True Grit (The Nighthawks MC Book 7)

by Bella Knight

  "Ten minutes, Sir," she said.

  "Good," he said. "Go with Davis and put the two yahoos under arrest for assault with grievous bodily harm; hate crime too, and take them to the lab for blood and alcohol tests. Run their prints through AFIS, they've got to be in there somewhere."

  "Yes, Sir," said Rodriguez.

  "Excellent," said Pocero. "Now, gentlemen. Which one of you was here first?"

  "I was," said Tito.

  "Let's get your statement first, shall we?" said Pocero.

  Chayton stopped recording, and sent the files to several people. Gregory stared at the bloodstains on the wall by the ATM. It was horrible; the fresh, bright blood on the ground. His face was thunderous. Chayton put a hand on his arm.

  "We kill someone," he said, gently, "then the yahoos win."

  Gregory sighed and unclenched his hands. "I know." He smiled brokenly. "Merry fucking Yule," he said.

  "Good news," said Chayton. "It's the shortest night of the year. Dawn will break sooner than you think."

  Pocero was thorough. All three men were questioned at the scene by both Pocero and other officers; in cop cars to keep warm. All three men offered to buy coffee for themselves and the other officers. Pocero let Tito buy coffee for the Nighthawks, and he bought coffee for himself and the other officers.

  Chayton's phone was taken. He knew he'd never get it back, because it was now evidence in a federal case. He uploaded pictures on his cell to his online backup before they got their hands on it, as well as the recordings. The pictures and video were damning.

  "I am sick and sad to tell you," he said, "That I was that boy's training officer. I trained him in proper procedure, and he took several tests proving that he knew it. I am so mad, I could tear that idiot's head off."

  "Stand in line," said Gregory. "But, I'd rather the courts do their work."

  "Won't be a trial," said Pocero. "And, I'm certain you have a lawsuit ready to file. Pay for those kids' tuition with it, you hear?"

  "Saber's money," said Gregory. "The shooting part. The rest; hell yeah."

  Pocero sighed. "Two lawsuits in one night."

  Wraith came up, Denise at her back. She locked up both helmets. "You done freezing your witnesses to death, Pocero?" she asked.

  "What does the DEA have to do with this?" asked Pocero.

  Wraith held up a single finger. "One, joint task force." She held up another finger. "Two, that was my man your guy shot. He's in surgery to re-inflate his lung."

  She looked to the wall at the first bloodstains that were being photographed by a crime scene technician. She looked at the other bloodstain on the sidewalk where her love had coughed up blood, and a death look came over her face.

  Pocero's eyes grew round. "Well, fuck me sideways. McCann better get him a damn fine attorney. He's about to get on the elevator and go all the way down."

  "To places he can't even imagine," said Wraith.

  "Good," said Gregory. "We're leaving. We've got kids in the hospital, a fuckton of kids back at the ranch, and we're cold and exhausted. You want anything else, talk to our lawyer."

  Denise stepped forward, and helpfully handed him a business card. "These men are leaving," she said.

  Wraith said, "Tito, Gregory, back to the party. Chayton; spell Henry or Nantan at the hospital. Keep switching until everyone has a nap." All three men nodded and moved toward their bikes.

  "Way to clear a parking lot," said Pocero.

  "Take care of this," said Wraith. She waved her hand across from the ATM to the truck Tito backed up, looking behind him so he didn’t hit a cop car or CSI vehicle. "Or I will."

  "Will do," said Pocero. "Anyone ever tell you that you're terrifying? Your man said that. He said you're more terrifying when you’re angry, than I am." He looked into her ice-chip blue eyes. "I think he was underestimating the case."

  "Absolutely," Wraith said, and looked around, hands in the pocket of her leather jacket, as Denise took more photos. Then, they got on their bikes and were gone, into the freezing, desert night.

  Wraith went back to the hospital, and Denise went to file several lawsuits. Her fellow Valkyries, Skuld and Rota, were there in the surgical waiting room.

  "He's out, the lung is re-inflated, the broken ribs where they should be," said Skuld.

  "Intensive care," said Rota. "Only for the chest tube. He'll be closely monitored for about twenty-four hours, then he'll be moved."

  "Ugly bruising," said Skuld. "Peeked in the operating room window and took pictures. Sent them to Denise."

  Wraith looked at the women. "Gonna hold his hand for the ten minutes they let me."

  "Five minutes," said Rota.

  "Bull and shit," said Wraith. "Then, you two take turns."

  "Where will you be?" asked Rota. "Thought they got the guy."

  "His elevator is going way down," said Wraith. "Wanna be there when he figures it out."

  Skuld clasped Rota's neck, and they touched foreheads, then did the same with Wraith. "The battle is already won, sister," said Skuld. "Do not jeopardize it with your rage. Be cold, sister."

  "Revenge is a dish," said Rota.

  "Best served cold," they all said, together.

  "I'm ice," said Wraith. She smiled, and went to hold hands with her injured sweetheart.

  He was heavily doped up on pain medication, and he took deep breaths from time to time. Wraith knew it was to prevent pneumonia.

  He cracked an eyelid at her. "The guy's already going down," he said, his voice a thin thread. "Don't fuck it up by going all Valkyrie on him."

  "Why the fuck did you step in front of Ace?" asked Wraith, as he took another deep, tortuous breath. "Don't answer that. You had a vest, he didn't." She sighed. "Don't worry. I'll make his elevator go down."

  "Asshole," gasped Saber. "Ruined my op."

  "Didn't," said Wraith. "You got picked up. Tons of cops there. Who's to say different? Besides, being shot looks good on your evil-guy resume."

  He gasped another deep breath. "Talk to Marty. Dirty FBI. Knows my case. Take down. Tiger."

  Wraith smiled a tiny smile. She knew exactly who Tiger was. Tomas "El Tigre" Carchero was a nasty little drug lord with a disturbing habit of killing off his rivals. He did it in such a way they could never trace it back to him. There was a joint DEA/ATF/dirty FBI task force to bring him down. Wraith had just wrapped up testimony in two of her previous cases, and was now free to join the task force.

  "Huge target."

  Saber heaved in a breath, then let it out. "Go big or go home, right?"

  "Get some sleep, stupid," said Wraith, kissing his forehead. "Let me take down El Tigre."

  "You get killed," he said, gasping, "I'll come after you and bring you back."

  She smiled. "I'll have my sisters watching my back," she said. "You just make a buy?"

  "You'll find the money hidden in the usual place," he said. "Mix of guns, grenade launchers, some drugs thrown in for fun."

  She smiled, kissed his forehead again. "My kind of fun," she whispered in his ear. "Sleep, or I'll make you pass out by putting a pillow over your face."

  He grunted laughter, then winced. "My... warrior," he said. Then, he closed his eyes.

  The nurse tried to drag her out, but even Armageddon Nurse couldn't move Wraith while she made sure Saber's breathing eased into drug-induced sleep. She stood, strode past the stuttering woman, and went to take an elevator down. She had things to do, and this was the shortest night of the year.

  She rode to the park near their condo, got off the bike, phoned her boss first, then phoned Marty. "Got the money for the drop before that stupid cop put Saber in the hospital."

  "Hello to you too," said Marty. "Tell me where it is, and we'll come dust it for prints. Hear rumors at least some of it is funny money."

  "Follow the sound of my voice," said Wraith. "Go to our apartment, two lefts, one right. Little park."

  "Ah," he said. "Wondered why his tracker had him there."

  "In the sculpture
that looks like metal cigarettes that have been snuffed out," she said. "He usually uses the one on the right, but he might’ve picked the middle, just to be contrary."

  "He texted me a list," said Marty. "Already got the guns lined up. Could use a little blow from your side."

  "Consider it done," said Wraith. "I'm the girlfriend, will bring the stuff."

  "You joining the task force?" asked Marty.

  "As of three minutes ago, yes," said Wraith. "I'll even throw in a little black tar heroin. Confiscated a nice stash a while back. Idiot pleaded out, no trial."

  "Nasty shit," said Marty. "When's the drop?"

  "Saber didn't say, but he never takes more than twenty-four hours to turn and burn," she said. "Got some more stuff to take care of. You here yet?"

  "Gonna remove the liver of the cop that shot your man?" asked Marty, stepping out of the shadows.

  They put their phones away. Wraith turned to the sculpture, dropped to the bottom, and removed a panel on the right side.

  "Whoa," said Marty, pulling out the plastic cylinder of cash. "Got to be two hundred thousand here. Gotta pull in more from the warehouse."

  "Black tar heroin and coke," said Wraith. "Also, got some stuff that'll test positive for ketamine, but isn't. Leaves you woozy for just a few minutes."

  "Oh, yeah," said Marty. "He's gonna love that. Loves raping women when he's coked up. Did it to a family friend's daughter. Both the family friend and the daughter are dead though, now. Seems they both fell off a boat, but were dead before they hit the water."

  Wraith grimaced. "We'll take him down." She gave Marty a little nod. "Things to do, people to see. Catch you at daylight, or a little after. Get your stuff, I'll bring mine."

  "Fuck," said Marty. "I hate deadlines."

  Wraith smiled. "It's Saber's get-better present. El Tigre on ice."

  "Good present," said Marty. "Let's do this." They both melted into the night.

  Taking Care of Business

  Pete McCann sat in an interview room, handcuffed to a table. Two Internal Affairs officers were questioning him; Jackson and Wycliff. Wycliff was Native American, and made Pete very nervous.

  "It's a favor for you to look in on this," said Sergeant Pocero.

  Wraith gave him a flat stare. "I'm watching, not participating."

  "I can see that," he said.

  "Didn't know you had First Nation people in the LVMPD."

  "We have several," said Pocero. "Wycliff isn't actually IAB, but he's making Pete so nervous he's spilling the beans."

  "Latent prejudice?"

  "And then some," said Pocero. "We didn't know this, not even the department shrink did. It seems that Officer McCann here, forgot to mention that his sister was the victim of a violent crime. Or criminal, probably multiple crimes."

  "Let me guess, Native American with long hair that wore a motorcycle jacket?"

  "Part Apache, part Huron," said Pocero.

  Wraith looked at him in surprise. "That makes no sense," she said. "How would the two tribes meet?"

  "Dunno," he said. "Geographically very far away from each other, I know. Anyway, it seems little sister and her boyfriend liked to get stoned and beat each other up. McCann broke up several of these fights, until the boyfriend took off. Was part of Los Locos."

  "They're all in prison," said Wraith. "Took down one of their cells myself."

  Pocero looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Well then. The ex is not in prison. He's six feet under. Got in a bar fight and tried to use a broken bottle on the wrong woman. She took him out, and the bar had a camera. She walked without a scratch, former Navy."

  "So, shouldn't he be sympathetic to women? One of the victims was Ruby. Not a big girl, but tough and strong."

  "Didn't kick in, apparently. He bought the little white supremacists' story that the 'crazy Mexican' attacked him. He saw the motorcycle jackets and the logos, and his brain went... somewhere else."

  "He's going to try to get off on a temporary insanity," said Wraith, her eyes lighting from within with a definite rage.

  "He's not getting off of anything," said Pocero, holding up a hand. "He shot an ATF agent who identified himself to him on tape. He may get treated in prison, but he's going down."

  "Where are our cute little white supremacists?" asked Wraith.

  "Got their blood. Breathalyzed them, too. On Jim Beam and some nose candy. They won't be walking out of anything. Found their bikes, found meth in the pockets of the bigger one. Swabbed their hands, got blood from several donors. More time to match the DNA, even with the faster tests. Backlog."

  "I'll personally pay for any fucking test you need," she said.

  "Private lab it is," said Pocero. "Stick your fingers in your ears." He dialed a number, and spoke rapidly into the phone. He called someone else, and had that person ship the evidence to a lab in Pahrump.

  Wraith paid attention to the questioning of McCann. He kept talking about the "Indian boy" who assaulted the white men. "White men, both twice their size?" asked Wycliff. "You made this determination on what evidence?"

  McCann spluttered his words, "I've already told you. They showed me where the kid hit them in the face. Repeatedly."

  Detective Jackson opened a red file folder. "Did you, at anytime, call to get the ATM footage?"

  "No," said McCann.

  "What, if anything, did you do to preserve the scene?" asked Jackson.

  "I arrested the perpetrators and had Jude; Officer Lohn, follow the ambulance to the hospital."

  "So, you split with your partner," said Detective Jackson. "Is that procedure?"

  "Officer. I forgot her name... she showed up."

  "So, a female officer showed up. You did not answer my question. Is it procedure for you to split with your partner?"

  "It was an evolving situation," said McCann.

  "So, what did you do after the bus left?" asked Jackson.

  "I waited for backup," he said.

  "You had backup," said Detective Wycliff. "The female patrol officer, Rodriguez. Did you help her put up the crime scene tape?"

  "No."

  "Interview the perpetrators?"

  "The perpetrators were at the hospital."

  "The suspects in the back of your patrol car," said Jackson.

  "They weren't suspects," he said. "I put them in there to calm down. They were angry."

  Jackson and Wycliff looked at one another. Wraith knew neither one of them were believing what they were hearing. "Did you interview the men in the back of your patrol car?" asked Jackson.

  "I was talking to some Mexican. Drove up in a truck. Asked me where I took the kids. I told him they were under arrest. I was attempting to explain to him that they were the perpetrators, but he wouldn't listen."

  Jackson took out the photos, labeled one to twelve, and laid them out in front of the officer. "These are from the ATM camera you didn't call about. Rodriguez did. They clearly show the young people depositing money into an ATM. They received it from the man they worked for that day. You mean, the man who tried to tell you the Native American kids were attacked, not perpetrators? The two white men clearly assaulted the woman first, breaking her arm. She defended herself, kicking one in the balls. The other young man protected her and stood in front of her, as the two men beat him."

  "That's not... true," said Officer McCann. "I..."

  His union rep and his lawyer both looked at the pictures. "I would like a moment to confer with my client," said the lawyer. "This is new information."

  "This information has no bearing on the actions of Officer McCann," said Detective Jackson. "He did not see the tape before making certain... assumptions. His making the assumptions are the problem."

  "They were dangerous," said McCann.

  "They were teenagers," said Detective Jackson. "Both had recently turned eighteen. Did you check either one for identification? Discover their ages?"

  The union rep turned white. "McCann?" he asked.

  "I... no, I did not,"
said McCann.

  "Is that correct procedure?" asked Detective Jackson.

  "I..." said McCann.

  "If they had have been under eighteen," said Detective Wycliff, "you would be in even more trouble than you are currently." Detective Jackson pointed to two of the photos. "You arrested a kid with a broken wrist and didn't bother to discover whether or not he was a minor, let alone whether or not he committed any crime."

  "I... he didn't look badly injured. The girl did. Broken arm."

  "So, how do a girl with a broken arm and a boy with a broken wrist become perpetrators in your mind?" asked Jackson. "How does that work, exactly? Blaming the victims? Blaming teenagers instead of grown men much larger than they are?" She took out a photo, then laid it on the table. "This is the sap the man used to break the girl's arm and the boy's hand. It's being tested for the blood of the victims. Who were the victims here, Officer McCann?" She put away all the photos as McCann looked forward, uncomprehendingly. "Let's move forward in time. What happened after you spoke to the young people's employer?"

  "The motorcycles came," said McCann. His voice had an odd, flat affect.

  "I think he's already broken," said Pocero, looking through the glass.

  "Was before he got here," said Wraith, with utter disgust on her face.

  "Three men came over in gang jackets," said McCain to Wycliff.

  "What made you think they were gang jackets?" asked Detective Wycliff.

  "The skulls on the back."

  "Did you know the club the skull represents?" asked Wycliff.

  "What? No."

  "So, you assumed they were a gang."

  "They were."

  Wycliff made a buzzing noise with his mouth, making both McCann and his lawyer jump. "Wrong. They are part of a motorcycle club called the Nighthawks. Do you remember a briefing about the Nighthawks?"

  "No," said Officer McCann.

  "Strange," Wycliff said. "I've attended two briefings and one workshop on motorcycle clubs. It was explained to us all three times that the Nighthawks, Valkyries and Iron Knights are sprinkled through with law enforcement, ex-military, and/or other people that work for, or have worked for, the city or government. You don't remember any of that?"