by Zahra Girard
And way too fucking visible.
“You’re running out of time, Vi,” I yell out, hoping my voice carries deep enough into the building for her to hear it.
Behind me, the sheriff’s car blares its siren for a moment, a sharp sound that grows closer as the vehicle approaches in the parking lot. A sound that blasts just long enough to let me know that I’ve been seen and, if I act out, I’m in for a world of hurt.
I have one chance to do this right.
I turn my back to the patrol car, slip my hand into the pocket of my cut, and pull out my flask. I take a quick swig, swishing the whiskey around in my mouth before I swallow it. The rest of it I dump on my shirt.
Still holding my flask in my hand, I turn, and I stagger and wobble my way down the steps of city hall.
The sheriff’s siren blares again, just once. Stay right where you are, it says.
But I don’t listen.
I stumble forward, putting so much into my act at being drunk that I trip on the final stair and fall face-first into the pavement. Shaken, but unhurt, I climb back onto my wobbly legs.
“Don’t move,” the sheriff’s deputy calls out as he exits his vehicle, his service pistol raised and pointed right at me. “You’re under arrest.”
I stand still. Raise my hands — my right hand still holding my flask — high in the air.
“Don’t shoot,” I call out, putting a wicked slur into my words. “But you sure as shit don’t have the authority to arrest me, sheriff.”
“You’re drunk and disorderly and trespassing on government property. I’ve got many evident reasons to haul your ass in.”
I shake my head vigorously. “I’m a sovereign fucking citizen. Power unto myself, diplomatic immunity and all that shit, and if you keep pointing that gun at me, I will arrest you. Under the authority granted onto me by myself, you beige-wearing son of a bitch.”
“A sovereign citizen? What the fuck is that?”
“It’s like that old fucking saying: no man is an island. Which is true. I’m not an island. I’m a whole fucking nation.”
Gun still raised, he comes closer. “Listen, you drunk bastard, I’m arresting you. I don’t care if you’re the fucking Queen of England, you’re going to jail.”
“I know my rights,” I shout back. “You’re just a fucking sheriff and I’m a fucking head of state. You have no authority over me. And, right now, His Royal Highness has to take a fucking piss.”
My zipper goes down before he can react, and I go before he knows what’s happening.
“That’s it. Put your hands over your head. I’m taking you in,” he says.
“At least let me finish, man.”
“You stop that. You’re under arrest.”
I raise my hand, but I don’t stop pissing. “Come and get me, if you dare,” I shout.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Violet’s face in the window. There’s a mixture of laughter and abject horror on her face. Looks like we just skipped right to the ‘going to the bathroom with the door open’ phase of our relationship. Or, in this case, ‘pissing in public while you get arrested’ phase.
But there’s one thing this sheriff isn’t counting on: I’m not drunk. I’m just an asshole pretending to be drunk.
The second he’s in reach, with his gun lowered and his handcuffs ready and waiting in his grip, I drop the drunk act and I have a moment to enjoy the look of surprise on his face as I punch him.
With my dick still out. Because I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.
He hits the ground, hard.
First thing I do is zip up, because I don’t want to risk any incidental contact, and then I kick him square in the face.
He lands flat on his back, out cold.
I turn and look to the window. Vi’s gone. Looks like she’s already made her escape. She must’ve gone out the back door.
Grumbling, I start a slow walk back to my bike. This mess better have been worth it, because if I ended up showing my dick to a fucking cop for no reason, I’m going to be pissed.
Chapter Thirteen
Violet
I don’t stay to watch the whole show. As soon as the sheriff goes down, I run to a window, pry it open, and hop out. Then I sprint as fast as I’ve ever run in my life all the way back to my truck.
That was close. Too close.
Not even able to wait for Crash — my heart is pounding so hard I worry it will explode — I speed the whole way home, run up my driveway, and drop my keys three times while I fumble for the right one to unlock my front door.
It’s quiet inside. Blaze is half asleep on my living room sofa and Snake is probably upstairs in one of my guest bedrooms. I head right for my kitchen and sit down at the table. I’m so out of it, I don’t even think to pour myself a drink, all I can do is sit here, heart racing, counting down the seconds until Crash gets here.
It’s not long before he arrives, but it still feels like an eternity.
“Was it worth it?” He growls as he sees me. “Did you find what you needed? Or did I put up with all that shit for nothing?”
“I couldn’t find it.”
“You better be fucking with me. Do you know how risky that shit was?”
I hate that I wasn’t able to succeed. But, just as much, I hate that I let him down. I’ve known him for only days, but already he means so much to me. What the hell have I gotten myself into, falling so hard for a man like him?
“I know. I’m sorry. But I am fucking desperate, and I had to do something. Then, when I got in there and started looking, there was just so much information to sift through and then I heard you yelling and I just got spooked. I’m really, really sorry, Crash. But I’m also not sorry. Because my best friend is going through hell right now and I had to try something.”
The hard edge in his voice dulls. He pulls up a chair beside me and puts one muscular arm over my shoulders.
“I understand.”
The hug he gives me soothes me deep down to my soul. Sighing, I lean in to him.
“I just felt so desperate, you know?”
“We’ll figure something out. We’ll find Kendra, Violet. I promise.”
I sit back up, pulling myself away from him even though I want nothing more than to just lay my head against his chest and forget about all the shit going on in my life. It wouldn’t be permanent, but the solace I’d find in his arms would be potent enough to give me peace for a little while, at least.
But time is running out. And I can’t let myself fall into the sweet trap of Crash’s embrace.
“There is another way. We could go back to BD.”
Crash gives me a funny look. “What, do you want to send Snake after him or something? I don’t think BD would be the type to break unless we put some serious pressure on him, Violet. Even though we only met him for a minute, I got the impression that guy is legit. That could get real messy.”
“No, no, not that,” I say, shaking my head. I pause for a moment, trying to work up the courage to admit that BD presented an opportunity, and I only turned it down because I didn’t want to tie myself any more to Crash. “He offered to help, but he wanted a lot of money to do it.”
“How much?”
“Five grand,” I answer.
“For a burglary? That old man who lives in a fucking single-wide wants five fucking grand to get off his old ass and break into city hall?”
“He doesn’t need the money, Crash. He said that’s the price for his time,” I say. “And I believe him. Every time he came into my bar, he always paid in hundreds. He’d drink away a stack of them. There’d be a week or two at a time where I wouldn’t see him, and when he came back, he always said he was on vacation — most of the time somewhere like New York or DC, but sometimes Europe — and when he got back from these vacations, he’d always drink a little extra.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” He says.
“Because I didn’t want to borrow the money from you,” I say. There’s hurt in his
eyes when he hears me say it, and I feel that hurt echo in my voice. But it’s the truth. “You know that what we have is just temporary, this is just on until we settle our business — it’s what you’re always talking about, anyway — and if I ended up borrowing cash from you, we’d just end up even more stuck together.”
“You still should’ve told me. It only makes things worse if we’re keeping secrets from each other.”
I laugh. Bitter, angry, it tastes like ashes in my mouth. Then I take a finger and pull down the collar of his flannel shirt. “Then, since we’re sharing secrets, you want to tell me what happened to your throat?”
“Careful, Violet,” he says, his voice suddenly dropping low and menacing.
But I don’t heed his warning; my best friend’s life is on the line and I care too much about her to back off to any threats now.
“Or what, Mr. Sovereign Citizen? You’ll come after me just like those Death’s Disciples? I’ve already got one biker gang trying to hurt me, what’s it matter if I add another to the list?”
Just when I expect him to lash out at me, to strike back with some threat or put down and try to put me in my place, he releases a deep breath and shakes his head.
“Let’s go back to Bowen Dale. I think I’ve got something that’ll change his mind about helping you.”
“I don’t want your money, Crash,” I say. “Five grand is too much.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not carrying that kind of cash. But I have something else we can give him. Something better.”
* * * * *
Bowen Dale’s sharp voice calls out the second I hop out of my truck in his driveway.
“Violet, unless you’ve come to give me my money, I’ve got nothing more to say to you. No offense, young lady, it’s just business.”
Next to me, Crash and Mack both get off their bikes. Strapped to the back of each of their motorcycles is what looks like a bedroll, but which I’m sure has to be something more; Bowen Dale doesn’t seem like the type to give two shits about camping.
“Mr. Cooper, we’re here to talk business,” Crash calls out. “You all right if we come inside?”
An angry huff cuts through the quiet cold of the Colorado night air.
“Only you and Violet. Leave the Irish one outside.”
“What the fuck do you have against the Irish?” Mack shoots back.
“My first wife was Irish. Her name was Maeve. Met her overseas while doing a little job for some independence-minded friends. She was fantastic in the bedroom, every time left me feeling like I’d just had the most orgasmic brush with death, but hearing that accent still gives me flashbacks to the kind of marital haranguings that would make even a moral man run screaming into the arms of the slimiest divorce attorney just to find liberation. No offense, and I’ll even leave some beers on the doorstep for you, but I can’t allow your accent to penetrate the sanctity of my home.”
“Fine. Leave me three beers and we’re good, old man,” Mack answers.
“Sorry,” I whisper to Mack.
He shrugs. “It’s fine,” he replies. “I didn’t want to go into that fucking mobile home, anyway.”
Then he takes the bundle from the back of his bike and hands it over to Crash. From the looks of it, it’s much heavier than just some blankets.
“Come on,” Crash says. “Let’s go make a deal.”
We approach the door under the watchful gaze of Bowen Dale Cooper. In his typical fashion, he has each of us raise our arms and turn around in a slow circle to check us for weapons before he allows us to enter his home. Once he’s satisfied, steps aside and we enter his living room.
It’s blazing warm. There’s a small fire blazing away in a little gas stove he’s got set against the far wall. There’s a plush, luxurious leather sofa and a large wide-screen TV set up opposite it, with some old black and white movie playing on it. BD leaves us standing in his living room for a moment while he runs to the refrigerator and fetches the three beers for Mack.
“Do you have my money?” He says.
I shake my head. Crash does the same.
“Did you really drive all this way to waste my time? I enjoy living here, Violet, it’s quiet and close enough to Aspen that I can get into trouble if I want to, but if you keep bringing guests over to my place for nothing more than useless chitchat, I will have to move.”
“Can it, old man,” Crash snaps. “We don’t have cash for you, but we’ve got something better.”
“Show me.”
Crash sets the two rolls of blankets onto the floor, unstraps the bungee cords binding them together, and unrolls them, revealing a clutch of what looks to be assault rifles in each of them.
I take a step back, reflexively.
What kind of deal am I making here? Selling guns? Assault weapons?
I wish this wasn’t happening. And, even though it is, I hope to god that no one else finds out about this. Even the thought of this kind of compromise makes me sick — I’ll do anything to help my friend Kendra, but this? Some kind of shady arms deal? It’s enough to make my blood go cold.
“My brothers and I are transporting some cargo. To where and for what purposes, you don’t need to know. What you’re looking at are some authentic, Russian-made AK-47’s and a couple M16’s made here in the good ol’ USA. All together, their street value is well over the five thousand you want, but we’re throwing them all in because we know it’ll be a bit of an inconvenience to you to move the product. Even so, you’ll come out ahead. So, what do you say, BD, you ready to barter? Our guns for you finding information on any cabins on forest service land owned by the Death’s Disciples or anyone related to them?”
Crash says it so casually, like trading weapons like these is second nature to him.
What am I getting myself in to? Am I really fucking an arms dealer?
I shake my head and force those thoughts away; they’re important, but not more important than my best friend’s life. Even though they make me feel sick to my stomach and ashamed of just how low I’m sinking.
“Yeah, we’ve got a deal. Let me get my things and I’ll take care of your problem for you.”
“Right now?” Crash says, surprised.
“No time like the present. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour. You and Violet can wait here, help yourself to anything in my fridge — but touch nothing else, because I’ll know and I sure as hell won’t be happy. Your Irish friend has to wait outside, though.”
“Fine. I’ll go break the news to Mack,” Crash says, while I go to the fridge and grab a beer — because I sure as hell need one after everything I’ve witnessed — and I take a seat on the couch. All sorts of worrying thoughts about the compromises I’m making and the life I’m stepping into fly through my head.
Meanwhile, Crash pops his head out the door and breaks the word to Mack.
“Out here? What am I, a fucking dog?”
But that’s his only protest, and, in minutes, BD Cooper is out the door with a leather bag containing what I can only guess are his tools and Crash is sitting beside me, idly sipping a beer.
We don’t talk for the entire hour that BD is gone.
Frankly, I don’t know what to say to him. I suppose I should thank him for taking some of his cargo and offering it up to settle things with BD and help me find my friend, but thanking him for trading assault weapons just feels so wrong.
And Crash seems to pick up on how I’m feeling. As awkward as it is to sit in silence, it would be even more awkward for him to force the conversation. Then I’d have to deal with telling him to shut up, and I doubt that would go over well.
Then, in exactly one hour, Bowen Dale pulls back into his driveway and hops out of his late 80s Ford truck. In one hand, he’s got his toolbag and, in the other, he’s got a paper bag and a white cup.
He enters, sets the toolbag down, opens it, and takes out a manila folder and hands it over to me.
“Found six potential locations. All of them are owned by people in th
e Death’s Disciples MC or people tied to their club.”
I flip through it. It’s not just a list of cabins, it’s a map of the forest land, with each location marked on it, along with photocopied information — license, blueprints, ownership history — for each individual cabin.
“You did all this in only an hour?” I say.
Bowen Dale shakes his head. “That took about forty minutes. And only that because their copier is almost as old as I am. With the other twenty, I stopped and got some donuts and coffee. Got a couple left, if you want one. There’s a maple bar and two chocolate donuts with sprinkles.”
Crash lets out a long, low whistle. “Violet was right. You are legit, old man.”
BD shakes his head and his voice goes cold. “I’m not. I’m not in the game, you never met me, we never had this conversation. You don’t last as long as I have by getting on anybody’s radar. And I’ll kill to keep it that way.”
Crash hardly blinks in the face of the old man’s threat. He gives the folder one last look and then stands up.
“Violet, you ready to go for a hike?”
Chapter Fourteen
Crash
At morning’s light, we reach the start of a trailhead. There are three of us — me, Blaze, and Violet — and, at Blaze’s insistence, we are each bundled up against the cold and carrying backpacks loaded down with a whole list of wilderness supplies that he rattled off, from memory, the second he heard we were heading on an expedition into the mountains. Nevermind the fact that this should be a day trip, at most, and through well-hiked terrain, his smokejumper wilderness survival training kicked in and he took charge.
Outfitted, equipped, and tired as all hell from a night of rescuing Violet from the cops and trading guns to some old coot, I gaze up at the winding mountain trail in front of us and I’ve never in my life been more ready to go hiking.
I just want this over with.
I want to find this cabin, kill Switchblade, and get Kendra back.