“I . . . I . . .”
“You know the rules around here, don’tcha, boy?”
“Yessir . . . I . . .”
“I consider that anyone doing my crank, on my time, is stealing from me. You know how I feel about stealing, right, Rabbit?”
The young man found his voice. “I swear I ain’t stealing, Mr. Burroughs, sir. I ain’t. A few fellas and me just like to party sometimes, but it’s always on our own dimes. I would never take from you, sir. Everybody knows that would be . . .”
Halford looked up from the gun parts. His eyes were almost black in the low light seeping through the canvas-covered windows. “That would be what, exactly?”
The young man choked out the rest. “That would be . . . crazy.” The roar of multiple Harleys pulling up outside filled the air. Halford looked to the window, and the scruffy kid caught his breath. Halford swiftly assembled the gun and wiped oil off his hands with a paper towel. “I’m going to have a talk with your deddy, see how he wants to handle it. Holland is Scabby Mike’s second cousin. Am I right about that?”
“Yessir.”
“That makes you kin. It’s also the only reason you’re still breathing right now. You get me?”
“Yessir. Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Your deddy might still kill you once he gets word.”
Rabbit looked down at his bouncing knee.
“But today is the last time you show up anywhere near here with that shit in your system. I find out you even dipped the butt of your smoke in that shit before you come to work and it won’t be up to your deddy what gets done. You understand that, Rabbit?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. Let your fellas know the good word, too.”
“Yessir, I will. I promise.”
“Now get out.”
The young man nearly fell and broke his neck trying to get his ass out of that seat and get outside. He managed to reach the door without having a full-on heart attack. Once Rabbit was out, Halford laughed a little to himself. He rose from the table and stretched his bones before following Rabbit through the screen door with a recently cleaned Mossberg over his shoulder.
2.
“Goddamn, Bracken, what the hell happened to you?” Halford ran his hand over the damage done to Bracken’s bike.
“We got jacked right outside Broadwater.”
“By who?”
“No idea. I was hoping you could tell me.” Bracken took off his helmet, hung it on the handlebar of his battle-scarred Heritage. His passenger, Moe, stepped off the bike, and when Bracken followed, it was clear from his careful manner the big biker was feeling the effects of laying his bike down at forty miles an hour. Romeo and Tilmon got off the second bike and crowded behind Bracken.
“You think it was mountain folk?” Halford asked.
“No, I don’t think so. Ex- or current military would be my guess.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Something about the way they talked to each other. The lingo. The vibe was professional. They were equipped with pro gear, too, but nothing like our hardware. They had all their bases covered, too. Massive intel, like they didn’t have a care in the world that we were on the side of a public highway. They knew we’d be alone out there.”
“Where’s the truck?”
“We had to wipe it and leave it. Don’t worry, it’s clean.”
Halford looked at the three tarped pallets of pot with no truck to be loaded into. He scratched at his mammoth beard. “What did they get?”
Bracken unzipped his leather cut. “They got it all.”
“All what?”
“All the money, Hal. They took it all. Let’s go in and talk about it.”
The little bit of skin that showed through Halford’s mane flushed red. “What the fuck is there to talk about? You lost my money. You need to get out there and find it.”
Bracken flicked his eyes to his men and then back at Halford. “We didn’t lose shit. We got jacked. What we need to do now is sit down and try to figure all this out. These guys were prepared. They had information. It’s a very short list of people who knew we were gonna be out here and knew they could work without the law showing up.”
“Not my problem,” Halford said. “Your people. Your problem.”
Bracken tilted his head and looked at Halford as though he might be someone else. “How long have we known each other, Hal?”
“Not long enough to forgive a two-hundred-thousand-dollar fuckup. Folks get killed for a whole lot less around here, and they been knowing each other since before their nuts dropped. You need to call Wilcombe and make it right.”
“I tried that already.”
“And what did the old prick have to say?”
“I can’t reach him.”
That gave Halford pause.
“You can’t reach him?”
“I’ve tried to call him six times since we got hit, but he’s not answering.”
“He’s not answering?”
“That’s what I said. He’s not answering.”
“Has that ever happened before?”
Bracken looked back at Moe, Tilmon, and Romeo. None of them had the answer to that.
“No,” Bracken said. “Never. That’s why I’m saying we got something to figure out here.”
Halford dropped the shotgun down off his shoulder into both hands. Bracken and Romeo both reached for their weapons but froze at the echoing sounds of several cocking weapons flanking them on all sides.
“You’re pretty goddamn jumpy, Bracken, for an innocent man.”
“Hal.” Bracken held his gloved hands in plain sight. “Everyone needs to calm down for a second and think. If I wanted to rob you, would I have done it, stashed the money, and then rode up this mountain a day late right into the lion’s den? Seriously, would I walk right up to the man I just ripped off and shit on his front porch? I mean, damn, Hal, if I wanted to rob you, I could have just kept riding. I know what a war with you means, and I certainly wouldn’t have come here to your doorstep to fight it. Put the gun down.”
Halford glared at Bracken and the bikers. At least ten armed men stood behind them, waiting on the word to mow them down, no different to them than picking off turkeys. Bracken kept his hands up, palms out, showing the shredding on the leather. “Hal, I wouldn’t have wrecked my bike on purpose.”
“With that much money, you could buy another one.”
“We were robbed, Hal.”
“Right, by the phantom G.I. Joe crew that disappeared into the wind.”
“Not all of them,” Moe said.
Halford pointed the shotgun at him. “Keep talking.”
“Romeo tagged one of them. Killed that fucker in the street.”
“That right?”
Romeo nodded in agreement.
“Where’s the body?”
“Most likely with highway patrol,” Bracken said, edging back into the conversation. “We left it in the street. I didn’t recognize him, and it was everything we could do to get to a friendly place to patch up and get here.”
Halford lowered his gun. He nodded, and his men lowered theirs, too. “Come on, let’s call your boss.”
3.
Halford stomped up the front steps of the compound, passed a shaky young Rabbit, and headed straight to the kitchen area. He yanked open one of the drawers and rummaged through the contents until he found a silver-and-white cell phone. It was a dedicated burner used only as a direct line to Oscar Wilcombe. He rarely used it. He rarely had to contact the man directly anymore, but when he did, it never went unanswered. He fished around in the drawer for the battery, clicked it in, and held the power button down until a series of beeps indicated it was powered up. He paced around the kitchen as he waited for a signal, grumbling and cussing under his breat
h. Bracken and the other Jacksonville Jackals, as well as Scabby Mike and two more of Halford’s lieutenants, Franklin and Ray-Ray, entered the great room and spread out into the armory. Each of them filed in quietly, knowing full well they were standing in a house of cards that could collapse at any second with a simple nod from the man with the phone.
Halford put the phone to his ear. It rang only once.
“Hello, Halford.”
“What the fuck is going on, Oscar? I’ve got Bracken and three more of your boys here and they’re light. About two hundred grand light.”
Wilcombe was silent at first, but when he answered, his voice was restrained. It was a liar’s tone. “That’s unfortunate.”
Halford tilted his head toward his shoulder and shot a brief but confused glance at Bracken. Bracken lifted an eyebrow in response and Halford turned his attention back to Wilcombe. “Yeah, I reckon it is,” he said slowly, as if he’d just joined a game where he was unsure of the rules. “Now tell me what you plan on doing about it.”
“I wish I could help you, Halford, but I cannot. I assure you I know absolutely nothing about the trouble you’re having up there.”
“I don’t give a shit about your assurances, Oscar. All I want to know is how you intend to get me my money.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t intend on doing anything.”
Halford chewed his lip and squeezed the phone. “Start making sense, Oscar.”
“Listen to me carefully, Halford. I’m truly sorry for whatever is grieving you up there. I think we both know that my club president and his associates were not responsible for anything that belongs to you going missing. In fact, I have complete faith in your business sense that you will be able to recover goods stolen on your turf. It is a minor setback that I’m sure you can sort out. But while I have you on the phone, I’m afraid that I have more bad news.”
Halford went eerily calm and the rest of the room remained silent.
“Are you there, Halford?”
“Keep talking, old man.”
“I’m afraid that circumstances beyond either of our control are going to force our business together to come to a close. As of today, there will be no more commerce exchanged between our two enterprises.”
“Speak English, you Limey fuck.”
“I’m out, Halford. Retired. After this call, we will not speak again.”
“Just like that? After more than forty years of partnership with my family, you’re just going to up and walk away?” Halford’s voice was oddly serene. Scabby Mike and the others knew it was a precursor of terrible things to come, like the quiet sound of distant thunder.
“I would hardly call it a partnership, Halford. Just a business relationship that has come to an end.”
“You called my father ‘family.’”
“Yes, your father was like family. It’s a sentiment I never extended to you and your brothers. This is what is best for us all. And Halford, I must ask that you not act irrationally toward the men currently representing my interests. It will only start a senseless, bloody war with the Jackals that will only end in large amounts of suffering on both sides. Something I’m sure neither of us want to endure.”
“You done?” Halford asked.
“Yes, Mr. Burroughs, I’m done.”
Halford flipped the phone closed, stared at it for a moment, then threw it across the room. It shattered against the stone fireplace. All the men surrounding him stood firm, but each one of them felt the prick of fear in the backs of their necks when Halford Burroughs let out a roar that shook the house. “That son of a bitch!” He grabbed the edge of the oak table and effortlessly flipped it over, sending gun parts and oil containers flying. “I’m going to fucking kill him!” He turned to a massive gun rack behind the table and pulled down a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. He broke the rifle in half to ensure that it was loaded, and flipped it closed. “That son of a bitch!” he screamed again. Even Scabby Mike felt the twinge of uncertainty as to whether or not Halford was capable of turning on them. Only Bracken had the balls to speak.
“What’s going on, Hal? What did he say?”
Halford slowed his frenzy and looked at Bracken, as if he’d just noticed there were other people in the room. His expression was more wild animal than human. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”
“Oscar? Why? What did he say?”
Halford rolled his head from side to side and popped the bones in his neck. “No,” he said, “not the Brit. He’s just an old man closer to death than he wants to admit. He’s got heat and he’s rolling over. I was ready to put you in his seat anyway.”
Bracken looked confused.
“If I were you,” Hal said, “I’d watch my back. That old bastard probably already sold you down the river. You said it yourself that the list of people who knew you were coming was short. Who is at the top of that list? Now get out of my way, I got business to handle.” Bracken stepped aside, but before Halford could step through, a figure appeared at the screen door.
“You okay in there, Mr. Burroughs?” Rabbit said.
The blast nearly deafened everyone and cut Rabbit in half.
“Goddamn it, Halford,” Scabby Mike said. “What the hell did you just do?”
“Clean that fuckin’ tweeker off my porch. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Mike followed Halford out the buckshot-peppered hole that used to be a door. Rabbit was a mangled mess partially wrapped in pieces of screen mesh.
“Halford,” Mike yelled, confused and angry. “Where the hell are you going?” He squatted at Rabbit’s body and closed the dead boy’s eyelids.
“I’m going to see my little brother,” Halford yelled back.
“Clayton? Why?” Mike stood up. “What does Clayton have to do with this?”
Halford stopped and turned around. “He has everything to do with this. He shows up here out of the blue, talking about how cops knew everything about our thing up here and about how my money would be the first thing to go. He even mentioned Wilcombe’s name. And now I’m getting jacked at gunpoint on the highway.”
“You think cops jacked Bracken?” Mike said, still confused.
“Cops don’t operate like that. Outlaws do. That little prick’s got my money or he knows who does.”
“Let me come with you, then,” Mike said.
“You’ll just try to stop me from doing what I have to do.”
“He’s your brother, Hal.”
“You’re my brother, Mike. He’s a dead man.”
CHAPTER
22
CLAYTON BURROUGHS
2015
1.
Cricket didn’t need to ask her boss what was going on when he dragged ass through the door a full three hours later than usual and didn’t take off his sunglasses once he was inside. The news of Sheriff Burroughs’s bender and the ass-whuppin’ he threw on Big Joe Dooley the night before had her phone ringing off the hook before she even finished turning the key in the front door. Still, she was gentle with him. “Morning, Sheriff.” She met him halfway across the lobby with a cup of coffee, black.
“Morning, Cricket,” Clayton said, taking the warm foam cup but setting it back down on the counter. “I suppose you’ve already heard?”
“Yes, sir, I have, but let me tell you, that Joe Dooley has gotten out of line a few times with me before, too, so it’s my opinion that every single woman in Waymore owes you a thank-you.”
Clayton smiled. “Big Joe is an asshole, but he didn’t deserve what I did. I was way out of line . . . but thanks for saying that.”
Cricket picked up the coffee and handed it to him again. This time she let her hand linger on his for a moment. “Are you okay, sir? Is there something I can do?”
Clayton looked at her hand on his and wondered if t
hey could be any more different. He felt the warmth of it—the genuine concern. Cricket was good people. That’s why he’d hired her. “I’m fine,” he said.
Cricket raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Really, I’m fine. It’s just been a heavy few days. Down here in this valley it’s easy to forget where I come from. This case I’m working with Agent Holly is a full-on reminder of all that bad blood I left on the mountain, and that reality check knocked me sideways for a minute. But really, I’m fine now.”
Cricket let go of his hand and returned to her desk. She picked up a yellow file folder and handed it to Clayton. “Agent Holly came by about an hour ago and dropped this off. He said you asked for it.”
Clayton slipped the file under his arm and retreated into the sanctum of his office. He smiled again at the mousy receptionist through the narrowing gap of the door until it clicked shut. He tossed the file on his desk and drew the shades before finally taking off his sunglasses. The hangover was brutal. He felt like an overcooked, thoroughly dried-out Thanksgiving turkey stuffed with cold sweat and cigarette ashes. The worst part was that, even now, he still craved the bourbon. He always would. Just a few fingers to even him out. Clear his head. The only moisture in his body was in his mouth, watering at the thought. He sat down and sipped Cricket’s coffee. He needed to work—something to occupy his mind so the demons wouldn’t have anyone to play with. He opened Holly’s file.
2.
He removed the paper clip holding the two-year-old mug shot photos and laid them on the desk. A typical G.I. drunk-tank shot and profile. Short cropped dark hair, military regulation mustache, and a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression. Clayton thought something about the guy looked familiar. Maybe he had seen this guy before. He thumbed through the paperwork for photos of the crime scene, but there was nothing. Allen Cleveland Bankey was his full name. No bells ringing there at all. Clayton opened his desk drawer and found his aspirin. He shook two out and chewed them dry. He skimmed through the rap sheet, but there wasn’t anything else in the file Holly hadn’t already told him. Bankey was an army veteran. Two tours in Iraq. Two in Afghanistan. All consecutive. He was a desert rat. His military record was impeccable. If anything, the file made this guy look like a hero except for the glaring statutory-rape charge that followed his time overseas. According to the file, the girl was sixteen. He met her in a bar she wasn’t old enough to be in, and the sex was consensual. The girl’s parents agreed to drop the charges, but the state of Tennessee picked it up and Bankey served eighteen months. Released for good behavior. Raw deal. Now the poor bastard was on a slab for hijacking bikers with a rifle and a clown mask. What a fall from grace. The world is a broken place sometimes. Clayton wondered when it hadn’t been. Still, the guy looked vaguely familiar. Clayton scratched at his beard and tapped on the intercom.
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