Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (7 page)

“That’s right,” she said.

“Fuck you.” Ace shook his head. “Fuck both of you.”

“I’d like to say again that having a nurse around is fine by me,” said Locke. “I know my vote doesn’t count, just putting it out there.”

“Tell her what happens,” said Tank, his voice gravelly and deep. “Tell her what happens, and then let’s move on. We’ve got a war to win.”

Ace knelt down in front of Helen. He patted the nearby plastic lawn chair and she sat down. She had to at least
act
obedient for the time being.

“Okay, listen. I don’t give a fuck if you like this or not, but here’s how it is. You and I both know that this old lady thing is bullshit. But Tank is right. I got too much shit to take care of to deal with Beretta going mutinous.” He chuckled. “Or, more mutinous than he already is. So, things you need to know. First of all, your mouth? Keep it the fuck shut. No one here wants to hear you. You'll be seen and not heard, all right?”

He was the man with the gun, so he made the rules. She nodded.

“Good. Second, then. You turn your back on us? You turn us in? You sell us out? That can go only a few ways. None of them go good for you. You already know what’ll happen if we catch you. But that’s not what you’re thinking. You’re thinking of what happens if all of
them
wipe out all of
us
.

“Best case scenario, you're thinking? You get away and you tell the cops. I bet you know the cops are crooked here. So
they
tell the Copperheads, who then come and murder us all. Then you think you’re safe. But you’re not. Because we got friends all over this state. They’ll come here. They’ll look for the truth. And the first thing they’ll do once they learn it is to take you out. Not to mention,” he spat to one side, “Copperheads’ll probably kill you as soon as look at you. They don’t like snitches on anybody’s side.”

“I’m no snitch,” she said. “I just want...”

...
to live my life.

But she couldn’t say that. Couldn’t betray the game with Beretta already.

“...I just want to make Beretta happy.”

Ace harrumphed and stood up. “You better work on your lies, then. Doesn't take an x-ray to see through that bullshit.”

––––––––

I
t felt good to ride again. By mid-morning, the five of them—Tank, Locke, Ace, Beretta, and Helen—were out on the road and headed toward the new lab where Gallows had set himself up. The air outside was cool, though it would warm up later. Clouds gathered in the distance and it looked maybe like rain.

After the night’s rest, Beretta still felt sore in his side. Helen had told him he’d be healing for weeks. He wasn’t sure if they had that long. Taking their time wasn't an advantage the Wrecking Crew had.

They took three bikes and a van, with Locke driving the van and leaving his bike behind at the warehouse. They thought that Gallows might want to transport something back to town, and so wanted to be prepared. Beretta—always planning—had stuffed the van with all of Helen's medical supplies.

He had just pissed off Rattler and the Copperheads something mighty, after all, and so didn't want to be caught out in the open without some way to patch himself or the others up.

Beretta rode with Helen's arms wrapped tight around his torso. This close touching revved his engine more than pressing the accelerator ever could. Her hands maneuvered carefully to avoid the wound in his side, but it didn't matter—his torso was a structure, and pushing in one part meant that the rest of the parts moved as well. Though she squeezed tight enough to hurt, he wasn't going to say anything about it. He could put up with the hurt to feel her on him.

As good as it felt to have a ride, to feel the wind ripping at his face, it felt even better to have her arms wrapped around him again. More than he wanted to admit.

Beretta had been forced to get a new bike over the past year, after his was stolen during the war with the Wrecking Crew. He got a new model Evolution engine, its handlebars chopped high and with a long shotgun-style exhaust powering out the back.

They rode fast. The landscape blew by. The lab that Gallows set up had to be far away from the rest of the population. There was too much smell to keep it close to the neighborhoods and urban districts of Stockland, and they had no way to hide such a facility in the city.

So, Gallows had found a place up in the hill country surrounding Stockland. It was out of the way and hard to get to, which was both in its favor and against it. Difficult for passers-by to happen across or for police to spot. But difficult also to reach in a hurry, and difficult to resupply. It was the safest play they had, but that didn’t make it any easier riding up hills on a motorcycle.

Gallows was a meticulous man. In his previous life he’d been a crewman on a submarine. For him, working in a meth lab for weeks at a time to produce a product was nothing compared to sitting underwater for six months at a time in a nuclear vessel. He was a good choice for a cook, and Beretta was glad they had him to put to work. Without some influx of cash, this mission in Stockland was going to go south sooner than later.

Gallows completed their cast of outcasts, a shorter man with a bald head and thick dark beard. He wasn't wanted in Marlowe any more than the rest of them. Or rather, that was the problem—he
was
wanted in Marlowe.

He'd had a tough run of robberies, getting identified and nearly caught in five of his past six. Keeping him close was an excuse to bring heat down on the Crew, and Howitzer wouldn't stand for it.

The Wrecking Crew in Stockland wasn't much to look at. A soldier with a gambling problem; a traitor with a sobriety problem; a scoundrel with a woman problem; a fighter with a scoundrel problem; and a fugitive on the run. They were as piecemeal as it got.

They made it to the cabin about a quarter to noon. None of them had eaten much for breakfast—they had some hard bread in the warehouse, but that was it—and they were all hungry and irritable. The cook house was more of a shack; it didn’t look to have more than one room to it. Its windows were painted black, and the only thing younger than twenty years old on it was the new ventilation system that Gallows had installed.

That by itself had cost them five thousand dollars; supplies for the rest of the cook and the property set them back the rest of their nest egg when they moved in. Only Ace knew the total tally.

This had been expected; but all the same, it was time to start making money. As they turned their bikes off, a soft hush fell over the woods. It was too quiet, too suddenly, for Beretta’s liking. The sun fell harshly on the rocky hill. Squirrels chased each other over a boulder in the distance, and birds chirped loudly, hopping from tree to tree.

Ace stepped off his bike and called out. “Gallows! Hey, Gallows!”

His voice echoed across the rocks, but no one answered. Ace cast a suspicious look at the shack and then at the other outlaws.

“He might be sleeping,” said Locke.

“Get your piece out and let’s see,” said Beretta.

Whatever Gallows was doing, sleeping was unlikely. He wasn’t the sort to sleep through five bikes revving through the woodsy trail he was living on top of. As a fugitive, you had to have a light touch when it came to shut-eye.

The four of them drew out their weapons. Beretta nodded for Helen to put herself behind a nearby tree. She nodded and rushed over, hugging the bark. Smart girl. She might have been in a bad spot as all hell, but she sure had some composure. It made him want to test her out—to see what he could do to that beautiful body of hers to see how far her composure went.

It was possible, he supposed, that she could try running. But it was a long way back to civilization and once she got there, there wouldn't be anything in Stockland for her. Beretta knew where she lived from her ID in her wallet and he knew where she worked. The Wrecking Crew wouldn't let her go and stay alive—not if she ran, no matter what Beretta said. Her only chance was to work with them, and she knew it.

They gathered up near the shack. Tank and Ace were first through the front door, while Beretta and Locke went around back. The place was small enough that they found Gallows all at about the same time.

“Ah, hell.” Ace’s head dropped.

Bullet holes filled Gallows’s body. Four in the chest, two in the head. All the supplies for a cook had been taken. Not just the chemicals—costing a fortune by themselves, but even the equipment, the burners and the beakers and the like.

Beretta shook his head. It didn't look like Gallows had even seen it coming. Poor bastard.

“That’s it, then,” said Locke. “We’re done. Aren’t we done?”

“I don’t know,” said Ace.

“He had all our money. I mean he didn’t have our money, but he
had
everything. We’re sunk without him. What are we gonna do now?”

“I said I don’t know, goddammit.” Ace stepped outside. “Give me some time to think!”

When they walked outside, there was a dark Cadillac pulled up behind their bikes. In the excitement of entering the shack, Beretta had not heard it drive up behind them. Two men with submachine guns stepped out. They were Hispanic and wore dark suits with sunglasses. They had the air of men who were used to being listened to, who only showed up when they wanted to make an impression.

“Son of a bitch,” said Ace, wiping his face. “They said they wouldn't show up until tomorrow.”

“Who's this?” Beretta asked.

Ace frowned and shook his head. “You know who it is.”

He stepped down the path from the shack to the suited men, joining them in a quiet conversation. Their voices were quiet. Only one of the suited men talked with Ace; the other stared at the gathered bikers up the hill. He didn't quite point the gun at them, but he didn't make any show of
not
pointing it at them either. The conversation didn't seem to be going well for Ace.

Helen rejoined Beretta, but knew enough not to say anything, which was good. If she started in on any of them right then, it would have been bad news.

Beretta had wondered where Ace had gotten the money to bankroll the cook, this plot of land, all of it. They had been planning an industrial operation for the meth and it would have cost a hell of a lot to handle all of it. Howitzer and the Wrecking Crew in Marlowe wouldn't give them anything—they were outcasts, after all. But Ace always said he had it covered.

Their discussion was getting heated. The suited men pointed at all of the bikers—and Helen too. Then they got back into their car and drove off.

“Your bankroll,” said Beretta, nodding at the car. “The one you said you had covered from the beginning.”

“Yeah.”

“Was that the fucking Cartel?”

The Cartel was the one group that not even the collected biker gangs would fuck with in the Southwest. They were the suppliers of all the major drugs and weapons. The Wrecking Crew cooperated with them in Marlowe, ran protection for them and negotiated deals. They were likened in Beretta's mind to an omnipresent, omnipotent deity.

He knew a man once who had crossed them—tried to renege on a deal for a pound of marijuana and five thousand dollars.

The Cartel killed the man and hung him outside of his house before he had a chance to flee. Then they did the same thing to all his family members—children included—and left them in the lawn for the police to find.

All for a pound of weed and five grand.

It was a message, like any of their punishments were. You go into business with the Cartel, then you keep your side of the arrangement.

And now Ace was saying that they were in deep with them. Too deep.

“Yeah.” Ace shrugged. “What the fuck did you expect? We couldn't draw anything from the Crew in Marlowe. Not with as much heat as they already got with us.”

“So you borrowed from the Cartel?” Locke asked. “Christ, Ace. I know you like to gamble, but that's...”

“Insane,” said Beretta. “Stupid. Reckless.”

“What do you call taking out a hit on Rattler by yourself?” Ace asked. “No? Nothing? No repartee? Shut up. Listen.” He took a long breath. “They wanted to check in on the operation. They want...” he wiped his face, even though it was bone dry. “They want their money. And they want it by Monday.”

“How much are you talking about?”

Ace's face was expressionless. “Forty thousand.”

“Forty thousand?” said Beretta. “In five days? Jesus Christ. What if we can't pay?”

“Then they kill us. All of us. Your girl, too.”

Helen gripped Beretta's hand tight. A protective flare went up in Beretta's heart. That wouldn't happen. He wouldn't let it.

Something could be done. Some plan. Something.

“Did they do in for Gallows?” Tank asked.

“The Cartel?” Ace shook his head. “No. That doesn't make sense. They don't want to ruin their investment.” Ace shook his head. “No, it's someone else. The Copperheads, I'm guessing. I don’t know how they knew where Gallows was. But they knew. Gotta assume they’re onto us, now. We're on the run.”

––––––––

A
ce was right.

They rode to the warehouse to pick up what they had left and maybe move to another, safer location. But when they got there, the warehouse was ablaze, every inch of it burning. There was nothing left there to retreat to. Not knowing quite how, Helen began to feel more afraid than she was.

They saw it burning from a distance, pulling off the road about a mile away. Tank took out a pair of binoculars and spotted the Copperheads surrounding the warehouse—perhaps making sure that anyone who might have been hiding didn't get out alive.

“My bike,” said Locke, hands on his head. “My fucking
bike
!”

His bike was, of course, still in the warehouse. They had left it behind when they left to see Gallows. There was nothing they could do for it now—not his bike, not the warehouse, not anything that was left inside. It was all gone.

On the east side of Stockland—opposite of where the meth lab was among all the hills—was a long string of motels next to the airport. They pulled in to one and picked up three rooms for themselves, parking their bikes in the garage.