by Domino Finn
"And where are they now?"
"I don't know. Cali, man. We don't want them here seeing the turn, and they don't want to hide out with fugitives."
Diego nodded. That made things much easier for him. "Where's my knife?"
No answer.
"Where's my silver knife?"
"It's in the portable," said Yas, relenting. "Out back."
The biker glanced out the small rip in the window covering. He'd remembered seeing the smaller buildings earlier. They were technically portables—trailer-like structures set on blocks—but they were full size with high ceilings, like a garage or workshop. He would need to check them out.
Diego was lucky Hotah wasn't here, too. If the biker could get the knife back, then he wouldn't be afraid even if the wolf did return. "Let's go get it then."
"Sure."
Yas got up slowly and started moving for the door. Diego checked Jim. He still appeared to be asleep.
"Wait," he commanded.
Diego grabbed the other Remington ACR and slung it over his shoulder. Then he paced to a vacant corner of the room and trained his sights on Yas. "Pull down the duct tape from the window. Tie him up. Legs at the knees and ankles. Wrists behind his back."
The Yavapai nodded and did as he was told. Diego hurried him along as much as he could, but it still took some time. The peace of mind was worth it. Finally, the biker shoved Yas out the back door.
"Slowly," said Diego, keeping a few steps behind the man. The night was silent, the yard abandoned. "Wait," he ordered again. Yas stopped and Diego hurried to check both sides of the main building again. No one there. No vehicles either. "Okay," he said, urging the man to keep going.
Across the backyard, past the scattered succulents that grew wild, the two additions looked like extended sheds. Diego had a hard time coming up with ideas for their use, but like the flyers inside, it was clear Chino Valley hadn't needed a visitor center for at least twenty years. Diego put the thought out of his mind and kept an eye out for trouble.
Boots in the sand, trudging slowly ahead.
"You know," said Diego, "the Pistolas aren't your friends. If they move in on Arizona, they'll strong-arm your tribe too."
Yas scoffed. "Not likely. That's the beauty of the Quad-City. Nobody wants it."
"So what, everybody wins except the Sons?"
"Sounds good to me."
"And what does Kelan think of your grand plans?"
No answer.
For some reason, Diego thought about Kayda. She had been genuinely concerned for her people, but how much did she really know them? The Sons did some bad things, but the Yavapai lent themselves out to the highest bidder. Thinking of it that way made it clear why the Pistolas didn't see the Indians as competition.
Diego felt he could see the whole picture, but parts of it were still blurry.
The two men passed the first portable on the left. It was built at the end of the driveway, along the yard's chain-link fence. Diego hopped up onto one of the concrete blocks supporting it and checked the dark window. He couldn't see anything inside. The lack of movement was a good thing.
"You know the chances of surviving rabies?" Diego asked, returning to the ground. "If you get bitten?"
Yas scoffed again. "I could fight it off. The resistance runs strong in the blood of our tribe."
Diego kept his rifle high. "Maybe, but I bet you know more Yavapai that have died than have made it through."
Yas didn't answer again. He continued walking to the second portable on the right, set against the back of the yard. He stopped when he reached the door and turned around. "We left your knife in here."
Diego nodded. He took another encompassing view of his surroundings. He glanced back at the main building. He climbed up and looked inside this portable. Everything was dead quiet.
"Okay," said the biker. "You walk in first."
Yas took both steps at once and opened the door.
"Slowly."
The man stepped ahead into the darkness. Diego filed in behind him. The ambient light didn't reveal much of the interior, but the smell hit him. The combination of rusted pennies and cleaning fluids. The smell of death and the ensuing cleanup job.
Diego scanned for his knife on a table and a counter but didn't see it. Then he ran his eyes over the contraption. Near the back of the small building was a heavy metal bar braced to the ceiling. Chains hung from it.
Yas, in the middle of the room, reached for a hanging light bulb.
"Stop."
It flicked on. Diego squinted against the light and instinctively backed up. His night vision was blown but he wasn't blinded. Yas was just standing there, watching him. Behind, under the metal chains, was a section of ripped away carpet, a large stain darkened the floor beneath.
This was where Carlos Doka had been killed.
As Diego went to move forward, he felt resistance. The strap of the ACR around his shoulder held him back like a seat belt during a collision. But then it ripped him backwards and off his feet. Diego flew out of the portable and landed hard on the cold ground.
He kept his grip on the assault rifle. As the biker raised his body to face the man that had flung him outside, he only had time to see Hotah's fist bearing down on his face.
A finger went for the trigger.
Diego was no match for the wolf strength, and he entered the blackness.
Chapter 47
Gaston paced back and forth in an unlit, defunct roadside diner that hadn't been used in years. It was a remnant from a different time, a quaint era when the world was made up of smaller roads and congenial people. Now it was just a lonely husk that did nothing more than announce the neighboring town to those who still drove on Route 66.
The big man had arrived early and alone. His bike was parked to the side, visible but out of the way. The Pistolas had curbed Omar's bike in a show of disrespect. Gaston hoped they would leave his alone. It shouldn't come to that, though. There wouldn't be trouble.
The sun was long gone. The Sycamore moon as well. The absence of the watching sentinels made for a dark night. Perfect for shady dealings.
Gaston kept telling himself that a deal was necessary, that he was doing the right thing.
He tried not to think about Omar. He tried to shut out Diego's objections. Shit. The fool wouldn't even be a member of the club soon. Gaston needed to look out for those who wanted to stay. For those who still lived. A deal with the Pistolas was the only way he saw to make it work.
Gaston winced as he heard the single motorcycle pull up outside. All the rationalizing in the world didn't make him feel good about it, but there was no turning back now.
The big man quit his pacing and jumped up to sit on the bar, each of his black boots resting on a high chair, elbows on knees, fingers clasped together. He would get the Sons through this. Just as he did with the Paradise Killings. They were survivors. All wolves had to be.
As the door swung open, Gaston offered a measured smile.
Sergio Lima entered the dark restaurant. His crisp, bald head caught a distant streetlight and framed his face in darkness. He stood still for a moment until he placed his opponent, then approached.
"I guess ordering a cerveza is out of the question."
Gaston shook his head in response. Sergio was playing it cool. Trying to come off as a man in full control of the moment. "With the power shut off, the beer would be hot anyway."
Sergio Lima searched the alcoves of the diner warily, trying to peer into the shadows that surrounded him. "Good place for an ambush, ése." He smiled wide, white teeth dominating his face. The expression wasn't comforting. With the line of tattoos down his neck and shoulders, it reminded Gaston of the Day of the Dead festival. Sergio's was the never-ending grin of a skeleton, an affectation placed on what was already dead.
"Don't worry. This is about business. I'm here to deal."
Sergio raised his eyebrows. "Where's Diego?"
"He won't be going with you." The Pistolas presid
ent was not surprised. He was a kid who was street-smart beyond his years. "To be honest, he's not mine to give."
Gaston wasn't sure why he added that last part. He regretted mentioning it even more when it caught Sergio's attention. Disorder amongst his ranks wasn't something best advertised. This was a meeting of presidents. Of equals. Both were maneuvering. Both had to display power and cleverness, to one-up the other without offending. It was a delicate game.
"Where's my evidence?" asked Sergio.
The wolf smiled.
Gaston patted the manila folder that rested next to him. He swept it off the countertop and held it out to the kid. Sergio glanced behind him, still checking the place out. Gaston turned and saw the kitchen door on a swivel, a small window framing a decrepit workspace, already scavenged of anything of worth. Sergio eyed Gaston for a second longer before getting closer. When he grabbed the folder, he took a few steps back and opened it.
The Pistolas president flipped through the large color prints of Councilman Chavez. "Not a good resume for a mayor," he said. "But what's this paper shit? I want the digital copies."
"Keep going," said Gaston calmly.
Sergio paused as he felt a trap about to spring, but he eventually flipped to the last document. It was a photocopy of a driver's license. Sergio narrowed his eyes as he saw who the owner was. "What's this?"
"Armando Jimenez," answered the big man.
Sergio closed the folder slowly and lifted the back of his jacket. Gaston tensed, and Sergio showed him that there was no gun. He slid the folder into the back of his jeans for safekeeping. "Who the fuck is he?"
"Don't play stupid, Sergio. Not with me. He was one of your boys that shot up Omar."
The Pistolas president considered Gaston carefully, his cold eyes a mask yet all too easy to read.
"You underestimated us, Sergio. You were wrong thinking I don't have anyone in the Sanctuary Marshal's Office. Sure, he pretends he's not bought, but he is. And I know the details of the crime scene. They suggest Omar shot Armando. He was the one with the shotgun. Am I right?" Sergio Lima crossed his arms and lifted his chin. Gaston had his attention now. "I'm guessing you set us up to get arrested and planned on stealing those pictures from an empty clubhouse. But Omar was there, and he gave you more trouble than you expected. It was a mistake. A kid like you shouldn't have underestimated someone your age. He bit and scratched up one of your guys, but he tagged Armando real good, didn't he?
"You retreated south on your way back to the Imperial Valley. Almost made it home, but Armando was dying. You had to stop in Yuma, figuring that was close enough to California. Shit, Yuma is practically Mexico. I'm sure you know it like the back of your hand. So you took Armando to a doctor with a business on the side and got him stitched up. The problem is, the Sons hear about everything that goes on in Arizona, even along the border."
Sergio had been listening intently, trying to gauge just how exposed he was. When Gaston was finished, he chuckled. "So what? You have a dirty doctor who stitched up a Mexican."
"His blood was at the crime scene, Sergio. The police have his DNA. One tip from me and he'll be arrested for Omar's murder, and who knows who he takes down with him."
Sergio's stiff posture became lax. He dropped his arms to his side but didn't say anything. Gaston leaned forward on his perch, taking on a friendly note.
"Those pictures in that folder are all copies," continued Gaston. "There's no such thing as originals anymore. Those digital files have been copied so many times it's impossible to undo. You'll never take away our leverage on Albuquerque."
The Pistolas president narrowed his eyes. "So what's all this for then?"
"It's a gesture of goodwill. The Seventh Sons are reasonable. We'll share Albuquerque with the Pistolas. You'll never get our leverage, but now you have it too. On top of that, we'll never tell the police about Armando Jimenez. You can let him recover in peace. It was the Yavapai that killed Omar anyway."
"That's bullshit, ése. They're taking credit for that?"
Gaston gritted his teeth. He blocked his dead brother from his mind. He hated doing this. It was betraying a friend, but it needed to be done. "I'm giving you an out, Sergio. The Pistolas didn't kill my man."
Wisely, the president didn't respond.
"That's what I'm offering you, Sergio. A partnership. Better terms. A piece of control of Albuquerque. And nothing ugly to upset El Paso. But we keep Arizona. The Seventh Sons stay in business."
Sergio nodded slowly. "And if anything happens to you..."
Gaston smiled. "It goes without saying that Armando will get picked up."
Sergio chuckled again. "I'm a lot of things, Gaston, but I'm no sucker. I never really thought this was as simple as Diego coming to our side. But I knew I had to hear you out. Now you expect me to believe that bygones will be bygones? That we'll just shake hands and put everything behind us?"
"I do," replied Gaston confidently. "But there's one more condition. You're right that my guys will only settle for blood, but it doesn't have to be yours."
"You want me to betray the Indians."
"I know you made a deal with them. But they're too weak. They can't help you in Arizona. Only the Sons can. You deliver them to us, give us justice, and then we can shake hands."
Chapter 48
Hollowside Way was on the western edge of the reservation. The last of the winding streets that braved the wild territory, it extended into the forested hills. The end of the street looped in on itself, sending drivers back the way they came, but there was a short offshoot for those who wanted to stay.
The taxi dropped Kayda Garnett off as soon as she saw her brother's red pickup truck. He often came here to turn. It was a place where one could be alone with the stars, away from the shine of civilization. It was a place where one could roam wild. Kelan knew it was a place where he wouldn't be bothered.
Kayda smirked. Apparently, Kelan had underestimated his pestering sister.
She approached the parked truck, wondering if he was still inside. He wouldn't be in his wolfskin yet. There was still plenty of time. When she reached the truck, however, it was empty. The windows were down. Kelan had left his cell phone and a pistol on the driver's seat.
She sighed. Boys and their toys that caused more trouble than they solved, especially given Kelan's short temper. At least he was smart enough to stay out of trouble tonight. And the phone explained why he hadn't answered her call.
The girl took in her surroundings, past the street, out into the rolling hills. The leaves of a thousand trees rustled in waves. She heard a faint car horn blare. It was muffled. The sounds of the city seemed so distant, even just ten minutes away. Kayda looked up at the stars and marveled at how bright they were. In that moment, she was a world away from New York.
Where was the girl that had gotten that Health Administration degree?
What would happen to her?
Wihakayda, the person she was right now, had to admit that she didn't know what she wanted. She could only say that the pull of family was much stronger than she had expected.
An alarm sounded behind her. No. A phone call. Kelan's phone rang and buzzed, crawling along the car seat and rubbing against the gun. Her brother was in demand tonight. But he was all hers.
Kayda was going to find him. Tell him to straighten up. Tell him that she could see the pain in Wicasa's eyes, the hurt he was causing his family. She could help him. She could help them both. Kayda could stay, if only her tribe would let her. If only her brother would accept her.
The sound of a car interrupted her search. The glow of the headlights was obvious before it turned the corner. She pressed against the pickup truck reflexively, not sure who else would know to come here. Then a blip, a flash of red and blue along with a half second of a siren, announced the police officer's arrival.
It was Chuck Winston.
Kayda ran to the front of Kelan's truck, keeping it between her and the cop. She hadn't confronted him yet for being left on
the side of the highway. She wasn't sure what to tell him. She didn't know what to do about it.
Chuck parked his car in the middle of the asphalt loop and left his lights on.
"Kelan!" he called.
Kayda ducked.
Chuck muttered something under his breath and exited his cruiser, leaving the door open and the car running. He marched hurriedly to the truck, which Kayda hid behind. The officer saw the vehicle was empty, called out again, then made off into the wild.
He was only ten steps in when her brother answered.
"I'm here," he said, trudging up the hill. His somber face was especially calm tonight.
"I've been calling you."
The two men met halfway. Chuck began explaining something. It sounded urgent, but there was no need to yell anymore. Kayda couldn't make out the specifics of the conversation until her brother raised his voice.
"What? Right now?"
Chuck nodded and continued conveying his message. Kayda slid along the edge of the truck and stuck her head out as far as she dared, hoping to overhear them.
"I gotta go then," said her brother.
Chuck spoke more measuredly now. He said something about it not being smart. Kayda heard the word warrant. But her brother shook his head. She knew that stubborn look.
Kelan climbed the hill and headed for his car. He was pissed off, and his eyes shone red against the headlights of the police car.
Between his expression and the arrival of Chuck Winston, all of Kayda's previous confidence made a run for it.
She wanted to hide as Kelan jumped into his truck. Then she realized, if Kelan pulled away, she would be left alone with Chuck. That was the last thing she wanted. Not now. Not yet.
With Kelan's back turned, she sprang into the bed of his pickup. He hit reverse and pulled alongside the police car, then shot around the loop of Hollowside Way. The breeze battered coldly against Kayda. She squeezed beneath a tarp that was tied down. It flapped loudly in the wind, but she was out of sight.
Safe for now, she thought. Kayda gazed up at the dark sky and thought she could see a raven flying overhead. Lies. Truth. Kayda knew that bad things were ahead.