He would have to keep his instincts to keep an hourly track on market activity, but it would be hard. There was no attraction that held as much interest for Win Garrett. There was no pleasure that was as lasting or meaningful. In short, staying away from trading would be every bit as hard as cold turkey sober. But there was no choice. He couldn’t take a chance on being linked back to the SSMC. The simple discovery of a single seemingly innocuous detail could bring down the whole ‘favor’ turned undercover operation.
The trip to El Paso was a pain in the ass, but it was extra insurance that Win’s story would be believed without question. On the off chance that he’d be seen, he’d be approaching the west Texas home of the Marauders from the west.
Shortly before sunrise Win opened the barn doors. There was no one in sight on the property when he walked over. Too early. He supposed everybody was sleeping, which was what he would have been doing at that ungodly hour if there wasn’t a club favor being cashed in at his expense.
The truck was gone as Zach had said it would be. He stuffed his dopp kit and dirty clothes into the bike’s saddlebags. It was gassed up and turned facing the right direction. In this case, the right direction meant ‘gone’.
Perhaps he should have been grateful for the gestures that may have seemed like courtesies in other circumstances, but having strangers mess with his bike didn’t sit right. It gave him an unsettled feeling in his gut. He was sure it was simply an overstep on the part of a guy who was a friend of Brant’s, a one-time rider who probably never got in deep enough to understand biker culture or what it meant to handle another man’s ride without his knowledge or permission.
He straddled the bike and reached for the choke, a slight smile forming when he realized that the touch of ignition was going to wake everybody up good and proper. He didn’t need to rev the powerful, and powerfully loud, engine for quite so long, but the image of Zach sitting up in bed cursing Win’s name helped to balance out the disturbing image of strange hands on his bike.
When he reached the interstate, he pulled off to wait for better light because riding amongst suburbans and their vehicles was potential suicide in the best of circumstances. He’d just made a choice for a longer-than-average life and wasn’t going to risk it for something as stupid as riding alone before good daylight.
Agua Dulce means sweet water. Texas could get away with having two towns named Sweetwater only because it was expressed in two different languages.
Sitting within spitting distance of the Mexican border, Agua Dulce was an east side poor relation suburb of El Paso, the sort of place that depended, partially, on the revenue and good will of a club like the Marauders. Townsfolk tolerated the blinders worn by city officials because they benefitted from the patronage economically and sometimes personally. Under the right circumstances, the presence of a powerful outlaw club could be a boon to a small struggling town in a harsh environment, close to the Mexican border with all that entailed, with no tax base and no industry.
According to the wisdom of the popular adage about not shitting where one eats, members conducted themselves as near ideal citizens when out and about in Agua Dulce. Locals greeted them with smiles and hellos that would have been appropriate for members of the Rotary or Lions’ Club in other communities.
It was too early to pull up to the MC compound gates requesting entrance. So he stopped at the Denny’s five miles away and ordered a double cheeseburger. One thing he liked about Denny’s was that you could get what you wanted at any time of day and Win wasn’t the sort who understood the point of having bacon and eggs if you wanted a cheeseburger. It might not be gourmet, but it was always an easy in-out with fast, attitude-free service.
He camped in a booth until eight thirty before traveling the final distance to Agua Dulce.
The Marauders’ compound looked suspiciously like abandoned army barracks. The buildings were out in the open on flat ground, but set back into a large property surrounded by chain link and barbed wire. It wouldn’t be easily defensible, but from the looks of it, had probably been cheap to acquire. Nobody was at the gate, but as soon as he pulled up and stopped, three Rottweilers and a pit bull came rushing out of wherever they’d been hiding and set up a ruckus that would wake the dead.
Win sat waiting as calmly as possible when looking into four threatening faces with unbelievably loud snarls backed by teeth that might give some guys nightmares. Win tried to relax, but let his hand drift to open the saddlebag that held a handgun, loaded for occasions such as this.
He noticed a camera arm shift in his direction followed by the hint of a human voice speaking. Someone might be asking a question, but it was impossible to tell. Win made a motion to his ears and shrugged, the movement causing a surge in the already deafening canine volume.
All four dogs abruptly ceased barking and turned toward one of the buildings, listening. When they heard a single whistle, they took off running toward the sound, Win and whatever threat they believed he represented completely forgotten.
Over a less than state-of-the-art sound system, a voice said, “Who are you and what do you want?”
“Win Garrett. Ex SoCal Hun. On my way to throw in with the Waco Marauders. Thought maybe I could stop over tonight.”
“Hold on.”
Win didn’t know if they were trying to verify his good standing with the Huns, but knew their call wouldn’t be welcome since it was early in Texas and two hours earlier in California.
Just to be sure all loose ends were sealed tight, he’d called a friend from his old club, conveyed his intentions, and asked for a call ahead so the El Paso chapter would be expecting him.
“It’s too early to check you out. Come back at noon.”
“You didn’t get a courtesy call from Huns Santa Clarita?”
Huns were officially an LA county club that claimed the Santa Clarita region. Oddly enough the actual club home was located in Agua Dulce, California.
“Might have. Nobody’s up for me to confirm. Sorry, but they don’t share communications with me unless it’s need to know. Guess you don’t qualify as need to know.”
“Okay then. Think I’ll just go further on down the road. Not really interested in sittin’ around for hours countin’ lizards. Be sure to give the prez regards from me and the Huns.”
“Suit yourself.” That offhand dismissal was punctuated by the release of four beasts intent on proving more ferocious for their encore appearance.
Win grinned at them when he ignited the Harley engine, revving enough to completely drown out the dogs’ voices. They didn’t stop barking, but did have slightly confused looks on their faces, disturbed by not being able to hear the sounds they were making.
He took his time riding east, turning off the interstate at Iraan, because the stark landscape held its own kind of beauty and fascination. These days stretches of road with sparse population are hard to find. Stretches of time without meeting another vehicle are even more rare.
At San Saba, he got a steak dinner at the downtown café, then pulled into the sort of outskirts motel that wouldn’t object too much to having a biker share his room with a bike for the night.
He watched a rerun of Pulp Fiction, used bath towels to clean up his bike and got a good night’s sleep. When he woke, he was just an hour away from Waco, but knew there was probably no point in showing up at the Marauders’ clubhouse before noon.
CHAPTER Five
At five before noon Win rolled up to the rural mailbox next to the Marauders’ gate. The property was in a complex of old warehouses near the river, complete with loading docks. It appeared that the Marauders’ warehouse covered an entire block. Three sides were concrete panels with no entrance unless you blasted through with explosives. All access was concentrated on one side with a series of overheads paired with single doors.
It could easily pass for abandoned if no one was around. But there were plenty of people around. Not the sort of people you’d be expecting. Mostly women and children.
An extensive and expensive-looking complement of playground equipment was set up a few yards from the ‘docks’ in the area that had originally been purposed as a truck yard.
Several women were sitting by long tables covered with checkered tablecloths, shaded by big red umbrellas. They were talking, laughing, sometimes yelling at kids. In the center of the pavement was a gigantic grill-smoker, the sort that was usually pulled on the bed of a trailer. Smoke was happily billowing from the stack as it kicked out the beginnings of a heavenly aroma with just enough suggestion of spice to tickle Win’s nose.
Even though the gate was open, he stopped and pushed the intercom button.
“Yeah?” a deep voice said. “You Garrett?”
He hadn’t been expecting that. “Win Garrett,” he said. “In the flesh.”
“Put your bike in the row and come on in here,” the voice commanded.
Win hesitated, thinking this could set a record for shortest suicide mission ever. He gave his heart a mental command to slow down. The last thing a guy hoping for a long life wanted was to look nervous in front of strange bikers.
He took a deep breath and rode slowly toward the line of bikes. The scene looked the opposite of a club worried about tangling with a rival. Gate open. Women and children out in the open. No guards around.
Win’s initial assessment was that club leadership was either stupid, cocky or both.
When he dismounted and began to lazily ascend the steps that would take him up to dock level, the women showed their appreciation by teasing with wolf whistles and cat calls. He gave them a heart-stopping grin and tipped an imaginary hat.
“Oh, baby,” one shouted above the rest. “Bring that cute little ass right over here and have a beer with mama.”
A big burly guy appeared where one of the overhead doors stood open. He hooked a finger into his belt underneath a sizable paunch and shifted his weight to one leg.
“What are you willin’ to do to keep me from tellin’ your old man what you’re sayin’ to the new boy, Shirley?”
“I’m willin’ to refrain from givin’ a kick to your scrawny dick.” The women laughed and hooted at the exchange.
The guy being referred to as ‘Slim’ took that good-naturedly and just shook his head as he watched Win’s approach.
“You been causin’ quite a stir,” he said when Win topped the steps and came within a few feet.
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“I guess some dumb fuck prospect in El Paso snubbed you. Fucker is out on his ear and lickin’ his wounds.” After a brief chuckle at the stranger’s fate, he said, “You won’t be treated like that here.” Win followed when ‘Slim’ turned and started walking deeper into the interior.
“No? Well, I’ll give you a Ben Franklin to keep shut with Shirley’s old man about the chattin’ me up.”
“Deal.” The big guy chuckled. “Must suck to be you.”
“Let’s just say the new guy doesn’t need that kind of attention.”
Win’s first impression of the club’s massive main gathering space was that it was a unique fusion of mountain lodge with industrial accents and urban graffiti. Big square cedar support beams. Brick walls with graffiti-style biker murals. Distressed wood floors. Every wall had an oversized TV monitor. There were pool tables at one end. Seven long picnic tables with benches in the middle. Black leather modular sofa seating at the other end formed four distinct lounge or conversation areas. The focal point of the entire gigantic space was the horseshoe-shaped bar in the middle.
The pièce de résistance was a turntable high above the bar with a classic, collectible, and, no doubt, enormously costly, 1967 Pan-Shovel. Red. Gleaming chrome. Gorgeous. That bike, slowly going round and round, was damned near hypnotic.
Between the way the club was outfitted and the objet d’art in motorcycle form, Win tabulated revenues topping out much higher than he would have guessed. He wouldn’t have thought Waco, Texas would be an especially lucrative area for the kinds of shadow enterprises outlaw clubs pursued.
Perhaps the most surprising thing was the light. Win had expected the windowless space to be dark except for artificial light by fluorescent panels, maybe LCDs. But each of the four sections had a large expanse of divided skylights above. Overhead windows.
There was no arguing that it was supremely functional and well-suited to its purpose. It was also something that Win had never been tempted to call an MC clubhouse… beautiful. Like someone had invented a new style. Biker chic.
“Name’s Cue. Prez said to bring you back if any of us saw you.”
“Okay.”
“You met him before?”
“Your prez? No. I’ve been in California for a long time.”
Cue nodded. “Huns. That’s what we heard. Boss is all right. Fair. Ya know?” He turned to look at Win as he was stopping in front of a closed door. He knocked twice. Win heard a loud, “Yeah?”
Cue opened the door a crack. “Got the traveler, Boss.”
A waft of cigar smoke snaked out through the tiny space between the door and the jamb. It was still almost enough to make Win cough reflexively.
“Let me see him.” It was clear, sight unseen, that the Waco Marauders’ president possessed the gravelly, grumpy demeanor that seemed to be a universal trait of bikers who rise to that office.
Cue pushed the door open wider to reveal a large executive mahogany desk that would normally dominate any office. But when it came to vying for attention, the desk didn’t stand a chance. Behind it sat a guy with a presence so commanding he didn’t need to say a word to establish that he was master of the premises.
Bolivar Greer glanced up at Win. “Sit yourself down right there.” His chin indicated one of the chairs that sat in front of his desk.
Win turned his head back toward the hallway to take one last breath of merely partially contaminated oxygen before he stepped into the smoke-filled room so desperately in need of its own ventilation system. He sat down in the designated chair and waited, trying to will his eyes not to water. To no avail. Mind over body wasn’t working. Neither was blinking rapidly.
Win heard the door close behind him and thought it sounded as loud as a vault being closed with heavy hydraulics.
When the prez looked up, his mouth twitched. “I see there’s no point in offering you a cigar.”
“Used to smoke. Uh, cigarettes. Now my body treats smoke like an ex with a bad break up.”
Chuckling softly, the prez stubbed out his cigar. “The El Paso chapter sends their regrets that you weren’t welcomed.”
Win nodded. “Everybody was asleep except for a prospect who didn’t know what to do.”
“You makin’ excuses for him?”
Win held the man’s steady gaze as best he could with runny eyes. “No.” He shook his head. “I might be inclined to give him a pass if he’d been polite about it.”
With a knowing smirk of approval, the prez said, “I’m Bolivar Greer. Everybody calls me Boss.”
“Ah. Boss is your road name. I wasn’t sure.”
“Not really a road name. Got a sister who’s fourteen months older. She started callin’ me bossy as soon as she could talk. It stuck. Sometime around puberty the y got dropped.”
Win looked around the office. “So it’s a case of people becomin’ what they’re named.”
Boss raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. “That the fact with you?”
It took Win a second to understand the question. When he got it, he smiled. “Sometimes.” He shrugged. “Maybe more than average.”
“Just so happens that’s what we’re needin’ around here. You could call your arrival extraordinarily opportune.”
“Why’s that?”
“Got some potential trouble brewin’.” Win remained expressionless. “What?” Boss demanded.
Win blinked. “I don’t know what you’re askin’.”
“I said trouble brewin’. You got a look. I want to know what you were thinkin’.”
Wi
n knew for a fact that he had schooled his features into submission, which could only mean that Boss was phenomenally gifted at reading people. Maybe even telepathic. That fleeting thought had Win wishing he could take back his agreement to pay off the SSMC’s marker.
After weighing his options at lightning speed, he decided the truth was the best choice.
“It’s been a long time since I was a prospect, but the way I remember it, prospects aren’t usually asked what they think.”
“Well, first, and I was gettin’ to this, because of the special circumstances and your stellar record with the Huns, we’re goin’ to dispense with the usual formalities.” He slammed his big palm down on the desk for punctuation. “We’re votin’ you in tonight.”
“That’s…” Truthfully, Win didn’t know how to react. He’d never heard of such a thing. Bikers handing full patch to a total stranger? Even one with a resume from a sister club. Just not done. And for good reason. Win searched for the right word. “Unheard of. Far as I know. I’m not griping.”
“Right. Now, what was that look for?”
“Since you’ve invited me to speak freely, you said somethin’ about potential trouble, and I want to hear about that. The place just doesn’t give the appearance that you’re worried. Gates open. Women and children outside in the open. And the skylights…”
Boss laughed and shook his head. “Fuckin’ skylights. Cost us a fortune and keeps on costin’ in heavenly a/c bills, but it makes the place look good in the daytime, don’t it?”
“Yeah,” Win readily agreed. “Really good.”
Nodding with a smile, Boss said, “My daughter. Got a degree in interior design from the University of Texas. The one at Austin. You know?” Win nodded. “That painting?” Win turned to look at the wall behind him where Boss was pointing. It featured a painting of a cowboy coiling a rope. It was five feet high and, though Win was no art expert, he thought it was good, partly because the frame looked so expensive. “It’s a Kelly Pruitt original. Cost me two month’s take.” As Win turned back, Boss was shaking his head. “My little girl is a good saleswoman.”
Devil's Marker (Sons of Sanctuary MC, Austin, Texas Book 4) Page 4
