by Freya Barker
I’m generally an early riser, but the past couple of mornings—since coming back from our ten-day trip—I’ve had a hard time hauling my ass out of bed in the morning. My phone alarm goes off again, and this time, instead of silencing it, I swing my legs out of bed first. If I want to get to Cortez by ten, I’d better hustle.
The call came in last night from a buddy who runs a tattoo place in Cortez. He’d been watching this kid going through the dumpsters in the alley behind his shop for a couple of days, and last night he caught him trying to get into his van parked out back. The boy, only about twelve or thirteen, looked like he’d been on the street for a good long time. Dirty, smelling like he’d not seen water in weeks, and attitude too big for his scrawny, skin-over-bone body, Al hauled him to his apartment over the shop. He stuck him in the shower, and washed the kid’s dirt-caked clothes while the boy ate half the contents of Al’s fridge.
He hadn’t been able to get much out of the boy last night. Kid was tight-lipped and wouldn’t even share his name, but he fell asleep on the couch. Al called me right away.
We pick up strays. Lost boys. Kids who should be hitting their pillow every night, safe in knowing there are adults who will watch over them, but instead have to sleep in places that require keeping one eye open at all times to see danger coming. I grew up like that. On the streets, living off the dregs other people threw out, and leery of every single person who even looked at me. You learn that real fast.
I hop in the shower and quickly get dressed. No time for a leisurely coffee on my deck this morning, but a quick run up to the compound to pick up Paco and the truck. Momma is waiting with a fresh pot.
“You’re a lifesaver this morning,” I tell her with a kiss on her cheek. Everyone calls her Momma, but to me she is the only mother I’ve known.
“I’m a lifesaver every damn morning, and you well know it. Now go and bring me that boy back.” Crusty as always, but with a heart so big it can hold the world.
Momma is good with the boys. She’s usually the first one they open up to. Sometimes they’re simple runaways, wanting to get away from a home with too many rules for their liking. Those kids often just need someone to listen, and in most cases are willingly returned to the care of their parents. A lot of them escape the foster system, which is still far from perfect and places kids in homes where all they care about is the small check they get each month. More kids than you’d think take off out of self-preservation. Whether it be violence, abuse, or neglect, some are kids so desperate that living out of dumpsters, without any basic life comforts, is preferable to staying in that situation.
“You drive, Paco.” I hop in the passenger seat of the extended cab Silverado. Paco is the only guy I’ll ever be passenger to. He’s a good driver. The rest of them are fucking kamikaze pilots. I wouldn’t even trust my right-hand man, Kaga, to drive me to the corner of the street. Fucking wannabe NASCAR drivers—the lot of them.
“Tell me about the boy,” Paco says in his quiet voice when we leave Durango behind us.
“Don’t know much. Kid doesn’t talk—at all. Only sounds Al says he made, were when he was scarfing down whatever he could get his hands on.”
“Any signs of violence on the kid?”
“Some scars, but nothing recent as far as he could tell.”
“Age?”
“Very young teens.”
Paco nods, keeping his focus on the road. He’s what you’d call our shaman. He’s the one who homeschools the kids, although we haven’t had one this young in quite some time. Quiet, unassuming, and for all appearances a pacifist—until you threaten to hurt one of his family—then he becomes lethal. I’ve seen it happen.
“We’ll have to stop at Walmart on the way home,” he points out. “We’ve got a few clean things for older kids, but nothing for one this young.”
“That’s fine.”
This is what we do, we catch the kids who are threatening to slip through the cracks. It’s what Arrow’s Edge has done since its inception back in the seventies, under Nosh’s guidance. We’ll drive anywhere, but only bring back boys, since law enforcement would be all up our ass if we started taking on girls. It’s hard enough staying mostly under the radar as it is. Any girls we encounter we call in a shelter working out of Grand Junction. The boys who have nothing and nowhere to go back to can stay with us. We feed them, guide them, even homeschool them, and we keep them safe. If they stay with the MC, they can opt to become cubs, or prospects, when they turn eighteen.
Al’s shop, Skin Art, is still closed, but when we pull in around the back, we can see him out on the fire escape behind his apartment, having a smoke.
“Christ, I’m glad you’re here,” he says when we make our way up the stairs. “Kid locked himself inside the bathroom when I tried to ruffle his hair this morning, and he won’t come out.” He flicks his cigarette in the alley below and grabs me in a one-armed man hug.
“Guess you are happy to see us,” I joke when he gives a very uncomfortable Paco the same treatment. “Get anything out of him?”
“Not a peep. Damn kid looks at me like I’m some fucking pervert. Y’all know I don’t roll like that.” Al walks ahead into the apartment and points at tools lying in front of the closed bathroom door. “I was gonna take the door off, but thought I’d wait for you guys instead.”
In the next five minutes we have the door leaning against the wall, revealing a skinny kid pressed into the corner between the tub and the toilet, no more than a scant five feet tall with dirty-blond hair. The shirt he’s wearing has seen better days, and is about two sizes too small, as are the threadbare track pants he has on.
“We’d like to help you out, kid, but we’re gonna need a name,” I try, studying as he tilts his head slightly, watching my mouth move but doesn’t say a word. “Give me a few with him, will ya?” I ask the other two on a hunch. When they move into the small kitchen, I slide on the floor, with my back against the wall facing the door.
I’m getting too old to sit on the damn floor. I just move my mouth without making a sound, and the kid reacts the same way: a slight tilt to the head and eyes on the movement of my lips. Damn kid’s deaf.
My name is Ouray. I spell my name with my fingers, and note his eyes shift from my lips to my hands. Al, the man who lives here, is a good friend. He called me because he knows I help kids in trouble. This time I only use sign language and he seems to follow along.
It’s clear that at some point in this kid’s life he learned ASL.
What’s your name?
The wait is long, in reality probably no more than a minute or two, but it fucking feels like an eternity. I almost miss the hesitant movement of his fingers as he spells out C O D Y.
Nice to meet you, Cody. I know you have no reason to trust me, and there’s not a lot I can do about that. All I can do is tell you why I’m here, sitting on a floor outside a bathroom, talking to you.
For the next ten minutes I give the kid a hint at my own history, and a description of the club. Occasionally he motions for me to stop and I have to spell out certain words for him. It’s a lot like taming a wild animal when dealing with some of these kids. And this boy in particular—since he is deaf—feels more threatened than most.
It takes another ten to coax him out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, where Paco and Al are waiting. Al can’t sign, but Paco can, and he quickly introduces himself.
You all know sign language? the kid asks.
The former president of our club is deaf. Most of us have learned ASL because of him.
The sight of the slimmest of smiles breaking through on that boy’s face slices my gut. I’ll be damned if I won’t teach him how to laugh again.
LUNA
“Did you see this?”
I toss the memo that just came in from the Denver office on Damian’s desk and wait for him to scan its contents.
“No shit.”
“Yeah, the gun was registered to one Mark Strongbow. A local guy. Never heard the nam
e though, have you?”
Damian looks up at me with a smirk on his face. “I know the guy. Not so sure I like him for these robberies, though. Still, guess we should have a chat with him. Why don’t you take Dylan?”
I turn to look at Dylan Barnes, the youngest member of our team, who seems engrossed in whatever he’s doing with the filing cabinet.
“I can handle it,” I respond under my breath, wondering if I’ve given Damian reason to doubt my abilities.
“Rein it in, Roosberg,” my boss cautions, his voice low and an eyebrow raised. “That was not a question so much as an order. Furthermore, I know damn well you can handle it, but aside from the fact Dylan needs to get out of the office before he starts reorganizing my desk from sheer boredom as well, I think you’ll appreciate having some backup once you get up there.”
It’s true, things have been slow. Other than backing up the Durango PD on a few of their cases, we’ve seen little action this summer. Just a couple of cyber security cases I’ve been assisting Jasper with.
Something about what Damian says nags at me. “Where’s ‘up there’?”
“County Road 205. The Arrow’s Edge compound.”
“Arrow’s Edge? What am I doing there?” I ask, even though I can guess the answer. First time I was up there I was investigating a weapon as well. They run a decent outdoor shooting range, there aren’t that many around.
“That’s where you’ll find Mark Strongbow.”
“How can you be so sure he’s there?”
“Pretty positive they know him up there, just ask at the gate.”
Can’t say I particularly look forward to heading into the gated compound again and running the risk of bumping into the club’s fearless leader. I just did that two nights ago at the gym.
The man gets under my damn skin every time I run into him. Misogynistic pig. Looks at me like I’m some alien specimen under a microscope. I’m likely an anomaly in his world, being a strong, capable woman. Felt damn good though to teach that young punk a lesson in the ring. The kid’s attitude is even worse than his boss’s. Foulmouthed little miscreant.
“Barnes!” I call out, as I walk to the door. “You’re coming with.”
I hear the scrape of his desk chair on the floor, and next thing I know the heavy fall of his boots is right behind me on the stairs. The guy’s like a coiled spring, ready to jump into action.
“Where to?” he asks when we get to the bureau-issued Expedition. He tries to round the SUV to the driver’s side, but I just throw him a dirty look. I was the rookie in the office for the longest time until Dylan joined, it’s my time to reap some seniority perks. He doesn’t argue and gets into the passenger seat.
“Name came up on the weapon left at the scene of that last robbery in Silverton. According to Damian, we can find the guy at the Arrow’s Edge compound.”
“Sweet.”
I glance sideways at him as I drive off the parking lot. Not an expression I would’ve expected from the mostly quiet man. Guess it’s inevitable, MCs seem to have that effect on men of any age. It’s a fantasy: bikes, brotherhood, the lure of the open road, freedom. Although if I’m honest, I have to admit the lifestyle has its appeal. There have been times I’ve been sitting on the porch of my small home, drinking my morning coffee, listening to those bikes rumble by, when I’ve wondered what that life would be like. Living outside of any kind of established structure, away from society’s expectations.
I use the drive up the mountain to update Dylan on the latest in the case. The weapon, left at the Silverton scene, is a Smith & Wesson M&P series, nine millimeter rounds, all accounted for. So far, other than a few of the less compliant employees who were pistol-whipped, no weapons have been fired at any of the robberies.
Just my luck, the gate is manned by a familiar lanky figure, who is not going to be happy to see me.
“The fuck do you want now, bitch?”
Yup, as expected, the young man’s attitude hasn’t improved one bit. I’m tempted to go another round with him, but since this is a professional call, I shall have to restrain myself.
“Dylan.” I turn to my partner, who is grinding his teeth and glaring at the kid. One wrong move will undoubtedly set him off. My curse to be saddled with men intent on defending my virtue. “I don’t believe you’ve been properly introduced to this delightful creature. Meet Rowtag, gatekeeper extraordinaire, but unfortunately his false sense of power doesn’t do much for him in hand-to-hand combat.”
The kid may not have two brain cells to rub together, but he knows a taunt when he hears one. This is confirmed when I hear the sound of a safety catch releasing right by my ear. I watch Dylan’s eyes flick to mine before they narrow over my shoulder. Taking in a deep breath, on my exhale, I swing my elbow around through the open window, catching the kid off guard. Before he knows what’s coming, I have the gun knocked out of his grip, his hand twisted in an unnatural position, and his body pulled through the window. My face is inches from his, and I work hard not to flinch at the unwashed stench wafting off him.
“A little slow on the uptake, are we?” I ignore the hate-filled eyes directed at me. Not making any friends today. “Let’s try this the polite way. I am looking for an individual by the name of Mark Strongbow. I’ve been told I can find him here. I suspect he might be a member of the shooting range? Could you please find out for me?”
“Let the boy go.”
I should’ve expected that too. Fate would not be so kind as to let me off the hook today. I turn my head and watch Ouray’s leisurely approach.
“Would love to, but he wanted to play with guns, and I wasn’t in the mood today. I’d rather not let go until the gun is secured, if you don’t mind.” The kid is trying to twist out of my hold, which isn’t getting him anywhere. It’s amazing how easy it is to control someone’s movements, without exerting a whole lot of strength, by simply manipulating a few small parts. It’s the first thing I was taught in my old self-defense training: eyes, nose, fingers, and my personal favorite, balls.
Ouray slowly shakes his head, that perpetual toothpick hanging from the lopsided grin on his lips. He momentarily disappears from view when he bends down to collect the weapon, holding it up for me to see as he resets the safety, and tucks the gun behind his back.
The moment I release the kid, his other hand, curled in a fist, comes flying through the window, but falls a fraction of an inch short of the bridge of my nose. Courtesy of Ouray, who has his paw around the kid’s fist, doing some manipulating of his own, judging from the kid’s face.
“Lesson I thought you would’ve learned at the gym, Rowtag: brute force rarely ever wins out over dexterity and cunning. Now open the fuckin’ gate and let ‘em through. I’m keeping your gun for now.”
Like I said, I doubt I’m making any friends today, Ouray may have well asked the kid to hand over his dick.
“So, Agent Roosberg,” the man drawls when I park the Expedition and he pulls open my door. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Knock off the theatrics, Ouray. We need to speak to someone by the name of Mark Strongbow.” I turn to include Dylan, but he’s already off ogling the collection of bikes parked on the other side. Figures. “We were told we could find him here.”
Ouray tilts his head to one side, giving me that semi-amused, semi-inquisitive look again. “Who told you that?”
“SAC Gomez.” My response seems to be funny, since it elicits an amused chuckle. “Don’t see what’s so amusing,” I snap, already bristling at the man.
“Funny part is, SAC Gomez apparently left some information out,” he says lazily, chewing on the end of that damn toothpick.
“And what would that be?”
I hate my short stature, especially when I have to look up and squint into the sun to see the man in front of me.
“I’m Mark Strongbow.”
CHAPTER 3
OURAY
I leave her standing with her mouth hanging open and walk inside, straight through
to my office, in the assumption she’ll eventually follow.
To say her use of my legal name has thrown me is an understatement. Other than Nosh, Momma, and the guys who’ve been here long enough, it’s not widely known. Granted, I’m forced to use it on official paperwork, banking, driver’s license and such, but since I’m only addressed by my road name here, most people in my circle don’t know me as anything else. It’s always been my way to keep a little bit of privacy from the club.
An unsettled feeling enters my office with me. I have a sense this may have something to do with the theft I reported Friday night in Morrison. I dismissed it at the time—this kind of shit often happens at rallies—things get stolen from saddlebags and motel rooms often. That’s why I carry most anything worthwhile on my body.
“You are Mark Strongbow?”
I knew she would follow. Stepping around her, I shut the door, closing out any nosy fucks out there.
“Not something I advertise, but yes, that’s me.”
“You don’t want it known?” She seems curious, sitting down across from my desk when a knock sounds on the door. “That’s probably Dylan,” she explains, getting up again to let in her partner. “Have you guys met? Special Agent Barnes, meet Mark Strongbow.”
I have to say, the guy has an impressive poker face. The small flicker of surprise is gone as fast as it appeared. I remember him from last summer when Gomez’s sister got snatched. I shake his offered hand and wave him to a chair.
“To answer your question, no, I don’t really feel the need to advertise my name.”
“Guess it would kill the mystique, wouldn’t it?” Her sarcasm is loud and clear, and for some reason I feel compelled to explain.
“Doesn’t have fuck to do with mystique and everything with wanting to keep some part of my life just for me.”
“Oh, so lack of trust then?”
Goddammit, the woman seems intent on pushing all my buttons, and I catch myself before I bite again.
