who required short-term accommodations. A fireplace, a full kitchen, even a guest bathroom, if the detective's guess was correct. It wasn't so bad, really; Maxim had just figured that the FBI put up their people in nicer digs.
Between an alcove wall and a soda machine, the night shadows hid him pretty well, and he had a perfect view of Raymond Garcia's doorway. The rest was just waiting. A part of Maxim felt that he was wasting time with this confrontation. Another part of him didn't think the case could advance without it.
None of the speculation mattered anymore. Maxim watched the agent's white Ford Explorer park just below, its headlights briefly sweeping over him. The detective shied away from the night like a stalker.
Raymond Garcia exited his vehicle. He was alone. And just on time. As Hitchens had reported, the agent had clocked out and headed home. Maxim watched the man zip up his blue FBI jacket then reach into the SUV and grab a bag of Mexican fa
st food. He slammed the door with a sigh and headed up the outdoor staircase, walking and stopping at his door, just yards from the detective. Maxim waited until he heard the lock click open.
"You know, a bottle of red wine and a couple of wood logs would make this more romantic."
Garcia tensed but recognized the voice. When he turned around, he was slightly annoyed. "What are you doing here, Detective?"
"I'm working a case. What are you doing?"
Garcia stretched his neck and scanned the hallway and the parking lot. "Your car's not parked here and you're sneaking around the shadows. Not a recommended move with a federal agent."
"Relax, Garcia. I have some new information."
"You could have called."
"I put BOLOs out for your three missing Yavapai."
"You did what?" Garcia had taken his familiar authoritative tone. "You were ordered not to take action against those men. It's why I had you stay behind today."
"Why don't we go inside and talk about it."
"I don't think so, Detective. It's a nice night." Garcia let his room door partly close and stood against it, blocking entry. Again, he glanced around the area. They were alone. "Say what you have to say."
Maxim nodded dismissively. Inside, outside—it didn't matter. Although he had already decided what he was going to say, something at the last second convinced him to soften the blow. Seeing Garcia alone in a motel room with his cheap tacos made him more relatable somehow.
"I appreciate the Bureau's interest in this case."
"Do you?" asked Garcia with scorn. "Because when I arrived yesterday you dismissed my presence as a joke. As interference."
"Let's just say that what little experience I've had with the feds hasn't been great. Sanctuary's a small town. Sycamore's mostly wild. There's usually no call for feds around here."
"This is your town, huh?"
Maxim bit his tongue. This wasn't going the way he'd expected. "Listen, last year, the Paradise Killings were orchestrated by a CDC agent. That part wasn't in the news—nobody needed the bad publicity—but it was true. So excuse me if I don't bend over backward for you."
