“What bunch of guys? Do you have names?” Bones narrowed his eyes, staring hard at Chismoso, trying to decide what he was holding back. It was a given that he would, a man didn’t get to where he’d been in the Diamante without learning how to guard his tongue. This appeared to be simple fatigue, as Chismoso’s head dropped back.
“No, I don’t remember names. They were fucking soldiers. Just any guy on a bike who could hold a piece in hand and weren’t afraid to use it. Guarding Mother wasn’t an honor, not like with Rebels. They were fodder, not worth learning the names, not worth anything until Deacon said they were.” He yawned hugely, mouth dropping open on an exhale. “Tired, man.”
“Tell me about Lalo. How was he when they took him out of the van?” Bones felt like he was near something important. DEA didn’t scoop a guy up and hold him for weeks, then just kick him to the curb. Not without reason, and Lalo didn’t seem to present the right kinds of reasons.
“He was freaked. Called them federales, was all bluster and shit. He’d fucked up his stitches beating Tucker, so he was one-armed, basically. Kept asking for a port. No fucking idea what that was about. Then Deacon came out to the street. We hadn’t even gotten into the driveway, cars angled all around the van, pinning us in. I had my hands on the wheel, holding tight, keeping still. Five guns on me, didn’t want to give them anything to itch about. Back door opened and they dragged Tucker out into the street. Lalo, man.” Chismoso paused, snorted a humorless laugh. “Fucking loco, he stepped out of the van like he owned the world, but then five seconds later he’s screaming at them. DEA, FBI, police. Alphabet soup of agencies, and he’s telling them how he’s going to nut their boss.” Another snort, this one slightly more amused. “DEA guy whipped him around, plastered him belly-down on the hood, laughing the whole time. ‘My boss doesn't have balls like yours,’ he said, ‘she got lady balls bigger than you’ve ever seen.’ Made me laugh.” He grimaced, tipping his head to the side. “Cost me, because Lalo saw. When he got back, he…took me to task for my laughter.”
“DEA ever show up?” If it was a female team leader, that gave them more than they had before. The Miami division had stonewalled all attempts to find out about Lalo while he was being held, but if Bones could locate the person who had put the raid together, Myron might dig out at least some information. I don’t know why it matters anymore, but it does. “This SAC with lady balls?”
“Yeah, she fuckin’ showed. Ballbuster wrote all over her. She took hold of Lalo’s cuffs, yanked his arms high, not giving a shit about him bleeding all down his arm. Said something to him. He fuckin’ gave up after that. Bitch.” His anger at being required to watch the encounter was clear, the agent had emasculated both men with one move. Bones felt a stirring of admiration. “Lalo said she knew his name. He thought the gig was up. Thought he’d been caught out for all the shit he’d done. He got back and fuckin’ told everyone they didn’t know shit.”
“Why’d they want him, then? Deacon was there, he’s the head, the mastermind—” Chismoso snorted, and Bones stopped talking, giving him a chance to explain his amusement.
“Deacon ain’t no mastermind, man. That’s all Morgan.”
If that were true, this would be the first real confirmation that Morgan and Deacon were working together. There had been lots of speculation, but to Bones’ eye, no real facts to lay out. No one had seen them together, just had reports of them being in the same locations at nearly the same time. “Morgan was there?”
“No, he wasn’t there.” Bones deflated a little at this, then Chismoso got his attention in a way he didn’t expect. “Shooter was, though. Morgan’s mouthpiece was fully in residence, and had crawled so far up Deacon’s asshole it wasn’t funny.”
Distractions
Mason
Justice Morgan’s voice rasped through the speakers, amusement evident in his tone. Whatever this was he had called to share, Mason was not going to like it, and Morgan was clearly relishing the idea of putting him back on his heels.
“Christ, son, I never took you for stupid.” Mason's teeth ground together, the noise loud in his head, but he held his tongue, not wanting to give Morgan the reaction he knew the man wanted. “You seriously think your mama was the only one I took?” His chuckle was dark, full of menace. “Fuck, boy. I'm not no metro-fuckin-sexual pussyboy. You know that about me. Never one to put a bridle on my want-to, either. I see pussy I want, I take it. Don’t matter where, or when...or who.” Without pause, he shifted topics. “You and John never got close.”
Mason made an involuntary noise, a guttural grunt like he’d taken a hit.
Morgan heard it and chuckled in response. “Yeah, you never got close, you and your brother. But son,”—at the repeat of that hated word from this man Mason’s neck twisted, chin pulling to the side—“you seriously think you're the only ones?”
“Old man, you have other kids, ain’t my concern. Don’t surprise me, fuck, wouldn’t surprise me if you had a fuckin’ clan scattered ocean to ocean.” Mason knew his anger was visible to the men in the room with him, felt the rise of heat in his chest and neck. Morgan had a way of getting underneath his skin, and it wasn’t healthy. Nothing about his reaction to the man was healthy. “Does lead me to wonder how many of ‘em want anything to do with you. Now, is this why you called me? Want to discourse on how many little Morgans you got runnin’ around?”
“You always was my favorite, boy.” Another rough chuckle followed this insane statement.
“Not your boy, Morgan. I’m nothing to you but a headache.” Mason closed his eyes, listening carefully to the other end of the call. Noise in the background, and if he wasn’t wrong, Shooter’s voice not far away. “Pain in Shooter’s ass. Willing to be a fuckuva lot more, y’all don’t stop your shit. Ain’t having a sit-down, if that’s what you’re calling for. You’ve cut any road between us so fucking deep, no damned bridge gonna mend anything.”
“You know I had your mama before you were born? Course you don’t, betting Irving didn’t talk about that, not even when she’d come to me again.” Unwelcome memories washed through Mason, the nighttime of a Kentucky holler, chill of the dew coming down.
“She didn’t go to you.” Voice thick with rage, Mason snapped his mouth shut a half a second too late, the words already escaping, angry with himself he’d let Morgan goad him again. “You fucking took what you wanted, without thinking a goddamned thing about what was left behind.”
“Prez,” Slate’s voice from beside him was quiet, warning, and Mason nodded sharply.
“Told you once, I didn’t know she had you and that girl.” Morgan’s voice was as soothing as it had ever sounded, conciliatory almost. “If I’da known, I’da took you, too. Left the girl, though. Got no use for her. Even if she’s mine, gals ain’t nothing but trouble.”
“Jesus, man. Stop with the desperate bullshit,” Mason exploded, leaning towards the phone positioned in the center of the table, he tried to shake off Slate’s hand gripping his arm. “Stop with the shit, old man. You wish you’d fathered someone like me, but you got stuck with weakass Shooter. Always having to clean up after him, always having to settle the debts he saddles you with. Fuck, it’s no wonder you want to spin yarns about having a passel of kids scattered around the states. No fucking wonder you want anything better than what you got.”
“One thing about it,” Morgan went on as if Mason hadn’t spoken. “Least it don’t matter whose seed laid the path for Garrett.”
“I recommend you think twice before holding my boy’s name in your mouth again.” Mason lowered his voice and felt a chill flooding through his veins. His hands clenched, and he wished for something to throw. Something to rend and tear apart, try and kill this fury running through him. “He ain’t anything to you, and you won’t ever be anything to him.”
“Nope, that boy is Morgan, through and through. Not a bit of Mason in him. You ever think on that, boy? What’d it be like to know Irving didn’t father you? He was a right bastard, him and his
congregation. Never understood his need for tender flesh. I prefer my warm and willing to be just that. Well, at least warm, and older. About Garrett, though. You sure the boy’s yours? You and Shooter being blood, might have confused the testing, it looking for a difference between you and Judge. You sure, Mason?”
Mason opened his mouth to retort and thought better, reaching out instead to firmly press the button to disconnect the call. Leaning on stiffened arms, he let his head hang forwards, telling the men in the room, “Get out.” Without looking up, he listened to the shuffling of footsteps as the room slowly cleared. His mood being clearly read, the men didn’t speak, didn’t offer him any words at all. When the door closed, without looking up, Mason asked, “You get why he’s doin’ that shit?”
“Yes, my friend,” Bones answered, and Mason heard Slate’s grunt.
“You called it. Motherfucker’s desperate. He’s lookin’ to stir up any fucking thing he can, put you off stride.” That was what Mason had told them before taking the call. Slate moved around the table, hooking a chair and dragging it to the side before he sat slowly. “He found a raw spot, or what he thinks is a raw spot, decided to dig a little, see what kind of red he could score.” Mason tipped his head, glancing towards Slate, seeing a sympathetic look on his friend’s face. “He scored. That’s clear.” Leaning back in the chair, Slate lifted one leg, propping it on the tabletop. “Fuckin’ hate seeing that, but I don’t know if he got it through the phone.”
“He got it,” Bones assured them, circling the table the other direction, seating himself much as Slate had. “He got everything. What I want to know, Mason, is why you gave that to him?”
“Fuck,” Mason gritted the word out, straightening and pushing a hand through his hair. “He just fuckin’ got to me. Bringing up Mama like that. He never fucking gave that first shit about her, except about how it looked when she’d run. Back and forth across the fucking country, he chased her, and she’d run. I didn’t see it for a long time. Hell, she was already dead and gone, I sure as fuck couldn’t ask her. All I had was Morgan’s words that she’d gone to him willing.” He shook his head. “The woman I remember wouldn’t have done that. Wouldn’t have stood beside that motherfucker, not without being bound into place. I think he used John for that. Kept her there with threats. She knew in Kentucky that at least Bethy and I had each other. Her lessons to me always to make sure I kept Bethy safe, remembered I had a brother, remembered I wasn’t alone.”
“Why was he looking to rattle you, Prez?” Slate lifted his other leg, crossing his ankles as he leaned back further. “Sure as shit, that was his play tonight.”
“I think…distraction.” Bones spoke slowly, seeming to feel his way through the words. “There is something he wishes you to not pursue. I do not know what. But I feel that is behind his call.”
Mason stretched, feeling the muscles under his skin pull and burn with the movement. Spendin’ too much fuckin’ time in this room. “Bones, you know everything we got moving. You tell me, what are we hunting that might be an issue for him?” Deliberately he put behind him any thread of doubt that might have crept up on him about Garrett. Told Willa more than once it didn’t matter, and that fuckin’ test showed it true. He’s my boy. Our boy. “What we got in play?”
“Easier to answer what we don’t have in play, man. Which is fucking hardly anything.” Slate snorted. “New Mexico, California, Utah, Texas, Tennessee. I got people moving in all those places.”
“Add to that Florida and Kentucky.” Mason tipped his head, looking at Bones. With a frown, Bones continued, “Chismoso’s harvest is happening in Florida. We have the SAC who dealt with Lalo on the hook. She is to meet with one of our men soon.”
“Got a name?” Not that it mattered, but Mason liked to know the small details. Helped him keep things straight in his head.
“Justine LaPorte. She has worked for the government since college. Appears to be a straight arrow, which makes her dismissal of their case against Lalo suspect. At least to me.” Bones dug into his back pocket, pulling out his phone. “Gunny was to send a picture if he had a chance, let me see if it has arrived.” A moment later he grunted and leaned forwards, sliding his phone across the table as he shook his head. Slate reached out and stopped the slide, holding the phone in place for a moment before lifting it, looking at the image in what appeared to be shock.
“Shit.” His voice was low and sounded wary as he drew out the word, following it with a quiet whistle. “Bones, I’m thinkin’ you found what tweaked Morgan.” He pulled in a hard breath, gaze fixed on the device. “Jesus, fuck. You sure she’s the one that let Lalo go?”
Bones nodded. Slate put the phone back to the table, sliding it sharply towards Mason. He got his hand down in time to halt the movement before it flew off the surface, looking at Slate, puzzled. Mason turned his gaze to the phone and drew in a breath. “Yeah, I’d say we found out what he was trying to distract me from.” A grey-eyed woman stared out at him, her dark hair swept to one side, pulled into a neat ponytail at the back of her head.
Missing him
Ester
I’d been three days without waking up to Bones sleeping next to me. Something I missed more than I thought possible, but then I missed him more than I imagined anyone had ever missed anyone. I missed the way he smelled like life, full of motorcycles and beer. How he touched me like I was a bubble on the wind, set to shatter on impact with anything except him. I missed how his skin felt like steel-wrapped satin underneath my fingertips. I missed his smiles, all of them, from gentle to fierce. I missed how he kept flowers in the house for me after the single time I’d sniffed a rose at a street vendor’s booth, looking up from inhaling the scent to see him smiling down at me. He’d bought every rose the vendor had that day, and since I moved into his house, he refreshed the bouquet on the table in the bedroom at least once a week.
I missed him. The everything that was him. I missed the who I was with him. I’d never known a person leaving could take parts of you with them. Everyone in my life had always been on the leaving side of the line, until him. He hadn’t told me he wouldn’t leave, hadn’t even told me he’d be back soon. I liked how he hadn’t lied to me, and I couldn’t ever remember a lie from his lips. I did remember his words. Every single one of them since we’d met. And the most important ones ran through my head on a loop, like a laugh track, but without the laughter. My most precious possession.
I wanted him back.
Road Runner—who confessed his real name was Kevin, but had scowled when I’d called that his close friends’ name, and thanked him for counting me in that circle—told me it wasn’t safe yet for me to go back to Bones’ home. He also corrected me, calling it my home, but I ignored that.
I restricted my questions to thirteen a day, reckoning that to be my luckiest chance at receiving the news I wanted.
He was patient with me. Kind, but firm. I wasn’t allowed to leave the room he had brought me to. He was willing to restrain me if needed, reminding me this was what Bones wanted.
I knew that, but Bones wasn’t here.
I missed him.
Eye for an eye
Bones
Gun in hand, Bones ran along the edge of a patio, keeping his footsteps to the silent grass. There were five men behind him, double that number approaching the house from the front. Please, God, let her be here.
Two days ago, Juanita had disappeared from Chicago. She had called Bella, told her she knew where Carmela was being held, and was going to get her back. Bella had immediately tried to reason with her, quickly running to Tater, phone in hand, but Juanita had already disconnected. Now, she wasn’t picking up, and Myron hadn’t been able to get a lock on her phone for hours. When Bones talked to Tater, he was beside himself because he hadn’t fielded the call, hadn’t talked to her, and didn’t have any good intel.
Myron had spent hours bent over a laptop, poring over Juanita’s call records, and found a pattern of communication. She would receive a hang-u
p call lasting only a second or two, then a text from the same number, and then within five minutes would log onto her computer. Digging through her history wasn’t difficult, because she hadn’t tried to hide her tracks very hard, probably only following the instructions of whoever had contacted her, so Myron had reconstructed much of the data. They had a blurry, black and white picture of a bound and gagged Carmela and Hurley, in what looked to be a cellar of some kind, the two faces turned up to the camera. They also had an address for the number that called Juanita, and from there Myron had followed a trail which led them to this house just outside Albuquerque.
Now, under cover of darkness in a spring nighttime that was as hot as the summer in Chicago, Bones eased to the wall of the house, positioning himself next to the back door. Opie pushed in beside him, leaning close to whisper, “Front team in position.” Bones nodded, stretching his neck and listening hard, trying to see if there was any noise from inside.
A word, then a flurry of language. A woman’s voice, unintelligible, but he thought it might be Juanita. Opie leaned in close again. “Eyes across the street says two adults, male and female. Female is standing, appears to be brandishing a weapon. Man just hit his knees.” They had a spotter on top of the house across the street from their target, and Opie’s earpiece was coming in handy, keeping them all up to date on what was going on. Watcher’s men were more accustomed to this kind of activity than the rest of them.
On the way in the plane, Bones had considered the differences in the clubs, coming to the realization that Watcher’s men worked more like a military unit, while his own had operated efficiently in a small group, but without the same level of discipline. Different strengths, he’d thought, and knew himself correct when they hit the ground in New Mexico running, with precise intelligence on where they were going.
A shout from inside, the woman’s voice again, and then the report of a gun firing made Bones’ blood run cold. “We go now,” he told Opie and from the corner of his eye saw the man tap his earpiece, probably to relay the message. Bones had already reached for the handle and was yanking the door wide, swinging up the two steps and into the kitchen. Three strides later he was rounding an archway that led to the living room, seeing Juanita standing, feet firmly apart, a gun in her hand, aimed at a man he did not know. Before he could reach her, Juanita brought her other hand up to grasp the butt of the gun handle, and she pulled the trigger.
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