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

by Domino Finn

  Raymond Garcia studied the detective with a curious expression. Maxim could tell that he didn't want to believe the statement, but that he did. "What authority did the CDC have here?"

  "It's a government secret." Maxim didn't elaborate. The last thing he needed was to be laughed at when he mentioned the wolves. Besides, it was sort of fun to play that card on an FBI agent.

  Garcia's doubt returned, less adamant than before, but he dropped the issue. "Whatever criminal actions may have occurred in the past, the FBI's a different agency. I'm a different agent."

  Maxim narrowed his eyes. "You should have disclosed your relationship with the Pistolas."

  Raymond Garcia opened his mouth, then paused and thought better of it. He was dumbstruck for a second, but the seasoned agent recovered well. "One moment," was all he said, then pushed inside his room.

  That got him, thought Maxim. The detective moved to follow Garcia in. As he reached the door, however, the agent returned to the threshold, arms crossed over his chest. He had put his fast food away.

  "I was undercover," said Garcia. "I know how Sergio's comments earlier could have appeared as proof of misconduct, but I was undercover."

  "Were you? They knew you better than that."

  "Sure," said the agent. "When you go that deep, you can't just bullshit your way in. You have to live it. Believe it. You need to relate to these guys to get them on your side."

  "How is that different from my relationship with the Seventh Sons?"

  Again, Garcia moved to answer immediately, then stopped himself. He didn't want to misspeak. Not now, when everything would be coming out. They both knew they would understand each other perfectly after tonight.

  Maxim filled the silence. "It didn't bother them that you were a fed."

  Garcia's strong brow furrowed. "Wait." He rubbed the gray stubble along his chin as he thought another moment. "You think I'm dirty?"

  The detective smiled. "It was my first thought."

  The FBI agent laughed. "That's ridiculous. If anything..."

  "What? If anything, I'm the dirty one? What exactly have I done that gives you that impression? I mean, fuck the rumors and the high school commentary in the Noise."

  "The Bureau doesn't run operations based on local tabloids, Dwyer."

  Maxim laughed and shook his head at the ridiculousness of the situation. "If you think I'm dirty then come right out and say it. Tell me why. This whole 'they say' and 'I'm on your side' shtick isn't winning me over. I've been straight with you. I'm trying to solve three murders. Whoever's responsible, whether white, Indian, or Mexican, is going down. I promise you that. The question is, are you gonna help me or get in my way?"

  Garcia winced slightly. He took offense at being called an obstacle. That much was clear, but there was something else. Was it doubt?

  "Detective," he said, "I'm here to assist the marshal's office due to the sensitivity of the crime. Any hindrance you believe I'm creating is imaginary."

  Maxim Dwyer chuckled some more. It was sad. The man was going to make him come out and say it. "You know, while you were down at the reservation, I had some time to do some digging. You want me to trust you, believe you, but that's never gonna happen if you keep lying to me."

  "Detective, what are you—"

  "Public Corruption," Maxim asserted. "That's what you're working. The entire and only reason you're in Sycamore is to burn the marshal's office."

  Agent Garcia stared at the detective in disbelief. There was a momentary panic before he decided what to do. An agent used to undercover work might've died before revealing the truth. But Garcia also knew that Maxim's information was specific and solid. Raymond's eyes softened.

  "How'd you get that information?"

  "It's my job," said Maxim coldly. "And I'm good at it."

  Garcia shook his head. The man rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day and his face assumed a resigned expression. "Well that puts a crimp in this operation."

  "No shit. But I'll make it easy for you. You want full disclosure? You've got it. I can tell you about anything you want except for CDC business. You'll need to request that from them."

  "Okay, Detective. I'll bite. Let's start with the Seventh Sons. It's no secret that they bribe law enforcement throughout Arizona and the Southwest. The Sanctuary Marshal's Office is the closest department to them. Explain to me how you'd be uninvolved."

  "I get it," said Maxim, smiling. "Cut off the head, watch the rest of the body squirm. The FBI wants to make an example out of Sanctuary. A warning to the others." Garcia nodded. "It's simple. The Sons don't conduct their illegal business within Sanctuary town limits. Our official jurisdiction is tiny. Coconino allows us to work in the Sycamore wild where it makes sense, but catching cases is different from making them. Stings need to be coordinated through them."

  "So you're saying Coconino is dirty?"

  "Not that I've discovered. It's a large county. Sycamore is mostly just campgrounds. The area is quiet. Largely ignored."

  "Sycamore Lodge is in Sanctuary," he said, still doubting.

  "It is, and operated by a former Seventh Son, but Gaston doesn't drive illicit goods through there. I've made that clear to him. We have an understanding that protects my town. And as far as drug trafficking is concerned, the marshal's office has standing orders from the CDC to leave the case to the feds."

  "They don't have that authority."

  "You'd be surprised. Besides, the DEA is following their recommendation. Any interstate commerce, and that's what it is, is out of my hands. I'd be surprised if County and Highway Patrol didn't have similar restrictions."

  Again, the lines on Garcia's forehead deepened. This was much more than he'd expected to hear. Maxim wondered how the agent had been out of the loop regarding the standing orders, but it wasn't anything that was broadcast. If his operation wasn't clearly targeting the motorcycle club's drug trade, it might have been allowed to continue unnoticed.

  "The truth is," finished Maxim, "all that is above my pay grade. When it comes time for the Sons to go down, and it will happen, if the agency in control wants my assistance, I'll provide it. But I'm a sworn officer of Sanctuary. Protecting its citizens is my priority. And clocking out at the end of the day isn't an option if I have a possible lead that ties to two bodies."

  That information, of course, took Garcia by surprise. "What do you have?"

  "A boot print in Omar's blood matches the mercenary outfit. It's not Kelan's, but I'm guessing it belongs to one of our three missing associates."

  A light breeze passed over the men. It energized the FBI agent. His eyes were suddenly electric. "I left your sergeant down there to follow up some leads."

  "He didn't find them." Maxim paused and took another look at Garcia. They each had assumed the other was the bad guy, but maybe now they both had cause for second thoughts. "Then you'll help me?"

  "Of course," said Raymond Garcia, shutting his motel door and checking the handle to make sure it was locked.

  "What about your dinner?"

  The agent shrugged. "Fast food's my guilty pleasure. It gives me heartburn anyway. You have a location?"

  "One of the Sons followed the Pistolas to an old building between Sycamore and Chino Valley. He didn't see any Yavapai activity, but if they're on the run it stands to reason that they're there."

  Garcia started marching to his car, all business. Maxim fell in line. "The Pistolas and the Yavapai," said Garcia with a tinge of disbelief. "What do they have in common?"

  "An enemy," answered Maxim. "The theory is that they're working together. I don't know how deep it goes, but I've got a feeling that the mercenary outfit is making moves without Kelan's knowledge. They killed his brother. He may be in danger next."

  "I'll put in a call to Tribal PD. Put a unit on him. He likely won't agree to be detained in protective custody again so it'll have to do." Garcia turned and looked up the steps at the detective before continuing. "What's your plan?"

  Now it was Maxim's tur
n to be taken off guard. He didn't expect this much cooperation. "We'll need a warrant on the building. It's outside my jurisdiction, and not exactly friendly territory, so I could use your federal muscle."

  Garcia smirked. "The Bureau's not gonna approve that without solid surveillance first. We don't operate like a small-town police force."

  "I know the drill," said Maxim. "Manpower is going to be light tonight anyway. We need to ride and observe the location. Get the comings and goings on record. See what we're dealing with and hopefully set up a raid for the morning."

  Raymond Garcia paused as he opened the door to his Explorer. Maxim swore he saw a smile on the man's face. "You're talking about pulling an all-nighter."

  Something about the man's demeanor inspired Maxim with the confidence that he could be trusted. "I just wanna make sure nobody gets hurt."

  Chapter 46

  The Sycamore moon was hidden tonight. Diego knew exactly where it was, though. It had set with the sun, but it would be hours before the alignment was complete.

  The biker had hunted wolves once, in a past life. The moon meant life and death to the wolves, as well as to him, the hunter. It was rife with paradoxes and dual meanings. The argent orb in the sky was both frightening and beautiful, massive and inconsequential. And tonight, as it began a new lunar cycle, the moon was both invisible yet ever present, like a god.

  This occasion was anything but an official wolf hunt, however. This was for Omar. This was personal. Diego was here under no orders but his own obligation to a kid he had called a friend.

  Another point that made Diego acutely aware that this wasn't an official operation was his complete lack of preparation. He didn't realize until he parked his Scrambler that his shotgun holster was empty, his beautiful M4 unfired and in the hands of a Mexi gangbanger. And unlike the old days, Diego even lacked his silver knife. If his guess was true, it would be in Hotah's possession, taken from a Carlos Doka too injured to fight back. Diego expected nothing less from Hotah; all the rumors he'd heard painted a portrait of a vicious criminal. It would be a trick to take the knife from him and kill him with it, but that was the biker's only play.

  This time, quite alone, Diego needed no one else to tell him he was an idiot.

  He scampered along the dry creek bed silently. It would have been ideal to do a full circle around the property, to survey who was inside, but the vegetation here was too sparse to make any other approach realistic.

  Diego wasn't sure who he would find inside. He guessed that the Pistolas had only been planning to make a pit stop. Did the meet at the diner change that? Did a couple of the Mexicans head to Route 66 while the other two headed back to Cali? And the biggest question: Were the Yavapai hiding out here?

  In truth, Diego was betting on a long shot. A last roll of the dice with all his money on the line. He tried to ignore the fact that he had always left Indian casinos with a hole in his pocket, but that was exactly the lure of gambling.

  This time would be different.

  This moment felt right.

  If there was one thing Diego was an expert of, it was wolf behavior. Tonight, before the new moon, Hotah would look to seclude himself or make a move. With all the heat—the police, the FBI—the biker was banking on the mercenaries keeping a low profile. Something in his hunter instinct told him he was right.

  Diego crept up to the wall and checked the yard. The scene of his close call today was empty. The biker vaulted the fence, as before, and set himself against the wall of the building. This time he wouldn't expose himself without knowing where the outlaws were.

  The wilderness was silent tonight. There were no birds, no crickets, and thankfully no rattlesnakes. There wasn't any sign of people either. Diego wondered whether the Pistolas had gone through with the meet or seen through his lies and skipped town. But Diego had to have been at least moderately convincing. Otherwise, the president would have killed him. But maybe once Diego had discovered this place, they decided to clear out. It certainly appeared to be abandoned.

  Diego decided to skirt the wall to the front. Just as he ducked a window, a light went on inside. He froze and glanced above his head. The window was covered with a shade on the inside. Thin paper had been taped over the opening—opaque, but translucent against the light.

  Then he heard the muffled sounds of conversation. The words were too faint to make out, but there were at least two men inside. It sounded like they were hanging out in the back room. Diego decided to attempt entry from the front so he could sneak up on them.

  Luckily, there was no foliage to crunch under his boots. The sand silenced his approach and Diego reached the cement porch without incident. A quick peek showed all clear, so he snuck around to the door. The lights in the front of the building weren't on, and his ear on the door didn't reveal any sounds within. Then another thought came to him. Diego moved to the other end of the porch and checked the dirt driveway that ran alongside the building. This was where the Pistolas had parked their bikes before. Now, it was all clear.

  Diego began to have second thoughts as he returned to the door. At least two men were inside; it would have been nice if he wasn't alone. West might have been right next to him if Diego hadn't turned Maxim on to the safe house. Maybe that had been a mistake, but Diego was freely sharing information just as it was given to him. Second guessing himself wasn't a common thing for the biker to do. Besides, he trusted the detective completely.

  The realization didn't make a one-man assault any easier.

  Time to shit or get off the pot, thought Diego.

  The biker slid his gloved hand over the doorknob and turned it. The door inched open silently and Diego slipped into the empty room. He was in a short hallway that led to a small lobby. An old couch with worn fabric rested against one wall. A small wooden table that was missing a leg lay toppled next to it. Flyers with the title "Chino Valley Visitor Center" were scattered on the floor, outdated and underappreciated. It looked like this had been a welcoming center at some point, but now he was only greeted with cobwebs and whatever furnishings weren't worth selling. Beer bottles, old and new, were strewn about the floor, evidence that this building was never fully abandoned.

  Diego walked cautiously towards the back, stepping lightly over the cracked tiles. A room broke off the main hallway and led to another in the back, where the light came from. Once Diego turned the corner, the voices became clear.

  "Hotah said to stay here, Yas."

  Then back, complaining: "He treats us like we're useless."

  Diego took a quick inventory of the room he was in. Cardboard boxes, empty cans of spray paint, and more beer bottles. He picked up an empty Budweiser and figured it would have to do.

  "That's not true. You know we're not like them."

  "'Cause they don't think we're tough enough to survive the disease."

  Diego positioned himself against the opening to the adjoining room and allowed his eyes to adjust to the light. He saw the shadow of the one he figured was Yas, the one complaining, pacing the room.

  "We don't even know what he's doing." Diego heard the sound of duct tape being pulled off the wall.

  "Don't do that. We're supposed to keep the windows covered."

  "This is the backyard, Jim. I just want to check."

  Diego listened as the other man paced to the far wall. The biker figured it was worth a peek.

  Two men, both Yavapai, peered through the back window, dressed in camouflage cargo pants and desert boots. They were the gunmen from the night before, without the wolf masks. Yas held a beer. Jim crossed his arms behind him. The men appeared a bit nervous, perhaps, but didn't have the anxious mannerisms that Diego would have expected. Wolves should be feeling the effects of the moon, but there was another hour yet—maybe they were still in control.

  But what was it Jim had said? They weren't like Hotah?

  It would make sense. After the deaths of Carlos and Skah the year before, the Seventh Sons were only aware of two living werewolves among th
e Yavapai ranks: Kelan Doka and Hotah Shaw. What if these two weren't infected yet?

  As Diego studied them a little more, trying to come to a decision, Jim suddenly turned his head.

  "Shit," said the Indian.

  Yas turned to see what the alarm was. Diego burst forward into the room and lifted the beer bottle over his head. If neither of these men were wolves, then he was confident he could take them. As he prepared for the two men to charge him, he locked eyes with Jim—then the Yavapai glanced to his side. Diego noticed two black Remington assault rifles in the corner nearest him, the ACRs resting casually against the wall.

  Everybody lunged at once. Diego flung the bottle of Budweiser at Yas and reached for the nearest gun. Jim leapt ahead to stop him. With a deft move, Diego scooped up the rifle and spun out of the way, shoving Jim into the wall. In a fraction of a second Jim recovered, turned, and rammed his skull straight into the butt of Diego's weapon.

  Jim crumpled to the floor.

  Yas was now halfway across the room making a beeline for the biker—he slid on his heels as the automatic weapon blasted several rounds over his head. Yas fell back and landed, sitting, on the floor.

  All action ceased. Diego stood triumphant over Jim's unconscious body and held the rifle up, dead set on Yas.

  "I know you were the ones that killed Omar," said the biker.

  "Hey man, I just do what I'm told."

  "Where's Hotah?" he demanded.

  "I... I don't know. He said he was going out. It's almost the new moon."

  "I know that, you piece of shit." Diego hadn't had a chance to look into Jim's eyes, but he had Yas' undivided attention. There was no eyeshine. No sign of the wolf.

  "And the Pistolas?"

  Yas squirmed uncomfortably. "Who?"

  "I know you're working together." Diego raised the butt of his rifle threateningly and Yas put his hands up.

  "Okay! Okay! They're not here. They don't need a place to hide. We just use this place to meet with them. It's lower key than the reservation."