Bad Beat

by Carolina Mac

  With breakfast ordered, I dressed and took Angel outside for a walk. When we returned, the room service waiter was pushing the cart towards our room.

  “Good timing.” I opened the door for him and offered him five bucks. Billy was out of the shower and smelled deliciously like apricots. “I ordered breakfast before I went out, thought it might speed things up.”

  “Good call,” he said, pouring the coffee into the cups. He lifted one of the silver lids to see what I had ordered. “I’m starving.”

  After breakfast, we checked our supplies against our list, fixed Angel up to leave her for a few hours, and went down to the Hummer. I filled the backpacks with water, snacks, jackets, hats and gloves and I put Jackson’s ashes in my pack. I hoped I hadn’t forgotten anything. The brochure said it was a tough hike and not for the inexperienced. Billy had been a runner before Stan shot out his leg, and I was in pretty good shape, but we were not experienced hikers.

  We parked in the designated area, donned our packs and followed the young people in front of us. It wasn’t a tour, per se, just a trail, and everyone could hike at their own speed. Billy hadn’t seen the canyon. When we stepped through the trees and stood on the rim, he caught his first glimpse of the cavernous expanse of rock bathed in the pale light of the rising sun. I thought he was going to lose it.

  “I had no fuckin’ idea,” he said reverently, turning his head to take it all in. “Did you bring a camera, Portia?”

  “I did.” There were different points on the trail where we stopped, rested and took pictures on our descent. The brochure said it was over four thousand feet down to the river below. The trail was narrow in spots and treacherous in others. It was rough going. Billy helped me through the tough parts. He only smoked at one of our rest stops.

  “Smoking and hiking don’t mix,” he said. “You need extra wind for this shit.”

  “So true.” I smiled at him. His Cardinal ball cap over his curls, and his shades on, he was adorable. Several hours later we reached the river at the bottom of the canyon. From the top, it had looked like a sliver of blue satin ribbon curling through the rock formations. Now that we were at eye level, the Colorado thundered past us, showering us with spray and flaunting its’ power. Billy stood and stared in awe.

  We walked down the river to a quiet pool and I felt a sense of calm come over me under the trees. Jackson would have loved it here. The remote beauty. The power of the river. The cool breeze after such a hot climb. Perfection. “This is the spot,” I whispered. “It’s time.”

  Billy nodded.

  I took the ashes out of my pack and opened the container. I sprinkled the first half and Billy sprinkled the rest. We sat on the grass, held hands and sobbed. I wiped my eyes and took pictures of the spot we had chosen for Jackson’s last resting place, and pictures of Billy sitting on the grass. He was devastated by the loss of his best friend and was overcome by emotion. We sat silently together until we were ready to start the climb.

  Emotionally drained of all our energy, the ascent was much more difficult than I had imagined. Billy and I had to rest many times to catch our breath before we reached the rim.

  We were three-quarters of the way to the top when Billy sat down on a rock, his face screwed up in pain. “Give me a minute,” he said. “My leg. It’s hurting like hell.”

  “What is it? Your bullet wound?”

  He shook his head, but it didn’t make me feel any better. “Let me see.” I pushed his jeans to his knee and felt his calf. It wasn’t his bullet wound. “You’ve got a charley horse. We’ve got to get his cramp out. Can you stand?”

  Billy supported himself on a rock and pressed down on the leg while I massaged it and tried to get the knot out of the muscle.

  “How’s that? Any better?”

  “It’s coming out now.” He walked around a little sucking in some deep breaths.

  “Take it slow and easy. That spot will be sore and tender later today.”

  “Thanks. That cheered me up.”

  The sun had set over the west wall of the Canyon as we reached the Hummer. Billy reached into the small cooler we’d left in the back seat and pulled out two Cokes. Standing there on the rim, I took a gulp and sighed. “You’re right, Jackson, baby, it really is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. I hope you love it here, sugar.”

  The short drive back to our hotel was spent in silence. Back in our room, Billy collapsed on his bed while I took Angel for a long walk before dinner.

  When we got back, Billy was still lying on his back, his hands under the back of his head. “I can’t eat. I don’t think I can do dinner tonight, Portia,” Billy whispered. “I never had anybody close to me die before. I can’t handle it.”

  “What about George? Weren’t you close to him?” Billy’s turquoise eyes flashed a deer in the headlights look. It was only for a second, but in that instant, I saw something there. Bordering on panic.

  He shook his head. “Not close to me, like Jackson. We grew up together in the same neighborhood. He was older than me, but he always looked out for me, like a big brother. What am I going to do without him watching my back?”

  I climbed on the bed and laid beside Billy. “I’ll watch your back, sweet boy. Jackson protected us both. He may be gone, but we can still do him proud.”

  The guilt of not protecting Jackson from his father hung around my neck like an anvil, but for the first time in over a week I saw past my pain and anger and understood. With the warm Arizona breeze blowing in the window and the last light of day replaced by darkness, I finally got it.

  Jackson’s love had broken the spell his father had held over him his whole life. He’d seen his father gunning for me and he hadn’t been that scared boy, beaten down by his abusive father. He’d stepped in front of that bullet and given his life to spare mine.

  Like he would’ve done for Billy.

  Like I would’ve done for him.

  Love was like that. Family was like that.

  Thank you for reading

  I sincerely hope you enjoyed, Bad Beat, book one in the eleven book, Regulator series. If you’d like to read an excerpt from Panama Annie, the second book in this series, please continue to the next pages.

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  PANAMA ANNIE

  PROLOGUE

  Saturday, June 30th.

  GEORGE REWOUND THE tape and played it again in his mind. The past week at the cabin—fishing in the bass boat on the sun-drenched lake during the day and making love to Annie most of the night. He nodded, not to anyone in particular. Yep, the best week of his life. Nothing could compare to spending time with the one person in life who brought you happiness just by being.

  Now it was Saturday. The day that followed Friday. The fastest week of his life. Ever since he struggled to roust himself out of bed, the bile had been ever-present in his throat. Sour and burning and making him want to puke thinking about what he had to do. No other last minute options presented themselves. The time had come and there was no other choice.

  The territorial war with a rival bike club had accelerated over the past few months and had reached a point where violence was erupting all over the east end of the city. The Chrome Dogs were recruiting new members hand over fist, gaining in numbers and flexing their muscles in the Regulators’ territory. George retaliated by hitting a couple of the Dogs’ major players and pushing them a step back, but one step wasn’t nearly enough. Metro cops, and particularly the gang squad, were aware that things were heating up in certain areas of Scarborough and had increased their black and white patrols in an effort to prevent an all-out biker war. Strutting their stuff to show concerned citizens that they were indeed on the job. This was
not the time for George to back away from his club and his commitment to his boys, but he was in love for the first time in his life and he had to make a hard choice.

  His primary decision had been to feign retirement after his heart attack and run the club from Portia’s cabin, hidden away in the North Country. This plan would increase protection on Portia while it made the Regulators seem weaker than they were and cockiness on the part of The Dogs could be turned against them. At first, the plan appeared to be working well, with a few minor glitches until the dirty Dog leader voiced his intentions to hit Portia if George did not knuckle under to his demands for a bigger piece of the pie.

  George put a directive in place to have his old lady shadowed and guarded when he wasn’t with her and this resulted in the death of one of his most trusted men. The Chrome Dogs had made a statement. They could get to Portia.

  A final plan was formulated. One that was not popular with any of the Regulators. At church, all of the club members had voted against the idea. One hundred percent in the negative, but George prevailed. He would fake his death, and leave the country for parts unknown to anyone, removing Portia permanently from danger. Rusty would oversee the day to day club business with Billy and Donnie at his side, and the VP, Jackson would guard Portia while continuing to be the power and the driving force behind the Regulator machine.

  A week prior, George had invited the three boys up to the cabin for a day of fishing in his new bass boat. When they arrived, after their three-hour ride, they found Portia humming and happily packing lunches and beer into coolers for them. George couldn’t bear to watch her.

  The gunshot wound in his right leg was healing slowly, but he still needed a crutch to support his two hundred and sixty pounds. With Portia on his right and Rusty on his left, he was able to navigate down the steep path to the lake, and to the shiny red and white boat bobbing on the water at the end of the dilapidated dock.

  The whole while Portia supported him and held his arm, he knew this would be the last time he ever touched her or saw her beautiful face. With his eyes focused on the pine needles and twigs at his feet, he sucked in a big breath and continued down the hill to the water. In his heart, he truly believed this plan was the only way to keep her from harm.

  She waved to the four of them as the boat backed away from the dock. George watched her turn and disappear into the thicket of evergreens at the bottom of the pathway. That was his final visual memory of her. One that he kept in a private place in his heart.

  THE LAST DAY of June was clear and warm with a slight breeze over the lake. The morning sun danced on the tiny ripples kissing the shoreline. Loons floated on the subtle movement of the water like painted decoys. A perfect day for fishing.

  With three unhappy boys, Rusty, Billy, and Jackson arguing in the boat, George piloted the craft to the public landing area on the other side of the lake where Donnie was waiting in his pickup. The boys secured the boat to the dock and helped their wounded leader get safely ashore. George limped over to the truck, after saying his goodbyes, and he and Donnie headed back to the city. Don Ferguson had been ordered to pick up George’s belongings and his passport from the clubhouse and stow everything in the back of the truck.

  On the three hour drive south from the cabin, Don had voiced his misgivings over George’s plan and was left wondering how in hell the club would hold together without their tough, unwavering leader.

  Under cover of darkness, Don dropped his boss at the departures’ door at Pearson International for his one thirty a.m. flight. He lit up a smoke as he sat in the truck at the curb watching George disappear through the glass doors.

  BACK AT THE lake in Northern Ontario, after the three boys delivered their passenger to Don, they remained in the boat out on the lake for what they thought was a reasonable amount of time to be fishing. None of them wanted to be the one to tell Portia that George had drowned. They ate the sandwiches she had made for them, drank every drop of the considerable amount of beer that she had packed in the coolers, and became exceedingly intoxicated. They had difficulty finding the tiny dock in the dark and it was late by the time they tied up the boat. They were drunk and arguing loudly with each other over who was going to tell her the bad news and didn’t notice her as she ran down the hill in the dark and stared at the three of them sitting on the dock.

  “Where’s George?” she called out. She came closer and yelling turned to screaming. Portia demanded to know why George wasn’t with them. When Jackson stood up and began walking towards her she realized her worst nightmare and none of them had to put it into words. She crumpled into a heap at the end of the dock. Jackson picked her up, carried her up the steep hill to the cabin and laid her gently on her bed.

  The following morning, he drove Portia and Angel, her Rottweiler, back to the city and took up his new post at 78 Hawthorne Lane. He had become her bodyguard and the new leader of the Regulators. Billy and Rusty locked the boat in the boathouse, loaded the bikes on the trailer and secured the cabin. The deed was done.

  CHAPTER ONE

  GEORGE STEPPED OFF the plane in Panama City, eyes riveted to the ground. He looked neither right nor left as he blended in with the other passengers making their way through the terminal. He sighed, felt the knot in his gut and sought out the men’s room. Banos. He hurled the microwaved shit he had eaten on the plane, washed his face and hands with cold water and headed for the exit.

  His life was over and he didn’t care what happened to him. From this point forward nothing mattered. Annie had been his everything, the short time he had known her. They had been together for only two months, but to him those two months represented his whole life. There was nothing before Annie and now there would be nothing after.

  Her name was Portia, but he had taught her to shoot at the club range and she proved to be an excellent student. His nickname for her was Annie, for ‘Annie Oakley.’ She had saved his life several times in the recent past with her marksmanship. He couldn’t live without her and he didn’t want anyone else. He had to learn to exist with no hope of going back. In his heart, he knew he couldn’t do it. He was fucked.

  With only one piece of hand luggage, he walked out of Tocumen Airport to look for a cab. The heat enveloped him like a locked sauna and choked out his last breath. He inhaled sharply, felt the pain rip through his chest and decided not to light up a smoke.

  George could speak a little Spanish thanks to his mother, a petite black-haired beauty from Colombia. She had gifted him with his dark complexion, black hair, and ebony eyes. He didn’t remember his father but pictured him as a big man. George didn’t inherit his six foot three frame from a five-foot-tall mother.

  “Hotel,” he barked in English as he grunted and eased his wounded leg into the inadequate back seat of the white compact taxi.

  “Si, senor,” said the driver as he pulled away from the curb into the snarl of traffic that embodied Panama City. The cab dropped him at the front door of the newly built Trump Hotel, rising seventy storeys high and towering over other buildings in the heart of the downtown core. The desk clerk spoke English and made small talk while George ignored him and paid cash for his room. After a quick glance at his key card, he pressed twelve in the elevator and found his accommodation. His view of the Pacific was unobstructed and spectacular, but he was not impressed by the scenery. Frozen in time, he stood immobile, his black eyes staring at the endless expanse of the Pacific Ocean, the tide rolling in.

  George darkened the room with the heavy charcoal drapes, slept for several hours, then woke sick at heart, remembering what he had done.

  I’m so sorry, sweetheart.

  His chest tightened as he relived the day on the lake and the agony that Annie must be feeling. The radiating pain encircled his heart with renewed vigor.

  Annie will be safe with Jackson. He loves her.

  In the evening, he sat alone in the hotel bar, ordered a couple of beers and a burger, then helped himself to maps and tourist guidebooks from the rack in the lobby.


  Late at night, locked in his room, he searched through the colored brochures for the perfect place to drop out of site. He had no clue where he should go. He knew nothing about the country he had chosen as his refuge. He needed to lose himself in a secluded area of the rainforest where no one would find him. If the Chrome Dogs did come for him, he needed clear sight-lines in all four directions. He stuck his finger in the middle of the map of Panama and squinted his eyes to read the name of the town—Penonome.

  Good as any.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Carolina Mac is the author of Lily, the 11 book Regulator Series, the 13 book Quantrall cowboy PI series, and the off-beat trailer park mayhem series, Paradise Park.

  All soon to be released.

  Carolina lives with her family in Ontario, Canada.