by Jenna Kernan
She ordered what most of the patrons were drinking.
“Glass or bottle?”
“Bottle.”
The beer arrived and her server made a nice show of flipping the opener before uncapping the bottle and sliding it across the marred surface.
“What you riding?” he asked.
“Harley. 2016 Low Rider.”
“Sweet.”
A woman across the bar at the table extracted herself from the lap of a big man with a stomach that left her little room. She knew him. He was Lloyd Fudderman, head of the North Country Riders. But Rylee did not know that woman. The brunette wore a black T-shirt modified with a slice down the center to expose the tops of her breasts and so short her stomach and navel hardware were in full view. She strode away, swinging her hips to the delight of Fudderman, whose full salt-and-pepper mustache lifted on both sides of his mouth. His beard was stained yellow from tobacco, Rylee assumed, and his black leather vest showed various patches.
His woman wore unlaced biker boots and jeans that had been artfully torn and frayed across the knees and thighs. Her long wavy hair bounced with the rest of her as she passed behind Rylee to the bathrooms.
The lightbulb went off in her head at last and she slapped her money on the table, retrieved her helmet and beer and headed to the toilet. That must be her contact.
Rylee passed through the swinging door and into the brightly lit bathroom. At the row of sinks, a heavyset bottle blonde uncapping a lipstick. The T-shirt she wore indicated that she was one of the staff. The young woman had a florid face that clashed with the lipstick she reapplied. The color of the cosmetic reminded Rylee of a dog’s tongue. Rylee’s contact was nowhere in sight. Rylee dipped to see under one of the two stalls and spotted the brunette’s unlaced boots. She glanced to the employee, who eyed her in the mirror and then broke contact to check her phone.
Rylee’s contact emerged, checked her hair and ignored the soap, sink and bottle blonde as she refastened her belt, which unfortunately sported a Rebel flag. Then she glanced at Rylee, scowled and headed out.
Rylee blinked after her in surprise.
“Agent Hockings?” asked the blonde.
Rylee opened her mouth and just managed to keep it from swinging open as she nodded.
“I’m Agent Beverly Diel.”
“Yes,” she managed, cocking her head as her entire system misfired. “Hello.”
“That was Queeny. She’s Fudderman’s woman, though she’s half his age. Seems to be a lot of that going around up here.”
“In the gang?”
“And at the cult. Fudderman has been in contact with the head of the Congregation of Eternal Wisdom. You know them?”
“No.”
“I haven’t been able to contact any of the women out there and the men don’t come in here or speak to secular women. I suggest you find out what you can about them. But do not go out to their assembly alone.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a cult. The headman has them all twisted up into believing they’re the chosen people and the judgment is coming. They live separately, and they might be armed against what they see as a coming apocalypse. If you go, go with backup.”
“I’ll do that.” She didn’t have backup and wouldn’t get any without first showing something to prove she was on the right track.
Beverly gave her a hard look.
“I won’t.”
“All right, then.” She washed her hands and yanked down a paper towel from the dispenser with both hands.
“Did you get my report?”
She rolled her eyes. “Thin in evidence, heavy on speculation.”
“I’m an analyst.”
“I get that.” The woman scanned Rylee’s outfit, making her words seem like insults. “What I don’t get is why you are up here instead of at your computer terminal.”
“It was in my report.”
“Rylee—” Her tone was one you used to explain to someone dim-witted. “You’re fishing, am I right? Trying to get the attention of the supervisors who are ignoring you?”
“My report—”
“I read your personal file. You don’t belong here. You don’t have the training or the experience. Go home.”
Rylee felt like a swimmer preparing to let go and sink into the deep.
“What do you think will happen if I call your supervisor?”
Rylee felt her skin grow cold and a shiver of fear inched up her spine. It wasn’t the prospect of losing her job that frightened. It was the prospect of telling her father that she had lost her job that really made her gut twist.
But what if she were right? There was no turning back. She went home and admitted that she went rogue or she finished this and stopped this threat. Rylee narrowed her eyes, preparing to fight.
Beverly’s brows lifted and she looked interested for the first time.
“The man who evaded Border Patrol...”
“The man you followed onto Kowa land?”
Her head dropped.
“Yeah. That’s something.”
Rylee lifted her gaze to meet Beverly’s. The woman no longer seemed harmless. There was something of the hunter flashing in her dark eyes.
“He got away clean because someone from Fudderman’s group picked him up. Took him back over the border, what I heard.”
“What about his cargo?”
“Missing. The Kowa took it and that’s all Fudderman’s guys know.”
“Did you report this?”
Her mouth went tight, and she gave Rylee a “what do you think?” look.
“So, they do carry illegals,” Rylee said.
“First I’ve heard. It’s been all weed and Oxy, so far as I can tell. I’m a regular buyer.”
“I thought they didn’t sell up here.”
“Ha,” she laughed.
Clearly, the sheriff did not know this. Or did he? It wouldn’t be the first time a law enforcement officer had been paid to look the other way.
“What if I can get the cargo from the Kowa?”
Agent Diel cast a look that told Rylee she had no confidence that would happen, but then she gave her a patronizing smile and nodded.
“Sure, hon. You do that. But don’t come back here dressed like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like a magazine version of how tough girls dress.” She shook her head as she scanned her from head to toe. “You see anyone in her wearing suede boots?”
“I came on a motorcycle.”
“Every last one of them already knows you are here and who you are and what you are investigating. You’ll get no help from that crew,” said Diel.
“They running their own organization?”
“I don’t know yet. Might find out in time. Now ride it out of here and don’t come back. I’ll contact you if I have anything.”
“My number?”
Her face twisted and she lifted her phone. “I have it.”
“So you could have called,” asked Rylee.
“Wanted to get a look at you. Worse than I thought,” she said. Then she capped her lipstick and shoved it in her front pocket before pausing at the door. “You should keep that outfit for Halloween. Maybe add a temporary tattoo.”
Beverly left and the door banged shut.
Rylee braced herself on the counter, allowing her head to drop. When she opened her eyes, it was to see the tile comet—a streamer of toilet paper—fixed to the heel of one suede boot.
The commotion outside brought her up and to full alert.
The music had stopped and there was shouting coming from beyond the door. She recognized one voice. Axel Trace was bellowing her name.
Chapter Eight
Dressed in plain clothing tonight, Axel appreciated how quickly his presence inside
the roadhouse had been noticed. The jeans, boots and flannel shirt beneath the open canvas jacket did nothing to keep him from being as recognizable as a roast pig at a vegan picnic. Probably just as welcome, too, he thought.
The patrons gradually came to rest, pivoting in their seats to face him as all conversation came to a halt. The band caught on last. First, the drummer lost the beat and then the bass player missed the bridge. The singer and lead guitarist opened his eyes, straightened and stepped back from the microphone. Feet shifted uneasily as the gathering cast glances from Fudderman and then back to him.
Fudderman lifted his half-finished longneck to his lips and tipped the bottle, draining the rest. Then he set the bottle down with a heavy crack that made the woman on his lap startle.
He pushed her off and to her feet, eyes never leaving Axel’s. A smile came slowly to his lips as he sat back, relaxed, with one hand on his knee and the other on the bottle.
“Evening, Sheriff.” He had the courtesy to not ask if the sheriff was lost or crazy, which Axel appreciated. “The fed is in the bathroom.”
Axel glanced toward the dark alcove past the bar. Then he headed that way. A big man with a shaved head stepped before him, bringing Axel up short.
“Get out,” he said, leaning in so Axel could smell his breath, stale with beer and raw onions.
“That your sled parked in the handicapped spot, Hooter?”
“You and I going to have a problem?”
“I won’t. But you have a hundred-and-fifty-dollar fine for parking there.”
“The hell you say.” He began a string of obscenities that involved at least three suggestions that Axel perform physical impossibilities on himself. Then Hooter reached back for a bottle and began an arching swing toward Axel’s head.
Axel kicked out Hooter’s feet from beneath him. Top-heavy and drunk was a bad combination in a bar fight. Hooter went down hard. The smaller man who Axel didn’t know jumped in, swinging a bottle. It was like being back on base in Germany on any Saturday night. Axel grabbed his attacker’s wrist and drew back one finger, causing his opponent to scream as the finger dislocated. Unfortunately, he also dropped the bottle, which bounced off Axel’s forehead before shattering on the ground.
“Rylee! Time to go! Rylee!” Axel shouted toward the women’s bathroom as Hooter scrambled to his feet. He didn’t get all the way up before Axel brought his knee to the man’s gut, sending him to his hands and knees on the beer-soaked floor.
The men at the bar closed in, forming an ever-decreasing circle.
“Rylee! Get out here.” Still time if she made a quick appearance.
She did, only she had her gun drawn. This brought the other occupants of the bar to their feet. Weapons of all sizes and types were drawn in response.
“You,” said Rylee, pointing her weapon at the smaller man with the dislocated thumb. “Back up, now.”
Her voice was cold and her demeanor terrifying. She seemed born for this, with a steady hand, calm control and chilling expression of anticipation.
The man backed up, cradling his finger. Hooter reached his feet with the help of a bar stool that he scaled like a child on a jungle gym.
The circle widened as Rylee stepped beside him.
“Which one hit you?” she asked.
Ah, she was going to defend him. He was touched. But he also wasn’t crazy.
“Let’s go,” he said, heading toward the door.
Rylee backed along beside him, her pistol deterring any from closing in.
Outside, she lowered her weapon and faced him. “Where’s your personal weapon?”
“I’m off duty.”
They kept moving, her keeping an eye on the closed door to the bar and coming up short as he reached his vehicle. His sheriff’s department SUV lay just beyond where he had parked it, only now it sat on its side, driver’s door up.
“What the...” His words trailed off. He rounded on Rylee. “I’m done babysitting you.”
“Who asked you?”
“You called me from this...this gang hangout and tell me you’re fine.”
“I was fine until you started screaming.”
“I wasn’t screaming.”
The door behind them banged open and members of the North Country Riders spilled out like floodwater.
“Come on,” she said tugging him toward the back side of the bar. He followed, keeping pace as she jogged along.
Behind them, shouts and the sound of beer bottles smashing on the pavement urged them to greater speeds.
“I’m on the other side,” she said, leading the way to a Harley Low Rider.
He paused, agog, forgetting everything as he admired the bike, which was all black right down to the fork and tailpipes.
“Wow.”
She straddled the seat, righted the bike and rolled it forward off the kickstand. She’d parked the Harley for a quick escape. He eyed the rear seat that was higher and smaller than the saddle she occupied. He’d look like a gorilla riding behind a jaguar, he decided, but when the next bottle landed beside his boot, he made the move.
“I forgot my helmet,” she said. Then turned the key. The engine grumbled. “Hold on.”
He did, wrapping his arms around her waist and flattening himself over her back like a large bulky coat. She revved the engine and set them in motion, leaving a cloud of smoke and considerable rubber on the pavement.
He finally found the tiny footrests and decided this bike was designed for one person. A glance behind them showed an angry mob in the street.
He felt a pang of separation over leaving his sheriff’s vehicle and worry over his SUV’s welfare.
“Where are we going?”
“Kowa Nation,” she called.
“Bad idea,” he said. “They’ll take your bike.”
“I have to speak to their leadership.”
He had to shout to be heard over the wind.
“Then let me call them. Pull over.”
“Anyone following?” she asked, glancing in a side mirror.
“No. Pull in up there.”
She did as directed, turning into the empty lot of the ice-cream stand now shut up tight for the evening. Drawing up beside one of the picnic tables, she rolled to a stop and braced her feet on either side, steadying the bike as he dismounted.
“That gang of thugs is selling weed in your county,” she said.
“How do you know?”
She shook her head. “Can’t say.”
“Great. Thanks for the useless intel.”
“You could use it and shut them down.”
“I’m working on that and thanks again for telling me my job. But you see, I must catch them at it and have real evidence. That’s how we do it up here.”
She made a face and knocked down the kickstand, easing the sled to rest.
“Why didn’t you draw your service weapon?” she asked.
He didn’t answer but pressed gingerly at the lump emerging on his forehead with two fingers.
“The guy threw a punch. He didn’t draw a weapon.”
“He attacked a law enforcement officer.”
“Just a way of reestablishing his personal space.”
“You do know how to use a handgun?”
He blew away a breath through his nose and his teeth stayed firmly locked. His chin inclined just enough to give an affirmative answer.
“Guns, drawing them, shooting them, killing things. It doesn’t solve problems. It only makes different ones.”
She wondered about that answer. It seemed to come from some personal experience, and she thought of his army service record. Two confirmed kills, she recalled, the line of his personnel records coming back to her in a flash of perfect clarity.
“When was the last time you fired your pistol?”
“Hanau, G
ermany, 2008.”
“You haven’t drawn your sidearm in a decade?”
“Not a requirement of my position.”
“Was this after you killed two servicemen in Germany?” she said, quoting from his records.
His eyes narrowed, glittering dangerously. “Yes.”
“Will you tell me about that?”
“No. But you can read all about it on Google. May 1, 2008, one month before discharge, Hanau, Germany.”
“But you would draw your weapon if circumstances demanded it.”
“What circumstances?”
“To defend the citizens under your protection?”
“Yes.”
“To protect yourself?”
“I don’t think so.”
She watched him swallow down something that seemed bitter, judging from his expression.
“Was it so terrible?”
“Taking another man’s life? It’s a scar on your soul.”
“Then why pursue law enforcement?”
“More like it pursued me. Sheriff Rogers, the man I replaced at his retirement and for whom I have great respect, asked me to run for sheriff. He said I needed to get back in the saddle and that the county needed me.”
“Seems you aren’t really back.”
“Most lawmen never have to draw their weapon.”
That was true. And she really could not judge, because she had never been placed in the kind of situation he had faced.
“But you’re not most people.”
Axel gave her a long look and she felt, somehow, that he was taking her measure. He used the palms of his hands to scrub his cheeks as if trying to remove some invisible film. When he lifted his gaze to meet hers, he nodded, as if to himself.
“The report said two servicemen were involved in a drunken brawl. That the first serviceman drew his weapon on military police and that I ordered him to put down his weapon. He didn’t. Instead, he drew on me and I shot him. Two shots and down he went. His partner charged me and I shot him, as well.”
