“Because it’s time.”
“But Missouri’s not on board.”
“No. This is me. I won’t pull you in any deeper.”
Sherlock’s chuckle was acidic. “Yeah, you said that before. Kid, you gotta know that you are pulling us all in your wake. If you do this, we all get hit with your blowback.”
He didn’t answer. It didn’t matter. It should have been done long ago. It should have been club business.
“Fuck,” Sherlock finally muttered. “Fuck you, Nolan. I’m only doing this because if you go in stupid and blind, you will fuck us all sideways. Keep your phone close. I’ll run some checks and call you back with fresh intel.”
“No. I’ll call you. It’ll be a clean phone.” Not a club burner, but one of his own. That was his next move: a trip to Springfield for some supplies. “How long you need?”
“Gimme a couple of hours—call it three hours.”
“Okay. I’ll call then. Thanks, brother.”
“Asshole,” Sherlock spat and ended the call.
When Nolan shoved the phone back into his pocket, his fingers grazed the leather cord of Ani’s star. Now the cord was tied in an intricate knot; it had gotten tangled in his pocket again and again, and Iris had woven it for him into this more solid piece.
Iris. Had fixed it so he could keep Analisa in his pocket. This was the woman he was alienating with his crazy need.
He pulled the cord out and put the star to his lips. Then, following an impulse, an unformed sense of rightness, he laid the star and its knotted cord at the base of Havoc’s headstone.
“Take care of her for me.”
They were the first words he’d ever spoken to Havoc in this place.
~oOo~
He was still in Springfield when he called Sherlock from his new burner. “What do you have for me?”
“First, I have good sense. I’m gonna try one more time here. You understand that you will probably lose your patch over this? Going rogue is bad enough, but for this, with all the risk—Nolan, this is a fucked-up thing you’re doing.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You do. You can stay in that town you all love so fucking much. You can stay with your club. I heard you’re serious with Show’s girl. Jesus, kid. Make babies and grow wheat or whatever you grow out there. You have lots of choices.”
Nolan closed his eyes and sought patience. Now that his mind was made up, his SoCal brother’s words of wisdom were nothing but noise in his head. “Do you have new intel, Sherlock?”
“Not new, but more. He’s got a cabin a ways north of Lake Winnipeg in Manitoba. It’s remote as fuck, Nolan. He goes down to Winnipeg monthly for supplies. That’s your best bet, because you’ll never find his cabin on your own.”
“This isn’t new? You’ve known this? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you said you weren’t going after him. I didn’t see a point in stirring you up.”
“That wasn’t your call.”
“Yeah, brother, it was. You’re off the rez here, and you’re dragging me off, too. So you get what I give you.”
Choosing not to get mired in that argument, particularly since Sherlock was right, Nolan got back to his focus. “If the cabin’s so remote, how’d you find it?”
“Because I’m good. And just because I found it doesn’t mean I could get to it. Listen, Nolan. I think you’re right. He’s still protected. I don’t know who’s got his back or what it means, but his pattern is rigid, when unpredictable would be better if he were hiding out on his own. It suggests he’s keeping a schedule somebody else made for him. And that means it’s more than just him you might need to aim for. Going in alone is stupid and will get you killed.”
That intel had him interested—and, yeah, a little more nervous. If his hunch was right, and Vega was still in the game and a threat to them, then he was biting off a lot. But what choice did he have? His club was not with him. “There’s nobody but me. I’m alone.”
Ultimately, it didn’t matter if it got him killed. He could only have the future he wanted if he faced off with Vega.
“Fuck, kid. Okay. This is how it plays: Go north to Bismarck. That’s North Dakota.”
“I know where Bismarck is.”
Sherlock ignored that. “Call me when you get there. I will set you up to meet somebody that can help you make sense of what you’re getting yourself into. You got a long ride ahead of you. Can you get across the border?”
“Yeah, I’m set.” He still had his forged passport from his SoCal days. And he had his savings to cover whatever expenses he had. “Wait—you’re bringing somebody in?”
“Yeah. It’s cool, don’t worry. You need some face-to-face information. And here’s the next part, and you need to know it before you make this decision. I can’t let you put the Horde on the line without everybody knowing it’s coming. We have all been through enough shit, and I won’t let one of our own fuck us just as we’re getting on our feet. I am going to Connor with this, and you know he will call Badge right away.”
Nolan hadn’t expected that. He’d thought that the risk of Sherlock breaking his confidence would have happened at first contact. “Why are you helping me at all, then?”
“I told you. If you go off completely half-cocked, you’ll get us all killed. So I’ve set it up so you have a chance of pulling it off. But we have to be prepared here if you don’t.”
Fuck. He was in trouble if they came after him. He couldn’t outrun the whole damn club. “Will you give me a head start?”
Sherlock was quiet.
“Please?”
“Twenty-four hours. That’s it. Then I’m going to Connor.”
Twenty-four hours would get him to this meet in North Dakota and then into Canada. It was enough. “Thank you, man.”
“Call me when you get to Bismarck.”
“I will.”
“Nolan. Keep your eyes and ears open, brother. Do not relax.”
There was no chance of that.
~oOo~
Back in Signal Bend, now with a clock hanging over his head, Nolan went home, hoping to see his mom and brother before he left. They weren’t there, but there was a note on the whiteboard by the fridge: At Bart’s for supper. Come join us!
He couldn’t go to Bart’s.
Feeling the weight of loneliness so dense it was hard to breathe, Nolan went back to his room and dug his pack out of the back of his closet. He filled it with a couple of changes of clothes, a toothbrush and deodorant, his passport, and the supplies he’d picked up in Springfield. He shoved his jacket in there, too. It might be ninety degrees in June in mid-Missouri, but he doubted Manitoba would be so warm.
Then he shrugged his kutte off his shoulders. Folding it neatly, slowly, holding it against his chest as he made the edges of the fold even, he laid it on the bed. For a moment, he stood there with his hand flat on the leather.
Horde was the only thing he’d wanted to be. His father’s legacy. He couldn’t believe he was ready to give it up.
But his father was dead. The man who’d killed him still breathed. Havoc would never have let him live on. Nolan understood now that that simmering rage in his belly was Havoc’s rage, and it would only be cooled by this. He would never fully be Havoc’s son until he found revenge for his murder. He would never be okay in his life until this was settled. He would never be able to love in the right way, in his own way, until he had straightened out his tangles and knotted his loose ends.
He pulled his personal phone and his club burner from his pockets and set them both on the kutte. He didn’t know if it would be his kutte anymore after this day, but he knew that it would always wear wrong if he didn’t do this thing.
Then he went back out to the kitchen. He wiped the whiteboard clean and wrote: I love you. I’m okay.
On the counter sat a set of drumsticks. Since he’d been able to start lessons, Loki carried his sticks around with him nearly everywhere—and he left them behind nearly every
where. Their mom was losing her patience with finding them all over the house, and with him tearing shit up looking for them when he wanted to practice. Nolan picked this set up and took them to his brother’s drum kit. He set them on the seat.
He took Thor out back and let him do his business, then refreshed his water and gave him a couple of Milk-Bones.
Then he went north.
~oOo~
The bar Sherlock had directed him to in Bismarck was seedy even by dive bar standards. Outside the limits of what could possibly be called society, it took up a corner on a short, desolate street of mostly shuttered businesses. Across the way was a long row of warehouses behind ten-foot chain link topped with concertina wire.
Not the most welcoming scene, but the kind of scene where shady deals went down among not the most welcoming people.
It was just past noon, but it looked like the bar had some early drinkers among its clientele. The little lot at its side was nearly full, and several vehicles were parked on the street as well.
Most of the vehicles around the bar were pickups, battered and dirty from hard use. Nolan backed his bike up at the end of a short row of bikes. North Dakota didn’t require helmets for riders over eighteen years of age; Nolan had locked his down as soon as he’d crossed into the state. So he just dismounted and stepped up onto the curb.
He’d ridden nearly straight through, stopping only for fuel, food, and coffee, and then, later, to offload what he’d taken in. About a thousand miles in just more than fourteen hours. He’d arrived in Bismarck in the morning, found a cheap motel and crashed for a few hours before this meet.
AC/DC rattled the windows as he came onto the walk, and blared in his face when he opened the door.
The place was dim; almost all the light came from the neon beer signs and the old-style stained-glass lamps hanging over two pool tables, and it took him a second or to get acclimated to the dark. Everybody in the room looked up as he came in, and kept looking when they didn’t recognize him.
Without his kutte, Nolan felt liked he’d walked onto a live battlefield stark naked. But he knew the etiquette in a place like this, and he was a guy just like these guys, after all. So he squared his shoulders, nodded when he made eye contact, but didn’t linger, and scanned the room for the man he was meant to meet.
He was looking for a Native American. No—when he had been in SoCal, Lakota West had done a rant, with the eloquence that came with of a lot of tequila and weed, about all the reasons ‘Native American’ was a fucked-up term, too. It had to do with where the word ‘American’ came from and how the term ‘Native American’ lumped all the tribes together when they were just as distinct from each other as Swedes and Italians, and…Nolan couldn’t remember the whole thing. Just that ‘Native American’ wasn’t as politically correct as people thought.
So he was looking for someone of one of the tribes around here. Or whatever. Fuck. An Indian. He was looking for an Indian. Sorry, Lakota.
Lakota’s death was at Vega’s feet, too.
He didn’t have to look hard. A man with olive skin and long, dark hair, poker straight, came from the bar right to him. Nolan’s reflexes twitched, prepared to fight, but the man held out his hand.
“Nolan?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Nacto. Sherlock says hi.”
Nolan’s muscles eased up, and he shook hands. The man grinned. He was about Nolan’s height, maybe an inch or so shorter, but noticeably leaner, almost skinny. Yet that handshake had some torque to it.
A bubble of something rose in Nolan’s head, like the name ‘Nacto’ was familiar, but he couldn’t catch it before it popped. That was stupid, anyway. He knew absolutely nobody in North Dakota. It was probably familiar because it sounded like ‘nacho.’
“Sherlock said you could help me out?”
“Yeah, man. Not here, though. We need a place we can spread out and talk loose. There’s a motel a couple clicks outside of town. You can’t miss it—it’s pink and red. C’mon—you can follow me.”
Nolan didn’t like it, but he wasn’t sure why. Moreover, he wasn’t sure what his choices were. He wouldn’t be able to track Vega down on his own, and this was how Sherlock aimed to help him. So he nodded and followed his new friend Nacto back into the Bismarck afternoon.
When Nacto mounted a big black Softail, Nolan had a flash of understanding. He knew why the name had seemed vaguely familiar. His full given name was something longer and stranger. Nolan couldn’t remember it exactly, but he was pretty sure it ended with the syllables ‘nacto.’
Nacto was Montana Horde.
Nolan had only met a couple of the men in that new charter, but he’d seen their roster several times. Nacto Washington. They’d made him SAA a few months back.
Sherlock had already given Nolan up. But the twenty-four hours hadn’t elapsed yet.
Nacto had tied a red bandana over his head and slid black sunglasses over his face. “You comin’, bruh?”
The Horde had him. Jesus fuck, what was he walking into?
But if he ran, they would kill him for sure. And he’d be a coward in the bargain.
He swung his leg over his Ironhead. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
He’d known when he’d left what he was risking. If he was going to his death, he’d meet it face first.
~oOo~
The Sweet Cherry Suites looked like the proprietors had stretched the definition of ‘suites’ pretty far. It was one long building, office up front, with about fifteen rooms extending down a long walk. The building was painted a bright, plastic pink, and the doors and trim were vivid red. Though the paint seemed fresh, as Nolan walked up with Nacto toward the door bearing the pitted brass numerals denoting the room as number ‘12,’ he noticed that it had been slapped on over the peeling remnants of its earlier coats.
He saw all of that in the intense focus that had emerged behind his eyes as he walked toward who the fuck knew what. For all he knew, there could be a row of Horde standing with guns aimed on the door, ready to take him down Godfather style. There weren’t any other bikes on the lot but the two they’d just parked, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. They could have them under cover, or they could’ve ridden to Bismarck in a cage. He had no idea.
When Nacto slid his key card into the slot, Nolan got ready.
Inside the room sat Len and Tommy. Tommy was stretched out on one of the beds, on top of a butt-ugly motel bedspread, watching television. Len was sitting at the little round table near the door, cleaning his gun.
“The prodigal shithead,” Len grumbled. “Sit your ass down.”
Nacto went and dropped into the one armchair in the room, hooking his leg over the arm, and reached over to take a beer from the cooler on the floor, like they were all just hanging out, and he hadn’t led Nolan to an ambush.
“Do what you’re gonna do,” Nolan said, his eyes on Len. “You’re gonna have to kill me to stop me from doing what I’m gonna do.”
Len pulled another gun from behind his back and pointed it at Nolan’s head. He cocked it, and Nolan’s blood slowed and went cold.
“Tommy and me are cleared to make the call we need to make. Right now, I want you to sit your ass down. You gonna get shot over that, or are you gonna wait and see if you get shot over something worth it?”
Nolan pulled out the chair across the table from Len and sat down. “You can talk all you want, but unless you pull that trigger, I’m going for Vega.”
Len decocked his Beretta and set it on the table next to his disassembled Glock. “You know what happens if you get caught out, right? Vega, or whoever’s covering his ass, or the Zapatas, or somebody—they come gunning for us. All the Horde. All our family. This is so important to you that you’ll put that on the line?”
“That’s all at risk if he lives. I was right—he’s protected. He’s still in the game.”
At that, Len nodded, but not like he was agreeing. Just hearing. “Christ, you are such an asshole. You know that even if y
ou somehow get this done and make your way back home, your patch is on the table. You understand that, right?”
Now Nolan nodded. “Yeah, I know.” It broke his heart, but doing nothing was breaking his heart, too. And his mind. “I left it at home because I knew I was outside the club—and because I didn’t want to show my affiliation while I did this. Maybe it won’t blow back on you. Nobody’ll know I’m Horde.”
Apparently finding that hilarious, Len laughed hard and turned to Nacto and Tommy, who joined in. Nolan didn’t get the joke.
Nolan: Return to Signal Bend Page 21