The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (31 page)

 

 

 

 

"What the fuck did you just say?" demanded Kayda.

A look of shock plastered Kelan's face. Her brother turned away from her. Hotah put his arms around her and pulled her away from Kelan.

"He gave your brother harbor for the last year," said Hotah in explanation. "Kept him hidden from the cops."

Kayda's breaths came quickly. "Carlos was with family the whole time?"

Kelan couldn't meet her gaze. She turned to Hotah. "He was in a bad way, Kayda. He wasn't recovering like he should have. Kel thought he needed a shock to the system. That maybe the gunshot would trigger something. Bring him back."

Still her brother wouldn't look at her. He stared down at the floor. At a knife. She saw Diego hanging upside down, the right side of his hair matted with drying blood. His eyes pleaded with her for help.

"What's he doing here?"

Kelan finally addressed her. "He was the one who killed Carlos."

Kayda pushed out of Hotah's arms, marched to her brother, and slapped him across the face. He sneered at her. "
You
killed him," she said.

"He wasn't the same. He wasn't strong enough."

"He was alive." Now it was Kayda who couldn't look at her brother. "He was a person. It didn't matter if he was bedridden for the rest of his life. You took away any hope he had. You took away my chance to see him again."

She felt the tugs of grief overcome her. She didn't look at Diego or Hotah or Kelan. Everyone else dissolved away as she cried, covering her face with her hands. Did she not want them to see?

The raven. The lies. The truth.

Kelan put his arms around his sister and gently pulled her away from Diego. "You shouldn't have come here." She shook her head, wanting to fight against his support. His strength. "Carlos was a great man. He will be remembered well. But our tribe needs someone like me now."

Kayda thought back to the night at the casino. Once again she saw the rage in her brother's eyes. It had all been for show. All to garner the support of their people. Kelan's outfit,
her family's outfit
, was manipulating the tribe.

She pictured the raven once again. The one that had guided her so well. The one that had perched atop her brother's mangled skin.

Kayda threw Kelan off her. She slapped him again. Punched him. Both arms swiped at his face. "You ripped our brother apart like an animal!" she screamed.

Kelan backed away from her but she pursued. She clawed at him with her nails. She wanted to inflict any small amount of pain that she could. Her brother's face, at first surprised, twisted into rage. Insolence. His irises reflected red, and he growled.

The slap was fast and brutal. It was like back in the Sanctuary clinic, except this time she had deserved it. Kayda tripped on the edge of the ripped carpet and fell to the floor. When she looked up, she saw for the first time how much her brother truly detested her. The other Yavapai did nothing but watch silently. Yas even enjoyed what he saw.

Kayda studied Diego. Suspended. Helpless. A victim of his own doing. He had seemed so nice at Sycamore Lodge. Cute even. But was he a killer just like her brother? Would he ever accept a world where the Yavapai tribe found success?

She stifled her sobs and cleared her mind. Kayda didn't know if she cared anymore. If she couldn't believe her own brother, why did Diego or Maxim deserve her trust?

Diego's knife stood in the floor close to his face. It was a specialty blade. A weapon meant to kill wolves. The weapon of a hunter.

Kayda returned her scorn to her brother. "I'm gonna tell
Pahmi
what you did." She rose to her feet defiantly. "We'll let the people choose their leader when they know the truth."

The sneer on Kelan's face eased. He lowered his gaze and looked like a man who'd had a burden removed from his shoulders. It wasn't surrender: it was acceptance.

Kayda Garnett brushed carelessly past her brother. He didn't deserve another word. Her judgmental eyes swept over the others on her way out. Hotah was the only one who appeared ashamed. He clenched his jaw and shook his head ever so slightly, struggling with a decision.

"You shouldn't have come here, little sister," said her brother. She ignored him and reached for the door.

Suddenly, Hotah's eyes widened. "Kelan, No!"

Kayda spun around and saw her brother raise a pistol. She threw her hands in front of her face and backed away, but the shot came hard and fast. Her aching ribs were nothing compared to the shock of her exploded collarbone.

Kayda felt bubbles in her chest.

She raised her eyebrows, stunned. She couldn't tell if it was curiosity or disbelief. Kayda had finally gotten the truth about everything.

As her knees gave out, she felt Hotah catch her.

 

 

 

 

Diego squirmed against his bindings. "She's your sister, man!"

Kelan stood as still as a statue, refusing to react to his horrible crime. Jim and Yas were spooked. Even Hotah contemplated their leader in disbelief.

He cradled Kayda on the floor. She was rasping heavily, broken up only by the occasional choked breath. Blood was in her lungs. With every drip that slowly bled Diego dry, Kayda would find it harder and harder to breathe. She would eventually drown in her own blood.

Diego worked his hands behind his back. His wrists were loose now. He peeled something away. It was old duct tape, probably the same that had been applied to Jim earlier.

"You started all of this," said Diego through gritted teeth.

Kelan's head cocked slightly, the only movement that broke the illusion of stone.

"You're gonna be the downfall of your tribe."

Diego could tell that had struck a nerve. Kelan turned to Hotah and the others. Doubt of their loyalty crept into his face. "Just the opposite, Diego. The Yavapai have been meek, walking underfoot with our tails between our legs. Only strong leadership can shake us out of that pathetic state." He turned to Diego. "A call to action. A fire to stir our hearts. Revenge to quench our souls."

The other three men watched dubiously as Kelan justified his actions.

"How much longer are we willing to be pushed around?" he asked, challenging them. "How much more should we grin and bear? No. We will bite down on those that starve us. We will devour those that attempt to destroy us."

Red shone in the man's eyes. His head twitched. The pistol trembled in his hand. It was almost time.

"And you, my loyal friends," said Kelan to Jim and Yas. "It will soon be your time to join the pack. Hotah and I will guide you. Make you strong." The words encouraged them. Their doubt faded.

"You're gonna bite more people?" asked Diego. "Attract more attention? After last year, that's the last thing your tribe needs."

Kelan scoffed. "The CDC isn't here anymore. They've stayed clear of our reservation since the Paradise Killings. There's no more oversight."

"That's not true," said Diego. He didn't know what was going on, but he did know the government wouldn't let werewolves roam free. They were just keeping a low profile until their presence was needed.

Kelan laughed, and Diego pulled the last of the duct tape off his hands. He held the balled-up tape in his fist so the others wouldn't see it fall away, and hung upside down, strangely confident.

"I'm not gonna lie to you," said Kelan, stepping closer to the suspended man. "You're gonna die horribly. My brother, you know, was killed before he was skinned. I don't think I'm going to afford you the same courtesy."

Diego focused on the silver knife embedded in the floor. It was only a few feet away. Now that his hands were untied, he could probably reach it. Kelan noticed Diego's gaze, and smiled.

"You wish you had the knife, don't you?" He moved towards it and Diego tensed. The biker needed to strike a fine balance between grabbing it as soon as he could and not giving away that he was untied. Diego waited as Kelan kept talking. "How many wolves did you assassinate with this knife in service to the CDC? How many innocent people died by your hands?"

Diego studied the other Yavapai. He could see the hatred in their eyes. Hotah laid Kayda on the floor and rose to his feet. His eyes were glowing too. The wolf was feeling the surge of power that was coming.

It was just Diego and the silver knife.

"You know the problem with werewolves?" he asked, meeting Kelan's scowl. "They underestimate everyone else."

Hotah approached them. Diego dropped the ball of duct tape. Kelan narrowed his eyes.

The door of the building slammed open. A blur darted in and took Hotah off his feet. It was West. Both men crashed into the counter on the far wall.

Kelan turned to face the new threat, and Diego reached for the knife. He could barely touch it.

West Wind pounded on Hotah with bare fists. The two men snarled at each other. Jim and Yas backed up in fear, then picked up their rifles.

Diego swung forward, then backward, trying to pick up momentum. Kelan crouched on all fours, about to pounce on Hotah's attacker, but the two men were moving fast.

Hotah swept West off his feet. The Yavapai tried to slam his leg into the Apache's stomach, but West rolled away. Suddenly, he pushed off the floor and caught Hotah in an uppercut.

The moment West Wind stood apart, rifle fire cut through the air. The Apache ducked away from the sound. Bullets ripped past Diego's head. Jim held his ACR up, pointed away from the group, but Yas fired wildly. Kelan dove away from the burst. Diego swung uncontrollably in the air, shying away from the fire as best he could.

West was too smart to stay put. He left Diego with a momentary glance, his face fierce and without fear, then shot out the door through which he had come.

"Stop shooting!" yelled Kelan.

Hotah jumped to his feet and growled—a low, guttural rumble that was inhuman. He darted outside in pursuit of the Apache.

Diego swung forward, then backward.

"See what's going on," Kelan commanded. Jim and Yas nodded and left the building. Kayda coughed on the floor and rose to her elbows. Then Kelan turned back to biker.

Diego's motion brought him closer to the knife, and he reached out for it.

Kelan saw the threat. His wild eyes widened for only a fraction of a second before his lightning-quick reflexes took over. He lunged at the knife.

But it was too late.

Diego wrapped his hand around the familiar grip, its cold metal bringing with it a sense of calm. The biker tugged and the knife came free just as Kelan grasped for it.

Without a moment of hesitation, Diego slashed at the throat of the wolf.

Kelan pitched back. Diego's momentum began to pull him away, and he stretched his reach. Kelan raised his hands to protect his neck, but the very tip of the silver sliced horizontally across his Adam's apple.

The wolf sprang to his feet and then fell backwards as if the entire building had rocked. He clutched his throat, covered it as if his hands were bandages.

Blood began to seep from between his fingers.

A cry that was something between desperation and disbelief rang coarsely through Kelan, but it was obvious the effort caused him pain and he shut up. He stood again, without the use of his arms. His face wore an absent expression.

Without purpose, Kelan Doka wandered out into the open air.

The steady sounds of the creaking chains as Diego swung back and forth were broken only by Kayda coughing blood and phlegm. The world slowed its swinging.

"Are you okay?" asked Diego.

Just a gagging sound in response. Kayda drew her hands in front of her face and marveled at the blood. She was in shock.

Diego, hanging upside down, did a sit up and reached for his ankles. The knife wouldn't help to cut the chains, but maybe he could untie himself. The fit was tight, however. He needed both hands, but his instincts wouldn't let him release the knife.

Kayda Garnett stumbled to her feet, her weakened frame leaning against a wall for support.

"Help me," said Diego, pointing to his feet.

The girl gazed at him with a strange expression. She was confused. Was she dying?

She turned away and bumbled out the door after her brother, leaving Diego de la Torre alone.

"Well fuck me."

 

 

 

 

Maxim and Ray pressed against the wall of the building, gripping their guns tightly. The rifle fire had stopped but its message was clear: the police were outgunned. Gutierrez and Kent were on the way, along with the local police, and a part of Maxim wanted to hang back and wait.

The two men listened intently, their senses likely the difference between life and death. Garcia, in the lead, glanced back and shook his head. The detective hadn't heard anything else either.

Moving into the backyard of the complex would be risky, but that's where the activity was. There wasn't much choice but to hug the building.

Ahead, parked along the side driveway, sat the lone pickup truck with the tarp in the back that they had watched. It was as good a cover as any.

Maxim patted Garcia on the shoulder and pointed to the truck. The detective separated himself from the wall and carefully snuck ahead. Stepping into the center of the driveway afforded him a better angle of the backyard. The truck would be a perfect flanking position.

From here, Maxim could make out both portables in the back. They were large, permanent structures, despite the cheap construction. The closer one on the left had blocked their view from the Explorer. Now Maxim could see the second one, further back, with a light on.

That's where everybody was hiding out. Away from the street.

The sound came as a hiss. It was muffled and almost faded into the landscape, but Maxim recognized it as man-made. Somewhere between a whisper and a call to attention. Someone was close.

Maxim raised his hand to warn Garcia of the danger. Then a Yavapai turned the corner, from the backyard to the side driveway, facing the two cops.

Maxim was exposed. He hadn't reached the truck yet and was standing in the open.

"FBI! Don't move!" ordered Garcia, gun raised.

The Yavapai answered with his assault rifle.

Maxim backpedaled and fired a shot at the same time. Automatic fire erupted in the driveway. Garcia retreated as he laid down covering fire, but Maxim's heel slipped in the sand. He lost his balance and landed hard on his side.

"Yas!" called out the Indian.

Garcia ran out to Maxim, firing a burst as he did. The Yavapai shied away from the ricochets against the wall. As he ducked around the corner, the FBI agent helped Maxim to his feet and they both retreated to the front porch.

"There's at least two of them," shouted Maxim, realizing the man had called a friend. The detective checked his magazine—he wasn't sure how much he had fired—and patted the silver rounds at his waist. Were these men wolves?

"The Seventh Son?" asked Garcia.

"No sign of West. The third building at the end was lit up. They're in there."

He nodded. "We need to cover these corners until our backup arrives." Raymond hurried to the right side of the property. A wall and a small path along it led to the back. As he peeked around the corner, Maxim checked the driveway side again.

Bullets shredded the wall beside him. Before Maxim pulled away, he saw one of the men, the one firing, take up position behind the truck. That had been Maxim's idea. The other was along the wall, inching closer.

Without exposing his head again, the detective blind-fired around the corner, keeping his aim along the wall to stymie the closer man's advance. He could hear the Yavapai scrambling away.

"I've got silver!" Maxim called out. Although he wasn't empty, he decided to switch to his alternate mag.

"What?" asked Garcia. Maxim turned to him and shook his head.

"Two over here," he said instead.

"Clear on this side."

Maxim's face clouded over. Something was wrong. "Hotah's not here," he said in a low voice. "Keep an eye out."

Garcia understood. It only looked like they were in a shootout with only two Yavapai, but there had to be more. And where was West Wind?

The FBI agent waved silently to catch Maxim's attention. Raymond made a motion with his hand pointing down his side of the building, then pointed to his eyes. He wanted to check it out, try to flank them.

Maxim didn't think it was a good idea. He glanced up the driveway and saw the Yavapai advancing again. He ducked away before they had a chance to shoot him, but they fired some rounds his way anyway, just to get the point across. Maxim turned to Garcia and nodded. His plan was better than waiting for them to come.

The FBI agent disappeared around the building while Maxim blind-fired again. Just two shots. He didn't want to waste the silver. Hell, he didn't want to waste the lead either. He wasn't armed for a raid. This was supposed to be a stakeout.

Maxim scanned his surroundings. He couldn't keep poking his head out from the same place. It was only a matter of time before Yas, set behind the truck, would take him out. The other one was sneaking up, ready to turn the corner any second and unload on Maxim with an automatic weapon.

The detective glanced to where Garcia had stood. Nothing.

Get out of here, thought Maxim.

He could've just followed Ray, but that would be giving up their position. Maxim felt that he had to distract the Yavapai, to keep them busy. That would allow Ray to get the drop on them. So Maxim did the next best thing. He abandoned his corner, hustled to the front door, and barged in.

The building was dark. Maxim was left in a hallway, but he immediately found a room bordering the south wall, along the driveway. A single small window was covered in paper, the pale light from outside washing him in a soft glow.

This was it.

Maxim raised his Glock, ready to strike with silver, and waited.

For a moment Maxim thought he had miscalculated. That maybe the man had already passed the window and was coming around behind him. But the self-doubt vanished as the perfect silhouette slid across the window.

Maxim fired three shots in a tight burst. The window made a horrible cracking sound but the paper only showed three bright holes. The shadow behind the window danced and flew backward.

Then hell rained inside.

Maxim leaped out of the room as the paper tore away in threads. Shards of glass flew inside and a cacophony of sound ricocheted off the floor and ceiling. Back in the hallway, Maxim rested against the wall as the noise died down. Then he heard pistol reports in the back.

Garcia had flanked them.

Maxim flew to his feet and charged towards the back of the building, kicking empty beer bottles out of the way. He was looking for a similar overlook on the Yavapai position, this time in the back corner.

The Indians retaliated. First one rifle, then the other. The detective heard two more pistol shots as he rushed into the back room.

Damn it. No windows. The back corner room had no windows.

There was a lull in the combat. Maybe the Yavapai were reloading. Maybe they were licking their wounds. Maybe Garcia was dead. Maxim followed the wall until he was at the back door. A window had a portion of paper removed, allowing a view of the outside. The detective peeked.

Someone retreated back to the truck. That meant the Yavapai had not followed Ray. Hopefully the agent was making his way back to the front.

Before Maxim pulled away from the window, he saw another figure in the dark, supporting himself against the wall of the second building.

Kelan?

What was he doing here? Garcia and Hitchens had dropped him off at the reservation. The local police were supposed to keep eyes on him. Was he a part of this?

Maxim shook off the thought as he heard a rumbling sound. It came from the front of the property. A motorcycle.

Garcia. Maxim's priority was finding Garcia. He raced through the hallway to the front. The door was still wide open, and Maxim saw the scene without revealing himself.

Sergio Lima stood next to his bike, holding his hands in the air, facing someone.

Maxim rushed towards the door.

"I said get on the fucking ground, Sergio!"

Garcia had his firearm trained on the Pistolas president from ten feet away.

Maxim grimaced. The two of them were surrounded—Yavapai on one side, Pistolas on the other. It didn't give them a lot of options, but effecting an arrest like this was risky. Sergio begrudgingly cooperated.

Another rumble grew louder. Another biker approached from the street. Garcia spun to cover the new threat. It was Hector Cruz, of course. Career criminal. Lima's right hand. Maxim knew he wouldn't go down as easily as the kid.

Maxim Dwyer switched his magazine back to lead rounds.

"Stop right there!" ordered Garcia frantically. "Get off the bike!"

Cruz stopped his advance but remained straddling his motorcycle. He revved the engine in defiance.

"Do what he says, asshole!" called out Maxim, stepping onto the front porch. Sergio, halfway crouched, widened his eyes at his appearance. Hector sat still, his thick mustache masking his expression.

"We're not breaking the law," said Sergio.

"Shut up!" commanded Garcia.

Maxim took a breath. Backup could not arrive too soon. "He's right, Garcia," he said, keeping his pistol raised. "We arrest them now, we don't have anything on them except criminal trespass. Let them go. Our hands are full here."

Sergio cocked his head. He knew he had stumbled into the middle of something. He didn't know what but he was smart enough not to care. He turned to Garcia. "What do you say,
federal
?"

Garcia sneered. He took a step backwards, but stopped. He was exposed where he was. Slowly, he shook his head.

"I can't do it, Maxim," he said gravely. "You showed me that you could be trusted. You came to me with information, regardless of whether it implicated the Seventh Sons. Now I need to show you that you can trust me." Garcia reached for his handcuffs.

"It's not necessary, Ray. We could pick them up another day."

"We just need to hold them until backup arrives."

Maxim saw Hector's face contort at the news of impending police. This was a man who wasn't going back to prison.

The detective wanted to impress on Garcia that it was too dangerous. That he already trusted him. He wanted to tell him that Kelan was in the back and had probably been a part of these crimes all along. He wanted to tell him the Yavapai outfit was the real danger. He wanted to tell him about the new moon, and the coming wolves.

Instead, Ray flashed Maxim a confident smile. It was the kind of expression that assured the innocents that the police were the good guys. That the authorities were in control.

The moment didn't even last long enough to be considered a moment. Garcia's eyebrows shot up, and his posture tightened.

"Look out!"

He raised his weapon towards the corner of the building and fired. Maxim spun around and saw Yas Harjo in the driveway. They both fired at the same time.

Everybody went to the floor. Even Hector. But the Indian wasn't fast enough.

Maxim hit the man in the shoulder, then the elbow as he recoiled. It was only lead but it hurt him. The Yavapai retreated out of sight. Garcia kept firing after him. Then Maxim heard the shotgun blast.

He turned, still on his side, as Garcia crumpled to the ground. Hector was behind him, aiming the weapon for another go as Maxim opened fire.

The wild shots missed, a couple hitting the motorcycle as Hector ducked. Sergio stood up and reached for his bike. Hector fired a blast towards the detective, who took cover inside the doorway.

Maxim laid out some covering fire to keep the Pistolas ducking behind their bikes. He tried to give Garcia time to get up, but he didn't move.

"Ray! You okay?"

He heard a groan as Sergio drew a pistol. A glance to Hector revealed that he was having trouble with the weapon. It was an autoloader—it could've jammed.

It was a pretty shitty opening, but it was all he had.

Maxim burst out of the doorway and bolted towards the downed FBI agent. He fired a shot to make Sergio duck again and hooked his hand into the shoulder of Garcia's vest. He heaved.

Garcia had his eyes open, and he was conscious enough to understand what to do. While being dragged on his back, he lifted himself awkwardly to his feet. It was like dragging a wheelbarrow without wheels. They stumbled, but they covered ground quickly. Ray raised his gun and pulled off a few shots. Maxim trained his Glock on the driveway, keeping it clear, then dragged Garcia up the porch. The threshold of the building was cloaked in darkness, somehow a deeper shadow than the moonless sky. At that moment, it was the most inviting thing Maxim could imagine, like the safety of hiding under a thick blanket.

As the detective crossed the threshold, a single thud rapped against his back.

Maxim burst into the dark hallway and ducked into a lobby, placing Garcia out of the line of fire. This was a good room. Central. No windows. A view of the front door down the hall but a corner to take cover behind.

The FBI agent slid strangely against the wall. He didn't have enough strength to sit up. Maxim crouched and stretched his shoulder. It smarted, but the pain wasn't especially nefarious. He'd played paintball a lot in the past, and that's what it felt like—that he had been tagged.

He was out of the game.

The detective put his gun down and patted his bulletproof vest. The Kevlar had stopped Sergio's slug. In this game, the rules were different. He wouldn't gladly walk away, congratulating his opponents. If he went down, it would be kicking and screaming, to the last.

Garcia groaned again. Maxim eyed the door and then bent over him, pulling away his blue FBI jacket. A large swatch of blood stained Garcia's torso, just under the vest.

"Holy shit," said Maxim.

"That motherfucker," said Garcia, still clutching his gun. "That motherfucker."