by Naomi West
They eventually reached the abandoned border control hut where Kong had said the deal was going down. Statewide budget cuts had meant a few hundred feet of border went unmonitored. This spot had been a hotbed of drug-related activity ever since someone had mowed down a section of barbed wire border fence last month. The bikers skidded to a stop. Pistol leapt off his Honda, and the others dismounted too.
They stashed the bikes in the hut and took up positions in and around the rundown building — Deion and Pistol at the front, and Ford at the back. Bones and Mica had taken up posts behind some scraggly shrubs outside.
“Ah.” Pistol stretched out on the floor of the hut, head near the tire of his cruiser, hands laced on his stomach. “Feels like home.”
Ford snorted. “Lazy bastard. Some stakeout.”
“Hey. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
Ford snorted again. “You ain’t ever done what I tell you a day in your life.”
That was actually true. Ford was no Kong when it came to commanding respect and obedience. Pistol spied a small stone near his head and batted it in Ford’s direction.
“Nothin’ to do,” Deion said, flashing Pistol a grin. “Except wait for our boys.”
###
After two hours, Pistol’s ass was numb and he was about to crawl out of his own skin with boredom. “Jesus fuck,” he muttered to Deion. “You think Kong got his shit mixed up?”
“Relax,” Deion said. “Kong ain’t senile yet.”
No, he wasn’t. Kong was as sharp as the day Pistol had met him.
He had an uncomfortable memory of himself at seventeen, bristling with rage — at his father, at his teachers, at anyone who dared come between him and his carefully cultivated teenage angst.
Kong had been as quick with a cuff to the back of the head as he was with a compliment, and eventually, Pistol had settled down. Getting his first bike had helped. A beat-to-crap old Yamaha, but a bike all the same. Freedom. An escape route. Something to take care of. He’d worked his ass off at the auto shop — and part-time at McDonalds — to pay for that thing. It was still in the clubhouse garage. Still ran okay too.
“He’s just sayin’ he could be balls deep in pussy right now.” Ford’s voice. He was standing over Pistol and Deion, who were seated on the floor.
“Ford, what’re you doing here?” Deion demanded. “Get back to your post. We need a lookout in back.”
“I’m bored as fuck. And my post is only about fifty feet from yours.”
“Jesus, you’re an idiot,” Deion muttered.
“What, you wanted some space to make out?”
“Shut up,” Pistol said, whacking at Ford’s calf.
“You two, thick as thieves, and me always getting sent off to the corner to play by myself. You know it’s true.”
Deion leaned his head back on the wall. “What is this, middle school?”
“Aww, Ford, we love you.” Pistol laughed, tugging Ford’s pant leg. “C’mere and get a noogie.”
“Get off!”
“We’re definitely not inviting him on our ride next week,” Pistol said.
“Oh, for sure,” Deion agreed. “We’re not even gonna tell him about it.”
Ford shook his head. “I’m leaving you two ladies to your sleepover.”
“What’s going on?” Suddenly Mica was there too.
“Hey, kid.” Pistol’s voice was sharp. “Get back to your post.”
“Gimme a smoke.”
Ford laughed, wheezing slightly. “Listen to him. ‘Gimme a smoke.’”
Pistol handed him a Camel. “Keep it out of sight.”
“No shit.” Mica knelt. Stuck the cigarette between his lips and accepted a light off Pistol. Took a drag and choked. Ford couldn’t stop laughing.
“Aw, kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” Mica snapped, leaning back against the wall. The effect of his glare was kinda fucked up by the coughing fit. “So what, you guys are thinking about a ride?”
“Maybe,” Pistol said. “You’re too young, though.” He liked getting under the kid’s skin.
“Fuck off.”
Ford and Deion oohed.
“You need to respect your elders,” Pistol said mildly, lighting his own cigarette.
“Hey!” Deion hissed. “Someone’s coming.”
A rust-colored pickup approached. They ducked and stubbed out their cigarettes as the headlights flashed in their eyes. They slowly rose again as the lights were killed. In the moonlight, they could see several dark figures leap from the truck. The figures were speaking Spanish in low voices. They had duffel bags and guns.
Big guns.
“Shit,” Ford said. “This is serious.”
Pistol watched grimly as one of the guys opened a duffel and started counting bricks of cocaine.
“Think we should call for backup?” Ford asked.
Pistol’s answer was “no.” The more dangerous the situation, the more he loved it. But he wasn’t about to endanger his brothers unless they all agreed to it.
Deion shook his head. “No. I wanna party.” He signaled Mica to stay still.
“Yeah,” Ford agreed. “You’re right. We got this. Just gotta wait for the rest of the party to show up.”
A few minutes later, another car pulled up. A sleek black BMW. It stopped and shut off. A tall, slender white man got out. He dusted off his old but elegant suit jacket and surveyed the situation, then went over to talk to the Mexicans. He glanced inside one of the duffel bags, then the conversation continued, too low for the Souls to hear.
“All right, cowboys,” Deion adjusted his holster. “Let’s go set these amigos straight.”
Pistol yanked his weapon out of his pants. Ford had drawn his smaller Ruger, and Deion had one hand on the butt of his Smith & Wesson. Yeah, Pistol’s Glock was bigger than what the other two were packing. So sue him — he liked big toys. He felt the familiar rush of power and righteousness as he approached the group. They all turned as a unit, and a couple of them stumbled back. Others reached for their guns. “Easy fellas,” he called. “We don’t want any trouble.”
Mica and Deion fanned out behind him, weapons drawn. Deion trained his on the white man, who seemed to be in charge of this show.
Two of the guys shouted in Spanish.
Pistol went on. “This is Blackened Souls territory, and we won’t hesitate to defend it. I would suggest all of you get in your vehicles and leave before things get ugly.”
Instead of turning tail, the Mexicans became more agitated.
“C’mon!” Mica had appeared with his Colt. His voice was tense. “Get out while your kneecaps’re still intact.”
“Jesus, kid,” Pistol muttered to him. “Take it easy.”
“Whose fuckin’ side are you on anyway?” Mica shot back.
“Hey!” Ford said.
“Gentlemen,” the white man said calmly. He fixed his gaze on Pistol. “Is there a problem?” He asked in a low, pleasant voice.
“Yeah,” Pistol said. “There is. This is Souls’ territory.”
“Is that so?” The man sounded more curious than anything.
“Yeah, asshole, get your hands up where I can see them.”
“Pistol,” Ford warned in a whisper. “I don’t like this.”
The white man simply cocked his head, staring at Pistol. The moonlight gave his silver hair a ghostly glow.
Pistol cocked his gun.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the white man said amiably.
“Why the hell not? I’ve given you plenty of warning.”
The white man nodded at something behind Pistol. “Friend of yours?”
Pistol whirled to see Deion in the clutches of two men Pistol hadn’t even noticed before. One had a gun against Deion’s temple. Pistol whirled back to the white man, who now had a pistol trained on Pistol.Fuck.
The white man took a step closer. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He held out his free hand. “Jax Wilson? I’m Leonard Smith. I believ
e you know my daughter.”
Chapter Five
Katrin was nearly finished unpacking her last box. Night had fallen, and outside, she could hear the chirps and whirrs of the desert at night. She gazed out the window for a moment, at the velvet, dark-blue sky. So different from industrial Ohio, out here under all these stars.
Her father had wanted a fresh start. Couldn’t stop talking about Texas. About the opportunity Rex had set up for him there, with the general goods store. Leonard had run a shop back in Ohio too. He’d worked long hours, and a few nights he hadn’t come home at all — claiming he’d fallen asleep behind the front counter.
“You work too much,”she’d tried telling him when she was in high school.“Mom misses you. I miss you.”
Her friend Maddy had asked,“You sure your Dad’s not in the CIA? I mean, the store’s not even open twenty-four hours. What’s he doing sleeping there?”
“There’s always something to be done around there,”she’d replied. But she’d wondered too. She didn’t doubt that her father loved her. But sometimes he seemed distant. Off. He’d answer a question a beat too late. He’d look at Katrin as though he’d never seen her before. It had happened more often after Jess died, but it had happened before too.
She lifted the last of her books out to put them on the cherry wood bookshelf her father had brought home from the general goods store. Underneath the books was a small photo album — floral print, almost granny-ish. Katrin had gotten it for her eighth birthday.
She smiled as she opened the album. There were pictures of that eighth birthday — a cake with little plastic collie dogs on it. Katrin grinning broadly, face smeared with icing, dark hair wild. Her mother and father on their honeymoon — a beach in the Caribbean. She’d loved that photo so much they’d had a copy made just for her.
Katrin and her dad posing with Goofy at Disney World, when Katrin was ten. Another Disney photo of her dad talking animatedly with Mr. Smee. That was her father — making friends everywhere he went. She turned the page and saw a photo of her and her mother in matching Disney sweatshirts. Her heart ached, and her eyes stung.
She took a deep breath.
No point in crying. You’ve done enough of that.
She thought instead about happy things. Thought of the day she might have a family of her own. A little boy or girl to take to Disney World.
A twist of fear in her gut.What if something happens to me? What if my baby has to fend for herself?
And even worse…
What if something happens to my baby?
A photograph slipped out from between the pages of the album. Katrin’s mother, in uniform for her baseball league, the Cin City Crushers. Jess Smith had played right up until her diagnosis. Had joked she was going to become the first female player for the Cincinnati Reds, at the ripe old age of forty-eight.
Katrin studied her mother’s familiar expression — one of cheerful determination. Her mother had always been the strongest person she knew. Cheerful even in the worst of times. But she hadn’t been able to hold onto that optimism in the end. Katrin remembered all too well the way she’d looked the day of her diagnosis — like someone had ripped the world right out from under her. Like the doctor, with those few simple words, had drained all hope from her.
Katrin remembered her mother in the hospital bed years later. Frail and already gone — even if she was still breathing. Remembered her own failure to get there in time to say goodbye.
“Are you sure you won’t come to the library?”Maddy had asked. They were walking across the quad at U of Cincinatti. “Finals are two weeks away. I need to drink fifteen cups of coffee and then study for the next two days straight.”
Katrinhad forced a smile.“I think I’m just gonna study in my room.”
She’d been doing that more and more lately — locking herself in her bedroom in her off campus apartment and worrying over her mother. Maddy knew something was going on with Katrin’s family, but no one at school knew the details. It was her last year here, after four long years of trying to balance school with caring for her mother.
She’d gone back to her apartment and sat at her kitchen table, staring out the window and willing herself not to cry. She didn’t know what to do. Every time she talked to her mom on the phone, she told her not to leave school. That her studies were the most important thing right now. That she had to graduate. But Katrin couldn’t shake the feeling that she should be home with her mother, taking care of her. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window — face thin and drawn, eyes shadowed. Not at all the happy, healthy young woman who’d arrived at the university last year, shy but eager, thrilled to at last be carving a path for herself in the world.
She’d been just about to lose the battle against tears when a knock came at her door. She opened it to find Maddy standing there, holding a box from LuLu’s bakery.“I brought cake,”she said.“We’re going to eat it, and you’re going to tell me what’s wrong.”
Over the next two hours, Katrin had poured out the whole story to Maddy: her mother’s diagnosis, the weeks of tests and theories and unsuccessful treatments. Her mother’s insistence that Katrin return to school each semester as though everything were normal. Katrin’s struggles to pay attention during class, her falling grades, her insomnia… Her mother’s voice sounding weaker every time Katrin spoke to her; her father sounding strange, broken.
“Katrin,”Maddy said.“You need to go home. For as long as it takes.”
It had been such a relief to hear those words. To know that she wasn’t crazy for wanting to be with her family right now. No matter what her parents said, finals could wait. Her familyneeded her.
But then the call came that very night. It was her father, sounding happier than she’d heard him in months. Going on about how well her mom was responding to a new treatment. How the doctors were optimistic. How Katrin could stay at school and complete her finals.
Katrin cancelled her plans to drive home, though she still felt uneasy, guilty. She called home every day after that. But most times, when she called, her mom wasn’t around to talk. She was sleeping off the effects of radiation, or was in the hospital for another test. The few times Katrin did talk to her, her mother sounded tired but optimistic.
Except for one evening. One evening, she’d called, and she could hear at once that something was wrong. Her mother sounded agitated, nervous.“Mom? Is everything okay?”
Her mother had gone silent. Then she’d said,“Your father’s out. He’s been gone for hours.”
“Is he at the store? Have you been able to call him?”
“He’s not answering.”Her mother took a deep breath.“Honey, there’s something…”
Katrinwaited, holding her breath, her heart pounding. “What?”
“Never mind,” her mother said eventually.
“Mom, what is it?”
“I’m just tired. Anxious. These medications, they do strange things to my mind.”
“I should come home. I should be there.”
“No, honey. You focus on exams. I’m sorry to have worried you.”
Katrin had stayed and taken her finals. They hadn’t even gone that badly. And on the evening of her last exam, some of her fellow nursing students had invited her out for drinks.
It had been on the tip of her tongue to say no.No, I should leave tonight. I need to be home as soon as possible. But she’d been giddy with relief at exams being over and her mother’s health improving. She’d agreed to go out, planning to start home early the next morning.
Late that night, she’d gotten the call from her father. Her mother was in a coma. Unlikely to wake again.
Katrin had been too stunned to speak.
Eventually, she had to process it. She would be coming home, not to wrap her arms around her mother and tell her how proud she was of her for beating this — but to say goodbye.
Maddy had offered to drive her home, but she insisted on doing it alone. Hands shaking on the wheel, she’d set o
ff from her apartment, driving north to the Cleveland Clinic.
In Katrin’s pre-med program, there’d been a whole course senior year on interacting with the families of patients, and with patients themselves. The idea was that anyone who wanted to be a nurse or a doctor needed to start learning about bedside manner now. How to be calm in horrible situations without seeming callous. How to deal with parent sobbing over the death of a child, children terrified over the loss of a parent. Elderly patients who had no one left in the world but their caretakers.
