Athena Sisterhood

by Dharma Kelleher

  Snitch is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Dharma Kelleher

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9780425285312

  Cover design: Tatiana Sayig

  Cover illustration: Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Dharma Kelleher

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Terror gripped Genette Abrams. What’s wrong with me? Can’t breathe.

  Earlier in the evening, Ironwood’s Downtown District had pulsed with Central Arizona University students. Genette had been having such a good time at the Trip Hop Lounge, dancing and rolling on a drug called hex, a mix of heroin and ecstasy, that she told her sorority sisters to go home without her.

  But at eleven thirty, her stomach had begun to cramp. She’d stepped outside, hoping some fresh air would help make her feel better. It hadn’t. The stomach cramps worsened until she hurled next to an ironwood tree planted along the sidewalk. She would have been embarrassed had anyone seen her. But on a Monday night with finals just a week away, the streets were all but abandoned.

  As she walked away from the club, her legs and chest stiffened, making walking and breathing difficult. Her four-inch heel slipped off the sidewalk. She tumbled into the cold, dark street and lay shivering on the pavement. Above her, the red-and-green lights of a holiday decoration affixed to a streetlamp glowed cheerily.

  As quickly as it came, the bizarre tightening of muscles released. Using the small ironwood tree to pull herself up, she hobbled up against a nearby building and took a breath. I’ll be okay. Just need to find my car and get home. She managed a smile, as the bass beat of the club’s house music lingered in her drug-lubricated mind. Where the hell’d I park, anyway?

  A second wave of stiffness battered her, more intense this time. Hands trembled. Jaw tightened. Leg muscles seized. Her chest muscles constricted and squeezed the air out of her lungs. Genette cried out in agony through gritted teeth as she collapsed. “Grrrngh…”

  What’s happening to me? Please, God, don’t let me die.

  Moments before she blacked out, the tightness and pain eased up again. She took deep, gulping breaths. A gust of icy November wind blew across her bare legs. Gotta get out of the wind.

  Holding on to a wall to steady herself, she inched along the steep sidewalk into an alley. It wasn’t much warmer, but at least it cut the wind screaming down the street.

  Gotta call Sarah. She’ll help me.

  She reached for the phone in her purse. With clumsy fingers, she dialed her roommate’s phone. Another wave of cramps and tremors hit her.

  “Hello?” asked a gravelly, irritated voice.

  “Su…muh…heh…” The words would not come out.

  “Genette, is that you?”

  “Brah…nee…” With a squeal, her jaw clamped shut and refused to open.

  “Dammit, girl! I told you before—don’t be drunk dialing me this late. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  “Ughnnn…” Her lungs burned for air. Her chest tightened. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, like taiko drums from a horror movie soundtrack. A foamy liquid in her throat choked off her breathing. Panic and confusion gripped her. She collapsed on the ground. The phone clattered onto the sidewalk next to her.

  “Shut the fuck up!” came a voice farther down the alley. “Some of us is trying to sleep!”

  A woman bundled up in a coat with a hoodie loomed over her, illuminated by the dim light spilling from the street. “Jesus H. Christ. Can’t you find someplace else to make noise?”

  Genette reached out, her eyes bulging in their sockets. “Mmrrnngh…”

  “Fucking drunk college kids ain’t got nothing better to do than interrupt my sleep. Shit.” The woman disappeared from view, followed by the rhythmic squeaking of a grocery cart wheel.

  Genette collapsed as her muscles no longer responded. No, don’t leave. Please. Help.

  Her body arched backward in crushing waves of pain, twisting and contorting. The cold deepened. Genette’s mind went dark. Dead eyes stared sightless into the night.

  Twenty miles to the south, in the town of Sycamore Springs, Shea Stevens and three of her employees at Iron Goddess Custom Cycles were rushing to finish the one-off bagger. It was nearly midnight. The new owner was scheduled to pick it up in the morning.

  The scarred-over gunshot wound on Shea’s lower back burned as she tightened the leads on the motorcycle battery. The ache in her recently healed collarbone wasn’t helping either.

  Three months earlier, two sheriff’s deputies had attempted to silence her after she learned they were running a heroin-trafficking ring. Sergeant Willie Foster had run her bike off the road with his car, breaking her collarbone. After she killed Foster with a shot to the head, his cohort, Detective Edelman, had put a bullet in her back. Had it not been for Edelman’s assigned partner, Detective Rios, Shea would have been dead.

  But Shea didn’t have time to worry about old wounds. If they didn’t deliver the bike on time, the shop would incur expensive penalties. Shea didn’t care so much, but Terrance Douglas, her business partner, would have a shit fit if they missed the deadline.

  “Okay, folks, let’s bring this baby to life.” Shea inserted the key and pressed the starter button.

  The engine went rurr-rurr-rurr, but didn’t catch. A series of frustrated glances passed between Shea and her crew. She tried again, holding the starter a few seconds longer. It refused to turn over.

  “We did put gas in the tank, right?” Shea asked.

  Lakota, an Oglala Sioux woman w
ho served as the shop’s mechanical engineer, inspected the bike. “Full tank. Battery’s fully charged. Oil pan’s filled. Air intake looks fine. It should start.”

  “Maybe it’s the wiring,” suggested Kyle Flores, Shea’s newest hire. Despite being just under four feet tall, he still managed to ride a standard-size motorcycle and had turned out to be a decent motorcycle mechanic.

  Switch, the shop’s electronics specialist, stared at the bike. “It’s not the wiring,” she said firmly.

  “If we got air and we got fuel, problem’s gotta be electrical.” Shea rubbed the scar on her back. “No offense, Switch, but I think something’s miswired.”

  “I didn’t miswire it. I did everything right. I always do everything right.”

  Shea caught a cautionary look from Lakota that said, Don’t set her off.

  Outside the closed garage bay doors, the throaty growl of a Harley from the back parking lot caught everyone’s attention. A moment later someone pounded on the back door with such force it made everyone jump.

  “Who could that be?” asked Lakota.

  “I’ll deal with this bozo.” Shea grabbed a large dead-blow hammer and marched toward the door. “Y’all figure out why this bike won’t start.”

  Whoever was knocking was probably not someone she wanted to talk to. A tweaker looking to rob the place. A cop looking for her or one of her team of second-chancers. An ex-girlfriend making a late-night booty call.

  “We ain’t open yet,” Shea yelled through the closed door. “Come back at eight.”

  More pounding followed by a familiar voice. “Shea-Shea? Open up. It’s Monster.” He sounded drunk.

  Anger rippled up her back and into her fists. Like I ain’t got enough shit to deal with.

  Shea kicked open the door, nearly knocking the heavyset biker off his feet. “What the hell you doing here? It’s late and I’m busy.”

  Monster sported a halo of snowy hair and a longish slush-colored beard tied with a rubber band. His leather vest, known as a cut, identified him as a member of the Confederate Thunder Motorcycle Club. “Easy, girl. Saw the lights on. I left you messages, but you never called back.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to say to you, old man.”

  “Now, Shea…” Monster reached out to put a hand on Shea’s shoulder, but Shea backed away, warding him off with the hammer.

  “Keep your fucking paws off me. I don’t want nothing to do with you or the Thunder ever again. You got me?”

  “Shea, darling, I just wanna see my grandbaby.”

  “Annie ain’t your grandbaby.”

  “Like hell she ain’t. I raised your sister, Wendy, since she was seven years old. I was there when she gave birth to Annie. I’m the closest thing to a grandpa Annie knows.”

  “Wendy’s dead because of her involvement with the Thunder. I ain’t gonna let that happen to Annie.”

  “Aw, that’s horseshit and you know it. That no-good cop’s the one shot Wendy. She’d still be alive if you two had stayed at the clubhouse like y’alls supposed to.”

  Shea swung at him but he caught the hammer and pulled her close.

  “Wendy’s dead cause the Thunder are the biggest crank dealers in the county,” she said. “I’m the one who rescued Annie from the kidnapper. I’m her guardian now. And I say you ain’t getting nowhere near her.”

  “Shea, I know you’re angry. Hell, I’m angry, too. It can’t be easy raising Annie by yourself. I’m here ’cause Julia and me wanna help.”

  “Me and my girlfriend are doing just fine without you.”

  “The girl needs a father figure in her life. She ain’t getting it having two mommies.”

  “Get the fuck outta here, Monster, ’fore I call the cops.”

  “Shea, please. Julia cries every night she don’t see Annie. We lost Wendy. Least you could do is let us see our grandbaby.”

  Shea studied Monster’s face. “As long as you’re a member of that drug-dealing, murderous band of misogynists you call a motorcycle club, you and Julia ain’t stepping anywhere near Annie.”

  Monster scoffed. “You been hanging around them femi-Nazis in the Athena Sisterhood?”

  The Athena Sisterhood was a women’s motorcycle club that frequently staged protests and rallies for feminist causes. There were rumors that the local chapter had firebombed a state senator’s office and a strip club. Shea had avoided them because the chapter was run by an ex-girlfriend of hers.

  “None of your business who I hang with.”

  Monster’s face changed from pleading to threatening. “You best stay clear of them Barbie bikers, if’n you know what’s good for ya.”

  “Tell me, old man. Is the Thunder still using the old stash house to store drugs and guns? Be a shame if the cops busted the place.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Shea, talk like that could get you hurt. Your daddy mighta been the Thunder president once upon a time, but that won’t protect you if you go snitchin’.”

  “This conversation’s over.” Shea tried again to close the door, but Monster stopped it with his boot.

  “I’m gonna see my grandbaby, Shea. Ain’t no reason to be stubborn about it.”

  She smashed Monster’s boot with the dead-blow hammer. He fell back cursing and holding his foot.

  “Stay away from my family, or I’ll put a bullet in your brain.” She slammed the door and locked it.

  Monster pounded on the door. “This ain’t over,” he yelled in a strained voice. A moment later the roar of his bike filled the air, then faded into the night.

  Shea trudged back to her crew and their work in progress. Kyle and Lakota were staring at her. Switch had unbolted the tank and propped it out of the way as she worked with the bike’s ignition system.

  “You okay, Shea?” asked Lakota.

  “Just peachy. What’s the story with the bike?”

  “Spark plugs were bad out of the box. Switch is replacing them now.” Lakota leaned close to Shea. “Who was that guy?”

  “A member of the Confederate Thunder I used to know.”

  “Should we be worried? Last time they showed up here, they shot up the place.”

  “Nah,” Shea said, hoping to convince herself as much as anyone.

  Chapter 2

  At home, Shea pulled off her motorcycle gloves and helmet and rubbed her deeply scarred face, a memento of a childhood dog attack. Overwhelmed with fatigue and a growling stomach, she dragged herself through her garage—navigating around her personal collection of custom bikes—and into her house.

  The kitchen was dark, but the aroma of cooked meat and spices lingered in the air. Shea deposited her keys in the blue enameled dish on the breakfast bar, which separated the kitchen from the living room.

  Jessica, her girlfriend, sat on the love seat, twirling and untwirling an ebony braid around a finger and staring at her laptop. Their black cat, Ninja, lay curled up next to her. She looked up as Shea closed the door to the garage and tossed her armored hoodie onto one of the mismatched recliners.

  “Hey, babe! I was getting worried. It’s after one o’clock.” Jess stretched and nudged Ninja to the floor. The cat meowed in protest but retreated to the quiet of the master bedroom.

  “Sorry. I shoulda called.” Shea plopped down beside Jessica and gave her a quick peck on the lips. “Damn bike wouldn’t start. Practically took the whole thing apart looking for the problem.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re home safe.” Jessica rubbed Shea’s shoulder. “Your collarbone giving you any problems?”

  Shea groaned with pleasure at Jessica’s touch. “Not at all,” she said, wishing it was true. “Annie get to sleep okay?”

  “Yeah.” A frown creased Jessica’s face. “Kid at school was teasing her about the scar on her ear.”

  “Damn. Ain’t enough that fucking kidnapper cut her ear off. Now some snot-nosed brat is making fun of her? What the hell’s wrong with people?”

  “Her teacher’s going to talk to the parents,” Jessica said. “Want me to hea
t you up some leftovers?”

  “No, thanks. I’m too tired to eat. I do wanna check in on Annie.”

  “Don’t wake her.”

  Shea crept into Annie’s room and sat on the edge of her bed. The eight-year-old’s cherubic face was highlighted in the glow of a nightlight. The scar where the surgeons had reattached her left ear was still visible. What wasn’t visible was the emotional trauma from her kidnapping and the death of her parents. But Shea knew it was there, having witnessed her own mother’s murder at the hands of her outlaw biker father.

  “Kids are resilient,” the social worker had said after Shea gained custody of Annie.

  Shea wasn’t so sure. She only had to look in the mirror to know that some scars lasted a lifetime. And it was this shared trauma that left Shea uncertain what to do. Being around the girl brought up memories Shea had spent years trying to bury.

  “I’ll take care of you, Doodlebug,” she whispered.

  Annie stirred but remained asleep. Shea walked out, closing the door behind her.

  “Annie still asleep?”

  Shea nodded and collapsed next to Jessica, resting her head on Jess’ shoulder.

  “Shea, I’m worried about Annie. She’s so young to have gone through what she did. Seems like every night she has nightmares. More than a few times she even wet the bed. And now kids at school are picking on her. I think we should take her back to the therapist.”

  “She already went three times.”

  “She clearly needs more. It takes time to heal. Not just time, but quality time. Now that you’re back at work, you’re hardly ever around.”