That my father’s death would go unpunished. That those two crooked cops, Dempsey and Sanchez, would get away with literal murder.
And then, like a fucking cherry on top of a steaming pile of dogshit, they casually informed me that the police had seized my father’s farm, as well.
My farm. The place I’d grown up in. The place I’d one day hoped to raise my own kids.
“Fuuuck!”
I slammed my fist against the mirror, and there was an ominous crack.
Looking up, I saw I’d cracked it. A jagged line ran all the way up the bathroom mirror, intersecting my own reflection like a scar.
I felt something hot and wet running down my fingers. Glancing down, I saw blood gushing from my knuckles.
“Shit!”
This time, I wasn’t swearing out of anger.
Grabbing paper towels from the dispenser, I pressed them against the cut on my knuckles, and examined the damage.
It didn’t look bad – just a tiny gash. After running it under the cold tap for a few seconds, the blood slowly stopped pouring.
At least I wouldn’t need stitches.
But what did I need?
Looking upwards, at my reflection in the cracked mirror, I realized that what I was looking for wasn’t outside that bathroom. It wasn’t going to be found sitting at that booth with Mason, talking to those idiots from the FBI.
They weren’t going to give me what I needed:
Revenge.
Revenge, for the murder of my father.
Revenge, for stealing my family farm.
Nothing could ever bring my father back, or give me back the farm they’d stolen from me…
…but I could still get revenge.
Only, I’d have to take that into my own hands.
I paused for a second, staring at my reflection. I knew what needed to be done, but that didn’t make it any easier.
I thought of Mason. His handsome face. His beautiful, blue eyes. The way his body had felt, crushing me to the bed just hours earlier.
I didn’t want to do what I knew I had to, because of him.
In fact, it took all the willpower I had to swallow down my thoughts of that handsome man, and turn away from my reflection.
I knew as I turned away from the mirror, my reflection would have done, too… But for some reason I half-imagined that it hadn’t. That on the other side of the glass, the fractured image of myself was still staring out at me – her eyes burning into my back as I looked around the little bathroom.
There were two stalls, and I pushed the oversized door to each of them open in turn. In the second, I found what I was looking for.
A frosted window – a bolt holding the sash shut.
With the crack of splintered wood, I forced the window open, and hefted the glass upwards. It had been painted shut decades earlier, but with brute strength I was able to open the window a good twelve inches, and peer out into the alleyway on the other side.
Climbing up onto the toilet, I swung my legs out through the window, and dropped onto the asphalt below.
How long would it take, before Mason and the FBI agents realized I was gone?
Hopefully long enough for me to find what I was looking for – and be far, far away from them when I did.
Chapter Thirty
Mason
“So, are you going to order anything, or what?”
I looked up at the waitress hovering over me, and blinked.
“I mean, not to be rude,” the middle-aged woman tutted, clearly not giving a shit if she was rude or not, “but you and that girl have been sittin’ there for twenty minutes now.”
In the booth across the divider, Barron and the other two FBI agents turned and stared very intently at their menus, clearly trying to avoid looking like they were associated with us – and failing spectacularly.
“I’m sorry,” I grabbed one of the laminated menus, and glanced at it quickly. “Grab me a cheeseburger, fries, and a Miller Lite.”
The waitress’ pencil scratched on her pad.
“Sure thing, hun. And for her?”
She raised her eyebrows, gesturing towards the empty booth where Christi had been sitting.
Shit… What would she want?
The truth be told, I didn’t imagine Christi would have much of an appetite when she finally re-emerged from the restroom. Whatever I ordered her would probably grow cold on the plate, while she sat there digesting the horrible truth about her father’s murder.
“Get her the same,” I told the waitress, handing back the menus. “And some iced water, please.”
“Sure thing,” the waitress nodded, and finally left us alone.
As I turned in my seat, I saw Special Agent-in-Charge Barron was pulling out his wallet and the agency charge card.
“We’ll get out of here,” he explained, waving the credit card to get the waitresses attention. “That way we can at least pretend we weren’t so obvious, in this little rendezvous of ours.”
I shrugged: “I don’t think anybody’s watching out for us.”
“You’d be surprised,” Barron warned me. Turning in his seat, he admitted: “That Coyle’s a smart bastard. Always one step ahead.” Narrowing his eyes, he confessed: “Half of me is thinking he’s already onto us – already trying to figure out a way to wriggle out of this, like he’s done every time we’ve tried to nail him in the past.”
It was interesting to watch the FBI agent’s expression. It was almost reverent – like he respected Coyle.
I had to admit, I didn’t entirely blame him. Coyle was a tough, mean, murderous bastard…
…but he was smart. And he respected loyalty. Shit, he’d taken me under his wing three months ago, and perhaps the worst thing about all of this was the knowledge that sometime soon – maybe in the next day or so – he’d discover that his generosity had been met with betrayal.
Sure, Coyle was a crook. He was behind running guns, armed robberies – even plain, old hits on people if the money was right… He deserved to be locked up…
But I didn’t like the idea of betraying him. In all my years of military service, I’d never double-crossed anybody. It felt shitty to suddenly do it now.
I sat there, silently pondering this, while the waitress turned up with two plates balanced in her hands.
Sliding a delicious-smelling cheeseburger in front of me, she dropped Christi’s plate in the spot where she’d have been sitting, and asked: “Where’s your girlfriend? She’s been in the bathroom for quite a while.”
I blinked.
Now the waitress mentioned it, she had.
I turned to looked at Barron and the other FBI agents, and my fears were confirmed:
They’d picked up on what the waitress had said.
Turning to me, Barron hissed: “That broad – she’s kosher, right?” When I stared blankly back at him, he translated: “You can trust her, yes?”
An awkward silence.
“Yes?” Barron demanded, more insistently this time.
I had a sudden flashback to that afternoon. To Christi’s long, lean body crushed beneath mine. To the taste of her lips, and the smell of her scent flooding my nostrils.
“Yeah,” I growled back. “Yeah, we can trust her.”
But could we?
I slid out of the booth, and the FBI agents followed.
This wasn’t a clandestine meeting any more. We’d abandoned all pretense at trying to look like strangers. I led the way, and those three men in suits awkwardly followed.
“Excuse me? Sir?” The waitress tried to block my way, as I approached the women’s restroom – marked by a swinging door emblazoned with the word “DAMES” across the top of it.
“Ma’am, please,” Special Agent-in-Charge Barron pulled the waitress aside, “we’re with the FBI.” He flashed her his badge. “This is bureau business.”
Whether or not that was true didn’t seem to matter. Agent Mitzell stepped in to block the waitress, as I shouldered open the restroom
door and called inside: “Christi?”
Silence.
“Christi? You in here?”
Again, silence.
I barged in, closely followed by Special Agent-in-Charge Barron. He was unholstering his Glock, and I didn’t like how that was his first instinct in this situation.
But, as it happened, I needn’t have worried.
The restroom was empty. All I spotted was the cracked mirror behind the sink, and one of the stall doors swinging open – the breeze from an open window blowing the door back and forth.
Christi was gone.
“Fuck,” I breathed.
From behind me, Barron cleared his throat.
I turned, and found him by the sink – wiping up a red smear from the gleaming porcelain.
Blood.
It didn’t take a master detective to figure out what had happened. In my youth, I’d angrily punched enough restroom mirrors to remember how that generally turned out.
“Where is she, Stone?” Barron’s eyes narrowed. “The bitch has skinned out – but where’d she go?”
I blinked. I didn’t have an answer for him.
“What if she’s gone right back home to Coyle,” Barron hissed, taking a menacing step forward. “What if that pretty little bitch was playing you, and now she’s going to tell that son-of-a-bitch everything?”
“No!” I held up my hand. “No, that’s not what happened. I know Christi – she’s got no loyalty to Coyle.”
“Nor to you either, pal,” Barron rolled his eyes.
“She didn’t go back to Coyle,” I repeated, and I’d never been so sure of anything in my life.
“Okay,” Barron’s lips narrowed into a thin line. “If she’s not running back to the Knuckleheads, where did she go?”
The worst part?
I thought I knew.
As briefly as we’d ridden together, I’d got a handle on Christi by now – and while this move had been unexpected, what I anticipated as her next one wouldn’t be.
“She’s just mad,” I explained to Barron. “She’s just pissed that there’s nothing you guys can do about her father. Those cops stole him from her, man – and then you bastards stole her fucking farm, as well.”
Special Agent-in-Charge Barron stood there, staring at me suspiciously.
“She just needs to cool off,” I promised. “I swear to God, give me an hour and I’ll have her back. Guaranteed.”
Barron grunted, and reluctantly re-holstered his gun.
“You’d better guarantee it,” he warned me. “Because if you don’t report back and let me know she’s with you in exactly one hour, I’m calling this whole thing off.”
That didn’t sound so bad. In fact, that sounded great…
“I’ll call off the whole thing,” Barron repeated, “and we’ll make a move on Coyle now. Screw the plan – we’ll put that bastard in cuffs and then figure out what to charge him with after the fact.”
That part didn’t sound so great. In fact, it sounded like a clusterfuck, just waiting to happen.
As if reading my mind, the FBI agent looked up at me disdainfully.
“And you? I’ll let your superiors know what you did. Jeopardized everything for some good-looking broad in a miniskirt.” He rolled his eyes. “When they’re done with you, you won’t even have sufficient clearance to mop the floors at Homeland Security.”
My hands balled into fists.
I didn’t like being spoken to like that – especially not by some cheap-suited goon who was as much to blame for this as I was.
“Go fuck yourself, Special Agent Barron,” I growled. “I’m handing the bureau the most dangerous biker gang in California history, served up on a silver platter.”
“You were,” Barron spat back. “You were, until that pretty piece of ass caught your eye, and you let everything go to shit.”
The agent took a menacing step forward – but I didn’t back down.
Eye-to-eye, Barron growled: “Find her. I’m giving you an hour. Call it professional courtesy.”
What did he expect me to do? Thank him?
“But after that,” Barron poked me in the chest with his finger, and it took all the willpower I had not to snatch his hand, and snap his digits like twigs. “After that, we’re taking this operation over, and you better believe we’ll drag your ass through the coals for fucking up like that.”
I could feel the blood pulsing in my temples. My hands were balled up into ham-like fists. It took all the willpower I had not to plant my knuckles right into Agent Barron’s sneering face…
…but I was better than that. Plus, I needed to find Christi – and if Special Agent-in-Charge Barron was giving me sixty minute to do that, I’d be a fucking fool not to take him up on the offer.
Swatting his angry finger aside, I hissed:
“One hour. That’s all I ask.”
“That’s all you’re going to get,” Barron hissed back at me – but I barely heard him. I’d already turned, and was kicking open the bathroom door.
Barron had given me an hour to find Christi because he figured I wouldn’t be able to.
The joke was on him. I was pretty goddamned sure I knew exactly where she’d be.
Chapter Thirty-One
Christi
I stumbled across the street, wiping the tears from my eyes.
I had to get away from that diner. I had to get away from those FBI agents.
Fuck, I had to get away from Mason.
Because no matter how much my heart burned for him, I couldn’t let him be any part of what I was planning to do next.
You see, I had a plan.
A very simple plan.
A plan I’d outlined to Mason earlier, before that handsome son-of-a-bitch had talked me out of it – with his promises of legally-enforced justice…
Promises that nobody had made good on.
My plan had been to track down those two crooked cops, and give them the same treatment they’d given my father…
Right between the eyes.
And I knew I had to get away from Mason, because there’d be no coming back from that. I thought I’d lost myself by riding with the Knuckleheads – but I’d truly lose myself the moment I did what I knew I had to…
…and gunned those two bastards down.
I couldn’t let Mason be any part of that, which is why I’d run away.
But not far.
On the other side of the street from the diner was a gleaming Bank of America drive thru, and I staggered up to the glass doorway and hefted it open.
The air was deliciously cool and crisp inside. After months of riding with the Knuckleheads, I’d almost forgotten what air conditioning could feel like.
Like a lot of small-town banks, there was a small lobby leading to the main space of the bank. This was so that cardholders could access the ATM at all hours of the day, even when the bank itself was closed.
That suited me fine, as I wasn’t in the mood to talk to a teller right now.
Staggering up to the ATM machine, I reached into the pocket of my jeans, and dug around for something I hadn’t touched in months.
My ATM card
I’d had it with me ever since I’d gone on the run – but never had much call to use – not since I’d starting riding with the Knuckleheads.
For all the indignities I’d endured – for all the beds I’d shared, and cocks I’d sucked, and sweaty bikers I’d let fondle me, there were some advantages to being a cute girl with a tight little ass among a throng of burly men. I hadn’t had to pay for shit.
I couldn’t remember having to pay for a drink, or a meal… Hell, sometimes it was like that scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, when potential suitors would slip Holly Golightly fifty-dollar bills to “go to the powder-room.”
Only it was crumpled twenties I’d have stuffed in my purse, and the men who handed them to me often figured they were just ‘paying in advance’ for services I’d probably have later given them for free.
; In any event, I had a bank card, and a couple of thousand in my account – and that was hopefully more than I’d need.
Well, the first obstacle was that the ATM would only let me take out $800 at a time.
Fine, I sniffed, as I yanked the twenties out of the machine and shoved them into my pocketbook. It was probably enough. More than enough.
If not… I’d find a way.
After securing some cash, I pushed open the door of the bank, and stepped back out into the oppressive California heat.
I wasn’t crying anymore, and there was a purpose to my stride. Now my purse was stuffed with money, I felt more confident about what I was planning to do than ever.
I crossed the street, and walked two blocks north – to a part of town that was as close to the ‘wrong side of the tracks’ as this little California town had.
On the other side of the rail bridge, opposite a liquor store and check cashing place, was what I was looking for:
Pawn Hub.
Beneath the neon sign – a knock-off of the logo for the famous adult website Porn Hub – was another sign which promised: “Best Prices Paid / Open 24/7 / Gold, Guns, Electronics.”
Taking a deep breath, I crossed the street and pushed open the heavy, steel door.
Inside was a dark and gloomy storefront, with a low-ceiling and the smell of scented vape pens hanging in the air.
Behind a glass counter, filled with jewelry and firearms, was a bored-looking man in his forties – a paunch hanging out of his too-tight t-shirt, and the flourescent lights gleaming off his bald head.
The old guy looked up as the door swung shut behind me, and I saw his eyes widen in appreciation.
I got that look a lot from men like him, and I knew precisely why: I was a young, skinny girl in a tight tank-top – and men like this guy stared at me the same way a pit-bull would stare at a fat, juicy steak.
“Hey, hun,” the guy leered, as I crossed the bare, concrete floor. “You buyin’, or sellin’?”
I reached into my purse and slapped the pile of twenties onto the glass counter.
“I need a gun.”
The bald-headed man looked across the counter, and raised his eyebrows.
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