Iron Goddess (21 page)

The former home to Kirkland Auto Repair had been abandoned for years. The painted letters on the sign were peeling from decades of heat and sunlight. Crabgrass grew from every crack in the blacktop. Rotting plywood had replaced the plate glass windows. The storage lot next to the building was overgrown with sow thistle and snakeweed—the only signs of life among the rusted hulks of cars.

A low rider, metal-flake purple Monte Carlo sat parked in the driveway. On the far side of the street, a full-size Dodge Ram truck sat idling. The words
AA AJO AUTO REPAIR
had been painted on the side of the truck—Goblin's shop.

Terrance parked along the street, positioning the back of the trailer next to the driveway. Shea and Terrance got out and walked over to Goblin's truck. He rolled down the window.

Goblin's face was a little rounder and his cholo-style mustache a little grayer since the last time they met. “Been a while,
Panterita
.”

“Yeah, it has. This here's my business partner, Terrance.”

The two men nodded at each other.

“Looks like our contact's already inside,” said Goblin. “How you wanna play it,
chica
?”

Shea looked at Terrance, then back to Goblin. “A couple of local deputies named Foster and Aguilar are behind all this. If they're in there, I want 'em dead. Anybody else, we'll see how it goes.”

Terrance put a hand on her shoulder. “Shea, you can't go around executing cops, no matter what they done.”

Shea drew her Glock and glared at him. “How many people gotta die before someone puts these dirty cops down, T?”

Terrance stared at Shea, but didn't say anything.

Shea turned to Goblin. “You with me on this?”

“We got your back,
chica
.” Goblin and four burly men—two Latino, one black, and one white—climbed out of the truck, armed with an assortment of compact assault weapons and semiautomatic handguns. Goblin carried a shotgun.

“Let's go.” Goblin waved them on.

The seven of them walked up the drive, with Shea in the lead, followed by Goblin and his men, Terrance bringing up the rear. Shea gave a gentle tug on the front door. It was unlocked. The plywood prevented Shea from seeing who and what awaited them inside. Her chest tightened. “Here goes nothing.”

Shea opened the door and raised her gun. Inside, a dimly lit service counter sat next to a small customer waiting area. Trash and dry leaves littered the floor. The place smelled of rat feces and motor oil. Shea took a quick glance behind the counter. No one there. She turned to her left and opened the door to the repair bay.

Sunlight coming through the garage door windows reflected off the pink metal flake paint of the Trinkets' bikes. Beside them sat the production bikes Willie and his cohorts had stolen. A large pile of jackets, helmets, and other motorcycle gear lay in a heap to the side. Relief at finding the bikes mixed with her apprehension.

“Getting worried you wouldn't show.”

Shea whipped around to her right to see a tall, skinny kid in his mid-teens with cold, half-lidded eyes and a teardrop tattoo on the right side of his face. A gold cross dangled from one ear, below the yellow bandana wrapped around his head. He pointed a large-caliber, snub-nosed revolver sideways at her.
An amateur,
Shea thought.

“Where's Willie?” Shea put a second hand on the grip of the Glock and pointed it at his chest. The
clickety-clack
of the others cocking their guns boosted her confidence.

“Hey, lady! I'm the one making the deal.” The kid patted his puffed-up chest, glancing from Shea to the others. “You in or out?”

“Put the fucking gun down, shithead, or we will end you.”

The kid's eye twitched. His frown twisted.
“Puta.”

Shea caught a whiff of Axe body spray coming off the guy like a wave of desperation. She took a step toward him. “I already killed Oscar Reyes and Tiburón.” A white lie, but necessary. “You wanna be next?”

The young Jaguar shifted from one foot to the other, staring at the half-dozen guns pointed at him. “Fuck it.” He backed up, then pointed the barrel of the revolver upward in surrender and laid it on the floor. “Let's be cool, a'ight? You give me the money, I give you the goods. We all go home happy,” he said with his hands raised.

Shea picked up his gun, a nickel-plated Taurus .45 caliber with a jaguar engraved near the grip. She holstered the Glock and pressed the revolver to the kid's chest. “What's your name?”

“Why?”

She ripped the cross out of his ear, splitting open his fleshy lobe.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelped, gripping his bloody ear in pain. “What the fuck'd you do that for?”

“What's your name, asshole?”

“Eduardo.”

Shea narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. “Eduardo Ortega?”

“How the hell'd you know that?”

“You and your sister, Margaret, were supposed to help my sister, Wendy.” She smacked him in the face with his revolver.

“Shea, ease up,” said Terrance.

“You're Wendy's sister?” He wiped blood from his nose and busted lip, smearing it across his face.

“Yeah. What the hell happened?”

Actual tears began to run over the inked one on Eduardo's cheek. “Shit, it was my cousin Oscar. He got this all fucked up. He had this deal going with a fucking cop. Forced me into it. Then he shot my sister when she tried to stand in his way. Tell Wendy I'm sorry.”

“Wendy's dead, asshole. Your buddy Willie Foster shot her.”

“The cop? Goddamn. It wasn't supposed to go down like this.”

“Well, thanks to you, it did. And these here are my bikes, Eduardo. Got it?”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding defeated. “I got it.”

“Great. Now where the fuck's Willie?”

“I don't know.”

She pulled back the hammer on the revolver. “I'm getting tired of repeating myself, Eduardo.”

“I don't know, and that's the truth. He told me to come down and collect the money or he'd throw my ass in jail for my sister's murder.”

Another one of Willie's pawns. “You know you ain't leavin' here with no money right?”

“What? I can't do that. Foster'll have my ass.”

“Or we can shoot you right here, leave you to the rats,” said Goblin.

The kid sighed. “What the hell am I supposed to tell Foster?”

“Tell him he fucked with the wrong woman.”

“Man, this is some fucked-up shit. He'll come after you. Ya know that, right?”

“You assholes robbed
my
shop and put
my
guy in the hospital. Y'all kidnapped
my
niece and murdered
my
sister. Give me one reason I shouldn't pull this trigger.”

“Shea,” said Terrance from behind the safety of Goblin's men.

She glanced back at Terrance, who shook his head. “Not worth it, sister girl.”

She turned back to the kid and sighed. “Get the fuck outta here, Eduardo, before I kill you, anyway.”

He raced out the back door like a frightened rabbit.

Shea looked to Terrance. “Happy?”

He frowned.

Goblin came up to Shea. “You said you'd make this worth our while,
chica
.”

“We came for the Pink Trinkets' bikes. I can let you have a few of the production bikes. The gear, too, if you want it.”

Goblin and his guys looked over the bikes and picked through the gear, trying on the women's jackets, but they didn't fit. After a brief discussion with them, Goblin said, “Gimme those three flat black bikes on the end. You can keep the gear. Too damn small for my homies.”

“You got a deal.” Shea shook his hand.

Shea opened the garage bay door. After pulling the three bikes they'd chosen to the street, Goblin's guys helped them load the Trinkets' bikes and the remaining production bikes into the trailer. They piled the jackets and other gear in the bed of Terrance's pickup.

“Thanks for your help, man.” Shea slapped Goblin on the back. “You saved our asses on this Trinkets deal.”

“My pleasure,
chica.
You come down to Ajo sometime, we go for a ride.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Goblin and his guys rode off.

When they reached the truck, Terrance said, “Well, that's one problem solved. What about the rest? Between the Jaguars and these dirty cops, I don't feel safe opening up the shop tomorrow.”

“I'm hoping Detective Rios will have Internal Affairs deal with Willie and Aguilar. I don't know what else I can do about them.” Shea picked out a jacket and helmet from the back of the truck. “As for Victor, I have a plan.”

He looked at Shea. “Care to share?”

Shea frowned. “Better you don't know.”

“Look, we're in this together. What's your idea?”

“Victor ain't gonna leave me alone till he gets his hex back, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So I just have to convince Hunter to bring it to him.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“Tell him Victor's holding me, Wendy, and Annie hostage until he brings it back.”

“Wendy's dead. Annie's in the hospital.”

“Yeah, but judging from Monster's voicemail message, they don't know any of that. I reckon Hunter and the MC are keeping a low profile after what happened between them and Willie.”

“Hunter will kill you once he finds out you lied to them.”

“You got any better suggestions?”

“No.” Terrance sighed. “Where do you plan to meet with Victor?”

“Dunno. Hopefully someplace neutral and public.”

“I'm coming with you.”

“No! I'm not risking anyone else's life.”

“You can't do this alone. It's suicide.”

“Then so be it. I already got Wendy killed for letting her come with me to rescue Annie. I can't risk losing you, too.”

“Shea—”

“No, T! I won't do it. Elon needs you. And somebody needs to run Iron Goddess.” The darkness crept up on her. She took a deep breath. “This is something I gotta do on my own.”

While Terrance drove them back to Iron Goddess, Shea pulled out Oscar's phone. “Victor!”

“
Mija,
unless you have my product, we have nothing to discuss.”

“Listen, Victor. You still have a rat in your crew. I know who it is.”

“More of your bullshit,
mija
?”

“No bullshit. Had a chat with this guy a little while ago. He's a helluva lot more scared of Sergeant Foster than he is of you. Wonder what he's telling the Sheriff's Office about the Jaguars?”

“No more games,
mija
. Tell me who it is now.”

“I tell you who it is, my debt to you is paid.”

“Not hardly. You still owe me for the stolen product.”

“As I said before, I ain't got it. But I might be able to convince Hunter to bring it back. But if I do, then we're square once and for all.”

“The product, plus the name of the rat.”

“Deal.”

“Be at the warehouse in one hour with the product.”

“Can't we meet somewhere a little more neutral?”

“
Mija,
you wanna talk. This is where I am. You come here, I know you on the up-and-up. If not, I know you full of shit.”

“Fine. One hour.”

Shea hung up. “I'll need you to drop me off at my place, so I can pick up one of my bikes.”

“Take one of the ones in the truck.”

Shea shook her head. “These are street bikes. I need something better suited for off-road.”

“Cops are probably watching your house. Be better if I drive you in the truck.”

“No. You've done enough. This is on me.”

“Then how will you get your bike if the cops are at your place?”

“I'll figure something out.”

A sly smile crept onto his face. “I think I can help you with that.”

Shea looked at him. “How?”

“You'll see.”

After unloading the bikes and merchandise at Iron Goddess, they unhooked the trailer. Terrance locked up his truck. While Shea grabbed a spare helmet and jacket from the workshop, Terrance pulled out an 1800 cc production sport bike.

“T, I told you, I need an off-road bike.”

“And I told you I would help you do that.” He pulled on a helmet. “Now shut up and get on.”

She climbed onto the passenger seat behind him and they maneuvered down Sycamore Mountain to Shea's neighborhood. Terrance stopped at the corner before turning onto her street. A dark blue sedan sat parked in front of her house.

“I wonder if that's your buddy Willie,” Terrance said.

“Maybe, though he usually drives a marked cruiser. I don't have time to deal with him anyway. So what's your plan?”

“You sneak down behind the houses. I'll loop around from the next street over and draw them off.”

“How do you know they'll follow you?”

“Trust me, I'm a black man. I know how to get a cop to follow me.”

She held his gaze and put her hand on his arm. “Try not to get yourself shot. Or arrested. Don't need you going to men's prison.”

“You're the one meeting with the head of a heroin-trafficking street gang. Don't get yourself killed. Annie needs you.”

A low ridge ran behind the row of houses on her street, crested with boulders that rose like the ancient standing stones of Britain. Shea scurried along behind the boulders until she reached a small, overgrown path that meandered into her backyard. She sat for a moment, perched behind a boulder with a clear view of the blue sedan.

The rumble of Terrance's bike grew louder when he turned the corner onto Shea's street and pulled onto the gravel-covered shoulder ten feet in front of the sedan. For a few moments, nothing happened as dust from the disturbed gravel drifted down the street.

The sedan's passenger door opened and Detective Edelman stepped out. Shea suspected Rios was behind the wheel. Terrance's engine roared. The bike's back tire sent a rapid-fire barrage of gravel at the sedan. Edelman ducked back into the car. Rocks smacked the windshield, cracking it in several places. A moment later, Terrance took off in a cloud of dust, pursued by the sedan, siren wailing. No way would Rios and Edelman catch Terrance on the bike. Not on paved roads. But it would have been fun to watch.

Shea hustled down the path and let herself in the back door. The place had been ransacked. All of her chair cushions were slashed open. Papers from the desk in her bedroom covered the floor. The contents of her kitchen cabinets were everywhere. Ninja was eating something off the floor. She grabbed a spare garage door remote and tucked it into one of her jacket pockets.

In her garage, her tool chests had been dumped, but her bikes looked untouched. She decided to take Kali, a 600 cc adventure bike. It was lighter and better on gravel than a cruiser anyway. She opened the garage door, hopped on Kali, and took off, closing the door behind her with the remote.

Shea raced up Sycamore Mountain, burning through the corners, letting the adrenaline fill her system. Once past Olde Towne Sycamore Springs, she rode like a bullet toward Ironwood, then out into the Cortes National Forest, past the campgrounds, and up the maze of unpaved Forest Service roads.

A mile from the Jaguar warehouse, she passed a gauntlet of cars and trucks parked alongside the road. Large Latino men, armed with rifles and shotguns and wearing the distinctive yellow Jaguar bandanas, stood beside the vehicles. Maybe this would be a one-way trip after all.

As expected, Victor and two other Jaguars were waiting for her out front. She parked the bike at the edge of the driveway nearest the building's side door. Another black Pathfinder was parked on the side of the building. No bullet holes in the windshield.
Must be a different SUV from the one we used to escape.

The main garage door stood open. The two Jags she didn't know were both holding AK-47s and dressed in matching black flannel shirts with yellow bandanas encircling their heads. Both had the build of Mexican wrestlers.

Victor did not look happy to see her.