by Domino Finn
The priest's words faded into the background, along with the other monotone comforts people bequeathed to the dead. Omar had been a smart kid who fell for the same trap of invincibility that afflicted all youth. There was nothing else to say.
In the distance, a row of motorcycles lined the field. Parked along the outer fence of the cemetery grounds was a shiny Sanctuary Marshal's Office squad car. Sergeant Hitchens sat inside keeping an eye on the proceedings, making sure there wasn't any trouble. It was a wasted effort. Diego had a sense for things like this, and he knew there'd be peace for a little while.
How long would that last? He had no idea. El Paso was probably pissed about Sergio Lima getting caught. He had proof on him that he was blackmailing an Albuquerque city councilman. Maxim had said the FBI would run with that and try to come out with a Public Corruption win for Raymond Garcia. It signified a possible link to El Paso. Egg on their face. It meant the Seventh Sons lost some leverage and potentially garnered the ire of the Mexican Mafia. Gaston was concerned about future dealings with the Mexicans but was confident that it could be salvaged.
Diego wished them the best but it wasn't his problem anymore.
After the words were said and the coffin lowered into the ground, the workers disbanded. There was no family here, no real friends, and before long only the Seventh Sons remained. Clint was back, fully healed after the transformation the night before. He opened a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured it over the fresh grave. Curtis and Trent stayed close, recalling positive memories of the kid.
It was nice enough, Diego figured, but it was still a funeral.
"I'm just glad you're not lying next to him," said West Wind. His tough features and partially shaved head made the sentiment sound mushy by comparison, but Diego didn't give him shit for it. Gaston and the others converged on them.
"I don't think I've thanked you for coming for me last night," said Diego. "If you hadn't shown up when you did..."
West Wind shook his head. "It was nothing. I was just helping out a brother." The man's look bore into Diego. It was the sort of earned camaraderie that he'd shared in the service. The Apache hadn't needed to back Diego up. There was every chance they would have been arrested, but West came and he took on Hotah, the most dangerous of the remaining Yavapai. Wolf fights rarely ended in death because of their superior constitutions, but if the Apache was to be believed, he had kicked Hotah's ass pretty damn good.
Gaston put a hand on each of their shoulders. "We need to move past Omar," he said. "We need to focus on who's left. El Paso's big, and if they intend to take us on, we'll need a unified front."
The other Sons huddled closer, nodding in affirmation. Diego only sighed.
"I'm done."
Diego didn't expect stunned silence. By the looks on their faces, his brothers already knew. They wouldn't try to stop him. Diego had once again proved that he wasn't afraid of the guns. He just wasn't like them, and it wasn't because they were wolves. Diego was a loner, but he wasn't really a rebel. He didn't shun authority for the sake of it. And he didn't want to make a living by stepping on the backs of others.
The Sons were good guys overall, but sometimes they could be real assholes.
The MC talked a little more and split up. Clint proposed plans for the night: a wake at Sycamore Lodge. Eventually, Diego broke off and headed to his Scrambler. As he sat on his bike and pulled on his riding gloves, Gaston caught him.
"You sure about this?" he asked, at a loss for saying anything of substance. Diego nodded, not meeting the man's gaze. "Where will you go?"
"I have a feeling I'll be around Sanctuary for a while. My lease isn't up for a few more months, so there's that."
Gaston chuckled. Diego wondered if the big man thought he'd change his mind and show up at the clubhouse one day. Hell, even Diego didn't know. The last couple of years had seen so many changes in his life already—he wasn't sure where he was supposed to land.
"I'll figure it out," said Diego, talking more to himself. "I've always kind of had to find my own road."
The men shook hands and Diego rode straight for the Interstate. He had a feeling he was going for a long, long ride.
Chapter 68
The bottle wheezed as Maxim squeezed out the last of the lighter fluid. He tossed the empty plastic into the pit with the rest of the sodden content. There wasn't a lot of time left. The sun was going down and the camera on his phone wasn't great in lowlight. Plus, the detective didn't want to give himself a chance to change his mind.
He struck a wooden match and tossed it in, watching the recording video on the screen of his cell phone. Flames shot high into the air, and Maxim backed up during the initial burn.
This would have been a good time to have a cigar, he realized.
Maxim had never really smoked. A few here or there casually. A cigar when someone had a baby. Or when somebody died.
Raymond Garcia had taken a turn for the worse earlier in the day. His blood loss had led to complications, and the agent had a stroke. It was a delicate situation for a while, but the marshal's office had just gotten word that Ray succumbed to his injuries. He had gone into a coma and then, two hours later, went brain-dead.
Maxim didn't have a cigar, but he had a half-full bottle of Makers 46. He took a swig and did his best to hold his camera hand steady.
"Was Ray more right about me than I was about him?"
It was a stupid question because Maxim had been off base about the FBI agent. Garcia had proven to be a reputable guy. A man who had immersed himself in the depths of criminal behavior time and time again yet emerged as a straight shooter. He'd moved up the ranks and genuinely wanted to make this a better country.
It kind of put Maxim's small-town vigil to shame.
Detective Maxim Dwyer watched the stacks of twenty-dollar bills darken and curl in on themselves. The fire had a mesmerizing effect. It was an agent of freedom. A burden reduced to wisps and ashes.
Raymond Garcia was right about the corrupting effects of money and power. Even though Maxim wasn't bought and paid for, he had gotten too close. He had allowed himself a freebie, paid for a down payment on a silver TT, bribed a federal analyst, and stashed the rest of the briefcase full of money away for a rainy day.
Maxim knew he was a good person, but what other people thought mattered. Friends and enemies alike needed to see who he was.
He stopped the recording once the damage was done. The flames and smoke would linger for a while. Maxim was fine with that. It gave him something to watch as he drank.
Soon, after the scope of what he'd done fully settled in, Maxim Dwyer sent the video to Gaston with a short text message.
"This is who I am."
-Finn
About the Author
Hi. I'm Domino Finn, an urban fantasy author and contributor to several award-winning video games. If you enjoyed this Sycamore Moon book, be sure to check out the rest of the series.
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Did I say half dead? Because I meant 100% dead. Full on. I don't do things halfway.
So here I am, alive for some reason, just another sunny day in Miami. It's a perfect paradise, except I'm into something bad. Wanted by police, drenched in the stink of dark magic, nether creatures coming o
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I'm Cisco Suarez: necromancer, shadow charmer, black magic outlaw, and totally screwed.
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