She’d see him dead for that.
The light rapping on the back door drew her attention away from the murderous thoughts. Reaching out, she pushed it open, allowing Bronson to step past her and into the back-liquor room.
“Let’s go to my office.” She motioned him to follow her, leading him down the dark corridor, and into the spacious room. The box was on her desk, setting next to two video tapes and a manila envelope.
“What’s this about, Lace? It’s five o’clock in the morning,” Bronson grumbled, finding himself a seat in a chair.
“I’ve got some serious shit to discuss with you and I need you alert, Bronson. Here’s some coffee for you.” Lace slid a fresh cup of black java his way, already sipping hers.
“What gives?” He accepted the cup, taking a drink.
In the same tone someone would order at a drive through window, she spit out why she brought him there. “I’ve got a severed head in this box, and the video tape of the burglary here, and a witness on video, describing a murder that took place with a signed affidavit.” Pointing at each item as she rattled them off.
Bronson choked on his coffee, almost spitting it out. Setting down the cup, he gasped, his fist banging on his chest while coughing. “Excuse me?”
Lace settled into her high-backed chair with a smirk. “I warned you.”
Bronson stood up, reaching out to open the closed box. He whistled low as he peered inside with a shake of his head. “Damn, this is some sick shit.”
“The same guy who you escorted here the other day, did this,” Lace countered.
“Why are you giving me all of this now?”
She pressed her lips into a tight line, taking in a deep breath, she let it out slowly. “We’ve got a big problem here. I’ve known you for a long time, and you’ve turned your head on several occasions, because we both want the same thing. But if we don’t do something about this now, I won’t be able to save Shadow Falls from becoming a war zone.
“On this tape, you’ll find the Warriors beating the shit out of my girls. You wanted it, I got it for you. This other tape is of a girl who witnessed the murder of the tribal elder that went missing last year, which we all read about. She even signed a statement giving you the directions to his exact burial location, and every fucker that was there.
“I’m bringing this to you, because I know the election for sheriff is coming soon.” She leaned forward to emphasize her next words, locking eyes with the deputy. “Let me make this very clear, deputy. You solving this case that involves the elder, will make you a local hero and get you a ton of votes to secure you a victory. The icing on the cake will be you running this biker trash out of the valley.”
Bronson sat back in his chair and processed everything. His face remained passive and nearly unreadable. She knew his type though. Most men who ran for sheriff had been on the force for years. This was his chance to kick start his career ten years ahead of schedule. She knew it wasn’t something he’d pass up.
“So, I’m guessing this shit here,” he pointed to the video tapes. “This tribal issue led to the so-called burglary,” pointing to the other video tape. “Which escalated into this?” He motioned to the box with Xander in it. “And if we don’t do something about this soon, I’m sure I can expect more dead bodies?”
Lace nodded, picking up her mug. “And it all comes down to you, deputy. Are you going to be the one to save Shadow Falls, or watch it burn to the ground?”
Bronson tilted his head, a scoff resembling a chuckle bubbled forth. “Nothing in life is free, Lace. What’s this going to cost me?”
Finishing her coffee, Lace was rather enjoying the cat and mouse game they played with one another. “Several things. One, this has to be taken care of immediately. As in, wake up a judge and get a warrant. I can’t stop what may happen if you don’t.”
She smiled, swiveling in her chair. “Two, we can help one another. I’m not going to ask you to do something illegal or immoral. That’s not my style. I may ask a favor of you in the future and you can always come to me if you need something. You and I both know this is mutually beneficial for both parties. I get a place to do business and make money; you get a chance to run this town like you want too. You’re way smarter than the old bastard in office now. He’s outlived his usefulness. You’re young and more current with the times and know that sometimes you have to look the other way.”
Pushing the items in his direction, Lace rose up from her seat. “So, do we have a deal?”
Bronson nodded, rising up to place his cap on his head. He stuck out his hand to shake hers. “Yes, we do.”
Taking his hand, she held it firmly with the shake he was looking for. “Good. I won’t keep you any longer since you’ve got two hours until sunup. You better hurry, Sheriff.”
Chapter 46
You’re Going Down
Between trying to keep Durty calm and watching his phone for the text from Steel, all of the Rojas were told was coming, sleep was nonexistent.
Sting rose up from his bike’s seat, lifted his hands over his head, clasped them together, arched his back, and yawned with a stretch that was almost better than an orgasm. Shaking his head clear, he reached for the metal coffee cup in the holder on his handlebar.
It was the ass crack of dawn, the doors of the KO Corral open, revealing the sun peaking over the mountaintops, setting the sky ablaze with blue clouds and streaks of purples, pinks, and oranges. The cactus’ and Joshua Trees were just shadows against the colorful backdrop as the twenty Rojas waited for a sign from their president to roll out.
Steel filled them all in on Lace’s deal with the Deputy Bronson, who procured a warrant to search the Warrior’s clubhouse, along with several arrest warrants. He’d text Lace when all was done and she, in turn, would let Steel know.
Jet punched Sting lightly on the arm. “Your ol’lady’s party kicked some ass last night.”
“She knows how to throw a party, that’s for sure.” Sting’s pride swelled hearing how Durty’s hard work was appreciated.
“Got to cut loose now and again, brother. Otherwise? You go crazy, or maybe start talking to yourself like Spock over there.” Jet motioned to the Roja prospect. “Ain’t that right, Prospect?”
“Yes, sir,” Spock quickly agreed.
Blue eyes rolled with a slow shake of his head. “Not all of us are lady killers like you, Jet.”
Jet’s green eyes lit with humor from under wiggling black brows. “Watch this shit.” He chuckled, moving toward his bike. Sitting on the edge of the seat on his motorcycle, his long legs kicked out, crossing his ankles. “Yo, Steel. Seems like I wasn’t the only one being a ladies’ man last night.”
Steel grunted, the heels of his hands rubbing at his eyes. Letting them flop to his lap, he glanced over toward Jet. “What makes you say that?”
“That move on the dance floor for one. You going to Lace’s room, for two.”
“I’m not in the mood, Jet. I’m on two hours of sleep, and we have to focus here.” Steel glowered at Jet, who in turn smiled more.
“What were you doing the other hour and a half?”
“Come on, brother. You know I’m a ladies’ man.” Steel smiled, taunting Jet. “How much sleep did you get?”
Jet slapped his knee and laughed. “Yeah, okay. Maybe you and Pamela Handerson.” Jet jerked his hand in front of his crotch in a masturbation movement.
Sting couldn’t help but laugh at the two bantering back and forth. It was an easy comradery between the club as a whole.
Steel smirked as he glanced at his phone, which had just told him, ‘It’s me honey!’, with a ding. Looking up at Jet while he tucked his phone in his back pocket, he laughed in an almost diabolical way. “That’s okay. Keep it up, Jet. You best be done when Reaper gets here, or else that smile will be permanent.”
Jet was taking a sip of his energy drink when Steel revealed one of Rev’s Hell Hounds was showing up. Spitting it out,
he pounded on his chest, coughing and gasping for air. “Wait, what?”
“Lace just sent a heads up that a few of our big brothers are rolling in. So yeah, I’m not exactly in a joking mood right now.”
Several of the other brothers pushed off their bikes and strolled over to the three when they heard the Santa Muerte sent in some help, especially the spook, Reaper.
Rusty shuddered as Sting asked, “Why would they send a Hell Hound?”
The Reverend kept his hands clean for the most part. He had a few of the Santa Muerte brothers that were his death squad. They specialized in nothing but the art of murder, torture, and solving specialized problems. Reaper was the leader of the crew. There were mythical rumors that surrounded him, that Sting always wondered if they were true.
Steel’s lips thinned out with a shake of his head. “Could be nothing. Maybe they weren’t busy. Who knows with them, but if Rev sent him because he thinks we can’t handle our shit, that’s a huge problem.”
Duke rolled his head from side to side. “Rev’s not the kind of guy to accept mistakes. He sends out the Reaper to accept your apology, if you know what I mean.”
Octane roamed his large frame over to the crew, angling his body between the open doors and Steel. “I heard the guy can’t be killed.”
Sting scoffed, draining his coffee cup. “I highly doubt that.”
Everyone, even the prospects slowly gathered around in a tight circle, listening to the conversation about the man many called the Right Hand of Death, and Satan himself.
“I know one thing. When I spent time in Vegas with the Muerte, I saw him take six bullets to the chest. He was dead. No pulse, no breathing, nothing.” Steel spoke in a story like manner. “Fifteen minutes later, we had to bone out, we could hear the cops rolling in. I got told to grab and tag his ass, put him in the van. Me and another guy went to grab him, and he rose up off the concrete, shook himself off, walked over to his fucking bike like nothing happened and rolled out.”
Sting shook his head in disbelief. “Probably had on a flack-vest.”
Steel chuckled and pointed at Sting, “Then ask him to show you the holes.”
Butcher crossed his chest in the sign of the cross, as if protecting himself. “You think that’s crazy, what about when they were torturing that one guy?”
Steel snapped his fingers, remembering the tale Butcher was talking about. “Oh yeah. That shit was insane.”
Rusty followed with the crossing of himself, his eyes wider than normal. “The story goes, they had a guy they were trying to get information from. He wasn’t giving them shit. They beat this guy to shit, cut off fingers, threatened his family. You name it, they did it. He wasn’t talking. They went and got Reaper. He opened the door, and no lie, didn’t even step foot in the room, and the guy dropped dead, right there in the chair, the moment he opened the door.”
Duke nodded, pointing at Rusty. “They said he sucked the soul right out of the guy.”
Sting couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the way all these tough bikers were pissing in their pants over some guy who happened to have luck on his side. “You guys sound like a bunch of old superstitious cowboys sitting around a campfire telling ghost stories.”
“You just wait and see.” Butcher nodded, shaking his finger at Sting. “If you need to go piss, you best be doing it now.”
Sting nearly fell off his bike in sheer laughter as both their prospects ran for the bathroom at the back of the building. The look on their faces was priceless. Both were white as sheets, their eyes wide with fear.
Speaking of the devil, a low rumbling of thunder off in the distance got closer to the barn. Steel called out to the prospects, having them stand at the entry way, ordering them to close them once the brothers rolled in.
No one moved as three bikes turned the corner and made their way into the main entrance of the barn. They weren’t flashy, each bike a flat matte black with chromed accents. The only thing depicting they were with the Muerte was their back patch painted on the gas tank of the bike. It was a beautiful design of the Virgin Mary as a skeleton, her skull draped in a red cloak with her boney fingers steepled in prayer.
Sting shivered as the barn seemed to be engulfed in darkness, even before the prospects got the doors completely closed.
The leader, completely dressed in black leather, pushed down his kickstand, and moved with the ease and grace of a natural born predator. He wasn’t overly tall, maybe five foot ten and of average build. He peeled his gloves off one finger at a time, setting them to the top of the tank. They were thin hands with long fingers, currently pulling off the full faced helmet.
The male’s face was hidden by a black and white face mask in the design of a skull, but the eyes in the opening of the mask spoke nothing more than emptiness. They were the lightest eyes Sting had ever seen. He thought his took the cake, but this cat’s eyes were near white, and shone like a fresh water pearl; and they stared right through him. Sting swore the room dropped twenty degrees in that moment.
Just as Sting was having second thoughts about this guy, and debating on crossing himself for protection, even though he wasn’t Catholic, Reaper peeled off the mask, rubbing his hand across the raven black close-cut hair.
Sting blinked and almost laughed. Reaper looked like a model that stepped straight out of a girly magazine or romance novel. He made Jet look fugly. How was it possible that a man could be called beautiful? They say the devil had many faces and from what Sting saw, scared the shit out of him and was making him a believer.
Jet leaned over to Sting, whispering so low, he could barely make out what Jet was saying, “He’s so pretty even I’d fuck him.”
If he wasn’t in shock at the moment, from witnessing the reveal of the most feared man in the Santa Muerte, he probably would’ve pissed himself from laughing.
The Rojas moved over to the trio of bikers, just as Wraith and Frost peeled off their helmets. Bro-hugs and fist bumps were aplenty, even with Reaper, although he didn’t say much. He was very self-contained.
Once the hellos were out of the way, T-Rex whistled loud enough to pierce ear drums, getting the group’s attention.
Wraith moved toward Steel, his voice raspy from years of cigarettes. “What’s the plan, brother?”
As Steel started talking, Sting took a minute to look over Wraith and Frost. They were total opposites of the Rojas, who were clean and didn’t look weathered. The Nomads looked like their bikes and gear, constantly on the go, living the hard life of wanderers. Wraith was dark haired and dark eyed, goatee that was in two braids down to his waist band. Frost was close cut with snow white hair and brown eyes.
“Listen up, guys. Right now, the sheriff is raiding the Warrior’s clubhouse. Whenever they leave, we’ll get a text. When we do, we roll out and head up there. We’ll have surprise on our side. There could be fifteen to twenty of them, but we’ve got twenty-three of us, so this shouldn’t be a problem. I want every orange cut you see. If Vader is arrested, they’ll be disorganized. Most likely, they’ll flee. There’s two ways out, the street we’re coming in on and a dirt road that leads out the back. If they run, chase them down. Take their cuts by whatever means necessary. We don’t want a shoot-out unless we absolutely have too.”
Frost snapped his fingers while swinging his arm. “Aww, shucks. And here I was hoping to try out my new pistol, Cherry, today.” He brandished a chromed out .45 ACP with cherry red grips.
Sting glanced over to the trio, Reaper casually leaning against his bike with a bored expression on his face. Sting doubted he’d follow Steel’s orders, or even needed them. He was sure Reaper had seen many gun fights, this wasn’t something new to him.
Taking in a deep breath, holding it, and then slowly exhaling, Sting was curious how all of this would play out. He had a weakness now, and she was in bed, asleep, or so he hoped. He didn’t want her up and worried about him. He had something to live for, to make it home to.
Steel had a philosophy—don’t get attached to anything that can’t be walked away from in thirty seconds. Sting gathered that was one of the reasons why Steel shut people down about Lace. She could become a weakness, a danger to him, just as Durty now was for Sting.
It’s me, Honey! (ding!)
Sting held his breath, recognizing Lace’s text tone, and he was sure he wasn’t the only one.
Steel pulled out the phone, swiped it open, nodded, text back and closed the phone. “Mount up.”
Sting’s stomach did a flip-flop. No lie. He was the one to lead this pack, the one who’d be on the front lines when they rolled into the clubhouse parking-lot. This was the first time since he was in the military, he’d been front line to anything. His time with the El Cajon boys hadn’t amounted to shit. He wanted action, he got it.
The bikes firing up in unison could make any sane man rock hard. It was a sound no one would ever forget—low and throbbing, music to the ears. The thundering roar that filled the barn was deafening, the full face dampening it enough to be able to think. T-Rex pulled up next to him, Jet directly behind Sting, Steel to his right, followed by Butcher on the inside and Octane on the outside. The line continued to the very end, where Wraith and Frost rode side by side, Reaper bringing up the rear.
Sting pulled in the clutch and pushed the gear peg down into first. Lifting up his hand, he made several revolutions, then slowly inched his bike out into the bright sunlight. Checking his left rearview mirror, Sting needed to make sure Spock and Poe were in the SUV with the trailer, playing chase. Seeing they were right on their tails, Sting throttled out, opening his bike up.
It wasn’t that long of a ride to get to the Warriors clubhouse—down a desolate road, onto a dirt road, then back onto some shitty pitted asphalt. Blowing past them as they turned onto the dirt road, were four county sheriff’s patrol cars holding men in the back. One of them looked like an extremely pissed Vader, but at the speeds they were rolling, Sting wasn’t willing to make a bet on it.
Pulling into the parking lot, he swung into a spot, turning tight, until he was facing the building. Walking his bike back, he turned off the engine, kick stand down, and was off the bike, yanking his head free from the helmet. This was going to have to be done quick and with precision, since twenty-three bikes weren’t exactly quiet.
Policy of Truth (Sacred Heart Continuum Series Book 1) Page 30
