Outlaw’s Ink

by Sophia Gray

  “All right,” Carter retorted, “I'll check. But I swear, if I find out you're lying and trying to sabotage me...”

  “You'll what?” she smirked. “Shoot me? Like I said, I don't believe you've got it in you. Fuck me? I was willing to jump into bed with you last night if you rode the bull, so that wouldn't be much of a punishment, now would it?”

  “Maybe you wouldn't like it the way I do it,” Carter threatened. He had no real intention of committing such an assault against her or anyone, but goddamn it, there had to be something that would scare her into shutting up.

  “Aw. Small dick?” she asked pleasantly, holding up her pinkie finger by way of demonstration.

  “I do not have a small dick!” he roared.

  “You sure?” she continued. “Because a lot of guys don't necessarily realize they've got a small one. They just assume it's average-sized. I mean, I've seen plenty, so if you're not sure, you can unzip and I'll tell you how it stacks up...”

  “Just get the fuck out of the car and follow me,” Carter hissed. He could feel his face turning red under the ski mask and yanked it off angrily as he stepped out of the coupe and stalked over to the white sedan.

  He knew he couldn't shoot Billie, but he didn't know how much longer he could endure her taunts and flippant attitude either. He desperately wanted to leave her by the side of the road, but then what? She still knew what he and the others looked like.

  They approached the grimy white sedan. Carter kept his gun hanging low and behind his thigh so that casual observers wouldn't spot it, but as he looked around the parking lot, he realized he didn't need to be so careful—there weren't any other people out here, just rows of cars baking in the hot sun.

  When they got to the car, Carter opened the hood and peered in. Sure enough, the inner workings were spotless, and they looked like they'd been lovingly customized so the unassuming machine would run like a race car.

  He let out a low whistle of appreciation. This engine was a thing of beauty.

  “Since you apparently know this guy so well, aren't you going to feel bad about stealing his car?” Carter asked.

  “Nah, Henry's a jerk,” Billie said. “He used to yank on my pigtails when we were in third grade. Take your time, by the way,” she added. “It's not like the cops are after you or anything.”

  Carter slammed the hood back down with a growl and walked over to the driver's side window. He took another look around to make sure the coast was clear, then smashed the window in with the butt of his gun and reached in to unlock the door.

  “Get behind the wheel,” he brushing the bits of broken glass from the seat.

  “Sure,” she replied, hopping into the driver's seat as Carter ran around to get in on the passenger's side. He examined the dashboard for a brief moment, then reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a pair of pliers.

  “You always have those with you?” Billie asked.

  “Pliers, duct tape, and superglue,” Carter said, leaning over and using the tool to pry the panel away from the ignition slot. “My mom always said those were the three things that held the world together, and she was right. Now let me concentrate.”

  Billie opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again.

  Carter located the right wires, stripped their ends down to the copper, then twisted them together gingerly with his fingertips. The engine awoke with a smooth purr and Carter pumped his fist in the air triumphantly.

  “Yes!” He turned to her. “Now drive. Get us down to Blue Lace as fast as you can.”

  “And after that?” Billie asked, pulling the car out of its space and heading for the dirt road again.

  “After that, we'll see,” Carter answered sourly. He wished he knew how things would shake out now that he'd taken her as a hostage, but he'd never needed to do anything like that before, and he had no idea what would happen next.

  “No more questions or chatter,” Carter said. “Just drive, okay?”

  “Can we turn on the radio?” she asked.

  “That sounds dangerously like a question,” Carter said through gritted teeth. “What did I just say about that?”

  “As long as we're not talking, I just figured...”

  “Fine, fine,” he agreed, “listen to the radio if you want. Just keep your mouth shut, all right? Damn.”

  Billie switched on the radio, and they kept driving as Steve Miller crooned about two young lovers who decided to cut loose.

  At one point, they heard the thwup-thwup-thwup of a helicopter overhead, and when Carter risked a look up at it, he saw state police markings on its fuselage. For a tense moment, he expected to hear voices emanate from bullhorns above them, ordering them to pull over to the side of the road.

  But after hovering over them briefly, the chopper veered off and whirred away, and Carter let out a sigh of relief.

  “That was a close one,” Billie commented.

  Carter didn't answer.

  Chapter 10

  Panzer

  Panzer looked around helplessly as state police troopers and federal agents took over his usually empty office. Half of them were on their cell phones, and the other half were jabbering to each other in acronyms and law enforcement lingo that was so foreign to him they may as well have been speaking Chinese.

  Special Agent Roland Harbaugh sat across from Panzer, staring at him threateningly as he licked his thumb and flipped backward through the pages of his small notepad. Harbaugh was a tall and cadaverous man in his early fifties, with iron-gray hair clipped into a flat-topped buzz cut and piercing black eyes surrounded by webs of crow's feet. He wore an expensive-looking suit, and his FBI credentials hung from a lanyard around his neck.

  Deputy Broyles stood next to Panzer, trying to adopt a protective posture despite his sloped shoulders, scrawny arms, and sunken chest.

  “Okay,” Harbaugh rumbled in his deep voice, looking down at his notes. “Let me just review your statement with you quickly, to make sure I've got everything right.” He cleared his throat. “Yesterday, you received a fax with a description of the three bikers who have robbed four banks in four different states over the past few weeks.”

  “Uh, technically we didn't get no descriptions?” Broyles drawled. “On account of how them boys was wearin' masks?” Whenever Broyles spoke, the ends of his sentences always seemed to rise into questions, even if he wasn't asking anything. The sound of his voice usually made Panzer feel like punching him, but he took a deep breath and reminded himself that right now, Broyles was the only person in this room—in the town, maybe even in the whole damn world—who was on his side.

  Harbaugh scowled at Broyles. “They were bikers, and there were three of them. That's a description.” He turned his attention to Panzer again. “Last night, you went to the local bar and saw three men who you suspected might be the robbers. Instead of acting on this in any way or even looking at them closely enough to be able to provide accurate descriptions later, you chose to ignore your suspicions and just wander off.”

  “Aw, now see, the thing you gotta remember is, he didn't really suspect-suspect them fellas?” Broyles interjected again. “He just said that 'cause he was tryin' to impress Billie, seein' as how he's been kinda sweet on her since high school an' all...”

  “Broyles, please don't help me,” Panzer murmured, putting his fingertips up to his temples and pressing on them. He felt a whopper of a headache coming on.

  “To continue,” Harbaugh said, flipping to the next page in his notepad, “you later decided, in your infinite wisdom, that these men might be the robbers after all. But instead of alerting the FBI, the state police, or even the bank's manager, you felt that your best course of action was to keep it to yourself, park your cruiser almost a full block away from the bank, and wait to see if anything happened.”

  “That's right, sir,” Panzer said. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow and his upper lip. He'd never felt this stupid before in his life, and given how many humiliations he'd endured over the yea
rs, that was saying something.

  “No, it may be accurate, but it's certainly not 'right,'” Harbaugh corrected him. “Then, once you heard gunshots from the direction of the bank, you radioed this—gentleman—for backup.” Harbaugh shot a disdainful glance at Broyles.

  “I'm his only deputy,” Broyles said proudly, hooking his thumbs into his belt.

  Harbaugh kept going. “You waited for the robbers to leave the bank...”

  “So they wouldn't try to take any of the tellers or customers as hostages, yes, sir.”

  “...and exchanged gunfire with them,” Harbaugh growled, “during which time, you managed to empty two full clips of ammunition without hitting any of them.”

  Panzer shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

  “Finally, two of the robbers fled on their motorcycles while the third one rode off with this Billie person who, for some reason, was parked directly in front of the bank watching the whole thing. And when he took off with her, you pursued them...” Harbaugh looked down at his notepad dourly. “...on foot. Now, have I got all that right, or are there any more examples of your profound stupidity that you'd like me to include for the official report?”

  Panzer gulped. “No, sir, that's everything.”

  “I just have one last question for you, Sheriff Panzer,” Harbaugh sneered. “Were you required to undergo any kind of law enforcement training to get that badge, or did you find it at the bottom of a cereal box?”

  Panzer remained silent.

  “I've been tracking these men for almost a month,” Harbaugh continued. “During that time, I've had to work with every podunk cop shop from here to Twiddle-Your-Ballsack Arkansas. But you are, without a doubt, the most useless yokel ever to put on a uniform. If it were up to me, you'd spend the rest of your life as a fucking meter maid, and you wouldn't be allowed to carry anything more dangerous than a water gun.”

  A young agent in glasses walked up to Harbaugh, handing him a report. “Sir, Ms. Rosewood's car was just found in a parking lot at the edge of town.”

  Panzer's heart stopped for a moment as he waited for the agent to say that Billie's body was found with it.

  Instead, the agent said, “Another car from that lot was reported stolen. Take a look.”

  Panzer stole a glance at the photo included with the report the agent handed to Harbaugh. He instantly recognized Henry Sunday's car and cursed inwardly. If they were in that souped-up monstrosity, no one would be able to catch up to them.

  “They switched cars,” Harbaugh spat. “Damn it.”

  He stood up and addressed the rest of the cops and agents in the room. “Gentlemen, it appears as though we're looking for a different car now. We'll circulate this report so you all know what make and model to focus on, at least until they switch again. At this time, it's important that we consider this woman Billie Rosewood a willing accomplice.”

  “What?” Panzer exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. “What the hell are you talking about? She's not an accomplice, she's a victim of kidnapping!”

  Harbaugh's lip curled in disgust. “True or false, Sheriff: This woman lied to you about seeing these men in her bar earlier.”

  “She probably did,” Panzer stammered, “but...”

  “And true or false: She was waiting outside the bank for them,” Harbaugh said. “Even called out to one of them, according to bystanders.”

  “Well, yeah, but...”

  Harbaugh held up a hand to silence Panzer. “I've been chasing these kinds of characters for a long time, and I've seen this sort of thing before. Some bored local girl hooks up with a bunch of outlaws when they blow into town, maybe even helps them with the score. Then they ride off together, laughing. Later, when we close in on them, they do a bit of playacting to convince us the girl's a helpless hostage so we don't shoot through her to get to them, and they use her as a distraction while they get away. Of course, these girls always have elaborate stories after the fact about how they were brutalized and forced into cooperating...and in my experience, those stories are always bullshit, without a shred of hard evidence to back them up.

  “Well, I'm done falling for it,” Harbaugh concluded decisively. “I'm going to catch up to these hoods, and I'm going to see them dead or in bracelets. And so help me God, I'm not going to let some thrill-seeking bimbo stand in the way of justice. Not this time.”

  Panzer felt his heart sinking with every word. From the look in Harbaugh's eyes as he delivered this fiery sermon, Panzer had no doubt that he meant everything he said—he'd shoot through Billie if it meant taking these robbers down.

  “Now, I'm going to need to liaise with local law enforcement while I'm down here, since I'm not familiar with this area,” Harbaugh said. “Do you think you'll be able to keep up and lend a hand without tripping over your own shoes?”

  “I guess I'd better,” Panzer said.

  He desperately hoped he could somehow rescue Billie from these bikers and stop Harbaugh from hurting or killing her in the process, if it came to that.

  But he wasn't sure he'd be able to.

  Chapter 11

  Billie

  “So what should I call you?” Billie asked.

  They'd been driving without words for over an hour, and she felt like this would be the perfect time to poke at him some more. Earlier, she'd gotten a kick out of seeing how far she could push him with her questions and comments. She knew he expected her to act scared and helpless, and she enjoyed the idea of proving him wrong by showing how fearless she could be. She was no one's damsel in distress, and she was proud of that.

  “You don't have to call me anything,” the biker said, “because you're not supposed to be talking.”

  “Oh, come on,” she pleaded. “I've got to call you something besides 'biker,' at least in my head. What's your name? Is it something totally embarrassing? Is it, like, Aloysius, or Humbert, or Newton or something like that?”

  “I've got a perfectly normal name,” he said in a low, dangerous voice, “which I'm not going to tell you. You already know what my face looks like, so if you think I'm giving you more information that'll help the cops ID me later, you're an idiot.”

  “Suit yourself.” Billie shrugged. “But that just means I'm going to have to come up with a name for you myself. How about...Clyde? You know, like Bonnie and Clyde?”

  “We are not Bonnie and Clyde,” he snapped. She could see how much she was getting under his skin, and she cheered inwardly.

  “Well, no, obviously I'm Billie, not Bonnie,” she said. “But it's close enough, right, Clyde?”

  “Don't call me that.”

  “Fair enough, Clyde,” she smirked.

  He let out a frustrated growl, kicked the dashboard angrily, and fell into a morose silence.

  Part of her understood that she should be frightened, or at least nervous. Even if she didn't really believe he'd hurt her or shoot her, she was still being held at gunpoint by a criminal, with no idea where they were going or what would happen next.

  But the jitters she felt crackling through her body like lightning came from thrills, not fear. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so alive and excited. A handsome outlaw, a stolen car, and the cops on their heels...

  And besides, she reasoned, the authorities will catch up to us eventually.

  She was sure it wouldn't be Panzie who finally brought the hammer down, since he was such a useless ass of a sheriff. But still, based on the true crime TV shows she often watched, guys like these bank robbers rarely went unpunished. Once that happened, she'd enjoy getting even more attention as the police took down her statement and the news crews interviewed her about her harrowing ordeal. For a while, she'd be more than just some barmaid. She'd be a local celebrity.

  Once all that starts to die down, she thought, who knows? Maybe I'll even write some steamy love notes to him while he's in prison, and People magazine will do a story on us.

  She laughed to herself at this thought.

  “What's so fucking funny?” he
asked sourly.

  “Nothing, Clyde,” she replied. “Just thinkin' me thinks, that's all.”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Then tell me what your name is and I won't keep calling you Clyde, Clyde,” she teased.

  He shot her a withering look.

  “Okay, how about this,” she offered. “Just tell me the first letter of your name, and I won't bug you about it anymore, I promise.”

  He sighed. “Fine. C. My name starts with a C.”

  “There you go!” she exclaimed. “That wasn't so hard, right? Okay, so it starts with C, but it's not Clyde...”