True Grit (The Nighthawks MC Book 7)

by Bella Knight

  "No," said Officer McCann.

  "Did you have occasion to draw your weapon?" asked Jackson.

  "I told the suspect to back away repeatedly," said McCann.

  "What suspect?" asked Jackson.

  "The motorcycle guy," said McCann.

  "Was he walking toward you?" asked Jackson.

  "He would not follow my orders," said McCann.

  "Was he speaking to you?" asked Jackson.

  "He said some stuff. Something about crime scene tape. I kept telling him to back away."

  "Did he step forward at any time?" asked Jackson.

  "No."

  "Did he draw a weapon of any kind?"

  "No."

  "Did anything else happen?" asked Jackson.

  "Another one of them rode up."

  "With the same jacket?" asked Jackson.

  "Yes," he said. "But no logo on the back."

  "So, how did you know that the new person was from the same group?" asked Jackson.

  "They knew him," said McCann.

  "Did he identify himself as ATF?" asked Jackson.

  "He showed an ID," said McCann. "Obviously fake. He looked like them."

  "Officer McCann," asked Jackson, "do ATF agents ever go undercover?"

  "What? Guess so," he said.

  "Did it occur to you that the ATF agent was breaking his cover to protect someone from discharging a firearm at a man that was not threatening you?"

  "That's... that's preposterous," said McCann.

  Jackson opened a yellow folder, and took out a picture of an ID. "Are these the credentials he showed you?"

  "I guess so," said McCann. "Picture looks like the guy."

  "Did you ask his name? Who he worked for? Get a name to call to verify who he was?" asked Jackson.

  "No," said McCann.

  "Did you ask to take a closer look at his credentials?" asked Jackson.

  "No," said McCann.

  "These, Officer McCann, are valid ATF credentials," said Detective Jackson. "Now, let's continue. Did you have occasion to discharge your weapon?"

  "Yes. The suspect would not get down on the ground."

  "Was he stepping forward?"

  "No," said McCann.

  "Did he pull out a weapon?" asked Jackson.

  "No," said McCann.

  "Did he verbally threaten your life or the lives of those nearby?" asked Jackson.

  "No," said McCann.

  "Did you discharge your weapon?" asked Jackson.

  "Yes," said McCann.

  "Did you hit the man you keep calling a 'suspect,' or the one saying he was the ATF agent?"

  "I hit the guy that was with them that called himself an ATF agent," said McCann. "He jumped in front of the other guy."

  "Where did you shoot him?" asked Jackson.

  "In the heart," said McCann.

  "And, is he dead?" asked Jackson.

  "No," said McCann.

  "Why not?" asked Jackson.

  "I think he was wearing a bulletproof vest," said McCann.

  "Do you know where the ATF agent is now?" asked Jackson.

  "The guy waved supposed ATF credentials," said McCann. "He was lying. He was with them."

  "The man that you shot," said Jackson. "Where is he now?"

  "I heard he's in the hospital," he said. "Probably circling the drain."

  Wraith sucked in a breath. Pocero grabbed her arm. "Girl, don't stop the train now," he said, then immediately let go. They continued watching and listening from behind the one-way glass.

  "He is expected to recover," said Jackson. "But, he has broken ribs and a punctured lung that had to be re-inflated."

  "Too bad," said McCann. "Can I go now?"

  "My client doesn't understand these proceedings," said the attorney.

  Detective Jackson raised her hand. "Officer McCann, who am I?"

  "Jackson, IAB," said McCann.

  "And why are we meeting here today?"

  "Officer-involved shooting. I shot someone."

  "Was it a good shoot?" asked Jackson.

  "Yes," said McCann. "Are we done?"

  "Officer McCann," said Detective Jackson, "Since you shot an ATF agent, you will be charged with a federal crime, of attempting to murder a federal agent. You will be immediately remanded to the federal authorities."

  "He wasn't an ATF agent," said McCann. "He was one of them."

  Wraith was out the door before Pocero could catch her arm. She stood quietly at the door as two federal agents entered the room and handcuffed Officer McCann behind his back, and stood him up.

  "Let's go," said the one on the right. "We've heard enough."

  Wraith stood, staring laser beams at him, as they frog-marched him out of the room. "Who the fuck are you?" asked McCann.

  "The undercover ATF agent you shot," said the one on the left, "that's her man. She's DEA."

  "Fucked up a sting we had going, to take out a nasty guy who's killed a lot of people," said the one on the right. They looked like bookends in their black FBI suits, both African-American females.

  "I'll get him at first light," said Wraith. "I'm on the task force. I'll make the buy."

  "Good to know," said the one on the left. "Let's drop him off and get some waffles," she said. "I'm buying."

  "Can I come?" asked Wraith.

  "I demand that my client see a psychiatrist for evaluation," said the attorney from inside the room.

  "Hate to agree, but he's as twisted as a rope," said the union rep.

  "I'm not crazy," said McCann.

  "Good to know," said the one on the right. "Counselor, you can see your client after we drop him off and book him on federal charges. One hour, Federal Building."

  "Thank you," said the lawyer, shutting his briefcase with a bang.

  "You're one of them," said McCann, as they pulled him down the hall.

  Wraith smiled sadly. "Used to be. Now, I'm a Valkyrie." She followed the FBI agents down the hall. She smiled her eerie smile. McCann, who had twisted around to take a look at her, visibly quailed, making his cuffs jingle.

  "Watch it," said the one on the right. "We could drop you. Be by accident, of course."

  "Of course," said the one on the left.

  "Meet you at the waffle place," said Wraith.

  "Pecan," said the one on the right.

  "Strawberry," said the one on the left.

  "Got it," said Wraith.

  Pocero watched her go, then stuck his head in as the attorney and the union rep passed him by. "Guy's gonna walk? On a psychiatric?"

  "'Fraid not," said Detective Jackson. "He'll see a psychiatrist. A prison psychiatrist. Can't let a guy like that out anytime soon." She turned to Wycliff. "Thank you for letting me take the lead, Bodaway," she said.

  Wycliff looked at the other two. "I will go now, and visit these young ones."

  "Thank you," said Pocero. "Tell them the LVMPD does not condone or tolerate the actions of Ex-Officer McCann."

  "I will," said Wycliff. "I will have them call me Wycliff. I heard a very dangerous Bodaway left the Wolfpack with bad memories."

  "The Wolfpack?" asked Pocero.

  "The young ones were raised on a farm near the res for the last few months. They call themselves the Wolfpack. I expect that many of their members will come by the hospital to help."

  "Better hurry," said Pocero, "they may have already been discharged."

  "Still there," said Detective Jackson. "We have to get their testimony on tape, lock that fruit loop up and throw away the key."

  "I'll let you go, then," said Pocero. He followed them out, relieved that Wraith hadn't removed McCann's lungs through his nose.

  Wraith made the meeting with the FBI agents. Both were Valkyries, and both had recently been promoted to Las Vegas. Tammy "Track" Lucerne was a fast runner and had an even faster mouth. She could talk her way into, and out of, anything. Megister "Mouse" Rwanche was smart, tough and tiny. She could also kick anyone's ass, even the asses of her instructors. She'd been
training in mixed martial arts since she was a child.

  "Did he fall down a lot?" asked Wraith. She ate the tip off her crispy bacon.

  "Nope," said Track. "Been as meek as a kitten. Went for his psychiatrist appointment. His lawyer is livid. Thought he had a client being railroaded somehow, the guy 'sounded so certain.' Now he's got a whack job for a client and he is seriously pissed off."

  "Union rep didn't say much," said Wraith.

  "Was watching in another room," said Mouse. "Wasn't much the guy could do except to tell our little monster to answer with as few words as possible, and only answer the question being asked. The monster did that."

  "Shot an ATF agent in front of witnesses and on tape," said Track, eating a strawberry out of her crepe. "Who does that?"

  "Stupid or cray-cray," said Mouse.

  "Who still says cray-cray?" asked Track.

  "I do," said Mouse.

  "Thank you, sisters," said Wraith. She finished her bacon, then the last bite of pecan waffles. "Hate to eat and run, but I've got to make a weapons and drug drop to El Tigre's guys."

  "Ooh," said Track. "Can we watch?"

  "You've got to get a lot less ‘FBI squeaky-clean’ and a lot dirtier," said Wraith.

  "We can do that," said Track.

  "See you in ten," said Mouse. They stood up, both dropping twenties on the counter, and strode back to the restroom, briefcases in hand. Wraith paid up, and sipped her coffee; nectar of the gods.

  They came out looking like entirely different women. Track was sporting bruises all up and down her arm that looked exactly like track marks. Her hair was down and messed, and looked to be cut with manicure scissors. She wore a torn top and faded jeans. Her socks were worn and falling down onto her scuffed white sneakers. Her makeup had been removed, and now there were dark circles standing up under bleary eyes.

  Mouse was wearing torn jeans and a yellow polo shirt that looked to be from a thrift shop. It was two sizes too big, and scuffed sneakers. Her hair was now plaited in three braids. Annika was stunned; she knew exactly how long it took to plait them. She also was missing makeup; her lipstick appeared to have been bitten off.

  "Fuck," said Wraith, "you guys get dirty fast."

  "We're Dirty FBI," said Mouse. "Now, let's go get the Tiger before some up-and-coming DEA agent gets him."

  Wraith snorted. "I'm not up-and-coming. Been in seven years."

  They picked up the guns and drugs from the drop, and separated them across all three women.

  "I keep the drugs," said Wraith. "I'll pay you a little fake snort or some fake ketamine," she said.

  "Coke to her, ketamine to me. Remember, I shoot up," said Track.

  "Okay," said Wraith.

  They met a muscular, Rodrigo Sanchez Portilla and a very terrifying man named Scar, with scars bisecting his face and arms, behind a laundromat in Alphabet City. It was in the not-so-nice section of Las Vegas. Rodrigo laughed as the stumbling Runner had trouble lifting her saddlebags full of guns. Scar went over and removed the boxes stuffed in there.

  "Good," said Rodrigo, as he saw the serial numbers had been removed with acid. "Your boy is good. Heard he got shot by a cop."

  "Fucking cop," said Wraith, her rage real. "Gonna cap his ass when he gets moved somewhere."

  "You're short," said Scar, his voice soft and high-pitched. A Michael Jackson voice coming from a guy the size of a wrestler was bit odd.

  "No, I'm not," said Wraith. "My man said you could move this real-easy." She dangled the bags of black tar heroin in one hand, the half-kilo of coke in the other hand. "Got something you'll like," she said.

  Runner lunged toward the heroin, but Mouse held her back. "Hold up, girlfriend," she said over her shoulder. "Got something real-nice for when we get back."

  Rodrigo nodded to Scar, who took out a testing kit. He tested the heroin, then the coke. "Good," he said.

  "What else you got?" said Scar.

  "Ketamine," said Wraith. She took out three small bottles, and a case of needles, and handed them to Scar. "One for you," she said to Runner.

  Runner was at her side in a second, drawing out a blue rubber band to put around her ankle. She took off her shoe and sock to reveal a dirty foot. Rodrigo visibly recoiled. Wraith gave her a filled needle, and Runner shot up, right there. Mouse had to catch her when she fell on her ass, and she put the sock and shoe back on Runner, cursing fluently in Spanish.

  "Well," said Rodrigo, "looks like we're even."

  "Not even close," said Wraith, her voice hyped up as she passed a baggie to Mouse. "Later," she said, waving a finger in front of Mouse's nose. "Get us back in one piece first." Wraith turned to Rodrigo. "You asked for grenade launchers, I'll get you fucking grenade launchers."

  "How?" asked Rodrigo.

  "Been selling real-good knives to a military guy. Fucked him a time or two, too. Know a way to get the stuff as it's being transported."

  "You don't fool around," said Rodrigo.

  "I know how to get what I want. I know how to get what everyone wants. For a price. You get what I'm downloading to you?"

  "Fuck, yeah," said Rodrigo. "Finally, some people with some motivation. You get me what I want, the first price is nothing. I'll pay up to half a mil for a really good shipment."

  "Want a good mix? And not that black tar shit. It's what I had on hand when lover boy got shot."

  Rodrigo grinned. "A good mix. I like it." He stepped forward.

  Wraith had a blade at his crotch before he could get too close. "My man dies, then, hell yeah. But now, he's mine. And I'm his."

  "What about that military guy you're fucking?" asked Scar.

  "Oh, that's just business," said Wraith. "Saber told me to do it, said we could score big. So, no biggie." She made the knife disappear. "But," she said, wagging a finger at Rodrigo, "you can look but no touchie."

  "Spitfire," said Rodrigo. "I know someone who likes spitfires."

  "If he likes money and likes to share, we can talk," said Wraith. "My guy's circling the drain, but I'm the one that got him his fucking contacts, you know? I gotta do well, stand on my own, if he dies."

  "When he dies, girlfriend," said Runner, and giggled.

  Wraith backhanded her in one swift motion. "I get to say it," said Wraith. "You don't."

  "Get me my guns," said Rodrigo.

  "No problem," said Wraith. "Heroin? Blow? Uppers? Downers? Ecstasy?"

  "All that, and more ketamine," said Rodrigo, watching Runner swaying back and forth, and giggling, despite the blood on her mouth.

  "Thought you was cartel," said Wraith. "My bad."

  "We are... branching out," said Rodrigo. "And, you can never have too many drugs."

  "Amen," said Runner, and she giggled again. Mouse led Runner back to her bike, and tied her with a long scarf to her back. Her previously pristine bike now looked like she'd forgotten to polish the chrome for months.

  Wraith went to her pretty bike. "Looks like I'll have to get cracking on the order," she said. "Later."

  They coasted out, Runner cackling. They got back on the highway, and Wraith led them to another park. She sent a coded text with the order, to both her boss and Marty (with the dirty FBI).

  Runner wasn't bleeding when they stopped. "Sorry about that," said Wraith.

  "I bit myself to get some blood," said Runner. "Bleeding's already stopped."

  "You're fast," said Mouse. "I like it."

  "Now," said Wraith, "we gotta set up a fake military heist and steal some really powerful weapons in order for me to prostitute myself to a killer. One who likes to shoot up feisty women with ketamine, and rape them." The women stared at her. "Am I leaving anything out?"

  "Nope," said Runner, "but, I suggest we bust this Tiger before he gets to the ketamine and raping part."

  "Was planning on it," said Wraith. "Anybody got any military contacts?"

  "I do," said Runner. "Used to run with a guy that got pretty high up from Edwards Air Force Base. I'm sure he knows how to make really bad
weapons look like they really work."

  "How does he know that?" asked Wraith.

  "Former ATF," said Runner.

  "Usually, it's the other way around," said Mouse.

  "Call him," said Wraith. "Let's get a plan together. One that survives first contact with the enemy."

  Mouse snorted. "Good luck with that," she said.

  New Year

  Wraith made it back to the Shortest Night celebration, Mouse and Runner in tow, by mid-morning. Those who had to work, went. Some packed up to go to stay with relatives; most stayed. Helaku and Ruby were back in the dorms, sleeping off a long night, with pain medication, and the pain of broken bones.

  Nantan and Chayton were over there with their boys; Tam and Nico, overseeing the Wolfpack, old and new. Chayton made Nantan give up responsibility for the greenhouse for the week. His computer would tell him if anything was wrong. The Nighthawk and Wolfpack kids were all off school, but most did something anyway. The coders loved to code, Skuld loved to teach martial arts on thick mats, and there were dogs, horses, trail rides, hikes, movies, crafts, video and board games, and perpetual food to interest children, teens, and adults.

  Bonnie came with Alicia. Ajai stole her to quiz her relentlessly about going to Harley school in Colorado. Bella drew Ivy to the other side of the room. Ivy didn't need to hear about Alicia attending the same school her dead lover, Arsenal, had attended as well. They soon got into baby trading, and Bonnie came over to join in with a very wide Ghost. Killa made her sit down, and fed her snacks.

  "Baby," said Ghost, "sit down. Let one o' da Nighthawks wait on us."

  Keiran showed up with a dog, and made the dog lay down at Ghost's feet. "What do you need, ladies?" asked Keiran.

  "More soda, no caffeine," said Killa. "And a plate of goodies."

  "No problem," he said. "Stay, Shadow," he said. The dog lolled her tongue.

  "Maybe we shoulda brought our dogs," said Ghost.

  "They trained to fight inna ring," said Killa. "Better off at home."

  Wraith, Mouse and Runner all ate the delicious-smelling cinnamon buns. Runner got a blue ice pack for her face, and told the story of the buy, using no names, in detail, to the fascinated Valkyries. Wraith had to put up with some ribbing for not hitting Runner in a better way.