Echoes of a MC (The Nighthawks MC Book 12)

by Bella Knight

Gregory was still on the premises, talking with Thandie Wells and Sayan on his headset. They had been doing a sitrep on their client, Daci, the soul singer. They handed her off to swing shift for a performance at the House of Blues, and the swing operatives reported that they were just exiting the club. Thandie and Sayan intended to take Daci on a whirlwind of interviews in various studios the next morning, from news outlets to online vloggers, and Gregory made sure the schedule was nailed down and that his client got home early. The “Queen” that Gregory had that morning was now long gone, on a plane back to her native home, Dallas.

  The lights went down. Gregory and the operatives took out their weapons and fanned out. Wraith cut the broadcast call to everyone and whispered into Gregory’s ear.

  Saleem had been with Wild Bill during the day, watching Ken Wang. They had already done their sitrep with Bannon, and Wild Bill was long gone. Saleem was in the staff lounge sipping on Coke and watching a baseball game on the staff TV when Wraith whispered into her ear.

  Star was putting on her pink cowboy boots in one of the changing stalls in the company locker room, one level down from the office. She slipped her black boots back on, and silently loaded herself up from the locker room goodies locker.

  “Showtime,” Star whispered. She knew Wraith knew where she was. Wraith knew where everyone was. She was their Spider.

  Dimo and Konstantin thought they had taken out the security for the floor. They had no idea the people they had come to take out had called the police and the FBI, and that their every move was being broadcast to Frenchie, as part of their remote surveillance team, and to Wraith.

  “Come to mama,” Wraith whispered.

  Darina followed her men as they went up the stairs. They bypassed the keyed entry and made it onto the floor. The strange glow of the emergency lights made the men nervous. They found the front desk and the waiting room empty, and just a keyed entry point. But Dimo did his magic, and they were in. Darina did not bother to give them orders; they knew their tasks. Dimo always took the left, and Konstantin, the right. The larger conference room was empty, as was the smaller one. They went forward, and Dimo saw movement. Three bursts, and a cry. Dimo grinned.

  They hugged the wall, until Dimo called a halt. He found a tripwire. He cut it, and said, in Bulgarian, “Amateurs.” He stepped forward, and an elephant pounded him in the chest. He flew backward and lifted the gun forward and pulled the trigger. It let off a burst of three, but he had been aiming too high.

  Saleem had been hit in the artificial arm, and was pissed, because she had just gotten truly adjusted to it. The dinky-brains who played with it always did something to make it hard to adjust to it again. She pulled the trigger again, this time above the man’s body armor. Dimo’s head exploded. She rolled out of the way as six more shots came her way.

  Konstantin roared as his trainer went down. He stepped into the next room and attempted to shoot Gregory’s jacket. Gregory was not wearing the jacket, but it was draped on a chair to make it look like he was sitting there. He hit Konstantin twice in the throat before ducking behind his bulletproof desk.

  Darina slipped back, her backup team now thundering up the stairs. She heard shots and grunts. Two of her team burst in behind her, already hit, one in the arm, one in the leg. She groaned in disgust and set her weapon to full auto.

  Saleem’s blade found its way into Darina’s hand. Darina screamed out with rage. She transferred her automatic to her other hand, and she lifted her weapon to fire, switching it to semiauto. Two cans of Coke came flying at her, and she hit them both. Sugary brown liquid exploded into the hallway. Saleem shot Darina right between the eyes, doing so while the assassin was distracted by the flying cans of cola.

  Bannon was in his office, both he and Sigrun crunched down on either side of the desk. The last two surviving goons burst in, and Bannon shot upward, where the man’s body armor met his waist, up into his gut, then did a head tap. Sigrun went for the balls first, then the head shot, to her left. The second man died as he was attempting to scream.

  Sigrun stared down at the blood splattered across the carpet. “That’ll be hard to get out.”

  “Count off,” said Wraith, in their ears, as the sirens whooped and wailed. They did, and everyone was accounted for. “Good,” said Wraith. “Put your guns on the ground. I’ve ensured that SWAT has a blow-by-blow. I sent the camera feeds to their truck. Frenchie is telling them to stand down. Working on getting her first in the door. Anyone hurt except Saleem’s bionic arm?”

  Everyone sounded off a “No.” Saleem wiggled her artificial fingers. “Works fine, just dinged up. Bastards!”

  “Okay, photo time. Get their faces. My cameras don’t have good angles on all of them.”

  The operatives each took out cell phones, snapped pics of the faces of the goons, and sent them to Wraith. Wraith collated them, marked them by location, and sent them to Frenchie. Frenchie sent them to SWAT and to her second, Ruby Quello, back in the barn. Ruby tap-tap-tapped her fingers, and said to Frenchie, “Nasty cartel assassin baddies.” She gave Frenchie a quick, concise rundown.

  Frenchie parked right next to the SWAT van. “Don’t need you,” she said. “The Lyuben cartel is missing its favorite shooter, Darina Atanas. She brought her second and third in command, and goons for backup. They’re all dead. Made the mistake of going up against High Desert Security and Protection.”

  “Well, that wasn’t too bright. From the feed I saw, the whole thing took less than four and a half minutes,” said Trey Chan, the SWAT commander. “We’ll head out. Got a hostage situation shaping up across town.” He grinned. “Tell Gregory he owes me a steak dinner for coming to save his ass.”

  “Will do, but you didn’t save squat,” said Frenchie.

  “But I came, didn’t I?” said Trey. He hopped back in the vehicle and was gone.

  Frenchie called her boss, the coroner, and an army of agents to mop up one of the pseudopods of the cartel. She laughed as she stopped talking into her earpiece. Wraith called her. “What’s so funny?”

  Frenchie looked at the security camera and waved. “You guys will probably get cash. There was a bounty on her head. Preferably for her capture.” She sighed. “Sadly, I won’t be interviewing her. Would have liked some names.”

  “She was shooting at my people. Should I have used harsh language?” Wraith sighed. “You’re right, sorry. We need answers.”

  Pocero drove up. Officers spilled out of cars, and they started with the crime scene tape. “That Wraith on the phone?” he asked. “Tell her to get her skinny butt down here and explain this bloodbath.”

  “She’s not leaving,” said Frenchie. “She’s in her hidey-hole. You’ll have to work your evidence team past all the bodies of the cartel people to get to her.”

  “How many they take down?” asked Pocero.

  “At least eight,” said Frenchie. “All cartel. Part of a sort of joint Eastern Europe ‘bad people network.’ The usual: drugs, guns, extortion, money laundering, murder for hire, even some people-selling. Nasty cockroaches.”

  “Why did they hit them?” asked Pocero, pointing up at the windows of the security company’s offices. His phone rang, and Pocero answered it.

  Wraith waited for his call to end. “Because I will testify to a case putting an entire arm of their organization in prison for, very literally, trying to sell me,” said Wraith into his ear. “Plus, all the drugs, guns, and other incriminating stuff in the warehouse. Now, if you want to keep shouting about a federal case that has not yet gone to trial in a parking lot where anyone can listen, you can, but I think it would be smarter to talk about it in one of our conference rooms that didn’t get shot up, don’t you?”

  Pocero looked as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “Yeah, fine. Let’s do this.” The crime scene van drove up, and they began a long night of wrapping up.

  It was now one in the morning. The entire contents of the staff fridge were gone. After a visit from their attorney, the High Desert Security crew was al
lowed to leave.

  Wraith was furious that they wanted her to leave the panic room. “These guys came for me. I was in a safe place. Not a hair on my head was mussed. And now you want me to leave? Why? It’s an enclosed space. No blood, no hair, nothing here from the shootout. Not even a bullet. Not even on the same air supply. Nope, not going.”

  “She has a point,” said Frenchie. “And, no one’s getting prosecuted for this assault. Except for the hit-caller, and we don’t know who that is, just yet.”

  Special Agent in Charge Louise Ralcher, Frenchie’s boss, stared around her. “Don’t even know where the panic room is. And, we have video of everything, start to finish. And, the crime scene unit has been over everything. All the bodies are gone, and we have video.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, then put her silver glasses back on. The glasses made her brown eyes look sharper than they were. “Alright, no use tearing the place apart looking for a disembodied voice.” She sighed. “Wraith, you win. Get someone in here to clean this place up.” She waved a manicured hand, knowing Wraith could see her with her cameras.

  Wraith snorted. “They’ve been waiting outside for the last fifteen minutes for you to release the scene. This place must be perfect in the morning.”

  “Sure, you don’t want to come back?” asked SAC Ralcher.

  “I’ll work with you, but not for you,” said Wraith. “Saving my butt so I come home to my family comes first these days. Been run over, shot, and assaulted more times than I care to mention. Getting a little fucking tired of it. No offense, Ma’am, but I like my life the way it is.”

  “You drive a hard bargain,” said Ralcher. “Frenchie is your liaison. And I’m tired of talking to the air. Release the scene,” she ordered. She went down the elevator, and the little company Wraith had bought to add to High Desert’s portfolio, came in. They were a crime scene cleanup firm made up of two, female ex-cops, both shot in the line of duty. Finally they went up. Wraith was paying double for a night job, and they were both happy to help the woman who had saved their company and bolstered their firm’s reputation.

  In the morning, everything went as it was supposed to. The bullet holes had been filled in, the wallpaper rehung, new carpet laid down. Even the staff refrigerator had been refilled with new sodas, waters, and snacks. A teen queen got driven to her interview. Two moguls made a deal. Some very boring negotiations continued. Gregory met and protected two new record label queens. And Wraith was safe in her cubbyhole, and her wife had a mural to paint for school. And all was right with the world. Again, thankfully.

  Runner

  Judge Julia Marks narrowed her sea-green eyes at Defense Attorney Marla Phipps, and at ADA Michael Kellers. “Are we ready to begin?” she asked.

  Marla said, “Sidebar, your honor.”

  “Both of you, Ms. Phipps and Mr. Kellers, please approach the bench.” The judge narrowed her eyes to slits again. “What is it?” she asked.

  “If it pleases the court, we would like to have Mr. Kellers, and any hint of ADA Kelis, removed from involvement in this case.” Marla Phipps was short, stocky, and whip-smart. She kept her gorgeous wavy locks in a clip in the back of her head, and she met the judge’s increasingly stormy eyes with her more-than-calm, chocolate ones.

  “Your Honor…” squeaked ADA Kellers. He checked the button of his jacket, as if looking good would get him out of hot water.

  Judge Marks tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear, a sign she was angry. Judge Marks liked her courtrooms neat and orderly, and for things to run like clockwork. Marla Phipps was throwing a wrench into her clockwork. “Let Ms. Phipps explain. Why do you want these men removed from the case?”

  “People’s Exhibit One,” said Marla, and handed over a thick trial transcript. “People v. Roland Kasem. ADA Kellers and ADA Kelis had exculpatory evidence from a former DEA agent, no less, and went through with the entire trial. They had this knowledge within three days of the defendant being arrested, and at no time did they stop pursuing the case against Mr. Kasem.” She handed over a second sheaf of papers. “People’s Exhibit Two. Four separate witnesses saw the defendant in the case on the other side of the city, one of them an undercover police officer. Both ADAs seem to be in collusion to continue with trials, despite there being exculpatory evidence. To put it bluntly, I wouldn’t trust either one of them as far as I could throw them.”

  “Your honor!” squawked ADA Michael Kellers. “I…”

  Judge Marks raised a hand. “Why are you still trying cases?” she asked ADA Kellers. “Wouldn’t you be on suspension, and your cases reviewed for… errors?”

  “I…” spluttered Kellers.

  “You’ll notice that he tried to paint the ex-agent in question as a brain-damaged dotard who couldn’t remember her own name, much less where and when she was,” said Marla, pointing to a page marked by a red flag. “It’s all there.”

  Kellers stood tall. “I refuse to listen to these… insinuations…”

  “That you are incompetent?” asked Judge Marks. “Is there anyone else on your staff that has knowledge of this case that can try it?”

  “I believe I know of someone,” said Marla, a bright smile on her face. “I have been in contact with one Elizabeth Pierce, from the ADA office. Perhaps she and I can sit down and go over this, and then we can try not to waste the court’s time.”

  “I will review this material,” said Judge Marks. “In the meantime, ADA Kellers, you shall remove yourself from all trial work. Please hand off the work to your subordinates. I will call the state Attorney General and have a special prosecutor review all of your current cases, and probably your former ones.” Kellers turned an amazing shade of red before nodding, once. He knew any answer he gave now in front of a judge would be on record. “Good,” said the judge. “Please turn over all your records concerning People versus Damon Eris to this new ADA, Pierce. Perhaps justice can be done.” She shooed them away with her fingers, and they went to stand before their respective tables. She said, “This trial is in recess for one week.” She pounded her gavel.

  Michael Kellers had a burner phone in his left-hand, suit pocket. The right hand one was for his office cell. He called and told the shocked subordinate (Pierce) to meet Rumin behind the courthouse to get the box of trial information.

  His second, Rumin Kelis, also had the same two phones in his suit pockets. “Meet Pierce here,” he said. “Hand her the box and go with her back to the office. I’ll make the calls.” Rumin nodded, and they went through security and out the back door to the parking lot.

  Michael passed the smokers huddling against the wall of the courthouse, and he made a beeline to his Beemer. Once inside, he made two calls. To one he said, “We’re burned.” To the other he said, “Plan Rio.” He hung up, never having heard anything but breathing on the other end of either call.

  He saw Pierce literally run by, toward the court, her low boots making clacking noises on the baking concrete. She had washed-out blue eyes, a wide jaw, and a narrow nose. Not his type, so he had hired her on purpose, partly to avoid a sexual harassment lawsuit. He’d been sued in the past and had to pay out an astronomical amount to cover it up. He learned his lesson, kept a woman across town, away from his perfectly-coiffed wife. Michael had his children sent to boarding school. Better to get the rug rats out of the way.

  Michael ran through the checklist as he pulled out into traffic. Once he was reamed out by Judge Marks, he made the trades and transfers. He’d blocked the calls to the attorney general, but he realized he had miscalculated it with the DEA agent. His wife would be surprised by his vanishing, but she had her own accounts separate from his. His Cayman Island black card was in his wallet. He regretted leaving Maria, his cross-town lover, the woman with the soft brown hair and ugly temper. He liked her temper compared to his staid wife. He’d paid for two years on the condo about seven months ago. Maybe I could send for her later, convince her that…

  He never got a chance to finish the thought, or to use the black card anyw
here, except for a few stolen days last winter. The motorcyclist in black leathers with a black helmet was riding a black Kawasaki. And, whoever it was, put the gun to the glass of the Beemer and shot Michael, point-blank in the head before the man had time to register the bike next to him. His blood and brains exited out from the path of the bullet, and a car slammed into the Beemer from the rear, just as he failed to go at the light. The woman looked up from her texting, saw the gun, screamed, and got into a second accident trying to outrun the gun. The gun went off a second time, and then the woman’s phone slid to the ground and her head hit the steering wheel as the motorcyclist sped off.

  “This is a fucking god-damn mess,” said Pocero.

  Frenchie stood next to him. “Got a runner, taken out by a baddie on the bike. Got security cameras and no less than eight witnesses sitting at the light, who saw the whole thing.” She pointed at the retreating ambulance. “Woman twisted just in time to get shot in the shoulder. Playing dead worked. Bet she wishes she’d been smarter than to screw with her cell phone at the light, though.”

  “A Kawasaki. The clubs all hate them; love their Harleys. Besides, all our motorcycle friends like you. You closed a case for them before, so I doubt they’d want to do this. Hear they’re pissed about Wraith being a target, though.” Pocero rubbed a hand over his bald forehead. “Got two dead ADAs. Special prosecutor already has the case files, and your people have Rumin in custody. What’s he saying?”

  Frenchie snorted. “Not a blessed thing. You wouldn’t either, if you knew you had sold your office to not one, but two cartels. Our boy’s gonna die in prison, even in protective custody, at some point, unless we get him in a Supermax.”

  “So, he has to sing to get into a Supermax, and he will die in protective custody if he talks,” said Pocero. He held out his two fists. “Hi rock, meet hard place.” He used a conversational tone to match his sarcasm.

  “We’ve got his family in a safe place. Feel sorry for the wife, Gabriela. Got two kids, both in private schools. Had no idea her husband was a bad guy. Bulgarian parents, but just normal shopkeepers. My people got her and the kids on a plane.”