Shooting Dirty

by Jill Sorenson

  The boy held the Colt in a tight grip. It was too heavy for him, too powerful. The kick would knock him off his feet—but at this range, he couldn’t miss.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Jester said. “You can settle the score.”

  Ace wanted to tell Jamie that Jester was a rapist psychopath, but he didn’t. Too much talking might confuse Jamie and make him more nervous. If this was how Ace’s life was going to end, so be it. He’d rather not get killed by an innocent kid, but that was the thing about death. You couldn’t choose the time or circumstances.

  So he widened his stance and squared his shoulders, accepting his fate. Then he closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sky.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tiffany watched Janelle make a break for it.

  Her friend ran like hell down the dirt road and hurried up the rocky hill, disappearing over the side. The red truck pulled up behind Tiffany’s car and idled there. She recognized the driver as Pigpen.

  Shit.

  He didn’t get out and chase Janelle, probably because he was in no condition to catch her. He’d been beaten and drugged the night before. Tiffany hadn’t considered this complication. Now she was stuck. He might shoot her if she got out of the car.

  He might shoot her anyway.

  She locked the doors and searched for a handy weapon, her mind racing. Where was her pepper spray? She opened the glove compartment and found the black leather case. Inside was a small bag of marijuana.

  Oh no. During a moment of THC-fueled inspiration, she’d removed the canister and stashed her pot in its place. She tossed aside the case and glanced through her rear window. Pigpen had exited his vehicle. He was right outside her door! She grabbed her purse with shaking hands and checked her cell phone.

  No bars. Of course.

  He tapped on her window with the butt of his gun. She put her phone away and raised her palms, making a mousy little squeak of terror. The glass was covered in dust from the dirt road, but he could see her. She watched his small, sunken eyes widen as he realized that she was the bitch who’d drugged him.

  Acting on instinct, she shifted into drive and stepped on the gas, hauling ass toward the motorcycles at the end of the road.

  Fuck it.

  She tried to clear them but hit one, which slammed into both of the others. Metal scraped against metal as she continued forward, dragging the motorcycle carcass along for the ride. There wasn’t really anywhere to go, just a circular turnaround area. She pumped the brakes and cranked the wheel, sliding to stop. Then she got out and hit the ground running.

  Pigpen was in his truck again, barreling toward her.

  She ran as fast as she could in spike-heeled half-boots. She went east, toward the Coachella Canal. Janelle had headed the opposite direction, and splitting up seemed wise. Tiffany didn’t overthink it. She just took the path of least resistance and ran over the flat ground, her heart pounding with panic.

  The truck followed her off-road, its engine revving with menace. Tiffany knew she didn’t have a chance against a moving vehicle. She darted through clusters of sagebrush, trying to avoid the cat’s claw and cactus needles. The smell of sage tickled her nostrils and branches tugged at her clothes.

  Pigpen’s truck roared close behind, mowing down everything in its path. Tiffany smothered a scream when her spike heel sank into the sand. Her ankle twisted and she fell down, rolling into a cactus.

  Gasping for breath, she struggled to her feet again. She limped along, wincing in pain. The truck’s grill was like the jaws of a wild animal, breathing down her neck. The front bumper almost touched her. In a blind panic, she ran harder, weaving her way through the obstacles, ignoring her throbbing ankle. She had a stitch in her side. She hooked to the right and hurdled a thorny bush, almost tripping over a huge rock on the other side.

  Stumbling forward, she kept going.

  Pigpen didn’t see the rock behind the bush. He smashed into it and stalled out. His horn blared for several long seconds, as if his body was lodged against it. Tiffany didn’t wait for him to recover. She continued to flee, crouching low.

  When she reached the canal, her heart stopped. It was huge, with steeply sloped sides to prohibit swimmers. The water below appeared shallow and slow-moving. She’d probably break a leg if she tried to jump in.

  This wasn’t a convenient escape route. It was another dead end.

  Pigpen reversed his truck and came after her, cutting off her exit. He’d caught up with her, and now she was screwed. She might be able to outrun him, but she couldn’t outrun a bullet.

  He parked the truck and got out. She watched him approach, wondering if she should try her luck in the canal. His left hand was heavily taped and his nose was bandaged. He was breathing through his mouth, his face flushed red. His cracked ribs were probably hurting, but his right hand wasn’t injured.

  He pulled a gun from his waistband and lumbered toward her.

  * * *

  Janelle didn’t know where to run.

  The Coachella Canal was on her left, beyond a cactus-speckled expanse. That was a good direction to flee, but not a likely place to find Jamie. Straight ahead were the motorcycles. To her right, a rocky slope.

  She raced along the edge of the slope, afraid to look back. Just before she reached the dead end, she spotted a dusty footpath. She charged up the path, her pulse pounding. Before she reached the top, a tall figure came over the rise. His back was to the sun, so she couldn’t see his face. His lean physique and broad shoulders gave her pause. She went still, panting from exertion. He was wearing a motorcycle vest with a lightning bolt decal.

  Shit.

  She whirled around and headed the opposite direction. He chased her down and tackled her in the rocky dirt. She cried out in pain as her hands and knees met with sharp stones. They rolled across the slope with his arm locked around her waist.

  When they came to a stop, she kicked her legs and pummeled his arm. He held on tight, not reacting to her struggle. He was much stronger than she was. He could probably knock her out with one blow. She felt herself begin to drift, to float away from the horror. But then he released her, and she snapped back into reality.

  She scrambled away from him, intent on climbing the hill again.

  He grabbed her ankle. “Don’t.”

  She rested for a moment to catch her breath. Then she looked over her shoulder at him. It was Rex, the club virgin.

  “You can’t go up there.”

  “I need to find my son.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  Janelle’s chest tightened with fear. Rex was no gentleman. He was a member of Jester’s inner circle, and he didn’t care about an innocent child. If her mouth wasn’t dry as a bone, she’d spit in his face. She did the next best thing and grabbed a handful of loose pebbles. There were no big rocks nearby, unfortunately.

  He winced as she pelted him.

  “Let me go,” she cried, kicking with her free leg.

  He positioned himself over her. “They’ll shoot you,” he said. “Do you understand me? They’ll kill you.”

  Janelle elbowed him in the stomach as hard as she could. He grunted and loosened his grip, but he didn’t retaliate. Maybe he was a gentleman. A crueler man would have hit her back, rather than giving her opportunities to fight him. She could hear squealing tires and crashing metal in the distance, adding to the chaos.

  “Who’s that?” Rex asked.

  Janelle didn’t answer. Tiffany was in trouble, and Janelle was trapped. The noise died as abruptly as it had started.

  Rex rose to his feet, bringing her with him. “I’ll take you to your son, but you have to stay calm, and stay by my side. You run away from me, they’ll fucking shoot you.” He gave her arm a menacing shake. “Got it?”

  “Got it.”


  He drew a gun from the small of his back and gestured for her to precede him. She walked up the hill, her mind reeling. He said they would shoot her if she ran, but would he? He was the one holding a gun, and it wasn’t just for show.

  When Janelle reached the top, she saw two men with rifles on a nearby slope. There was an open area below with bottles and other targets lined up in a row. Jamie was standing with his back to her. Jester had his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. Ace was across from them, his head bowed and his arms bound.

  Jamie was pointing a gun at Ace.

  Oh God.

  Rex clamped his hand over her mouth before she could scream. His gun dug into her side, reminding her to stay cool.

  Then Jamie did something even more shocking.

  He retreated a few steps and pointed the gun at Jester.

  Jamie’s entire life flashed before her eyes. She remembered his first bath. His drooling, gurgling, teething stage. Every goal he’d scored. Every precious moment. He was her little baby. And right now her little baby was holding a gun on a psychopath—a psychopath who had at least two rifles covering him.

  “Point the gun at me,” Ace said in a calm voice. “Only at me.”

  Jamie ignored him.

  Jester seemed to enjoy the danger. He threw his head back and howled, making the colorful tattoo on his neck dance. Then he removed his own gun from his waistband and aimed it at Jamie. “You want to be a big man, little boy? Let me give you your first lesson. Never draw on someone unless you intend to shoot.”

  Janelle screamed against Rex’s palm, her knees weak with panic. Although the sound was muffled, Jamie glanced up.

  “I’ve got your mother,” Rex called out. “Put down the gun and I won’t hurt her.”

  “I’ll hurt her,” Jester said.

  Rex didn’t appreciate the interference. “Shut the fuck up, Jester!”

  Jester ignored Rex and released the safety on his gun with his thumb. His skull ring glinted in the sunlight. “Go ahead, little man. Make my day.”

  Jamie’s arm shook as if the pistol was too heavy for him to hold. Janelle prayed her son would listen to reason. She couldn’t bear to watch him shoot anyone—or get shot himself. To her intense relief, Jamie lowered his aim and moved away from Jester. Ace stepped into the space between them. When Jamie reached the base of the hill, he set the gun on the ground.

  Janelle’s eyes flooded with tears. Thank God.

  “That’s it,” Rex said. “Now come to me.”

  Ace nodded his encouragement, and Jamie started up the hill.

  “Don’t let them get away,” Jester said to Rex, but he didn’t take his focus off Ace. Rex urged Janelle down the other side of the hill. As soon as Jamie joined them, Rex tucked his weapon into his waistband and let her go. She threw her arms around her son, sobbing.

  “He’s all right,” Rex said.

  Janelle searched her son’s pale face. His eyes had a flat, faraway look.

  Rex didn’t give her time to study him for injuries. He gripped her elbow and led her off the path, toward a group of boulders. He nudged her and Jamie into a convenient hiding space. “Stay here.”

  “My friend needs help,” Janelle said.

  “I’ll look for her.”

  She opened her mouth to say thank you, but he was already gone.

  * * *

  Ace tried to clear his mind of worry for Janelle.

  Seeing her terrified face had stoked his rage toward Jester. It had also redoubled his guilt and renewed his regrets. At least she was with Jamie now, and they hadn’t been hurt. Maybe Rex would keep them safe.

  Ace studied the hills to the east, where Jester’s gunmen were lying in wait. Then he moved his gaze to Jester. Fighting him would only prolong the inevitable, but it might buy some time for Janelle and Jamie.

  Jester chuckled at the unexpected turn of events, shaking his head. “That little fucker almost had me,” he said with admiration. “I’ll enjoy taking a turn on his mother.”

  Ace hoped he wouldn’t get the chance. Rex seemed like kind of a wild card, following Jester’s orders when it suited him and defying them when it didn’t. Most White Lightning members wouldn’t hurt a child, or a mother in front of a child.

  “If you’re going to kill me, get the fuck on with it,” Ace said.

  “In a hurry to see hell?”

  “Yeah. I heard your brother sucks cocks there.”

  Jester’s eyes darkened with fury. He strode forward and hit Ace with the butt of his pistol. It was a well-placed blow. Pain exploded in his cheek, rocking his head to the side. He stumbled and almost lost his footing. When his vision cleared, he spat blood into the dirt at Jester’s feet. More flowed from his jaw, dripping red spots on his T-shirt.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Ace asked.

  Jester repeated the action, hitting the exact same place.

  Fuck.

  This time, Ace fell to his knees. His pistol-whipped face felt flayed open, burning hot, and his teeth ached from the impact. Blood trickled down his neck, warm and wet. He struggled against a wave of dizziness. He didn’t want to die like this. Maybe he could needle Jester into making a mistake.

  Stay conscious.

  Keep talking. Taunt him.

  “How was that?” Jester asked.

  “Better,” Ace said, spitting again, splashing Jester’s motorcycle boots. “But only a scared little bitch uses a pistol instead of his fists.”

  Jester struck once more, knocking him sideways. Ace’s eyebrow split like a watermelon, gushing blood into his left eye. Black spots danced in his vision. He sat back on his heels, his chin tucked to his chest.

  Fuck. He was going to pass out.

  “Now who’s the bitch?”

  Ace rallied, opening his good eye. “Untie me and I’ll show you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I killed your brother. He begged for his life and pissed himself.”

  “You’re a fucking liar,” Jester said, his nostrils flared.

  He was, but Jester didn’t know that. “He said your name with his last breath.”

  Jester went crazy, bashing him across the head. Ace slumped forward in the dirt, unable to break his fall. Jester started kicking the shit out of him, landing sharp blows to his midsection. Ace felt his body jerk from the impact. He drifted in and out of consciousness, drowning in his own blood.

  Then the beating stopped.

  Jester pointed his bloody pistol at a shadowy figure in the distance. A man was approaching from Salvation Mountain. Ace closed his eyes and tried to focus on breathing. He was in bad shape, with bruised ribs and an aching skull. Passing out sounded nice, but he was afraid he’d never wake up.

  “You’re making a damned mess, as usual.”

  Well, well. It was Wild Bill.

  “What’s it to you?” Jester asked, a sneer in his voice. “You want to bargain for this motherfucker?”

  “I want peace,” Bill said.

  “I want chaos,” Jester replied.

  There wasn’t really any overlap between those desires, so Bill tried a different tack. “Let’s talk business. You have a product to sell.”

  “And?”

  “You want to sling your shit in Indio, fine. I’ll look the other way.”

  “I need protection from the cartels.”

  Bill grunted a denial. “No. I won’t take a cut of your profits, and you can deal with the competitors yourself. I don’t want to be involved. I’m just offering a truce. We can coexist without collaborating.”

  “I don’t need a truce, old man,” Jester said. “I’ll sell my product in your town whether you like it or not.”

  Bill didn’t say anything. White Lightning wielded a lot of power, but they
were a Riverside club. Indio belonged to Bill, and Jester knew it. Having Bill’s permission to operate made a world of difference.

  Black wings flapped at the edges of Ace’s vision, like a murder of crows, ready to peck his eyes out. He rolled onto his side, feeling nauseous. The negotiations continued. Ace wasn’t sure if they’d reached a deal or not. Everything was soft-focus, slow motion. He heard the voices from a distance, dreamlike. Someone nudged him with a hard boot.

  “Is he still alive?”

  No answer.

  “Jesus fucking Christ. Put him out of his misery and let’s go.”

  This was it. The end.

  While Ace waited for the bullet, he thought of Skye. He’d loved her the first moment he set eyes on her. The feeling had bloomed, fully formed, inside his chest. It would always be there, strong and true, no matter what.

  His love for Janelle was different. Not as pure. It was harder, messier, more complicated. Their love was grounded in physical sensation, in base desires and sexual attraction. He’d chosen her, marked her, claimed her as his own. But it went deeper than sex and pleasure. He was drawn to her inner strength and her resilience. He liked the whole package, and he loved the way they fit together.

  Without Skye, he might not have been capable of romantic love. Becoming a father had softened him, just a little. It had made a tender place inside him, and allowed for another seed to take root. This seed had grown, against all odds, like a desert flower in stony sand.

  He couldn’t bring himself to regret touching Janelle. He’d loved her more, in their short time together, than any other man had. He was sure of it.

  This thought calmed him. He felt at peace with himself. He was prepared to die.

  He wrenched open his good eye and looked over his shoulder, ready to stare death in the face. Jester was standing behind him, pointing the pistol at the back of his head. He fired once and fell forward, collapsing on top of Ace. The impact was jarring.

  With fresh pain came a window of lucidity. Ace felt the wet warmth spreading across his back and realized what happened.

  Jester hadn’t shot him.

  Bill had shot Jester.