Rebel struggled to get his wounded leg over the seat, but the guy didn’t give him a hard time and held the bike steady. While the other riders dismounted and spread out to an informal perimeter behind him, Rebel made a beeline toward the front doors. Trying to run away on foot, while injured, from six guys was not going to work. He pushed through the doors with chest out and head high.
The man standing at the host stand cocked his head toward the stairway door to Rebel’s right. Another thug resting heavily in a chair struggled to his feet and opened the door with a leer. Rebel went through to grasp the handrails on each side, pulling himself up each stair. He heard the door close before he’d made the third step, but he didn’t look back. Instead he concentrated his effort to get up each step, exhaling like a weightlifter with each effort.
At the top of the stairs, another guy lounged and shook his head at Rebel’s slow advance. He waited until Rebel was within a couple of steps of the top before raising a gloved fist and giving a single sharp rap on Shep’s office door without getting up. Rebel stood for a moment at the top, taking a few deep breaths, and the doorman nodded. Rebel twisted the knob and staggered inside. Shep looked over at him from his desk. There was a large dark garbage bag next to his chair, the type used to line metal drums, standing up by everything stuffed inside.
“Sit down before you fall down,” said Shep in an eerily calm voice.
Rebel moved back the left chair and plopped down heavily. Sweat dripped from his forehead and temples making the angry red scratches crisscrossing his cheeks burn. His tired shoulders slumped forward and he kept his eyes lowered. He waited for Shep to take the lead noting the revolver next to the knife and a cell phone with blue electrical tape on it. Quite a few seconds went by.
Bambi came out of the bathroom with a damp cloth and a glass of water. Rebel took it, not caring how dirty it was, and wiped away the grime and blood as she sat on the bed. He sucked down the water is a few gulps. Shep regarded him again as he put down the empty glass on the corner of the desk. Rebel continued to hold the rag, rubbing and twisting it in his hands.
“Did you get it?” asked Shep in flat conversational tone. His gaze was unwavering.
“Yes, I got it. Had to stash it. Didn’t know who would be around to pick me up. Burt and Ripper, they died in the wreck. I’m sorry,” said Rebel.
Shep acknowledged the apology with a shrug, but remained quiet.
“I should cut you in. It’s quite a package. My guy, my dealer in Richmond, been behind and just made good. That’s why I wanted the extra muscle when I hired Jesse. Need to pay you back for getting me out of the woods.”
“If you stashed things, there’s no hurry. The money is safe. Let’s get you safe. What do you have at your garage that the police would take an interest in?”
Rebel froze. He hadn’t considered that before embarking on this endeavor. He didn’t think it would come to this.
“There’s some papers in my office. Production records of the meth I cooked, supplies on hand so I knew what I could commit to making, accounting of what I had shipped and what I had been paid for. It’s not in plain view, but if they tear the place apart they’ll find it.”
“Go get it. Burn it. You are the primary suspect and the only reason they haven’t torn it apart already is that they are working two scenes and only got Bucky the Pig. Hurry.”
“I need a ride, Shep. I wrecked my truck.”
“Which is why they will be showing at your garage. I’m not sending any of my guys with you. I want to be far away from you and wish you would have taken Burt and Ripper’s colors. But I can’t move my building. I’m stuck to this spot so you’re the one that needs to go away. Outside is a red Ford Ranger truck,” Shep opened his middle desk drawer and took out a set of keys and slid them across to him. “Get your papers, and then get the fuck out. There’s a thousand dollars in the glove box and the tank is full. Don’t come back for your package for at least six months. And don’t stop in and see me then, either. Just get back out. I don’t need any warrants being served on me. You getting me?”
“Yes, Shep,” his hands closed around the keys. “Thank you.”
He staggered toward the door while Shep resumed sorting papers from his desk and filing cabinet and discarding into the garbage bag. Going down the stairs was much easier than going up. Both doormen glared at him with narrow eyes and twisted lips, disappointed to see him emerge seemingly in no worse shape than before he went in. Rebel concentrated on getting the longest and quickest stride out of his tortured body, to get back to his garage as soon as he could.
The red Ford Ranger wasn’t a bad truck. Older to be sure, but it had recently been washed and there was good tread on the tires. Even the interior was wiped clean, and smelled of Windex. A sealed envelope containing the cash was in the glove box, as well as a signed title with someone’s name he’d never heard of before. Rebel brightened somewhat, despite his body aches. It was a much better deal than he’d expected he’d be given. But then he thought about it from Shep’s point of view. Cash and truck, maybe $2500 bucks all told, was a cheap way to make a really big potential problem go away and maintain plausible deniability of involvement. It took a couple of cranks to start. He’d work on that later. Purge papers and grab some tools.
Rebel knew he was in a hurry, so he merely slowed for a quick look as he left the parking lot for Azalea to time his exit with a crowded looking blue and white S10 cruising down the interstate off ramp. The driver was slow so Rebel gunned it out in front of him to turn right and east toward Lowland Road. He made one last glance into the rearview as he hit the accelerator. Rebel caught a flicker of movement, like a big arm gesture, from its passenger side and the truck fell in behind him rather than turning into the saloon or garage across the street.
He sped up some, and it kept pace, causing him to study it some more. He ran the stop sign at Thigpen Road and kept going straight. The other driver nearly stopped, but then came on strong to catch up. There were no side streets on rural roads to “box,” to go around the block to see if you were being followed. The sun, high in the sky, caused some glare on its windshield but the trees drooping over the road allowed him an occasional glimpse of the occupants. Driving seemed to be a man in a cowboy hat with a wolf sitting next to him. A slightly husky lady leaned against the passenger side door. Rebel raised his foot off the gas and coasted a little, slowing without break lights warning the trailing driver, and letting the Chevy come up on his rear bumper. The next shadow they passed through gave him a clearer view.
“Baylee Ann!” he yelled to himself. “Fuck!”
How did she get out? Buck must already be turning on him. He was the only one who knew. Rebel considered making a run for it now, and not purging his garage. The cops knew it was him already and he was going to have to start a new identity somewhere anyway. So what if they added drug trafficking to the warrant for Rebel Tarwick? It was best to get a head start at slipping away.
But as the immediate panic subsided, Rebel reasoned that Buck turning on him didn’t make sense. The deputy didn’t want to be ensnarled by the investigation either, and the evidence was going to pass through a lot more hands than just his. Buck must be cleaning up for him, and would want him gone before the technicians crawled all over the place. Just like Shep. And Rebel felt an obligation, with all of Shep’s help, to make sure to burn incriminating papers that might point at the Lowland Outlaws before jumping town. And he really wanted his tools anyway. He could make a living with his tools.
Rebel pulled the seatbelt tight, and made a couple of fine mirror adjustments as he leaned back into his racing posture. He alternated giving his palms a final wipe as he grasped the wheel with both hands; the truck was an automatic. Then his right foot stomped it, and the little engine screamed.
The acceleration was painfully slow, the little four cylinder nowhere near the horsepower of the big V-8’s of performance vehicles. But racing on rural roads with light trucks wasn’t all about quick acc
eleration when facing off against the same class of vehicle. It was about maintaining speed in the winding turns, and not letting the truck’s high center of gravity flip you. He settled his painful hind end deeper into the bench seat, feeling the vibrations and using them to be acutely aware of the truck’s role and balance. Rebel had a gift for that. His eyes looked far down the road, to the top of every rise which blocked his further vision, occasionally darting for a quick glance at the yellow diamond signs which told him how the pavement would curve. The asphalt immediately under the tires was old news, Rebel using his memory and peripheral vision for the needed tiny adjustments of the steering wheel.
He never checked his speedometer. It was useless to him. It was merely a number. The engine strained, and he kept it straining to its limits when he could, backing off only with the black snaking weaves of the road threatened to flip him. Through each he picked his line, not constrained by the double yellow stripes of staying in his lane, for maximum speed and centrifugal forces just shy of lifting his inside wheels from the pavement. The gap between him and the Chevy rapidly grew.
And kept growing. Within minutes, it had faded from sight. Even in the long straightaways. By the time he reached Lowland Road, he’d given up on thoughts of laying a false trail and doubling back. He turned to the north, on the beeline to his garage, with more focus in the rearview than on the road ahead. Nothing. Not even a flash in the distance of sun off the windshield. He started backing down from the edge of the envelope. Still way over any legal speed, but letting the churning pistons and crankshaft return to the upper limits of the normal operating range. He’d a long way to go and quickly. Pausing to fix a blown head gasket did not fall under the category of quickly.
Shortly thereafter he was in the outer fringes of the imaginary zone he considered his neighborhood. Even with slowing down, there’d been no sign of the pursuit. His mind began shifting toward how to make the stop at his garage in “pit stop precision and efficiency”. He’d turn around first to back up to the middle bay. He had to turn around before leaving anyway, and doing it first would save steps loading the heavy tools into the back. He’d also grab one case of oil and radiator fluid in case this truck wasn’t all of what he hoped it was. Rebel would then grab a can of something volatile, acetone or some other accelerant and take it back to his office. That’d be the only trip he’d make to grab clothes and such. There was a lighter by his bedroll from when he smoked meth. He’d light the papers on his way out. That would be far quicker than any sorting. Bringing firemen in addition to the cops already on their way to his place had no downside, and maybe an up one if they inadvertently damaged evidence.
His pine trees, showing glimpses of the junkyard, came into view and he braked hard by the mailbox. No use bending a tie rod or a rim going down the washed out driveway too fast. He scanned left and right, looking for anything that was out of place. Something that told him to bolt and run. With Baylee Ann on the lose he knew someone had already been here. A trap was what concerned him now.
When the building itself came into view, the shattered office window and ajar door on the left caught his attention right away. But the building looked dark and quiet, and he aimed for the far right corner to have space to turn around and park backed up to the left bay door. It was when making this turn that he looked over and saw Buck’s patrol car. The blue flashing lights came on.
It had been nestled in like a tick, back behind the Gray Ghost and facing the drive. Rebel stopped the truck, askew in front of the bay door, and then slowly put it into park and sat back. The cruiser’s door opened, and Buck emerged behind it with a drawn gun. Rebel struck the wheel in frustration. He was too late after all.
CHAPTER—25
Kelton Jager suffered Baylee Ann’s complaint, “Your dog can drive better than you!”
The truck Rebel was driving had long vanished from view. Kelton took his foot off the accelerator and coasted, pulling over on the side of the road and wiping his palms on the front of his pants. He was breathing hard, leaning forward to eye the speedometer needle to make sure it hovered at zero, regardless of his booted foot pinning the brake pedal to the floorboard like the throat of a vanquished foe.
“You let him get away? What the hell is wrong with you?” she chided.
He sat back and swallowed, feeling his heart begin to slow, and closed his eyes for a few seconds. Azrael panted next to him in the middle of the bench seat, providing a shield against Baylee Ann’s glares of angry disappointment.
“What are you doing? What’s the deal?” Baylee Ann pressed him.
“I,” paused Kelton trying to find the right words, “don’t drive much.”
“Well I figured that out. You’re not even trying very hard, but then he didn’t rape your ass, did he?” she shook her head in disgust.
“I’m not out here for revenge,” he snapped back at her. “Dr. Fairborn will send your rape kit away for DNA testing. Mr. Redigan will prosecute. They’ll take care of the justice end of things. If I chase after Rebel, all I will do is wreck and Azrael doesn’t have a seatbelt.
I’m here to help you find your friend, Bambi. Braxton said she was at the saloon back there. Let’s go get her. Make sure she’s safe.”
Baylee Ann softened, “You’re right. Let’s go find Bambi.” But it was a voice with undertones of scorn, and of the type of disappointment which was used to disappointment.
He put it in drive, carefully counting the three clicks as he moved the selector, and made a methodical three-point turn. Cruising back east toward the saloon and the interstate only took five minutes, much longer than when they’d raced the other direction, which made Kelton wonder that perhaps he had given up the chase too early. But then he shook his head to himself. No way you were going to win that one, buddy. Don’t risk your dog lightly, said the old K-9 mantra, and there are many ways to risk your dog. It’s hard to admit your limitations, but a man knows what they are and acts accordingly.
The long side of the saloon faced the road, board siding with windows above to let in the south facing light to the old milking stalls. Across the street, a garage bay was open and a man rolled a worn-out tire to join the stack at the side of the building. Kelton turned left into the bar and grill’s parking lot and scanned back and forth as they entered. Braxton Greene’s name adorned the marquee.
Chrome sparkled in the sun of midafternoon. Black leather fringe fluttered from saddlebags and seat tops. Glossy fuel tanks gleamed with their wax polishes. Even a casual observer would note that it wasn’t just a collection of motorcycles parked around the rutted gravel. These were the machines that made these people who they were. And they were proud of who they were.
“You sure about this?” asked Kelton.
“Come on,” said Baylee Ann. “These are my people. Just don’t touch the patch on the back of anyone’s jacket. They consider that disrespect.”
“I don’t want to touch any part of them. Even with gloves and hand sanitizer,” said Kelton rolling his eyes.
“Park over there,” she instructed indicating the back of the lot even though there were plenty of spots near the building.
Kelton didn’t mind at first. It would give him more of a chance to size things up. He also didn’t like leaving his pack in the bed unsecured. Better to park where no one would have a need to go toward the vehicle and avoid the causal passersby to note anything worth taking. But Kelton, a dog trainer, wondered if it was a missed opportunity when it came to body language. Playing by their rules diminished him. It was always best to negotiate from a position of strength. Especially since it was just the three of them. And as Sun Tzu said, make the enemy think you are strong when you are weak.
He turned the wheel hard, gravel coming off the tires.
“Hey, what the hell?” she protested.
He drove right at the front entrance, turning off the ignition in the middle of the main thoroughfare. Anyone entering or exiting, would have to walk around the truck. They piled out. He didn’t
bother to leash Azrael, relying on the heel instead. Kelton looked up with an expressionless face and noted the dark window above divided by the sign, trying to pierce its depths, but the sun behind the building made it hopeless even with his sunglasses on.
“Shouldn’t we leave Azrael in the truck?” she suggested.
He turned toward her, cold at the suggestion, “Not on your life.”
He slammed the truck’s door. Kelton could smell the tobacco coming from under the added-on porch as figures murmured in its shadow. They looked at him, eyes burrowing into him and his dog, as if they might arise and surround them in a display of intimidation or maybe vengeance. But then they had all heard the story of the bridge and could see the butt of the large automatic with its six-inch barrel and reflex sight swinging easy on his right thigh with every stride. He kept those strides in a steady confident rhythm. And the spoils of that fight walked next to him, putting in a gleeful skip as they approached the door.
Inside, Baylee Ann took the lead as he removed his sunglasses. Kelton eyed the bald guy to his right sitting by the stairwell door adjourned with a black and brass tag reading “Private”. It was very much like an old barn, with a hoof worn concrete floor and rough bare timbers. It was a little long and narrow, but the conversion had been tactfully done with a degree of pride akin to the maintenance of the motorcycles outside.
“We want to see Shep,” Baylee Ann told the man leaning on the host station, ignoring the weathered lady who’d just picked up a pair of menus.
His round red face began to say something negative, maybe even something unpleasant, but before the words could get out his head cocked to the side at the pair of hard distinct thuds from the ceiling above him.
K-9 Outlaw: A Kelton Jager Adventure Book 1 Page 21
