Jinx dropped down into the indicated chair, and sat stony-faced, boots braced wide apart on the tile, arms folded to show his biceps to their best advantage.
Carlos Sandoval was a familiar name, but he’d never met the man. Average height, slim build, he wore his hair a little shaggy, its glossy dark thickness fanning like spikes over his ears and down the back of his neck. He had a hoop in one nostril, and the Virgin Mary tattooed in vivid color down one bare arm. Despite the grunginess of the office, his Dickies and work smock were spotless; his hands and fingernails clean.
The first time the Chupacabras came to town, he’d fenced product for them; the sort of deal anyone who wasn’t an idiot would have made in order to stay afloat business-wise, and to keep from being found dead in a ditch person-wise.
He’d been shuffling paperwork on his desk when Jinx entered, and gestured for him to sit. It was a long moment – a purposeful one, Jinx could tell – before he tidied up the stack in his hands, set it off to the side, and finally made eye contact. His gaze was that of a cautious, mid-level predator: dark, quick, smart. Not the top dog in the field ready to posture and brag, but not a nobody either. The gaze of a man who knew he had to be very, very cautious in his current situation.
“You’re Derek Snow’s right-hand man,” he said, by way of greeting.
“Most of the time,” Jinx agreed. “Not sure if that’s gonna keep working out.”
Carlos’s expression didn’t change; he wasn’t fooled. “Right,” he said, flatly. “You had a falling out with your boss, and you came running to me to look for work. Makes a lot of sense.”
“Where else do you think I’m gonna find work? The daycare?” He lifted his inked arms in demonstration.”
Carlos offered a tight smile. “I think you’re here to fuck with me, and I’m not in the mood.”
Jinx stared at him a moment, long enough for Carlos’s smile to grow even tighter. Careful to keep his expression grave – it didn’t take much care, really; he’d been told he had resting bitch face – he said, “The way things are going, the club won’t be around much longer.”
Carlos’s face went blank a moment, and then his brows drew together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t strike me as the sort who plays word games very well,” Eden had said earlier, ignoring his grunt of protest. “Don’t try to talk circles around him. Be direct; tell him what you want, and go from there. That’s what he’ll be expecting from a man like you.”
A man like me, he thought with inner sourness. Why had she made that sound like an insult?
He hated that, in this moment, despite her coldness and the fact that she was more or less a stranger, he felt like her advice was better than anything he could have cooked up on his own. So he went with direct, and hoped it worked.
“The cartel’s gonna try to squeeze the club out again – but for good this time.”
Carlos’s brows shot up.
“And they’re being smart about it. What’s that saying about sinking ships? Our ship is sinking, our captain’s got his head up his ass, and this rat wants off.”
Carlos stared at him a moment, openly shocked. Then his features settled back into his indifferent mask. “You expect me to believe you?”
“Not really. But I figure I’ve got nothing to lose being honest.”
“Except your life, when Candyman finds out you’re turning your back on the club. That’s a killing offense.” He said it like he thought Jinx was either stupid, or insane.
“Lots of people getting killed around here, lately.”
Carlos nodded. “Yeah. But why come to me?” The question sharper this time, more demanding.
“’Cause I know you’re in good with the cartel, and when they start killing Dogs, I don’t want to be on the list.”
They regarded one another a long moment, Carlos blinking only once, fast, his eyes black mirrors that revealed nothing. He didn’t appear to be breathing.
The moment stretched so far that Jinx thought he would have to break it; just say something.
But there was a burst of crackling static. Carlos darted out a hand, between two stacks of paperwork, and came out clutching a walkie-talkie. Hurried Spanish issued from it, hissing and snapping through the bad connection, and Carlos finally showed an emotion: fear.
~*~
Eden cursed when her phone started beeping in her pocket to signal another incoming call. She saw the receptionist glancing toward her with veiled curiosity as she fished it out and took the new call. “What?” she hissed when she had it to her ear.
“Where are you?” It was Albie, and not Fox, as she’d expected. He sounded near-panicked.
She took a breath and smoothed her expression; softened her tone. She couldn’t afford to look snappish and professional in front of a witness. “I’m with a friend. At a job interview.” You stupid shit, I can’t tell you! she wanted to yell.
“Is Michelle with you?”
Ah. “Yes.”
He cursed – elaborately and for a long time. “Christ,” he said, near the tail end, on a deep breath. “Candy and Fox just left, and I went to the back to check in with her, and she wasn’t fucking there!”
“Yes, well, obviously that’s because she’s with us.”
She could hear him trying to get himself together. “Right. Brilliant. Okay. So. Would you like to explain why you thought it was a good idea to take my pregnant niece on a fact-finding mission just two days after she was nearly murdered?”
Eden stood. Slowly, unhurried, hiding the irritation surging through her now. She slouched down the width of the long room in an aimless back-and-forth, pretending to examine the nails of her free hand, getting out of hearing range of the receptionist, but keeping her voice low anyway. “You’re acting like I bloody kidnapped her. The girl was desperate to do something – to get out of that bloody clubhouse. I asked her if she wanted to come along, and she jumped at the chance.”
“You shouldn’t have invited her,” he insisted.
“Because she’s pregnant? Or because she’s your niece? I notice you haven’t asked whether Axelle was okay.”
He sucked in a breath, and was silent a beat, stunned. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Axe knows how to take care of herself.”
“So do I, and so does Michelle. Your Candyman’s kept her locked up like Rapunzel in a tower. She was dying to get out.” She wasn’t sure why she kept saying his name like that, but it was turning into an outright habit at this point.
“Now that’s not fair,” he said, “Candy isn’t like that.”
“I’ve no idea what Candy’s like, but that girl needs a job to do or she’s going to go crazy.”
Another beat. He breathed out an anxious sigh. “How is Axe?”
“Now he asks.”
“Eden–”
She heard a shout. Several. Loud male voices on the other side of the counter. She lifted her head from the phone and realized all the normal clatter of a working garage had stopped. She heard frantic Spanish conversations; footfalls.
“Shit,” she breathed. To Albie, she said, “We’re at Sandoval’s, the three of us and Jinx. Consider this my official request for backup.”
Then there was chaos.
Twenty-Eight
Candy saw the dust cloud a half-mile from the turn-off into Pacer’s compound. Just as they reached the mouth of the driveway, he saw the reason for it. A plain black work van was racing down the last few yards of the driveway, bouncing crazily in the ruts, kicking up a boiling tail of dust that ran all the way back to the cozy stone house.
It braked just enough to make a harsh left turn out onto the main road – and gunned straight for them.
Candy held steady, watching the van’s grill come closer, and closer, and closer–
Then he braked hard and swerved off onto the shoulder, praying his brothers did the same.
The van blew past, but his gaze caught on the face that filled the back window; the hands pressed
to the glass, palms pale and pleading. He saw an open mouth, and wild eyes; tangled curtains of gold hair.
Melanie, he recognized, with a lurch.
“Follow them,” Fox barked.
Tenny and Reese peeled away with a squeal of tires, leaving thick black marks on the pavement, racing after the van.
He gunned the throttle, got back on the road, and headed down the driveway for the house, teeth clenched against the roughness of it, each rut sending a hard jolt through his body.
When he reached the house, he scrambled off his bike, not bothering to take off his helmet or glasses. The front door stood open, still swinging, in and out, creaking faintly, like someone had just slammed it back. Like when they were wrestling Melanie out to the van. Right after they’d…
Candy had known what he’d find since the moment he saw the dust trail, but, still, he skidded to a halt, breath catching.
Pacer had been on the couch, reclined back against the pillows stacked there, if he had to guess. The TV was still on; a glass of what looked like orange juice rested on the coffee table, though some of it had spilled when the table was shoved…
By Pacer’s body, as he’d tumbled off the couch. One leg was still propped across the cushions, but his upper body was crushed down to the floor at an awkward angle. Candy smelled the blood before he saw it, bright, arterial arcs of it on the rug, on the cushions, on Pacer’s once-white shirt. The room stank of very recent death; of voided bowels and the copper of blood.
There was no need to walk over, and crouch down; scoot the coffee table over and search for a pulse; but that was what he did, because it felt necessary. He had to know, had to be sure.
Pacer’s eyes were still open, too-bright slits, his face red and still clammy with sweat, feverish.
“Christ,” Fox said, softly, behind him.
Candy dug in hard with his fingertips, searching, searching. The skin was warm, but there was no pulse. He was gone. Dead only moments.
Time slipped a little. He was aware of voices, and footfalls, filtered through a screen of numbness.
A hand touched his shoulder, and he jerked back from Pacer – from Pacer’s corpse. He twisted around on his knees to find Fox giving him a cocked-brow look.
“I figure we have two options,” Fox said, calm as ever, though that one lifted eyebrow spoke volumes of judgement. “We can call your fed friend, and deal with all that, or we can get the hell out of here and catch up with the kids.”
Candy swallowed, his throat dry and tight. For one ugly moment, he had no idea what he ought to do.
They had to play this smart, though.
“Can the kids handle themselves?” he asked.
Fox nodded. “Yeah. Better than us, probably, but don’t tell the little shits I said that.”
“We gotta call Cantrell then, I guess.”
Fox shrugged, and straightened. “Alright. Do it, then.”
He didn’t offer condolences.
~*~
Aidan had been the one to insist that Reese customize his bike, suggested a bevy of modifications designed to make it faster, sleeker, more efficient. He hadn’t seen the need, at first, but was glad for all the adjustments now, as he screamed down the highway in pursuit of the van that was their target.
Tenny rode right beside him, both of them leaning low over the handlebars, trying to reduce drag, trying to catch up.
The van had a good lead.
But the Harleys were much, much more powerful.
It was a long, straight, flat stretch of road, no turnoffs for miles, nothing but rough plain to either side. Now was the time to catch them – and catch them they did.
Reese darted a glance to his left, hoping to catch Ten’s gaze. They needed to approach this the right way, with a strategy that–
Ten veered into the oncoming lane and rocketed forward, pulling up alongside the van.
Reese was beginning to understand why everyone in the club cursed so much, and so loudly. His hatred and frustration boiled up, hot and tight, in need of a release valve. He didn’t think saying fuck out loud would help, though.
He faced forward again, and saw movement at the rear passenger window. An arm. Holding a gun. He dropped back; saw the quicksilver shine of the muzzle flash, and of the bullet glancing off the pavement in front of him.
Tenny appeared beside him again, bike engine growling and leaping.
“They’re shooting at us,” Reese called to him, shouting above the rush of the wind and the roar of the motors.
“I noticed!” Ten shouted back. “Hold on!” And then he was gone, as if yanked backward.
Reese glanced back under his arm: Ten had braked hard, his bike sideways in the road, now, foot braced on the pavement. Gun in both hands, raised.
Reese wanted to shout at him, but it would have done no good.
He looked up, and hit his own brakes. Ahead of him, the back windows of the van shattered into spiderweb cracks. A hole blossomed in the rear door.
Stop! He wanted to yell. He didn’t know anything about the woman he’d glimpsed through the windows before, only that she was a victim in this, and that Fox, Candy, and the others didn’t want her dead.
Ten’s next shot hit a rear tire.
The van swerved, and skidded, shredding rubber flying like shrapnel. It fish-tailed off onto the shoulder, kicking up dust as it hit the loose soil. Bounced down a slight slope, hit a dip – and flipped.
Reese slid to a screeching halt, watching as the van rolled over three times, and landed with a loud crash and a plume of dust amidst a scrubby bank of grass and weeds.
He glanced back toward Tenny, who’d put down his kickstand and abandoned his bike in the center of the lane, striding up the road toward him, gun still in his hand.
Reese climbed off his own bike, and turned to meet him.
When Ten reached him, he tried to step around him.
Reese stopped him with a hand in the front of his jacket.
Ten paused, and glanced down at the fingers that gripped the leather, then looked up at Reese, expression flat. It was a rare glimpse of his real self, of the emotionless soldier he really was – a look Reese saw every time he looked in the mirror. More dangerous than any scowl. “Let go of me,” Ten said, calmly, “or I’ll shoot you, too.”
Reese held on. “Why’d you do that?”
Tenny let out a sharp breath through his nose, an impatient sound. “Because they were getting away.”
“What if you killed the victim?”
“That’s not my problem.” He moved to pull away, and Reese tightened his grip.
Tenny’s hand lifted, sharply, and clamped around his wrist. Squeezed until Reese felt the bones shift.
“I kill people,” he said. “That’s what I do. That’s what you do. They don’t expect anything else.”
Reese let his grip go slack; let Tenny throw his hand off with a violent, angry motion, and stalk toward the van.
He turned and followed.
Just as they reached the van – upside down, its tires spinning – the rear doors opened, and three people spilled out onto the dirt in a heap. One was a woman, fresh red blood down her face, her hair long and pale. The other two were men dressed in black, wearing black leather gloves, and with black bandanas loose around their necks. They’d used them as masks, Reese thought, and then they’d come loose during the accident.
The woman’s eyes were closed, her body limp.
But the two men were conscious, groaning, and cursing. One had a dislocated shoulder – the uneven set of his shoulders unmistakable. The other had a bloody nose, red smearing his upper lip, visible on his teeth when he grimaced up at them, fumbling for the gun on his hip.
Ten shot him in the head. A shower of blood, and bone, and brain, and he fell back, limp and very dead.
The other one shouted at them in Spanish, and struggled to get away on his hands and knees, teeth gritted against the pain.
Reese stepped in front of him before Ten could get off an
other shot, and kicked the man in the face.
He howled and crumpled, clutching at his face, fresh blood leaking through his fingers.
“Is the driver dead?” Reese asked.
The man muttered something muffled.
His other hand was right there on the dirt, splayed out, and Reese stepped on it.
The man screamed and fell back. Blood sprayed down his chin, and onto his shirtfront as he gasped through the pain.
“Is he dead?” Reese asked.
“Yeah – shit – fuck – I dunno,” the man stammered. “Just – please…”
“Who do you work for?”
The man grimaced up at him, lifting the bloodied hand he’d used to clutch his face – to ward him off, or to block out the too-bright sun, Reese didn’t know or care.
He lifted his foot, ready for another strike.
“Las Chupacabras!” the man said – shouted, really, a desperate, pain-laced gasp.
Reese put his foot back down.
Only to be shoved, hard, in the shoulder: Tenny trying to push past him, gun trained on the cowering man.
“Wait,” Reese hissed – actually hissed. He couldn’t remember ever speaking like that, emotion doing strange things to his voice. He grappled with the other assassin, feet braced, refusing to be shoved off. “We should interrogate him.”
When Ten finally lifted his head and looked him in the eye, his gaze was furious. Electric and smoldering, the blue cold and hateful.
Yes, hateful. He hated, just as Reese did. Reese took solace in the idea that such emotion was probably just as new and uncomfortable for the other boy.
“Because you’ve got so much experience interrogating?” Ten hissed back, mocking, enraged. Reese felt flecks of spit spray across his cheeks.
“Our job,” Reese said, and a wave of calm washed over him. A slow, soothing lap that pulled him down, grounded him, blessedly. “Is to do what they tell us. To follow orders.”
Something in his tone sent Ten reeling back from him, brows lifting, face going blank. Reese thought he looked scared, the way his skin paled, and his nostrils flared.
Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7) Page 21