Rescued MC

by Bella Knight

  Alo was interrupted by Paul running into the room. “We don’t have a snowplow, and Luisa is in labor.” David and Alo went to Luisa’s pod. A mop was in the corner from where Leo mopped the floor. Luisa huffed, puffed, and turned beet red. “How long has this been going on?” Alo asked Luisa, as he took her hand in his.

  “About… three hours,” she said. “I woke up in the middle of the night with back pain, but I didn’t think too much of it. I told Leo I wasn’t hungry for breakfast, and then I started this huffing and puffing thing.”

  Alo and Henry exchanged glances. “Well,” Alo said. “We’ll get this done like Nantan and Bella did some time ago. Leo, clean sheets, and whatever pillows you can rustle gather, and a comforter. Paul, go back to the kitchen and get scissors and boil up some hot water in the kettle. Bring the first aid kit, too, trash bags, and the blue gloves in the box under the sink.” He grinned. “Not our first barn baby.”

  “No,” said Henry. “Not at all.”

  He pulled out his satphone, the one he’d borrowed from Gregory’s organization, and called the emergency number. He explained that he had done a home —actually, a barn birth, before, and that the mother did not seem to be in distress. The snowplows wouldn’t get to the state road for hours, if at all that day.

  “Does anyone around have a snowmobile?” he asked. He sighed. “Be stupid unless necessary.”

  “Bill might on the next farm,” said Alo. He punched in the number with one hand while Luisa crushed his other hand. Bill didn’t have one, and it was pointless, because the snow was deep and the baby was on the Ghost Path.

  They dragged her mattress out of the pod and onto the floor, Alina came in to help move and change her into a lose shift, and Alina sat behind Luisa as she pushed. Alo and David washed up and washed the scissors to cut the cord, and David talked gently to Alina while Alo caught the baby. She came out, with black hair, bright red, and screaming up a storm. They got her to her mama’s stomach.

  Alo cut the cord, delivered the afterbirth, and helped David, Delfine, and Alina clean up and wrap up mom and baby. “Sofia,” said Luisa.

  “Beautiful name,” said Alo. “Now, you feed the baby. She’s hungry. That’s why she’s yelling so much.” The baby suckled, and everyone sighed in relief.

  Sheriff Ben Hawke, a broad-shouldered man with black hair going to gray at the temples with a weathered face, showed up in his 4x4, checked out baby and mama, and declared a non-emergency.

  “We’ll get them to the hospital when we’ve dug things out. Be stupid to get stuck in snowbank and freeze.”

  “Thank you,” said Alo.

  “Second time we’ve done this,” said David. “My grandson, Tarak, was born the exact same way, in a barn.” He grinned. “Like this mama, Bella didn’t know she was in labor until she got to the hard part.”

  “I’ve heard about you people,” said Sheriff Hawke. “Run a campground. I have heard absolutely no complaints, even during sugar beet season. I’m delighted, because we usually hear from all of them. The usual, drunk and disorderly, some fights. Not a peep from you people. Hear you’re running some sort of camp to get res teens their GEDs.”

  “And teach them as many skills as possible along the Ghost Path,” said David. “Alo here, he makes animal feed. Or, he did. Not enough crops yet.”

  “From what?” asked the sheriff. “This isn’t a farm-farm. More a horse farm.”

  “Hydroponics,” said Alo. “Hence the windmill.”

  “I’ve gotta see this,” said the sheriff.

  “Sure,” said Alo.

  David gestured that he would keep an eye on the mother and child. They went to the tunnel between barns, and Alo showed the lettuce, corn, beets, potatoes, herbs, chili peppers, and more.

  Sheriff Hawke just stared. “What’s it all for?”

  “Us, animal feed, then whoever wants to buy fresh food without pesticides,” said Alo.

  The sheriff grinned. “Well, I’ll be. Be nice to get carrots and lettuce in winter. You gonna charge less than the grocery stores?”

  “Since it’s cheaper for us than shipping it all over, yes,” said Alo.

  “Sold,” said the sheriff. “You all take care, hear? And once the snowplow goes through, get that girl there to the hospital.”

  “Will do,” said Alo.

  “Who’s her parents?” asked the sheriff.

  “Mom kicked her out. Lizabeth Betton. Crow. The elders thought she could get her GED here.”

  “Good,” said the sheriff. “Every high schooler with a GED. You run a good operation here.” He grinned. “Now, back to my truck. My county don’t police itself.”

  “Choose your friends, and make them family.”

  5

  Overwatch

  “When attacked, fight back. Otherwise, the attackers don’t learn a damn thing.”

  The Blue Blues club was about half-full. CrystalLyne had advanced from jazz standards to the edgier Joss Stone. She’d hired a jazz writer to help, as paying the White Stripes and Joss Stone to record their songs was a great way to go bankrupt. She sang at the club to try out Lover Moan, a new song about lost love… and a new, distracting love. She wore soft black with hints of silver, silver drop earrings, and black leggings with ribbons of silver. She moaned into the mic, as the rapt audience swayed. People texted on their cellphones, inviting others to rush over to catch the vibe.

  Mike was getting more and more comfortable wearing a gun and a boot knife again. He was still peaceable, growing his plants, but he needed the money to buy some new trays and some new varietals he wanted to try. His own experiment; partly for April, who needed a really good experiment for her school horticultural project. And, the idea of anyone trying to harm a fourteen-year-old chanteuse made his gut clench. He enjoyed working with Shiva. They could dance on breaks, looking like people there to enjoy the music, because Jerry liked to sit quietly with CrystalLyne and drink Coke in between sets, and the man was ultra-protective. He’d gotten a gun and had been through training.

  Mike had voiced doubts. He liked the man just fine. Jerry had put on weight, played trumpet with Grace, and treated Damia like gold. But, the man had been suicidal. He had no idea if the man would go off the rails again. Robert told him to trust. Pomp told him he would watch Jerry like a hawk. Wraith told him to trust his fucking judgment, or get off the fucking team.

  So, he trusted. It was a good thing he did, too.

  The first shot hit the drummer as he was caressing the larger cymbal. The man flew backward. Mike got a shot off, a man in a dark suit. The club had dark, bluesy lighting, making it hard to pick out shooters but easy to see the muzzle flashes. He concentrated on those, made himself smaller. The man with the suit fell, a blade in his throat.

  Shiva turned, and went flying when a second shot hit her. Mike screamed in his skull, and hit the second shooter right between the eyes, as bullets sprayed the guitarist and the bassist. Mike saw movement, as Jerry had the young soul singer off the stage, and was hightailing it toward the back door. The third man stepped in, and Jerry’s Desert Eagle boomed. The man’s brains splattered the sidewalk. CrystalLyne never made a sound as Mike made his gun chatter. Patrons crawled out over broken glass as Mike fought to bring the fourth shooter, a woman in black, down. Shiva’s gun barked once, twice.

  Jerry flew out of the back lot on his Harley, CrystalLyne attached to his back, her earrings in a little pile on the ground. Mike noted approvingly that Jerry had done something to the glittery outfit, probably grease, and that the girl now wore a bulletproof vest over her tunic. They disappeared in Harley noise.

  Mike heard the chatter in his head, looked down at his belly under the jacket. Shiva gave Thandie, night shift ear goddess, the rundown as she tried to stand enough to keep from being trampled by a stampeding crowd.

  Mike said, “I’m hit,” then his face hit the pavement.

  Jerry heard Wraith in his ear. “Don’t worry about the club,” she said. “You have the principal?”


  “Yeah,” huffed Jerry, getting onto a darkened back road.

  “Tracking you,” said Wraith. “We’re going on full…” Her voice cut off.

  “Shit,” said Jerry.

  “What?” asked CrystalLyne. “Who you talking to?”

  “Overwatch,” said Jerry. “Have two, and day shift took over. Think Swing’s got a lot on her plate.” He took a turn, surprised that CrystalLyne knew how to lean.

  He thought about where to go. The farm was a fortress, but it had horses and kids. He called over there. “Henry,” he said.

  “Got the code,” said Henry. “Go down.”

  “Understood,” said Jerry. That meant, go dark, Overwatch only. That wasn’t good. What was going on with some principal of High Desert’s shouldn’t have anything to do with the Nighthawks.

  Unless it did.

  He figured the Valkyries had been warned. He decided to go where there was the greatest concentration of Valkyries. They would take on a young woman; make her disappear into their ranks. He thought of puppies, and Fire, and hoped their preparations, whatever they were, would be enough.

  Saber got the kids into the van they’d bought, a blue so dark it was almost black. “Where we going, Daddy?” asked Warren, eyes wide.

  “The Valkyries in Pahrump,” he said. “The wives gotta work.”

  “At one in the morning,” said Dina, relaxing into her gel-lined chair they’d installed. She made sure their “running duffels” were stowed.

  Sondra was proud; she’d singlehandedly caught both Roxie the cat and Rimmel the dog. The animals lay in their carriers. “Trouble doesn’t have a time,” observed Sondra.

  Saber went as fast as he could legally drive, and slid onto the highway. “No, sweetheart, it doesn’t,” he said. “And, no fussing about this to DCFS.”

  Sondra chuffed out a wry laugh. “Just had a ‘surprise’ visit. Ms. Yee seems to be exhausted, but happy three kids are getting out of the system.” She grinned. “You gonna take her up on the ‘just one more kid’ thing?”

  Saber decided to take a back highway, and changed lanes. “I’ll tell you what I told her. You just had your surgery, Dina. You’re a lot better and active for set amounts of time, but I wanna see you out of pain entirely. You first.”

  “Yeah,” said Warren. “Sisters come first.”

  Saber looked in his rear-view mirror. The kids were all strapped in, duffels at their feet, cat and dog in the back strapped down in case of fast maneuvering.

  “Yeah,” said Saber. “That, they do.”

  Henry had been at the Nighthawks school, and had sent the last of the swing-shift kids home, when the code came through. He sent it out like a shock wave. He also used a burner phone to contact Lieutenant Joe Pocero, their Las Vegas Metro Police Department contact.

  “Yeah, I got the message about the club. Down here now. Homicide’s pissed off. Shiva’s got broken ribs, and she’s gone with Mike to the hospital. Gut shot, just below the vest. Not good, but not bad either.”

  “How many dead?” asked Henry.

  “Two,” said Pocero. “The drummer and some lady who literally stepped in front of a bullet in order to get away. Mother of two.”

  “Horrible,” said Henry. He had Leif and Wachoa battening down the windows at the clubhouse, as the graveyard kids slept peacefully. “Wraith’s gonna be pissed,” said Henry.

  He pulled a shotgun out of a safe, and laid it on the counter. Yao gave the signal, slipped in the door, and took the shotgun. Yao slipped back out, and started walking the perimeter, looking like a warrior of old in all-black, including a black do-rag on his head.

  “Someone went after their offices,” said the lieutenant.

  “Again?” asked Henry.

  “And got arrested for their trouble,” said Pocero. “They used C4 to get past the gates in back, but some guy named Runio took out two, got hit in the vest, and some other guy named Pomp took out two other infiltrators. They were wearing vests and helmets; too, so all four of them got them in the legs.”

  “I know Pomp. Runio’s Iron Knights, ex-military police.”

  “Good,” said Pocero. “Give us a succinct report.”

  “Do your thing,” said Henry. “We’ll do ours.”

  “Protect them kids,” said Pocero. “You guys breed like rabbits, or go on adoption binges, or something.”

  Henry grinned. “Or something.” He did an interior patrol, and texted out codes on his new burner phones.

  Robert knew from Wraith’s report that these guys liked attacking from the rear. But, that was a lot of acreage. Also, the rear was Ivy’s household, and Bao’s, and a little farther back, the res.

  He heard David whisper into a burner phone. “Diane Yellow Rock saw movement along her property. She’s out there with a shotgun. Says they’re trying to sneak in toward Ivy’s. I warned her.” He grinned a feral grin as he handed Robert another knife. Robert put it in his other boot. The first one held a little .22.

  Triesta was out, rifle in hand. “I’ve got Damia and the horses,” she said. She ghosted back toward the barn. Everyone was in black —jeans, shirts. Steel-toed biker boots.

  “You got a good woman there,” said David.

  Vi came out to the porch, shotgun in hand. Robert looked up, saw windows slide up slightly, guns protruding.

  David followed his gaze. “Owl Pack,” he said. They took off at a lope for the double houses, stopped when David got a call. “Hold fast code,” said David. “Ivy. Cougar’s night to close. Got the kids in the safehouse.”

  Robert had no idea what the “safehouse” was. He figured he only needed to know that he was guarding the front.

  The Wolfpack ran out, baseball bats in hand, and formed a perimeter. David went over at a crouched lope to set them up. Robert blended into the stone entryway and readied his weapons.

  Ivy circled the house. Bao’s house had to be raised and masons had to level it, so there was a crawlspace under the house. Nico had dug down on the side, creating a tunnel that went to a panic room. The kids and dogs were there, including a hugely pregnant Bao. Nico and Callie were ready, at windows, with clear shots.

  Ivy saw the movement, sent a nightbird whistled message. An actual bird replied. The mesquite tree was hit; the bird flew off in a flap of wings. Ivy knew where they were, the southwest corner of the house.

  She risked a numerical code that said, “Incoming SW.”

  She was a blur, going for the vulnerable necks of the suited figures. One knife hit true. A man built like a fat oak toppled. The man next to him got off a shot in Ivy’s direction; Nico’s long rifle barked, and the wide man in Kevlar went down.

  A truck came barreling through the gate. Robert bided his time; he knew the truck would be armored. He waited until the three men piled out, and three separate shots —David, Mike, and one from above, took them out.

  “Someone’s trying to distract us,” said David, from the shadows, his rifle at his side.

  “Someone coordinated,” said Mike.

  Thandie kept the chess pieces moving. Principals were moved into different places, Schedule A went to C or even D. Two were in the middle of concerts, a formerly washed-up rock god by the name of Tristan Montague of the long brown hair, wide face, and khol-lined soulful brown eyes, who had made a new name for himself singing rock ballads with a rocker woman named Quella Riallo. Quella was a ripped-jeaned, wildly talented singer and guitarist.

  Tristan wasn’t stupid. He saw hotel security pile into the lounge, his own security even more sharp-eyed, listening to voices in their heads, hands hovering over weapons. He finished the wail of Lita Ford and Ozzy Osbourne’s Close Your Eyes, and went to bow. He went on one knee, faking a heart attack. He flipped his fingers to his security to tell them he was fine.

  Quella wasn’t stupid either. She slung her guitar on his back, helped him into a crouch, and slid them stage left. Tori, his security, blocked the audience, and had them both offstage in a moment. The audience, stunned, just sat there, whi
ch saved their lives when the guns started rattling.

  Anna Sokolov, Valkyrie name Joru, was, like Tori, a Valkyrie. She started out as a terrified rape victim, and on the run from the two who had attacked her. She got strong, fought nearly every day. Now she did some protection gigs, mainly filling holes when there was just too much going on. Mostly nights, after building bikes on her own, usually with some new Soldier Pack member looking over her shoulder. She remembered when she was a shaky newbie, and treated them with Tori’s mix of kindness and exasperation.

  Joru did not expect to be in a shootout. But, as she’d learned in the military, no one ever expected a shootout. She shot up, over, got the first shooter down, in some sort of duster, a mass of black hair in her sights. The second one went down by hotel security, who unwisely tackled a man with a gun. She sighed, sighted, and threw her knife into his wrist as the asshole twisted to get off a shot at security.

  Security didn’t point weapons at her. She knew the principal was first, and Security had a hold. So, she ran down the back hallway, in the gray aisles that riddled hotels so staff and delivery items (like food) could get around.

  Tori and the rockers were hauling ass. Joru put her head down and ran, using special “heat breathing” to give herself more energy. She whipped around the corner, and literally slid into the staff elevator as Tori hit a button for two floors down. They went down, took more back hallways, and slipped out the back where Tori and Joru had their bikes.

  They rode out into the night. Tori used her fingers to discuss the plan. They decided on C. C meant a fast whip through the city on back streets, and a slide into the major security of the Mirage. They moved, flowed in and out of traffic, their double principals holding on. They slid into the special celebrity door for those who wanted to slide into and out of the hotel without attracting paparazzi. Hotel security had a plan, a method. They just had to flow up to a penthouse suite and hold on.