by Cathryn Cade
Quince's face reddened. "They were in Rattler Nation too. You want 'em safe, relocate 'em."
Stick shook his head. "Rattler Nation, eh? Tell me, Quince, did any Flyer ride in here and shoot at you or your brothers? Any Flyers try to blow your place into hell? Any Flyer mess with the pathetic whores everyone knows you run? Or the poisonous shit you sell to addicts? No."
"Our business ain't none of yours."
"That's right. Not unless you try it in our territory. But Flyers ride where they want to ride, they live where they want to live, and no one messes with one of us—or you mess with all of us. That was your mistake, Quince. If you'd kept to yourselves, we would've let you go your way. You didn't do that. Now we're comin' back at you, and you'll regret makin' the first move."
Quince was nearly hopping with fury now.
But one of his men nearest said something low-voiced and the Rattler president relaxed a little. Then he smiled at Stick. This was not a pretty sight, with his nicotine-ruined teeth and scarred face.
"Maybe I've made a move you don't know yet," he called. "One that'll make you change your mind. Make you do whatever I say."
Stick smiled back, satisfaction and his own deep, cold rage a rich mixture in his chest. "Oh, you mean the little garter snake you sent slithering into my home? The one who was supposed to grab my sons and bring them here to your den of pedophiles, rapists and woman-beaters? That plan, Quince?"
Behind Stick, a low, threatening rumble passed through the ranks of the Flyers, ominous as the thunder on the horizon.
Battle Quince's eyes flared with shock, and his smile slackened.
"Now see, that plan," Stick went on. "That's the one that turned you into a dead man walking, Quince. No one messes with my family and lives. No. One."
Quince took a step back, his face paling, sweat springing out on his brow. Then he raised one hand and scratched his cheek, a fast, angry motion.
Stick waited. Nothing happened. Then he lifted his hands, spreading his arms wide in a gesture that said, 'Still here'.
Behind him, Rocker laughed. "What's the matter, Quince?" he called. "Somethin' s'posed to happen there?"
Stick leaned in, on Quince's flankers, who were restive, nervous as a band of horses ready to run before the storm. "Any of you so much as put a finger near those triggers, you're dead men, just like your president here. You're facing an army of armed brothers. You wanna live, choose."
He looked to Quince. "Waitin' for your snipers to take me down? They're the ones seem to be down, Battle. That means my brothers are inside your snake den. And that means you got a target in the middle of your back. How's it feel?"
Quince's eyes widened. He started to go for the weapon at his belt. But then he jerked forward, his arms flying wide.
As the low thwap of a silenced bullet struck him, he toppled face first to the bottom of the crumbling steps, blood welling from the hole in the back of his bald head. The shot had come from inside his own compound.
The men around him scuttled backward, weapons up. Behind Stick a score of weapons were cocked.
"Anyone else wanna die?" he asked coldly.
None of the Rattlers moved.
"Good choice," Stick said. "Now drop your weapons, and we ride out, leave the rest of you alive. And whoever takes up the gavel for your club, remember—you mess with one Flyer, you mess with all of us."
One of the remaining Rattlers, a stocky younger man, nodded jerkily. "We got you. Drop 'em, brothers."
One by one, the weapons were set down, leaving the Rattlers unarmed, pale and sweating.
"Comin' out, Stick," called a voice.
"Da," Stick answered.
Bullet ambled from the club house, along with two brothers from other chapters. As he passed Quince's body at the foot of the steps, the gray-haired biker paused and spat on the Rattler president's cut. "It was a pleasure, you bastard."
"And in case any of you Rattlers decides to call in the law," Stick announced, "Quince was shot from your clubhouse with one of your weapons. Fingerprints from one of your own all over it. So I was you, I'd leave him somewhere no one ever finds him, and move on. Go tonight, don't wait."
Stick moved to his Harley and mounted up. The Flyers rode out in wave upon wave of thundering, gleaming motorcycles and headlights through the dusk, leaving behind those who had dared to threaten them and theirs.
They had to pass many a local police vehicle to do so, but since no shots had been heard, the Kennewick law merely made their presence known - a silent suggestion that if any trouble did blow up, they were watching. Stick respected that, as he did the fact none of the cops did any stupid posturing with roadblocks and that kind of shit. A waste of everyone’s time.
The brothers gathered again at a big, biker-friendly bar and motel on the other edge of the cities and celebrated, high style, on the Airway Heights’ chapter’s tab.
Stick, Rocker and Keys didn't linger, but rode on, east toward home.
* * *
The next morning, one of the remaining Rattlers shuffled into the big, dirty kitchen of their club house to begin making breakfast for the brothers. He pulled a few cartons of eggs from the refrigerator and dumped them on the counter by the big gas range, cursing under his breath. Here he was, finally out of the pen for beating his bitch of an old lady to death, and he was still working in a kitchen.
But, after several of the brothers had scattered last night without a word, somebody had to do this shit. Least he hadn't gotten stuck with driving Battle's corpse out into the prairie and diggin' the hole for him. That had fallen to a couple of the younger brothers.
He reached out and flipped on the gas to a big, front burner.
A few seconds later, the Rattler compound blew sky high. The explosion broke windows in a nearby warehouse, and was heard across the city. People all across the area ran outside to see the column of smoke rising in the clear morning air.
After days of careful inspection, the blast would be ruled accidental, caused by a faulty gas line in the old building.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The first thing Stick did when he walked into his house in the wee hours of the morning was greet his brothers, thank them for watching over his home and his boys. T-Bear and Snake filled him in on the details of Sara's encounter with Twig, shook their heads over the stray German Shepherd's part in the fight, and then rode off to get some rest.
Stick's second move, was upstairs to look in on his boys. They were asleep, so he contented himself with a long look at their flushed, angelic faces, nestled in their pillows, a stroke of their silky hair, and a kiss on their cheeks.
His third move was to look in on the woman asleep in his spare bedroom. She lay on her side, facing the doorway, with the duvet over her. Her pale hair streamed over the dark pillow and trailed over her cheek. Her soft lips were parted, and as he looked down at her, he heard a very faint snore.
She didn't look angelic while she slept. She looked like a naughty invitation to pull that cover off and persuade his old tee off of her, then bury himself deep in her sweet, slick depths over and over again, until he washed away the weight of the responsibilities he carried on his shoulders, of the ugliness he'd wallowed in, and the dark decisions he'd made. To hold her close, feel her soft strength, and thank God she was safe, along with his boys.
She could be a prissy, sharp-tongued bitch, but she'd fought for his boys like a mama bear. His blazhinka had turned out to be worth the trouble after all.
Now all he had to do was show her where she belonged. He looked forward to it.
He reached down and smoothed back a silky lock of hair from her face, then trailed his fingers down over her cheek, and thumbed her lower lip. She sighed and mumbled something, but slept on.
Smiling to himself, he walked on to his own room. He needed a shower and some sleep himself.
Then they'd see.
Late morning, Stick sat at his big kitchen table. He had a second cup of coffee before him, an empty plate that
had held a good breakfast of eggs and bacon, and a boy on each knee.
He and Webb were dressed. The twins were still clad in their pajamas, their hair sticking up, faces streaked with jam and egg, but they were bright-eyed and healthy again. And they were safe.
They were talking a mile a minute, vying to tell him about everything they'd done while he was gone.
"I threw up in my bed," Dash told him with relish. "It was really gross."
"So did I, Papa," Kick said. "All over everything."
"Sorry I missed that," Stick said wryly. He and Webb exchanged a look, Webb's eyes twinkling.
"But we wanted you, and you was gone," Kick whined, ducking his head into the curve of Stick's shoulder.
Stick bent and planted a kiss on his boy's hair, and cuddled them both close, enjoying the warm weight of their sturdy little bodies. "Now I'm back, and I ain't goin' anywhere for a long time. And Sara took good care of you, da?"
Kick nodded. "She's nice. Do you think she'll make us more cookies?"
"If you ask her to."
"Webb said you was stepping on snakes," Dash added, giving Stick a look of admiration and gleeful disgust.
"He's right," Stick agreed.
"Was there lots and lots of 'em?" Kick asked. "Did you bring any home for us to see, like the fish?"
"Nope. Left those snakes there, where they won't bother anyone again."
Webb lifted his coffee cup in a silent salute.
None of the remaining Rattlers would be showing themselves around Eastern Washington, for sure. Not those who'd mistakenly chosen to stick around after his warning, and were now ashes on the wind along with their derelict club house. Nor the would-be Rattler who had dared to slither right to his doorstep. Only one place that snake would be crawling.
A movement across the big kitchen caught Stick's eye. He looked up to see Sara standing at the foot of the stairs, a hand on the newel post.
She looked like hell warmed over, her face nearly as pale as her hair, which was mashed flat around her face, eye-makeup smeared under her bleary, blue eyes. She wore his tee and a pair of wrinkled shorts.
Her knees were skinned, although not badly, and Knife had filled him in on her blow to the head. Rage stirred in Stick's belly again. He'd be expressing that rage to the little shit who'd done this, a little later on.
"Mornin'," he drawled, and waited. He didn't have to wait long.
She looked from him and the boys to the back door, and started toward it. "Morning," she mumbled, her voice husky with sleep.
"Sara, look," Kick called. "Our Papa comed home."
She paused with one hand on the doorknob. He liked the way her face softened when she looked at his boys. "I see that, honey. Looks like you guys are feeling better too."
"Where you going?" Dash demanded, throwing out his hands to encompass the table and open cereal boxes. "It's breakfast."
"Da, it's breakfast," Stick added, just to pester her. "Come and sit, blazhinka."
She shot him a look of horror that made him want to laugh. "No! I need a shower, and ... things. I'll see you guys later."
Oh, yes she would.
"Bye, Sara," the boys chorused.
"Bye, guys." She scurried out of the door without looking back.
Webb chuckled. "She's a looker, but ain't a woman alive wants a man to see her first thing in the mornin' with her makeup all over her face."
"That's all right," Stick said. "We can wait, right, boys? Sara will be right next door."
Looking out the big windows, he watched the big, black Shepherd emerge from the hedge to greet Sara. She stopped, and then bent to hold out a hand. The dog hesitated, and then went to her. As he sniffed her hand, his tail wagged. Then he dropped his ears and wiggled like a puppy.
"Looks like she’s got herself a dog," Stick said.
"Yep," Webb agreed. "That's a damn fine dog, right there."
“Da. A damn fine dog.” Stick gave his boys an extra squeeze, thinking about the fate from which the dog had helped save them and the pretty woman now petting the animal.
"That's Blackie," his boys told him. "We're not s'posed to pet him, but we can now you're back, huh, Papa?"
"You wait till I'm with you," he told them. "Not before, understand? Turns out Blackie was a police dog, so we need to treat him carefully, until he gets used to us."
They sighed heavily, and Kick whacked the table with his feet. Stick gave them each a little shake to get their attention. "Da?"
"Da," they agreed, both pouting hard. "But Sara gets to pet him."
"He's Sara's dog. You two have to be introduced by an adult. After he sees a vet, to make sure he has his shots. Then he can be around kids."
Outside, Sara reached to pet the big dog with both hands, tipping her head as if she was talking to the animal. Crooning in that husky voice of hers. A thrill of anticipation ran through Stick, followed by the hardening of determination. He'd have her hands on him like that, and a whole lot more.
He wanted her. She’d proved she could handle trouble, she’d shown she cared for his boys as if they were her own, she was honest and direct, she now had the loyalty of his brothers, and she melted like warm, sweet honey in his arms. All fine, fine things ... all the polar opposite of the woman he’d first tried to make his old lady.
He was Stick Vanko, badass leader of a biker brotherhood, and what he wanted, he went after. His neighbor was about to find herself the target of an allout, biker takeover.
He watched the big, black dog follow Sara through the hedge, and smiled to himself.
"From the look of the dog with Sara, won't be long till he's tame," Webb predicted. "An' now, I'd best be gettin' along home. Velvet will be up. She'll want to go by the clubhouse, check in on the kitchen, and the brothers. See if Marquita and her gals showed up to swamp the place out after the flu come through. Boys were fallin' like flies."
Stick could not say he and the brothers had had an easy time in the Tri-Cities, but he was glad to have missed a club house full of flu. Bunch of sick bikers with no old ladies to clean up after them? Oh, hell no.
“All right, say goodbye to Webb,” Stick told the boys, setting them on the floor. “Then we got things to do.”
A few hours later, while the twins watched cartoons with Marta who was now up and about, although still pale as milk under her auburn hair, Stick rode his Harley into the compound.
A mini-van with a bright blue logo on the side of soap bubbles and a cheery, black-haired cleaning lady was just pulling out, with four Hispanic women inside. The driver waved, and Stick lifted a hand in salute. Marquita and her daughters came every couple of weeks to clean the club house. Their job wouldn’t have been a pleasant one this morning, with sick bikers around the place.
The gates, manned this morning by Streak and Toro, closed behind him, and he rolled around back. Rocker and Bouncer waited outside a locked door. Rocker opened the heavy locks. He and Bouncer followed Stick into a storage room that now held a single chair. Twig sat there, hands tied behind his back to the chair, and feet bound in front of him, head lolling.
He was gagged, with dried blood and gore matted on his face and in his greasy, straggling brown hair. When he saw Stick, he raised his head and his bleary gaze flared. He tried to speak, but ended up choking on his own groans. He smelled as bad as he looked.
Stick set his hands on his hips and regarded their prisoner with cold interest. Then he shook his head. "She got you good, didn't she? Fuck me, what is it about me and women who like to use knives?"
Rocker chuckled, and Bouncer laughed outright. Stick joined in, because at times all a man could do was appreciate the sheer, fucked-up irony of life.
Stick sobered, and gave Twig a look that had the wanna-be biker flinching back in the chair to which he was tied.
"You don't look so good, Schmidt," Stick said. "You look like a lady worked you over good with her little blade."
He smiled, and reached to his belt. "You're lucky she got there before I did.
Me, I woulda started carving lower down." He flicked open the gleaming blade of his big Buck knife, and stroked the sharp edge with his thumb, looking at Twig's groin.
Twig whimpered behind the gag in his mouth, and the sharp smell of urine filled the close air in the small room, as a stain spread on the front of his filthy jeans.
Stick shook his head in disgust. He'd come here with the full intention of putting their prisoner through a little of the hell he'd planned for Sara, but this was just pathetic.
"Keys should've put you down when he had the chance. Every time you turn up in Flyers' territory, you cause more trouble. So, as a favor to everybody, we're gonna do to you what you would've done to my boys, if my woman hadn't stopped you."
He leaned in, staring coldly into the little man’s wide, blood-shot eyes. "Da. We're gonna toss you in the trunk of the stinking piece of shit car you left out by the road when you sneaked into my place. Then we'll take you for a nice, long, bumpy drive."
He bared his teeth. "But we won't try and turn you over to the Rattlers for an in to their club—which by the way, barely exists anymore. No, instead we'll drive you to a big, cold lake, put you in a boat, and take you fishing. You like fishing? Hope so, 'cause this time, you're the bait."
Twig screamed, a strangled, muffled sound behind the gag. He shook his head, struggling against his bonds.
"Shee-it," Bouncer said. "I ain't listening to that all the way out to the lake."
"'Course not," Stick agreed. “You shouldn’t have to.” Pulling his pistol, he flipped it up butt-first, and thwacked Twig on the temple. And he may have put some of his rage into the blow, since bone cracked under metal.
The skinny man's eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped, head lolling.
Bouncer grunted. "More like it. All right, help me roll 'im in the tarp."
When Stick moved to help him, Rocker stayed him with a hand up. "You should stay clear of this one, Stick. Bounce and me'll take him. You go on home to your boys."
