by Bella Knight
"Thank you," said Bao. "Food coordinator." She put a strip of bacon in her mouth, and chewed while texting. She swallowed. "Job accepted with thanks. An army runs on its stomach."
Nico finished before her. "Gotta go. Love you." He kissed her. "Mmm, bacon lips."
She punched his arm, smiling. "Go. I've got this."
She finished, paid, used the restroom, and wasn't surprised by either the sheer number of police out in patrol cars, or the massive number of motorcycles out in pairs. She held up a fist in solidarity when she saw them. They fisted back. She debated whether or not to switch out the car to pick up the kids at school, but Callie sent a text that they were already packed up and heading home early. An assault on anyone sent people behind barricades, and the farm was safe.
Bao met Callie at the intersection near the clubhouse. "Got four kiddies," she called out the window.
"I'll follow," said Bao. She kept a close eye on other traffic. An Iron Knight named Pickles pulled out in front of Callie's car, held up a fist, and led them to the farm.
"I'm on ranch duty," he said, as Bao pulled up alongside. "You gonna stay in the big house?"
"Much easier to defend," said Bao, taking off her helmet. "Besides, they've got room."
The soldier, Mike, came out to greet them as Bao locked up her helmet and moved to help with the babies. "Got us in safety mode," he said, cheerfully. He stepped out, fast on his bladed leg. "Let me get the girls."
Grace and Hu tumbled out of the car. "Wraith got hit with a car," said Grace, breathlessly. "We've gotta stay in the big house."
"And help with the babies," said Hu.
Bao took a burbling Aiden. Kiya wailed when her mother picked her up. "She hates not being with the other babies at the center," said Callie. "Makes for a very loud evening."
David stood in the doorway. "Bring me my grandkids," he said in a stentorian voice that made Grace and Hu giggle.
The girls ran to him. The mothers followed after, closing the car doors, with babies making lots of noise. Mike followed, gun in his waistband. David took the girls' hands, and led them in.
Henry and the Nighthawks’ lawyer Denise arrived to keep Saber's rights intact. The LVMPD tried to split up Spear and Sigrun. A second lawyer, Tami Pfenning from the Valkyries showed up, and started screaming about how a decorated veteran was being held against her will. They moved the questioning to the clubhouse, then kicked the alphabet soup of agencies out.
Sigrun didn't know anything and was finally released to go to the hospital --the second one. Wraith was airlifted to a Level 1 Trauma Center with broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, a punctured lung, a broken leg, and a broken arm. And all along the left side where she was hit. She also had two cracked neck vertebrae. There were officers posted outside the operating room, which made the nurses nervous.
Dee Garver, the trauma nurse, came out with updates. "Your wife's injuries are severe. This surgery's going to take hours," she said to Saber, holding Sigrun's hand. Ace stood by Saber's side, and Rota at Sigrun's side. "She has a punctured lung, and the spleen has already been removed. They will put pins, screws, and plates into her left arm and leg to hold them together, and we'll have to remove bone fragments in her neck. There is some swelling in her brain, and a shunt will most likely be put in to take off the pressure." Sigrun nearly crushed Rota's hand, and Ace held up Saber.
"Do what you need to do," said Saber. "But, if she becomes brain dead, she left a strict ‘Do Not Resuscitate Order’ about that."
"We have that filed in her paperwork," said Dee. "She's a long way from brain dead."
"Good," said Saber. The nurse left, and he held Sigrun close. Sigrun punched his shoulder again and again, with tears running down her face.
Rota dragged her away. "We'll get some coffee and come back," Rota said, and dragged Sigrun to the bathroom.
Ace led Saber to a chair, but instead Saber paced like an angry lion. Ace paced with him, deliberately slowing his steps so Saber had time to cool down. He'd seen that look of mingled terror and rage before. If Saber got hold of whoever struck his wife's Harley with a truck, that person wouldn't have much time before meeting their ‘Maker.’ He had to keep Saber out of the fight. Revenge was a dish that was best served ice-cold.
The hunt for the truck used in the hit and run yielded results. Spear had finally been cut loose, and was with Quinn on a back road when they found it. They stopped, called it in, and waited on the silent, darkened sandy road.
"Think that's it?" asked Spear, again.
Quinn shone his penlight. "I see both stickers. But, if we go in, we destroy evidence."
"I want that monster dead," said Spear. "She flew through the air. I thought she was dead."
"She isn't, not yet," said Quinn, as the sirens grew louder. He checked his phone for texts. "No news is good news."
"If she dies, whoever did this better pray they..." She found herself off her feet, then flying backward.
She tried to shield her hands and face, and land with a curved back so she could roll. Quinn tried to reach out to her, and failed. They both thudded to the desert floor. Their training had them rolling around, standing up, checking for flames and injuries on themselves, and on each other. The sirens got louder, then faster.
"You hit?" asked Spear.
"No," said Quinn. "You?"
"No," said Spear. "I didn't see or feel a tripwire or pressure plate. That truck was either rigged to blow..."
"Or someone is watching." They looked around. The only thing they saw was the lights of the cop car and the FBI van.
SAC Haviland got out of the FBI car and rushed toward them. "Are you alright?" he asked. He was dressed in standard FBI black. He was an African American man, with delicate fingers and a tight smile, now a grimace.
"Truck was right there," said Spear, and pointed at the flaming wreckage. "Now you've got a jigsaw puzzle."
"Circle the area," said Quinn, choking. "Neither one of us felt a pressure plate or tripwire. He might be watching."
"On it," said Haviland, whipping out his phone.
Henry passed on news of the blown-up vehicle, and the dragnet that yielded nothing. Saber and Sigrun were told, but they were concentrating on sending Wraith the will to live through the closed operating room door. The surgery to put Wraith's body back together took sixteen pins or screws, forty-two stitches, and a lot of luck. The surgeons were excellent. There was swelling in her brain, so a shunt was inserted to take off the pressure. and she was placed carefully in the ICU.
Ace was by Saber's side when the surgeon told him the news. He staggered, but Ace held him up. "When can I see her?" he asked.
"She's in a medically induced coma," said Dr. Pari Patel. "You can see her for five minutes, then let her rest."
"I call bullshit," said Ace. "She's DEA. She needs her loved ones in the room. Someone tried to kill her today."
The Valkyries knew a long haul when they saw one. Saber was taken off coffee --he was beginning to shake from both caffeine and exhaustion. Thom from the FBI and Casey from the DEA came to debrief. They popped open laptops, put on wireless headsets, and spoke in gibberish and acronyms. This actually seemed to relieve Saber. Sigrun held his hand, paced with him, then rubbed his back. Skuld and Rota took her aside to let her cry, scream, moan, throw things, then return, dry-eyed, to comfort Saber.
Ace stuck to Saber like glue. "Man took a shot in the chest for me, you know?" Ace said to Gregory. "I'm going nowhere."
Gregory nodded. "I'll get the baby nurse people to send them to my house and yours."
"Don't bother," said Skuld. "The young ones are with your wives, helping with the babies. It's going to be damn distracting for Ivy, too, so we've sent the Wolfpack over there, as well. They're all on shifts. This is a long haul, a very, very, long haul. So, you're all on shifts, too, even Sigrun and Saber. We've got them a suite, so they can shower and sleep, and we have a command center." The FBI guy, Thom, came in and drew out Agent Lacey. "The Alphabet Agencies have got a
command post there, too," Skuld said. "And protection around the clock from the best we have; one Iron Knight, one Valkyrie." She smiled. "I'm getting food and catching a fifteen-minute nap. I've got duty in an hour."
Ace and Gregory stared after her. "That's terrifyingly organized," said Ace.
"I think we need a spreadsheet or something," said Gregory.
"Already done," said Katya, coming in with Ivy. They kissed and hugged all around.
"We women have a spreadsheet, and you guys have one too," said Ivy.
"Who's minding the bar?" asked Ace.
"Bella and Cougar. They have it covered. And, we're on shifts, so the bar will get covered." Ivy held Ace close. "We're going to do two hours, then rotate. You are not rotating, though. You wouldn't be able to concentrate, with your blood brother a mess right now."
"Damn straight," said Ace.
Gregory stared down Katya. "Love, you're knocked up with the firefighters' baby. Go on home and rest, sweetlings."
"Don't you 'sweetlings' me," said Katya definitively. "I am strong peasant woman. My husband stands by Ace, who stands by Saber, who stands by Wraith."
"That's like, four people removed," said Ace. "We're taking up a waiting room. It's smarter to put someone in that rotates. Someone that will give us the news." Ivy looked at Ace as if he'd grown three heads. "What?" he asked. "I occasionally make sense."
"Is why spreadsheet," said Katya. "Gregory, you and I head to hotel and have romantic interlude. Then, you come back, help Ace, and feed him."
Ivy snorted, Gregory gaped, and Ace groaned. "I did not need to know what you were doing at the hotel," said Ace. "I can't unhear that."
Gregory stared at his wife. "I don't want to... you know. Not now. Inappropriate timing."
"Your loss," said Katya. She kissed him deeply, then sauntered out.
"Follow her before she removes your dick," Ace said. "Ivy's on ‘me duty.’" Gregory sighed, and ran after his wife.
"Yay!" said Ivy. She opened a sack. "Krispy Kreme donuts and a cappuccino. One for me, one for you."
"You rock!" said Ace, and kissed her on the cheek.
Hunted
SAC Haviland strode into the suite set aside for them. "Talk to me," he said, putting down the bag with three filled thermoses of premium coffee. He took out the bag of Chinese food. "Courtesy of the Nighthawks," he said.
Casey grabbed the sack, and started taking out chopsticks and paper cartons. "The truck is a total loss. Tire tracks --bike tracks, not a Harley, thank the Universe. A crotch-rocket. Doer was probably hiding behind a rock, and hit a button on a cell phone to go boom. Visibility is high because there's not much out there where they found it. Techs are putting the truck back together." She smelled a box. "Orange chicken." She tore the paper off her wooden chopsticks and dug in.
"No tripwire or pressure plate found," said Thom. "Techs are all over it." He grabbed a box. "Mu shu pork. That'll work."
"Eat," said Haviland. "I had pizza. Let me see the grid."
Casey reached over, and called up the overhead of the techs at the site. A computer-generated grid overlaid the real-time work. Police officers were walking the grid, looking for clues on stony, sandy ground.
"They're not even getting a candy wrapper out there, Sir," said Casey.
"Next steps," said Haviland.
"Homegirl's out of commission," said Casey. "For the duration, if she pulls through. That means all her cases, testimony, all of it, poof. She does a lot of depositions for this reason. Ours is a hell of a dangerous profession. I do the same thing with mine. I'm on a break, so I got called here. Already checking cases." She waved to a screaming-red laptop. "She gave Saber her secret codes. I've got all of it." She brushed cat hair off her black jacket. "Had to drop the kitten off, in return. Someone called Lily has her, a friend of Wraith's." She said, "Homegirl was busy. I mean, she had three identities she kept active, and four she kept dormant. Chicago, LA, Nogales, Phoenix. A fifth for Brownsville, Texas, a semi-active. Had a few more she would trot out on occasion. She built case after solid case. Gave info to anyone who could use it to take someone down --FBI, ATF, Homeland."
"Hence my being here," said Haviland. "She works and plays well with others. That biker persona is very useful."
"Not a persona," said Casey. "Real life. She's part of the Valkyries, a female bike club that specializes in empowering women. She's helped Herja train agents, and been involved in a program to get ex-service people with post-traumatic stress trained in the skills of bike repair."
"Good god," said Haviland. "That widens the suspect pool to..."
"Something just south of infinity," said Casey. "But, that's not what we think is going on."
Agent Thom Pance finished his mu shu pork pancake, took a sip of Kenyan coffee, and said, "The scars, the hat pulled low, the lack of fingerprints at the truck rental on the fence, the avoidance of cameras in a city with thousands of them, the exact timing to hit Wraith in such a way that it would kill her instantly and look like a traffic accident, and then blowing up the truck to cover his tracks in a way that showboats. All of this is way too elaborate. We think it's a spook."
"Didn't you arrest one recently?" asked Haviland. "Some crazy idiot."
"Jasper Palliver, Robert Smith, and what have you. Agent sold out agents and his team, then the ops went real-bad. One sick mother. Hear his handler had hold of him. He's in some deep, dark place, boss. Wiped clean off the face of the planet. If we see him again, he'll be in his nineties and too old for statecraft." Pance looked sick. "I read about some of what he did. Made some of those cartel fucks look like choir girls."
"Some of them are choir girls, or were," said Casey. "This guy's in a reptile room all of his own."
"He didn't get out?" asked Haviland.
"Not according to our contacts," said Casey. "But someone is really, really angry with Wraith for taking him down. Wraith tasered him. Twice."
"Payback," said Haviland. "And the whole point of being a spook is to stay hidden."
"We've got to expose this person to the light," said Casey. "Let the spook know that revenge works both ways."
"I've worked with some really good analysts," said Haviland. "Dedicated people. Want the intel to take down the most reptilian among us. Sadly, though," he said, breathing in his coffee, "I can't rule out or even be that horribly surprised by someone going bad. Some people aren't Wraith. They go down the rabbit hole and they don't come out."
"We're going to have to go down one ourselves. All to find a spook that was... what? In love with him? That man was incapable of it." Casey rooted around for the last piece of orange chicken.
Thom nodded. "That guy had snakes in his brain. Whoever we're looking for is exactly, positively, the same way."
Saber groaned as the woman in the flowered shirt and tiny blue shorts grabbed his wrists and pulled. His back popped, then stretched. She moved behind him, and stretched his arms back. He groaned as his shoulders popped.
Kwang Atitarn brought in a Thai mat, towels, oils, and soft flute music, and set herself up on the floor in the smaller bedroom. She put his hands on his head, wound her hands through to the back of his neck, and stretched. His back popped again, and again. He sighed.
She stretched him some more, then patted his back. "You put your shirt on, go sleep," she said. "Ace is with her, and you need sleep. Long haul, not one day."
He groaned, and rolled himself up. He staggered to the bed. She ran ahead to turn it down for him, and tucked him in. She stretched, drank water, then used the ensuite bathroom.
She opened the door. "Next," she said. Sigrun stumbled in, and collapsed. Kwang helped her get her shirt and shorts off, then her camisole was replaced with a loose robe. Despite Kwang rubbing her skin and pulling on her limbs, Sigrun was soon asleep.
Ace watched the machines beep. He was in a moon suit to prevent infection. He had slept some, but he missed Lily and his kids. He ached inside; for Saber and Sigrun, and for the Nighthawks and Valkyries. And
guiltily for his own empty arms. He looked at the broken woman in front of him, the singularly most alive person he knew, other than Ivy. He saw the pins, the traction. She was on a lung bypass machine that hissed again and again as it breathed for her. He felt helpless, angry, and very alone.
A thought occurred to him. The one thing I'm not is alone. Henry had moved out to the clubhouse, and was coordinating and bunking there. Ivy had slept, and was going to take Ace's place in an hour. They'd gotten special dispensation; they didn't want Wraith to die alone, and they didn't want anyone to attack again. Kind of pointless, with her at death's door, but they had to be wary and vigilant.
He thought of what to do next. A spook. They thought a spook did this. But how the hell were they supposed to find and nail a spook? And how did a spook cross paths with Wraith? There were whispers of her taking down one, but the same whisperers said the spook in question was in a deep, dark hole, and not getting out. So, someone looking for revenge, most probably.
He looked at the woman in front of him, again. He'd seen brothers and sisters die, but not primarily on the road. His best friend, Youngin, from school. He died on a Kawasaki when a student from another school ran her over driving drunk, and far too fast. And then hit a tree with his brand-new Camaro. The other guy died, too, a week later, both loved by friends and family. Pointless waste, he thought. He began to sing; humming really. He started with her favorite songs, from every hair band, and including every guitar lick. It was the only thing he could think of to do, just to pass the time.
Thad Jugar --not her real name, had her little spook boy-toy parked at a psychiatric facility. She'd been his handler, and occasionally his lover. When the bullets flew, getting drunk and boinking your brains out afterward sounded like a good idea. Ronnie, Bobbie, Bob, Rob, then Harry, then Jasper --it was hard to keep track of all the names, and the personas. She knew something was wrong, and that he was selling them out. But he had the recordings and the devices, all over. He had dirt on all sorts of people. As time marched on, he became less bulletproof as people died, retired, or aired their dirty laundry.