by Domino Finn
"According to the FBI. They have him in custody and he came to. He broke his legs and injured his spine but his prognosis is good. Physically, anyway. As far as the law goes, he doesn't have a lot of options. No point in talking because they're not giving him a deal."
Boyd raised his eyebrows. He mentioned that Sergio might have strategic value against the Mexican Mafia. He said they were following up with the blackmail photos found in his possession. Maxim nodded but tuned the marshal out. Raymond Garcia was in the OR as they spoke. It had taken all night to stabilize him. The blood loss was a problem. After the doctors had handled the initial triage, they allowed his body some much needed rest before they operated again.
The detective had been allowed to see him. Briefly. He was anesthetized and unconscious. Covered with tubes. Maxim had tried to tell him that they'd taken down Sergio. That Hector's mangled body had been found near the highway. It was just one last thing he'd wanted to give the FBI agent. One last reminder that justice prevailed.
It had fallen on deaf ears.
Some people liked to believe the world was a just place. That the good guys would be taken care of. That innocent civilians could just put their heads down and work hard and they'd be okay. Maxim conveyed that message on the outside—it's what the people wanted to hear—but he didn't believe a word of it. So when he'd told Ray about the accomplishments of the night, it rang hollow. He didn't believe the bullshit, and the FBI agent wasn't awake to hear it.
But the man had survived the first hours. There was something to be said about that. Recovery might be slow and it was difficult to gauge long-term damage, but Raymond Garcia would live.
"I want to talk about this first draft of your report," continued Boyd.
Maxim's eyes rose to meet the marshal's. "First draft, sir?"
"Yes. This case will be scrutinized. Your fame and the notoriety of the Seventh Sons compounded with the shooting of an FBI agent—it's the Paradise Killings all over again."
Maxim could tell that Boyd was already managing spin. In truth, this was a win for the marshal's office. No hate crime had occurred. The heads of a violent motorcycle gang from out of state had been taken down. A fringe mercenary outfit had been dismantled. There was justice for the shootings of a civilian and an FBI agent. Sanctuary officers made it out okay without any semblance of impropriety, and the Seventh Sons weren't implicated in any wrongdoing. Aside from minor points, Maxim didn't see a problem with his report. There was no political poison.
"I don't think there'll be any issue with the execution of the busts," said Boyd, "but there are some small corrections I'd like you to make. For instance, you don't mention commanding Sergio Lima to pull over before you fired on him. I'm sure you did and not including it in the report was just an oversight. Likewise, I'd like you to mention that he was riding wildly, with no regard for the safety of others, including yourself."
The marshal was a professional ass-coverer. There was a way to write police reports, a language built from legal maneuvering and prediction of court challenges. Little things like that went a long way. "Of course. Anything else?"
"Jim Bullard is copping to the attempted murder of a police detective and a federal agent, as well as the murders of Roger Gladwell, Omar Rivera, and Carlos Doka. He claims that Kelan Doka was the ringleader, but he makes no mention of Hotah Shaw."
"He was the fourth Yavapai. Jim's protecting him because Hotah got away. He must have left the scene before Ray and I came in."
Boyd twisted his lips as if Maxim wasn't getting the message. "And neither you nor Agent Garcia ever personally witnessed Shaw at the scene?"
"Diego did, sir. And Kayda Garnett was with them."
"Diego." The marshal almost spat out the word. Maxim knew it was because he was a variable the marshal's office couldn't control. Organized outlaws like Gaston made deals with the police. Diego de la Torre followed his own path. "Diego may have been confused about who or what he saw. I've spoken to Ms. Garnett today and she claims Mr. Shaw was never there."
"She said that?"
Boyd's blue eyes were sharp. They remained affixed on Maxim as the marshal nodded his head. "Kelan Doka, Jim Bullard, and Yas Harjo—those were the last of the mercenaries. Since the other two were found dead at the scene, we are relying on Bullard for reporting the actions of their outfit, which he is happy to do. Additionally, the Yavapai-Prescott Tribal Police Department claims that, under guidelines from our office and the FBI, they detained Mr. Shaw on the reservation last night. He'd been involved in a bar fight. There were witnesses."
"He wasn't there," protested Maxim. "What time did that happen?"
"Shortly after Sergeant Hitchens left the reservation. Well before the events of the bust."
"They're lying." The detective didn't care what the corrupt reservation police claimed. He believed Diego. He trusted Diego.
"This is about what we're able to prove," said the marshal.
"What about the Sycamore Lodge attack? There were three men: two shooters and a driver. Kelan may have orchestrated that plan but he was a bystander."
"Bullard claims to have been the driver. The van allows access between the front seats and the back. Did you actually see a third man behind the wheel?"
Maxim shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"Detective, there is no room in your report for controversy. We can indict the individuals involved in this incident, not the entire Yavapai tribe. Kayda is being treated as a victim in all this. She is being held up as a hero to her people. She has their support, and in turn, she gives us their unified cooperation."
"So this is about PR," he said incredulously. "We're going to let a murderer go free to play nice with the Yavapai."
Marshal Boyd's face tightened and flushed with color. His next words were firm. Precise. "Yas Harjo's boot is the only physical evidence that ties any of the mercenaries to the scene. Jim's testimony and Ms. Garnett's witness give us solid cases, but we have nothing to arrest Hotah Shaw for. I am sorry, Detective, but dragging this out is the wrong course of action. Jim's public statement about the Yavapai killing their own is vitally important to the health of this and neighboring communities. Ms. Garnett's support of the Sanctuary Marshal's Office will be invaluable in preventing any slanted media coverage claiming we are in league with the Seventh Sons."
The detective continued grinding his teeth. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Besides," said the marshal, showing that he still had more to offer, "this knife cuts both ways."
"Meaning?"
"It means we want a clean resolution to this. We are treating Ms. Garnett as a victim of abduction. Of course, we can't really say for sure what she was doing there, but I don't think she was involved. Neither do you."
"I'm beginning to change my mind."
"Regardless, we have the same problem with your friend, Diego de la Torre. Forgiving his history of being prone to rash actions, the marshal's office is painting his involvement at the scene as purely innocent. Can you honestly tell me you believe that to be the truth?"
The detective bit his lip. Boyd was threatening to arrest Diego for his vigilante actions. He was showing him the good guys benefited from selective prosecution as well.
Boyd continued. "There is also the matter of why you and Agent Garcia moved in to the property in the first place. Your surveillance uncovered a man sneaking onto the property. A West Wind..." The marshal glanced at the monitor again to search for a last name. Maxim knew it wasn't there. He didn't think the Apache had one. Boyd shook his head and dropped the detail. "He was also nowhere to be found during the bust. You can understand the sensitivity of mentioning that a member of the Seventh Sons Motorcycle Club was present. Seeing as how we have no plans to prosecute him, and seeing as how he has an alibi at Sycamore Lodge last night, I'd like you to reevaluate your report. Perhaps it was one of the Yavapai that you saw patrolling the complex instead. That would make for a cleaner package."
Maxim sighed. He didn't m
ind the politicking sometimes. As long as he wasn't managing it, he understood the need for it. In truth, he was pleased the local tabloid media wouldn't have ammunition to claim he was on the motorcycle club's payroll again. Boyd protected the entire department as well as himself. But letting Hotah get away—even if he was going to anyway—deflated Maxim.
But the detective was done fighting. He had to admit, losing Hotah made the rest of their case bulletproof. Maxim grumbled in half-hearted complaint and nodded to the marshal. "Give me a couple hours," he said.
The marshal was going to say something, but his phone rang. It was the loud, jarring tone of old-school landlines. It cut their conversation off, and Maxim was relieved for that. Most of all, it was someone else's problem. He rose to his feet and headed out the door, glancing back in case the marshal wanted to stop him. Boyd simply nodded and picked up the receiver.
Maxim approached his desk but didn't sit. He took in the view of the large office. Hitchens glanced his way but knew better than to ask. Cole, also, was somewhere around, probably out on patrol. The men had come in first thing in the morning, just as they'd said they would. There was no need for a raid but there was still plenty to do. The station always buzzed after big busts like these.
Gutierrez had worked all night and was refilling a cup of coffee at the empty desk Ray had used. He kept his head down and didn't say anything. Maxim would need to talk to him. Tell him the slow police response wasn't his fault. Nothing bad had come from their failure to detain Sergio on the highway. But the rookie was a good officer. Not really a rookie anymore. He knew this wasn't about blame, just brotherhood. Emotional support for everyone. They were bound by duty, bound by blood, because it could have been any of them that had taken a bullet the night before.
And tomorrow night, it would be the same thing all over again.
"Detective," called the marshal, standing outside his office. His face was crestfallen. None of the pomp from moments before lingered. "I just heard from the hospital. Maybe you should sit down."
Chapter 66
Kayda Garnett stood in the courtyard of the new casino, just under the Jewel of Prescott. She thought the iconic statue of the hand gripping the moon was the best place to present herself to the tribe. It, like her, was the symbol of something new. It was also the symbol for painful growth. The statue where her brother had been displayed to enrage the tribe would forever have its own legend.
The tribe braved the hot sun to see the young girl, the hero of the Yavapai. They lined up along the walkway and took turns, offering consolation and gifts. It was the way of her people. Death was celebrated when it brought pride. When that failed, it was up to the family to right wrongs. Once again, the reservation found themselves at ground zero for a scandal, and once again they needed someone to protect them.
In one short day, Kayda had guaranteed their future safety.
Kayda had needed the truth about her brother to come out. It was the only way to address it, like a rot that had set in, placed under the harsh light of a hospital lamp. That was how to cut it out.
Hotah Shaw stood beside her, his muscles glistening in the fine mist that sprayed over the garden to combat the daytime heat. He didn't have a shirt on, to show off his battle scars from the night before. Slashes across his chest and arms, bite marks taken when he was in his wolfskin, had only partially healed. He would need to wait another two weeks to fully recover. It was yet another lesson for him and the people.
He wore the silent vigilance of a bodyguard, but the wolf was much more than that. He was a carryover from the old way—a consistent, if shaky, figure that the people could look to. It was his word, more than anything, that had put Kayda where she was. After Hotah had been led astray by Kelan, he desperately wanted penance.
He also wanted to stay out of prison.
Kayda glanced past the crowd, at one of the police cars set up on the perimeter. Officer Chuck Winston leaned against his cruiser, a look of nervous discomfort on his face. Kayda's first reaction had been to take revenge against the man who had abandoned her in the desert. But like Hotah, Chuck had only been following the leadership of her brother. There was more at stake than the personal affronts between them. The Yavapai were small and dwindling. The police were a valuable asset to her. Without their shared strength, they wouldn't be able to fight the coming future.
The two men were just soldiers. Now they served a different captain and would do as Kayda wished. That protected them from outsiders—from Maxim, Diego, and the Seventh Sons.
Kayda shook some more hands. She smiled. She nodded. She even managed a laugh here and there. None of it was an act. For the first time, she truly felt the camaraderie of her people. She felt that she had a purpose. A place. It was only too bad that her pahmi couldn't see this.
Wicasa hadn't come out. He hadn't been able to. A combination of health and the shame of his two grandsons took their toll on him. Still, when Kayda had been alone with him, he couldn't hide how proud he was of her. His spirit had always propped hers up. This morning he had reminded her that the Yavapai tribe was the first to ever designate a woman chieftess, generations ago. Kayda balked at his high aspirations. But sitting here, looking at the faces of her people, she began to think it wasn't so crazy.
And just as her pahmi had been her crutch when she was weakest, she would stand by his side now. She would make him stronger.
Next in line was a grizzled old woman. Even though the wrinkles were more cracked and numerous, Kayda was surprised that she recognized the old hag. Back when Kayda was a child, she'd always been scared of the crone. It surprised her the woman was still alive, but even more so just how small and unimposing she looked now.
The elderly woman was hunched over and brittle. She smelled like she hadn't bathed in weeks, but the odor could have been from the noxious remedies she oft prepared. The woman took measured steps as she approached and held up a small knife.
Hotah stepped forward menacingly.
"No, it's okay," said Kayda, speaking gently but with conviction. Hotah turned to warn her. She nodded her head to the side curtly. Hotah Shaw stiffened. He kept his eyes on the woman, and wordlessly backed away.
The small blade was a tool more than it was a weapon. It was short and sharp, like something her pahmi would use for food preparation. It was carved from bone and wrapped with reeds. It was a ceremonial artifact.
Kayda accepted the gift and was startled to see it wet with blood. Rather than let her shock be apparent, she displayed her first fake smile of the day.
"Wihanmuha," said the crone.
The young girl furrowed her brow at the archaic dialect. It sounded like their language, but it didn't mean anything. It was gibberish.
"Wihanmuha," repeated the woman, taking the hand that held the dagger into both of hers. The old lady squeezed and Kayda felt a pinch in her palm. She tensed and realized her palm was bleeding.
The bone knife had a spur built into the handle. It stabbed those who clutched it. Kayda studied the bone and wondered how much blood it had spilled in its time, then checked the old lady's hand. Countless scars, pock marks, dotted her ragged palm.
The old lady smiled a toothless grin. "Moonwitch."
She had heard that before. An agent of the moon. A guide to her people, she would light their prey but also shine on the misdeeds of the hunters. Witches were always born with new moons.
Kayda exchanged a glance with Hotah, who wore a darkened expression. Then the old lady kissed Kayda's palm and receded into the crowd.
"Strength in blood," said Kayda, remembering taking Kelan's blood into her mouth.
Her injuries had not healed. They were still very much there, but muffled, in the background. Kayda's gunshot wound had been stitched up at the hospital. She was advised against leaving, but something had given her the strength to tune out the pain, to function despite the hole. The cracked rib, at one time so restrictive, was now only an afterthought.
She searched the crowd, but the old crone
was gone. Kayda knew the woman would be around the reservation, on the outskirts. Hard to find, but close at hand.
Then she heard the piercing cry of a raven. The bird landed just above them, perched on the silver orb. The people murmured in hushed tones that took Kayda off guard.
It wasn't fear; it was respect.
Kayda Garnett realized she could never leave her people. She had never truly left them, not even in New York. She would protect Hotah, but the reign of the wolf was over. For their small people to survive, they would need something more subtle. More cunning.
The bird above cocked its head, keeping its black eyes on the people below.
Chapter 67
A wispy breeze blew over the small crowd of bikers. Short blades of grass shuffled slightly as if massaged by the current. The colorful flowers that dotted the well-kept lawn were out of place, too regular and jarring to be natural, yet they comforted the families of the dead who rested there.
Cemeteries were supposed to be lush and beautiful, but it was just a veneer layered over the dirt and the bones.
Diego remained silent as the priest spoke about the tragedy of losing a young life. Omar would never get the chance to live to his potential, but he would still live in the hearts of those who were close to him, of the few who gathered around his grave. Death was often senseless, he said, blindsiding those who were most invested in life.
What a crock of shit, thought Diego. The gunplay of the last few days had been the direct result of criminal activity. The real tragedy was that kids like Omar were easily sucked into the allure of being an outlaw.
It pained Diego to admit it, but he'd gone along for the same ride. His hesitance didn't excuse it. Only now, after he'd finally had a chance to breathe, did he realize just how far he was willing to go for justice. Diego had almost gone to the other side. He was almost another fond memory in a hole in the ground. That probably would have made most men feel lucky.