Bronco’s gut twisted. He recalled all too well the brutal ways of the Neo-Nazis. “Your friend recall seeing any tattoos on the guy—or his associates?”
“Tattoos? The thug who picked her up was clean-shaven, handsome—like you would look, minus the tats. She said he looked like the boy next door, only grown up. Not a tat on him. But his friends? They wore masks on their faces, and their arms were covered in tattoos. All ugly, but mostly of the numbers eighty-eight and eighteen eighty-eight.”
Bronco nodded. “Those numbers stand for the position of the letters in the English alphabet. A is the first letter and H is the eighth letter, so eighty-eight means “Heil Hitler”, and eighteen eighty-eight means. “Adolf Hitler, Heil Hitler.”
Steph shuddered. “Disgusting and frightening.”
“You got that right,” Bronco agreed. “What else can you tell me about them?”
She waved her hand for a refill, and her bracelets jangled. “Well, they are no fan of our government, I can tell you that. My friend said the whole time they were beating her, they kept calling her a lackey and a tool of liberals, the Elders of Zion, and the international banking cabal. Crazy talk.”
The wheels began turning in Bronco’s head. Catching his drift, Gaucho growled his disapproval. “Where did they pick her up?”
“The Garret. It’s a dance hall, karaoke bar, terribly safe. Which is why it was so shocking. Nothing bad ever happened at the Garret.” Steph shook her head. “Until that night.”
“Do they have security tapes?”
“Yes, of course,” Steph said with a quivering voice. “The Neo-Nazi wore a hoodie, kept his face covered. The creeps dumped my friend in the Saint Vic’s parking lot, naked, with a pink triangle tattooed on her chest.”
Emma cleared her throat. “Are you okay, Steph?”
“Yes, it’s just—so shocking. That’s not us. Billings isn’t like that. It’s the largest city in Montana, and it’s always been LGBT friendly. An attack of this nature—well, it’s disturbing. It’s like having a serial killer next door. It could be our neighbor.”
Bronco nodded. “The clean cut, fine upstanding citizen. Evil rarely wears a label that says ‘Caution: filled with molten lava of hate’.”
“I can’t talk about this anymore.” Steph slapped the table. “Enough doom and gloom. Do you like the décor? Have you sold any beadwork? When is that baby coming out so I can hold him?”
While Tallulah and Lucius filled Steph in all things LaBelle, Bronco leaned over and whispered to Emma. “Can we call a truce? I need to ask you a few questions—outside.”
She stood, stretched, and put her coffee cup and plate in the sink. “Come on, Franny. I bet you could use a walk by the river.”
Engrossed in their conversation, the other three merely nodded when Bronco and Emma stepped out the back door with both four-legged critters in tow.
They walked in silence to the river’s edge where the sun lapped at the water and trout teased Gaucho and Franny. Off his leash, the cat pounced at fish while the pug ran back and forth along the sand barking and yipping. Emma looked off into the distance, her gaze fixed on the other side of the river.
Bronco put his hands in his pockets and leaned back on his heels. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk down to you. I really need your help.”
She gave him the side eye, as if waiting for the other boot to drop.
“This assignment worries me. Bert will hand me my ass if you get hurt. Tallulah is too far along and way too hormonally challenged to be of assistance. I still haven’t heard what special ability Lucius has, but with that baby due in less than a month, it doesn’t seem fair to drag him into this investigation.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“We need to get eyes on this drone and find out where it came from. If we can figure that out, we can jam the radio signals between the person controlling it and the bird. My remote viewing can help us lay eyes on the source, but I’d feel better if we had hard data to back us up. I’m going to call your brother and tell him we need satellite images of the state, with a focus on the area around the Mustang Ranch.”
“Okay.” She quirked a brow at him. “What’s this have to do with me?”
Struggling to come up with the right words, he dragged the toe of his boot in the sand. “We need to find out if the Neo-Nazis are behind this. I want to get into Billings and scope out the gay scene.”
Emma began to laugh, and he put his hand up like a traffic cop. “I was hoping you and Steph would go with me, be my guides. I’d be a new guy in town, looking for a good time. If I can lure one of those cretins, get him to take the bait, we’d have a way in.”
“And then what? They beat the shit out of you? Maybe kill you?” Fists on her hips, Emma glared at him. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Besides, what makes you think you could play a gay guy well enough to pick someone up?”
“Hey, give me some credit,” he spat back. “I’ve got years of undercover work under my belt that I’m damn good at. Not once did the motorcycle clubs I infiltrated even suspect I was an ATFE agent. Besides, your cousin thought I was cute—”
Before he could finish his sentence, her hands were on his shoulders and Emma yanked him in for a kiss. Bronco’s brain turned to mush, and all the blood in his body raced to his groin. His hands moved of their own volition, running through her hair, pulling those lush lips into his, his tongue seeking entrance, his hips crushing against hers. She grabbed his butt and pushed his erection against the vee of her crotch, his desire and hardness growing with each thrust of his hips. He moaned, reached for her breast—and she shoved him away.
Like two gunmen in an old Western town, they stood with their hands at their sides, breathing hard and staring each other down. Confused, he looked around wildly to see if someone or something had interrupted her display of passion. “What just happened?”
“A test. There are some things our body can’t pretend.” Hair wild around her flushed face, lips swollen, she rasped, “Do you really think you can pass yourself off as gay?”
Stunned, he stared at her, his mind racing, grasping for thoughts, but all he could think of, all he could see was her in his arms, up against a wall with her legs around his waist, their moans of passion filling the darkness. A shout cut through his miasma of pheromones and lust.
“Get in here,” Lucius called from the back door. “It’s Bert. Says it’s urgent.”
Whistling for the pug, Emma stomped back to the hotel with Bronco and Gaucho pulling up the rear. Her fine ass addled his mind even as he tried to clear it of the sex-drenched fog.
What the hell was that about? A test? He hadn’t planned to do the bump and grind with every guy in the club, just hang out at the bar and get the lay of the land—so to speak. Truthfully, he’d never even considered the possibility that he’d have to prove he was gay to play the role. Dammit. She’s right. Well, that plan was out. He shook his head and stomped up the back steps, angry at himself for being so stupid.
Steph was no longer in the kitchen, nor was Tallulah. Lucius held a cordless phone out to Bronco. “He said to put it on speaker.”
“I tried to reach you both for ten minutes,” Bert’s voice boomed. “I forgot your cell phones aren’t worth the plastic they’re packed in out there. No cell towers. We need to get both of you satellite phones.”
“Speaking of satellites, boss, can you get eyes on the area around the Mustang Ranch, look for off the grid communities? We’re looking for a Neo-Nazi installation, the American Schutzstaffel?”
“Ugh. Those scumbags. Yeah, I can do that. But I have some more bad news for you guys.”
The three exchanged glances and Emma chewed her lower lip. “Thirteen bald eagles have been found dead in Northern Montana. All shot with .308s.”
“Ohmigod,” Emma breathed and turned pale. “That’s horrible.”
“Yes, it is. It means the terrorists are escalating their attacks against symbols of America. First the Musta
ngs, now bald eagles, next it’s—”
“The buffalo,” Lucius exploded. “They’ll be coming after them next!”
****
Staggering backward, Emma fell into a kitchen chair, overwhelmed by the enormity of the attacks. The bald eagle was not only the symbol of the United States of America, but also the sacred bird to the Crow and many other Native American tribes. The only thing that kept her from bursting into tears was knowing that her brother was safe in Washington, D.C., away from the terrorists who would take down sacred animals—and the shape-shifters among them.
“You can’t come out here, bro. You know that, right?”
“I hear you Emma.” Bert expelled a long sigh. “I’ll be here in D.C., working our military and intelligence grapevines to get whatever information I can.”
“If we can get a line on where they are,” Bronco added, “we might be able to jam the signals they’re using to control the drone.”
“I’ll get a request into our friends at MILSATCOM.”
“Speak in English, bro. I may have been USMC, but don’t know your alphabet soup.”
Bert sighed. “Short for Military Satellite Systems Communications Directorate. I’ll see what they can pull up for us.”
“And, boss one more thing. We’ve sort of got a situation here. Tallulah is more than a little hormonally challenged. And regardless of what talent Lucius has, I don’t think it’s fair to drag him into this when his wife is about to deliver any moment now.”
Lucius gave Bronco a nod and thumbs up.
“I’d like to request we move our consultant into the field.”
“Our consultant? You mean my sister?” Bert’s voice blasted out of the speaker. “In what capacity? What do you think she can do that you can’t do?”
“She’s a damn good fighter and soldier, sir, and on top of that she’s got a secret weapon.” He paused and gave her a significant look.
Emma wondered what was coming out of his mouth next. Good kisser? Because he was one damn fine kisser, and she still hadn’t recovered from that dizzying, bone melting lip-lock and embrace.
“Well?” Bert yelled. “What is it?”
“She’s a woman. And a damn good looking one.”
Livid that her female attributes were being discussed with her brother and her ancestor, Emma rose to her feet and launched herself at the phone. Snatching it out of an open-mouthed Lucius’s hand, she shouted, “I don’t know where this is going, I wasn’t in on this, bro.”
Bronco yelled, talking over her. “These attacks are too organized, too methodical, and too well-funded to be a lone wolf lunatic. My gut is telling me the Neo-Nazis are behind these killings.” Reaching for the phone and grabbing air, Bronco continued. “A single guy is too suspicious. But a couple—that’s a perfect cover. I want us to go in undercover as a couple, boss. I want to gut these bastards from inside out.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Bert roared. “She’s my sister. I won’t allow it.”
“Bert, you’re my brother, and I love you with all my heart, but I’m a big girl. I’m already involved. You can’t keep me out. I want in. I’ve wanted in all along and you’ve shut me out. Now your guy is telling you the same thing.”
The phone went silent for a long time. At last Bert said, “I don’t like it.”
“I know, boss, but unless you’ve got that Fury demi-goddess headed here…”
“Not available,” Bert responded. “She’s on an undercover assignment in the Middle East with her mother. And before you even go there, all our shifters are out. They’d be target practice for these goons.”
Exactly why Emma had told her brother to stay in D.C. He’d suffered enough for his country.
In a soft voice, she called his brother by his Crow nick name, Duuptakoische, Bald Eagle, and added in English, “Bronco needs me on this case with him.”
And God help her, she needed him, too.
Chapter Five
Bronco pulled his sweat-soaked do-rag off his head and ran his fingers through his hair. God, I need a shower. After a bit more brow beating, Bert had reluctantly approved adding Emma to the team with the proviso that Lucius be looped in on everything—just in case he was needed in an emergency. After wrangling about how that would work, Bert clarified, “Emma can get a message to me, and I can call Lucius.”
Bronco mulled over that little puzzle piece for about a minute, then decided his boss worked in mysterious ways, ones he had yet to discern. Perhaps he and Emma had a similar connection to the one she had with dogs and horses? He shrugged. As long as it worked, who cared?
Lucius came into the kitchen and handed Bronco a room key. “Here you go, pardner. You’re gonna need a place to stay and make plans. No way can you stay at Emma’s place. The Indian telegraph will have you married by the end of the day, if not sooner.”
Emma laughed. “He’s right. Our clan has been yapping at me about getting married, settling down and having babies. You can come home with me long enough to grab your bike and leave. Otherwise, the elders will be planning a wedding feast by sundown tomorrow.”
“I’m confused,” Bronco said scratching his head. “How are we going to make plans if we’re not together?”
“We can’t do anything in the absence of good intelligence, which if I understand how remote viewing works, means you do your best work when you’re rested and in a quiet space. The LaBelle is much quieter than my neighborhood, trust me. While Bert is working on his end, we can get organized. You can head back here and get cleaned up, while I connect with my ranch hand, Hank, to arrange for him to take care of my horses and my dogs. Plus, I’ll be packing a few girl things, since you said that was my secret weapon, and all.”
Mouth working like a fish, Bronco’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel like a beauty contestant. I just know how those groups think. Women are objects to be used, arm candy, baby makers, sex objects, and tools of hatred. Die hard Neo-Nazis need their counterpart females to breed and create the New American Reich.”
She cocked her head and threw a quizzical look at him. “Hey, Lucius, is it just me, or does our friend sound like an encyclopedia of Neo-Nazi harangues? I thought you were an undercover biker, or is this your third alter ego? Who were you before you were with Alcohol Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives?”
Bronco ducked his head to avoid looking Emma in the eye. Why’d she have to be so damn perceptive? Was she a mind reader? The best cover stories were constructed from truths—and half-truths. He shrugged. “I had some relatives who fell under the spell of a charismatic White Supremacist cult leader. They tried to recruit me, but I didn’t buy their bullshit.”
Her face softened. “I’m sorry to hear that. Where are they now?”
“Last known whereabouts was on a survivalist compound in Idaho. If they kept going down that violent path, my guess now is that they’re six feet under.” He could only hope. The last people he wanted to run into ever again were his abusive father—and his fraternal twin brother, Jack. Even though he’d only been a little kid, he remembered too well his father’s descent into madness and hatred. It was imprinted on Bronco’s soul.
His parents’ marriage had always been tumultuous, but when his father, Terence, aka, Terrible Terry Craig lost his job in a Detroit auto factory, he blamed his boss, the company, and everyone but himself. “The Mexicans took my job!” was his oft-repeated rant. Between drinking bouts, his father began meeting with like-minded men who decided it was time to head out West to the last frontier of White America. His father dragged his mother and the twin boys, Brandon and Jack, and began to home school them on the Neo-Nazi creed, along with survivalist living and paramilitary training. By the age of seven, both boys were able to field strip weapons and hit targets on a par with adults. Jack, the center of his father’s attention for once in his life, loved it.
Brandon hated every minute and prayed for a way out. One day his prayers were answered.
“Boys,” his mo
ther called, “we need to go into town. The state’s been all over my case about getting you your vaccinations. Need to do it today or they’ll make trouble for us.”
Brandon leaped to his feet and ran for the door. Any excuse to get out of the compound, even for a doctor’s appointment, was a good one.
“Does Daddy know?” Jack hung back in the doorway, a suspicious look on his face.
“Yes, of course he knows. Now come on, the doctor said he could see us right away, so we’ve gotta go.” His mother strode for the door, the keys to the pick-up jangling in her hand, a large bag slung over her shoulder. “I’ve got just enough money to buy you boys some ice cream. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Jack?”
“I don’t want no needles.”
His mother hopped into the truck and turned the engine over. Brandon jumped in and shouted to Jack, “Beat you to the truck. I got shotgun.” He held the door open but Jack didn’t budge.
Jack bellowed from the door, his face contorted with rage, “I’m telling Daddy!”
White faced, his mother turned to Brandon and screamed, “Shut your door!” She hit the gas, and they blew out of the dirt driveway, past the shocked expression of the sentries dressed in camouflage, trying to close the gates to freedom.
When Brandon/Bronco was old enough to understand, his mother revealed that during the time they’d been living in the survivalist compound, she had been secretly meeting with undercover federal agents posing as hunters camping in a wooded area outside the enclave. In exchange for insider information on the survivalists who were amassing an arsenal large enough to blow up Boise, she arranged for new identities for her sons and herself. When Jack refused to come with them and threatened to tell her husband, she had no choice but to run. Had he caught her, he would have killed her.
Legacy of Evil Page 5
