Have Gun, Will Travel (The Bare Bones MC Book 5) (15 page)

That was probably true, but it also gave Sax the uneasy sense that Slayer was a loose cannon, unpredictable and liable to go off on a tangent at any moment. Wolf’s tinny voice came again in Sax’s ear. “Door’s open. Get into position.”

Shoving past Slayer without giving him any intel, Sax again drew his piece and, using the two-handed teacup grip with the barrel pointed at the ground, peered around the edge of the shed. Sure enough, two men in shades emerged from the front door, leaving it open. One of them clicked a remote control and the detached garage door went up, revealing another couple vehicles, one an armored SUV.

“Not Tormenta,” Sax told Wolf.

“Yeah, I see,” said Wolf, obviously much closer now.

But this was good enough for Slayer. All riled up with emotion and barely-suppressed rage, Slayer burst forth into the clearing bordering the driveway. Sax’s jaw dropped. The guy was hardly stealthy—more of a kamikaze pilot uttering a piercing, siren-like wail of agony.

The two goons, of course, looked at Slayer as though watching a movie. This was probably the last thing they expected, and Slayer easily nailed both of them, one right through the forehead. Slayer pumped his fist while Wolf murmured in Sax’s ear,

“What the fuck? Why the fuck did he do that? I thought we agreed to wait—”

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Sax barked. “I don’t want to be associated with this clusterfuck.”

Meanwhile, two more goons had emerged from the front door, naturally to see what the fuck. Slayer took time off from his dancing to pop off another one through the heart, giving the second guy time to duck and cover behind a big flowerpot containing a saguaro cactus. Sax started to race downhill the way he’d come, behind the shed. No one need ever know he’d been there.

But something wouldn’t let him. It was like Slayer was on a suicide mission, dead set on proving his bravery in a foolish shoot-out he was bound to lose. He wasn’t even wearing a bulletproof vest. Did he have a fucking death wish or something? Did he want it shouted from the rooftops that he was a fucking hitman there to off Tormenta? Except, you know, minus the part
where he actually offed Tormenta?

Sax’s body acted before he engaged his brain. He found himself racing into the clearing, too, wrenching Slayer’s pistol arm just as he squeezed off a few shots into the glazed ceramic cactus pot. Sax disarmed Slayer easily, transferring his Sig Sauer into Slayer’s left, non-dominant hand. This might slap sense into Slayer’s mind without actually neutralizing him—for Sax didn’t want Slayer shot, either. Just to take a few seconds to breathe.

“Down the hill!” Sax ordered the enthusiastic actor.

Slayer was already transferring his piece back to his right hand to shoot at the flowerpot some more. “I only got three of them!” He pointed to the men sprawled in various positions, with various head and body wounds. “I want to get
all
of them and this
pendejo
won’t come out!
Salir de detrás de esa maceta, cobarde!
”
Come out from behind that flowerpot, you coward!

“That’s enough,” said Sax, his hand on Slayer’s forearm trying to lower his shooting arm. “Tormenta isn’t going to come out now. He’s the one we want.”

In fact, two more goons had appeared, but not at the door like fools. One was at a front window, now shooting at Sax and Slayer. Another seemed to be shooting from the garage, behind the SUV.

“We can storm the house!” cried Slayer idealistically.

Sax actually heard the bullets cracking past him. It had been a long time since he’d heard that noise. Four or five hit the metal shed where they’d been hiding. It was only a matter of seconds before one of them hit flesh. “It’s Tormenta we want, and we’ve lost the advantage of surprise! This is your last fucking chance, Slayer, but I’m out of here!”

Sax was at last forced to abandon the melodramatic hitman when Slayer twirled about, a new flesh wound gouged in his hip. This might enrage Slayer even more, so as Sax ran down the driveway, he pointed into the sky and bellowed at the house.

“Look! A drone! It’s the
federales
spying on you with drones, Slayer!”

That shut up the shooters long enough for Sax, and now Slayer, to make their getaway. As Sax hotfooted it down the gravel drive, he met Wolf Glaser, who jogged on past just long enough to shoot at the guy in the garage. Sax could hear the unmistakable sound of bullets piercing a so-called armored vehicle, and Wolf’s jubilant “Ha ha!” rang in his ear.

Sax didn’t break his stride when he met Tobiah fumbling with his computer screen. “What the
fuck
, Saxonberg? Telling them to shoot my drone?”

“Abort, you dumb shits!” Sax called. “Where’s your vehicle?” he asked Slayer, who was admirably keeping up with the much more fit man.

Slayer panted, “My Fiat is down on the main street. I smartly did not wish to come up the drive—”

Sax was busy whipping branches off his scoot. “Never mind. You’re coming with me. You can get the cage later, when it’s not so hot here.” As much as he didn’t relish the idea of riding two up with the loathsome thespian, time was of the essence now, as even Tobiah came hauling ass down the hill without his beloved quadcopter.

Tobiah was throwing the iPad into the van’s driver’s seat, but he paused in the process of launching himself inside the vehicle. His remarks were directed straight at Sax. He was remarkably calm, for a guy who had just done the James Brown away from some major Mexican cartel gunmen. “Thanks a
lot
,
Doctor
Saxonberg, for losing my drone. The last thing my screen showed was Tormenta standing at the door pointing right at it with a fucking semiautomatic in his hand. Then the screen went blank.”

Sax was getting on his saddle, handing Slayer his brain bucket. “How much can those things cost? Five hundred dollars?”

“Whoo hoo!” cried Wolf Glaser like Tarzan, leaping into the van’s passenger seat. “I
totally
buried that moron hiding inside the garage!”

Tobiah didn’t seem to notice. He slammed his door but spoke out the open window as he started up the boxy vehicle. “It wasn’t the damned drone. It’s the fact that I registered it under warranty online.” His voice finally became a shade more hysterical as each word came from his mouth. By the time he finished, he was nearly crying with frustration. “I never thought I’d use it for anything like this. Now that they’ve shot it down, they can get the serial number and figure out who we are. I wanted to be sure it was under warranty in case a part broke!
I was only trying to be safe, like any normal drone owner would!
”

Sax allowed the downtrodden Tobiah to peel off before he did. He’d ride chase. Slayer could shoot at anyone who tried to follow them, though none did.

“That’s kind of idiotic,” Slayer said in Sax’s ear as they drove off at a sedate speed. Never in a million years did Sax think he’d be riding down a country road with Santiago Slayer’s hands clasping his waist.
That’s what this fucking world has come to.
Slayer was calm now, as though he’d worked through his love-fueled rage, and everything was out of his system now. “He registered that little helicopter online and then took it to a shootout with thugs?”

“Isn’t that like the pot calling the kettle black?” Sax raged. He wasn’t sure which stunt was stupider, Tobiah’s online secretarial skills, or Slayer’s grand performance in Tormenta’s parking lot.

All Sax knew at that moment was that he’d have to rethink his entire approach. And Tormenta wasn’t going to be staying at this particular hideaway one more night.

BEATRIX

F
or the second time in my life, I was learning a great lesson. Love can urge us to a place of shelter and security.

I used to find this safety only in my faith, at the abbey. My spiritual director trained me to discern, think, and pray—to pray my way out of the pain caused by the only man I’d ever loved. After many years of following and obeying my calling, I thought I’d found some semblance of security. No one would come up the mountain in Boulder to my safe place and hurt me ever, ever again.

Now that I was falling in love again, I was terrified. The sort of man Sax was, in particular, scared the bejesus out of me. The first man, Baldy Avery—just his name was like a sword through my gut—was also a biker. Fresh out of my junior year in high school, he took me by storm—ruined me, devastated me. That explains my attraction to my old sweetbutt friends in The Bare Bones. It was my type, my spirit, the things I desired in life. Danger, excitement, thrills. The opposite of life in the abbey, now that I think on it.

Not only was Sax a biker, he was an
itinerant
biker. The two things that terrified me most on the planet. He was a nomadic bad boy, the worst sort of star to hitch your wagon to. Was I doomed forever to make the stupidest, most damaging choices in men? That’s one of the reasons the convent had been my safe haven. I was safe from being forced to make asinine, life-altering decisions like this. Things were much safer up there in more ways than one.

While Sax was gone on his urgent mission to track down Tormenta, there was a monthly fish fry at The Citadel. This was an ordinary thing with brother clubs such as the Assassins of Youth and the Baal’s Minions, and we certainly weren’t going to cancel it thanks to Tony Tormenta. The mood was subdued after the death of Brenda and there was a little shrine to her set up inside the hangar. A ceramic cholo, toy motorcycles, photos of Brenda, pieces of her jewelry. The heavy scent of Tuzigoot’s deep-fried battered catfish swirled around us as we gazed at the remainders of Brenda’s short, happy, turmoil-filled life. Was
this
all life boiled down to? I silently said a few prayers, because I hadn’t given up
everything
to do with my former faith.

I’d been to many fish fries, and this time they just posted a few more guards around the mesa, the access road. The band played outside on a stage, not nearly as good missing their lead guitarist, Roman Serpico, still off on honeymoon. I hoped he didn’t find out what was going on. If he came to avenge his father’s death, he could ruin whatever plan Sax had going. And bliss was so difficult to come by these days. Roman should be allowed to enjoy his little slice of heaven before returning to this hell.

“I’m so sorry about the circumstances of this party,” Harte said to Cassie and me. I’d seen the bartender pour him a tequila and orange juice, unusual for such a clean liver as Harte. “I don’t know what the fuck has been going on around here lately, but it’s got to stop.”

Cassie stroked Harte’s leather-clad arm. She had improved much more than anyone had expected, although her face, a patchwork of red lines, was still too tender and raw to have the plastic surgery she needed. “Don’t worry about it, Harte. It’s hardly your fault. I blame Leo for continuing to do business with that motherfucking Tormenta. I’m praying Sax is wherever right now, putting an end to him.”

Setting his drink on a speaker, Harte fumbled with an unlit cigarette. We were outside in the vast parking lot that faded out into a revetment area where they used to park airplanes and jets. It was easy to see for miles in every direction, one of the advantages of the location. “I just have a terrible feeling I might’ve somehow contributed to it.”

I thought I knew what Harte might be about to say. “You mean that you told Leo about our bounty.”

Harte reluctantly looked up at me from beneath a curtain of shimmering, squiggly ginger locks. “Yeah,” he said shortly, then looked back at his cig. “I stupidly trusted my father. I’m starting to have serious, grave doubts about him. The way he’s running this club, the choices he makes.”

That was a serious admission, especially to divulge to sweetbutts, who normally had no business knowing anything about inner club doings. I felt that Harte seemed closer to us, that he didn’t feel
part
of the club—that in a way his palling around with his club brothers was more of a charade than an expression of his innermost feelings. He seemed to feel he could be more
himself
around us. That was why he’d been the only one to come running when Cassie was slashed.

To encourage him, I said, “I agree. I think he’s been making some idiotic decisions lately. I don’t know what’s gotten into him—greed, maybe—but he’s doing some wrong things. Ever since Panhead went up the river, things have been strange. And Tormenta seems to be running sweat shops all over Arizona.”

“Among other fucking things,” Harte said glumly, finally lighting his smoke. That was another thing. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him smoke before. He must have been under more pressure than just wondering about his father’s business dealings.

Still, I didn’t think much when club member Dayton Navarro walked up and lifted his chin at Harte. Leaning his bass guitar against the speaker, Dayton mumbled something that sounded like, “Harte. I found that thing you wanted to see.”

Harte looked apologetically at us and stubbed out his barely-smoked cig with his boot. “Ladies. I’ll be back in a flash.” Whatever the “it” was that Dayton referred to, it certainly seemed to light up Harte’s handsome face. I was all for “it.” I didn’t think Harte should be forced to feel bad, having told his father our plans. It was only logical to trust your father, the President of your club, with pertinent information that might alter his business decisions. It made me wonder why Leo hadn’t chosen Harte as his new Veep after Panhead had gone to prison. Harte was his only son, after all, the logical heir for the chapter. Instead he’d chosen Fred Birdseye, who wasn’t even from Flagstaff. Birdseye had been the Tucson chapter Prez until the clubhouse had gone up in flames and they’d disbursed to other chapters, once again in fear of Tormenta.