by Bella Knight
Lily and Daisy Chain were stymied by the few cameras on the res, and by the lack of coverage going in and out. So, people were dispatched to stores and restaurants to find out if any strangers came in before or after the attack. The Iron Knights used their law enforcement ties to get access to video. Daisy Chain and Lily were hopping, trying to find anything to go on electronically. People were dispatched to watch footage, looking for anything that could point to where Daisy and Henry were taken.
“Guys,” said Lily, calling in on speakerphone. “Some of the Blacksnakes numbnuts weren't picked up at either the dog pit or the meth lab. Some guy named Bullet, real name Bob McCavey, and one named Chains, aka Davis Howsen… lovely guys all, never had any charges filed, even though they were called by all the other members on their cell phones.”
Jingo, an ex-military MP, said, “We can get their records. You dig into addresses.”
“Already on it,” said Lily.
“That’s my woman,” said Ace.
There were high-fives, fist bumps, and shoulder slaps. Ivy dispatched people to their addresses as they came in, keeping them in small teams.
The team that went to Bullet’s house came up empty; it was long-empty and was now being used as a teen sex house, with condom wrappers and bongs included.
Chain’s house was still inhabited by his mother, and she had stuffed his things in some boxes. Amid the meth-fumed jackets, blunts of poor-quality marijuana, and small change, there was a tiny cell phone. They took pictures of it and recorded themselves asking the mother if they could take the phone with them. She gave permission on video. Tito and Gregory hustled it over to Lily, and she and Daisy Chain downloaded the numbers and texts and started working on them. Tito then took the phone over to the tribal police for processing.
They had a lot more luck with the phone. Lily looked exhausted but triumphant.
“We’re looking for Talamates.” She tapped a number. “The DEA say that’s the number of one of their operatives. I hear they’re a new gang.”
Ivy whipped out her phone and texted Ghost and Alicia. “We’ll know all about them soon,” she said.
On the street, Ghost and Killa talked to Lavinda, a transvestite hooker, and found out that people knew about the kidnapping, and that no one knew who did it.
“Y’all gotta good rep,” said Lavinda. “Ain’t hasslin’ nobody. Now people done run all ovah da city, cops out drivin’ round, even da bicycle cops out on dere tiny bikes.” She snorted. “You ain’t find you people wit no tiny bike.” She got serious. “Gimme you digits. We hear somfin’, we call.”
“Be a favah, money, in it, on dose who got somfin’ real,” said Ghost.
“Don’ she talk?” Lavinda said about Alicia.
“That Killa. She don’ talk until she killin.’”
“Keep quiet, girl,” laughed Lavinda, waving her hands. “You keep dat mouf closed all good an’ tight.”
They gave DaShawn, (an eight-year-old lookout for a crack dealer), some chocolate, and gum.
“What you hear ‘bout dem assholes, come on da res, stir up shit?”
“Heard dey stupid,” said DaShawn. “Met Ace once. Gave me some of dat old-fashioned pink gum in de yellow and pink wrapper. He all right. Don’ cause no trouble. Even Big Mike and Leticia say, don’ cause trouble wit no Nighthawks, dey not cause no trouble wit us.”
They crossed the street and got deeper into Leticia’s territory. They saw a corner with cars driving in, and people leaning into windows, and cars driving away.
“She be close,” said Ghost. They finally spotted her, in the shade of a building.
They bought some drinks at a convenience store. Alicia got a glass bottle of orange soda and pointed it at Leticia. They crossed the street. They laid against the wall near her and waited for her to speak; Alicia silently handed her an orange soda with a hundred-dollar bill wrapped around the neck of the bottle.
“Ghost,” said Leticia. She looked at Alicia and asked, “Hear yo name Killa now?”
Killa nodded. They drank their sodas.
“Don’ know bout them people took yo people. Do know people in bikes runnin’ round Alphabet City last night, real late.” Alphabet City was the gang-ridden, poor neighborhood of Las Vegas, with the street names in the form of letters.
“Roun’ two?” asked Ghost.
“Yeah,” said Leticia.
“What bout dem Blacksnakes?” asked Ghost.
“Dem beheaded snakes,” said Leticia. “Got no power, no money. Gov’mint done froze dere cash. Got nothin’ to trade. Dere info done be old. Dey join da skinheads for protection, still get shived for bein’ assholes.” She huffed a laugh. “Gotta be stone stupid, be able to offen’ dem skinheads.”
The Skinheads kept their heads shaved and had their Nazi propaganda and swastikas tattooed onto their bodies. Ghost had no idea how to offend them; they themselves were offensive to everyone in prison. Everyone hated them. Stupid allies dey be makin,’ thought Ghost.
“Anyting else?” asked Ghost.
“Naw,” she said. “Be takin’ yo dough, I hear sumfin.” Ghost gave her the digits for her new phone.
“I be good,” Killa said to Leticia. “Got married. My wifey, she call me Killa, keep me safe.”
Leticia nodded, once. “I gotta new one. Pick her up after dis done. Right now, you at war. When war over, come see me.” They nodded, and walked farther down the street, the sunlight like a hammer, beating on their shoulders.
They had their shades down tight. Ghost called in and told them about Alphabet City, then they caught a downtown bus for the Alphabet streets. They got off on Martin Luther King Boulevard and ate chicken at a Popeyes. They walked up the street and talked to Denny Dune, a pimp on the corner. He had cornrows, a do’ rag in neutral yellow, and a soft blue shirt over low-hanging jeans. He had heard the bikes, but he didn’t know where the sound was coming from.
Huan and Reinje, (late-night convenience store workers) from competing 7-11s on opposite corners, were also unable to pinpoint the exact source of the sound of bikes in the night.
The ladies got more sodas and hit the streets again. They went deeper in. The Basketball Girls, or B-Girls, were doing lazy layups in the heat. Every single one of them had painted nails and lip gloss in matching colors. The Hispanic girls had more cinnamon color to their lips, and the black girls more magenta. They pointed north and a little west, kind of near the Air Force Base.
Ghost called in again about the location.
Ivy sighed. “Good luck getting those cameras.”
They talked to Slim Jim, a very tall, crack addict, who kept pointing them north and east. They gave him a sandwich, a soda, and some chips and moved on. The women at the Family Dollar Store, “didn’t know nothin’.” The liquor store goddess named Sondra, who was decked out in a filmy white thing that set off her caramel skin perfectly, said, “Two blocks over.”
Ghost texted Ivy. She didn’t get an immediate reply, so she called Ace.
“Gregory and Ivy are on their way in,” he said. “They’re going to park their bikes at the Family Dollar and walk up.”
“Be hot,” said Ghost. She gave the address where they were. “Tell ‘em to get drinks.”
“You got guns?” asked Ace.
“That’s what the drinks be for,” said Ghost.
Ace sighed. “Got ya,” he said and hung up.
He knew that silencers could be made out of plastic drink bottles. They weren’t perfect, but good enough. Not that anyone would mind so much. Gunfire happened in the neighborhood where they were.
They decided to do a little recon. They hit the corner and walked at a very slow pace down the street. They saw bikes through a yard. They walked down and turned the corner. They found a corner and walked away from the house with the bikes, several Harleys, and two Kawasaki’s. Ghost used Alicia’s body to shield herself, and texted Ivy and Gregory with the street name. They walked around the block and swung back around.
“Whachu doi
n?” asked a twelve-year-old girl in a white lacy shirt and blue shorts, a lookout.
“Dem bikes, who rides ‘em?” asked Ghost, taking a drink out of her pocket, a can of grape soda, and handing it to the girl with a twenty folded up, sticking to its sweaty sides.
The girl popped open the drink, making the twenty disappear. “Dey white an’ cinnamon.” White and Hispanic, she meant. “Dey loud an’ stupid.” No one would worry much if someone took them out.
“Dey won’t be no problem much longa,” said Ghost, handing the girl some bubble gum with a ten underneath. “You tell Dolla n’ Jackson, we removin’ de trash. Ain’t got no problem.”
“Word,” said the girl, skipping off toward the house, a white one with bars on the windows, shut down tight. Killa and Ghost ambled slowly down the street.
A boy of about nine stopped them just as they swung around the corner. “You got gum?” he said. Ghost passed him gum with a twenty. “Dolla n’ Jackson is biznessmen. Wanna payment.”
“What dey want?” asked Ghost.
“A favah from Leticia.”
“Ain’t got dat to spend,” said Ghost.
“Ya’ll silly,” said the boy. “Ev’body knows Leticia owes the Nighthawks a favah.”
“Ace be in charge o’dat. Wan’ some green instead?”
“Five-large,” said the boy.
Ghost snorted. “We takin’ out da loud trash, and we gotta pay? We doin’ you’all a favah.”
An older boy ran up, said, “Ya’ll got some gum?” He held up two fingers. Ghost slipped him the gum, with two C-notes underneath. “Nice doin’ bidness wi’ yew,” said the taller boy. They both vanished.
They swung around the corner. The message had already gone out. People ambled around the corner. A woman in a yard went back indoors. A skinny teen saw them, whirled, and went the other way. Little girls ran past them and ran indoors.
They had the house in sight. They heard bikes in the distance. In the front yard, Ghost and Alicia saw bikes, mostly cheap Kawasaki’s, and windows covered with both bars and heavy curtains, and peeling, brown paint. The bikes looked older. The Harley lowrider was the only one that had been maintained properly.
They went up, circled the mosque, texted again, and swung toward Family Dollar. They didn’t acknowledge them when they saw Ivy and Gregory, but just pointed with their eyes.
They took the house, knives in one hand and guns in the other. Ivy and Ghost in the back door, Gregory and Killa in the front. The door exploded in —Gregory had one hell of a kick. The Talamantes ran out the back, with guns up and ready to fire.
Ivy shot one in the chest, a Hispanic guy covered in black ink, of skulls and flames. His gun clattered to the ground. Alicia kneecapped the other one, a white guy with a skull tattooed on his face. He held his leg, making squeaking noises. Ivy hit him with the butt of her gun, and he went silent and still. Ivy made sure he was still breathing.
They took their guns, knives, and two grenades off them, and entered. There was the boom of a gun, and Killa’s cry and another boom. Ivy pointed to the left, and she turned herself to the right. They briefly touched backs, then Ghost and Ivy split up to move down the hallway.
The bed was grimy, with filthy, gray sheets smeared with blood. There was a sliding-door closet. Ivy checked under the bed and saw guns and a box of something; probably drugs or money. Ivy heard a thump from the closet. She slid open the door and found Henry slumped against the wall.
She holstered her gun, and yelled, “Medic!” and knelt.
She carefully peeled off the silver duct tape, crusted with blood, from his mouth. She then cut it off his wrists and ankles. Henry looked terrible. There were cuts over both eyes, which were swollen shut. He had broken fingers, a broken right arm, and probably broken ribs.
“Get a door!” she screamed at Killa, who poked her head in. “We’ve got to get him out of here.”
“Inola,” said Henry, blood from his long, gray hair streaking the inside of the closet with blood.
Ivy knelt to get closer to his lips. “Raped her. Fought them, they knocked me out. Choked me.” Ivy noticed the strangulation marks on his neck. “Have a white or gray van. Fat tires. JST something, 1 something.”
“We’ll find her,” said Ivy, as Ghost sidled up behind her, who texted out the license plate information, and sent it out.
She took pictures of Henry and sent them out too. “Gregory’s got the live one,” she said. “Some Knights took ‘em.”
“KTA,” said Henry, then he, blessedly, passed out.
“Ghost, type KTA and send it out,” said Ivy.
“Already did,” she said, as Killa ran out and came back with a sheet, still in its package. “What it do mean?”
“Kill Them All,” said Ivy. She took the sheet, shook it out, and rolled Henry onto it.
They got Henry out, and a black 4x4 drove up. Tito spilled out. He opened the door and helped to use the sheet to pass Henry into the van to the Iron Knight inside.
He slammed the door, and said, “Vanish, ladies. The cleanup crew is on its way.”
“Getta ride?” Ghost asked Ivy. She nodded, they took off for the Family Dollar. Ghost rode behind Ivy, and Killa behind Gregory.
Ivy took them to her house, where she changed out of her bloody clothes and threw them in the trash, tears streaming down her face.
Callie ran in and held her. Ivy pushed her away.
“Go,” Ivy choked out. “Find that fucking van.”
“It’s gray, J8T, not S,” said Callie. “We’re finding traffic cams. You shower.”
She ran back in toward her laptop. Ivy washed the blood off, watched it go down the shower drain, shaking with rage. She partly dried her hair, then twisted it, then put on black cargo pants, a camisole bra, a black sleeveless top, and her motorcycle boots. Daisy sniffed her boots, and she patted the dog.
Callie handed her a bag. “The girls’ clothes,” she said. “We’re keeping them at the clubhouse for their protection until all these guys are gone.”
She also handed over two sleeping bags and two pillows, one in yellow, one in Chinese red. Ivy hauled it all out to the bike, filled up the saddlebags, and drove to the clubhouse. Callie went back to Lily’s house.
The school inside the clubhouse turned into an all-night sleepover. Nina took in the horses and brought the corgi from the farm, Bess, to guard the kids. They ate pizza, popped popcorn, and watched hero movies. Ivy dropped off the sleeping bags and clothes, kissed and hugged both girls, then the dog kissed Ivy, and Ivy left them to their movies.
Ivy walked into the clubhouse’s main room. Gregory tried to give her pizza, but she was too angry to eat, nerves buzzing.
“What do we know?” she said.
“Ace is with Henry,” said Gregory. “He’s in surgery. Probably going to lose the spleen. A skull fracture and surgery to relieve the pressure on his brain. Half the res is in the waiting room. I’ve never seen so many angry people in one place. I gave them the deets, and they’re researching the Talamandes for us.”
“Who the fuck are these guys?” asked Ivy, popping the top on a Coke and taking a sip.
“Let’s find out,” said Gregory.
Search Parameters
A woman with platinum hair —real; the highlights and lowlights were too perfect —in a short bob. She had crystal-blue eyes… the color of snow in shadow, and ivory skin. She came up behind Gregory. She had the full motorcycle look going on —black jeans with studs, a black Guns N’ Roses shirt (the yellow Use Your Illusion 2 version), and black steel-toed boots shined to a high polish.
“This is Annika Jensen, otherwise known as Wraith. She’s with the DEA.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said.
“Likewise,” said Ivy. They shook hands.
“This is Arlen Thanh, DEA, AKA Saber,” said Gregory.
A man came to stand on his other side. He was Asian, with a flat nose, warm brown eyes, a shock of black hair shaved on both sides, a sword earring in on
e ear, and a gold one in the other. He had scuffed, steel-toed, biker boots. Accentuated by black jeans, a Harley-Davidson black tee, and tattoos down both arms. Then, tribal bands around both biceps, dragons on both shoulders, red on the right, and blue on the left. Both dragons with garnet eyes, flowers, and portraits. He wore a leather band around his right wrist.
“I’m Ivy,” she said, shaking her hand.
“We know who you are,” said Saber. “You’re a go-to if one of our people need help. Your bar is actually a meeting place for a lot of our informational exchanges.”
Wraith nodded. “For us, too. The Iron Knights are first, of course, but in an emergency, we know you’ll put us in touch with the right people.”
“Absolutely,” said Ivy. “Good to know.”
“Let’s get some pizza and get down to it,” said Gregory.
They grabbed a table, pizza, and a laptop for Ivy, and tablets for everyone else. They scoffed down pizza, even Ivy, realizing they were about to get major help.
“This ugly son-of-a-bitch is the man we suspect you helped put away,” said Wraith, calling up Claw’s mugshot.
“Neither confirm or deny,” said Gregory.
“Good to know,” said Wraith, dryly. “He used to be the head of the Blacksnakes. They are now defuncted, because nearly all of them were caught at a dog fight they set up, or they were on or near a drug lab. Most of them had drug residue on their bodies. We were called in when they found the trailer drug lab. Damn idiots could have blown themselves up at any time. We’re lucky they didn’t; the bomb squad disconnected and took out the propane tanks. We found drugs, guns, all sort of stuff hidden in furniture and under floorboards. We connected them to various crimes with the guns, ATF here helped with that.”
Saber inclined his head. “They hid guns in the desert. We’re not sure we got all the stashed ones. That’s part of the problem now.”
He showed a candid picture of a man on a Harley who, oddly, wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was absolutely terrifying; his entire face tattooed with a skull. He had demon skulls running down both arms and up over his shoulders, and a giant screaming skull with a spiky crown of AK47 submachine guns on his entire chest.