by Cheree Alsop
A deputy spotted us as we pulled up to the sheriff’s office. He waved, then disappeared inside. “Just perfect,” Magnum grumbled. Before we could climb off and save what was left of our dignity, half a dozen deputies and the sheriff came out.
“What do we have here, Black Rider?” Sheriff Bowley asked. He rubbed a hand down his short-trimmed beard and mustache, obviously trying to hide a smile of amusement at the situation.
I kept my voice level as I pulled the driver from the motorcycle. “This is the driver of the truck of stolen merchandise.”
The sheriff’s smile faded completely and he gave the driver a serious look. The man had spent the whole trip trying to convince us to let him go because the merchandise had burned with the truck, so there was no evidence against him. I wasn’t sure what the sheriff could hold him on, but after everything Magnum had gone through, I wasn’t about to see the man walk free.
“Well done,” the sheriff said. He glanced at Magnum, surprised he was with me but willing to save his questions for later, given the circumstances and our audience. “Where’s the merchandise?”
I fought the urge to drop my head and said, “In the truck.”
Magnum stifled a laugh. Though we both wore helmets, the deputies probably recognized his riding gear and would definitely know the smashed-up CBR we left by the side of the road. That might be a problem for us.
Sheriff Bowley’s gaze tightened. He looked at me. I let out a small breath. “The truck’s at the bottom of a ravine.”
“Is the merchandise destroyed?” he asked.
Magnum laughed flat-out. I punched him in the shoulder and he shut up. “The odds are fairly good that there’s nothing much left,” I said, picturing the giant explosion.
“You have to let me go,” the truck driver said smugly. “You don’t have anything to hold me on.”
“Shut up,” the sheriff and I told him at the same time.
“You tried to murder me,” Magnum snapped. “He’s got that on you.”
“And there is evidence—it’s just not very accessible,” I pointed out, picturing the few boxes that flew out of the truck on its way down.
“They’re trying to blackmail me!” the driver protested. “I didn’t try to kill him. You can’t prove anything!”
The sheriff’s gaze tightened. “That’s for the judge to decide. The Black Rider knows where your truck is; we can match the plates to the pick-up location, and I’m guessing both boys will be glad to provide a statement. You’re not going anywhere.”
Sheriff Bowley handed him off to his men. They grabbed the protesting driver and hauled him inside.
When we were alone, the sheriff gave me a searching look. “You were supposed to locate the truck and call for backup, not try to take him on single-handedly. Most drivers are armed these days.”
I nodded. “I noticed.” At his look, I shrugged. “I forgot my phone and didn’t want him to get away, and then Magnum’s bike got run over and he was hanging under the trailer. I had to pull it over to save his life.”
Magnum was over surveying the damage my bike had taken during the fall. He glanced in our direction, then looked away.
The sheriff lowered his voice. “Why is Magnum with you?”
I could hear the caution in his voice. I watched the leader of the Bullet gang as I replied, “Better with me than against you.”
He hesitated, and then nodded. “Just be careful. This town doesn’t need to lose any more of its sons.”
“I will.”
“And start carrying your phone. I only got you involved because we couldn’t patrol every road and keep an eye on the parade at the same time. I promised Dale in Herring we wouldn’t let the thief slip through, but a truck isn’t worth a life.”
I rubbed my chest where my bruised ribs ached. “If they can link this truck to the runs, then track down who hired the driver, they’ll have an in to stopping the merchandise thefts. That’ll relieve the store owners cowering in fear that they’ll be hit next.”
The sheriff’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve done your research. I didn’t take you for the cautious type.”
“I’m not,” I admitted. “But Maddy was worried and did some searching.”
A slight smile touched his lips at that. “You’ve got an interesting team.”
I nodded. “They tell me there’s a better way than jumping through windows.”
He laughed. “They have a point. Take care of yourself.”
I shook his hand. “Call me if you need anything.”
“We’ll need a report.”
“It’ll have to be from the Black Rider,” I said.
He pushed his flat-rimmed brown hat up. “Of course, but when we pull the plates, we should have everything we need.”
I fought back a wry smile even though he couldn’t see it through my tinted visor. “Good luck on the plates, Sheriff. You may have to do some searching.”
“That bad, huh?” he said. “One of these days, you’ll have to tell me how it ended up in the ravine.”
I raised my hands. “It was the driver’s fault, and I’m sticking to it.”
He laughed and turned to walk back up the stairs, then paused. “Kel—uh, Black Rider?” When I waited, he said quietly, “Keep your eyes peeled. I have word that some of the Verdos and Brown Hawk gang members who weren’t involved in the shooting have been hanging around. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re looking for revenge against you and Magnum for the failed drop.”
The thought sent a surge of warning through me. “Why weren’t they with the others?” I asked in as calm a voice as I could manage.
He shook his head. “I’m not sure, but they’ll blame it on both of you, so be careful.”
I nodded. “I will.”
I walked back down the steps, not at all anxious to ride my motorcycle with Magnum on the back, but at least it was better than three of us.
Magnum looked up. “Hey, Sheriff?”
Sheriff Bowley paused with his hand on the door.
“I’m gonna be needin’ a new ride,” Magnum drawled. “You’ll find mine back up the road.”
The sheriff sighed and entered the building.
Magnum chuckled. “It’ll be nice riding a CBR again after this hunk of junk.”
“It’s a good bike,” I shot back.
“If you like secondhand wrecks from the junkyard.”
“Maybe I do,” I replied, then rolled my eyes at the stupidity of the statement.
Magnum grinned through his visor.
A thought occurred to me as I ran my hand over the scratches that marred the flat black paint. “What do you think about not getting a CBR?” I asked casually. “How about getting a bike to match mine?”
Magnum stared at me. “Why would I do something stupid like that?”
I blew out a slow breath and tried to keep my patience. “Look, Magnum, everyone knows your motorcycle. It doesn’t matter if you keep your helmet on because the entire town knows it’s you.”
He shrugged. “So?”
I stifled a groan. “So the point of being the Black Rider, or the Black Rider’s sidekick—”
“Partner,” he snarled.
I ignored him and continued, “Is to work under the cover of our disguises in order to protect our families.”
He thought about it for a minute. I knew he liked the town knowing who he was. Hiding his identity was a new concept entirely.
I was worried he would balk at the idea, but a grin spread across his face. “Yeah, and I could get a matching helmet and leathers.” He paused and studied me. “Those look familiar.”
I grinned. “I wondered when you would notice. Jeremy used them to keep pressure on my leg the day I wrecked your bike.”
“Into my truck,” Magnum reminded me. “I wanted to punch your face in.”
I grinned under the helmet. “I remember.”
He rolled his eyes at my tone. “At least I know where to get another one.”
“You’re going
to match me completely?” I asked doubtfully.
He nodded, excitement growing in his expression. “That way, there can be two Black Riders. We’ll be like a super team. No one will know who is who, and it’ll be like we’re everywhere at once!”
I smiled, warming to the idea. “We could help the sheriff deter a lot of the crime in Sparrow.”
“I wonder what name Martin will give me in the Bulldog Bulletin,” Magnum mused.
I shook my head. “The point is for no one to know that there’s two of us, for least as long as we can keep them guessing. That way, we’ll be more formidable.”
Magnum sighed as though staying anonymous was a challenge. “Fine. But I think your bike needs a few modifications.”
I STOPPED AT THE one stoplight in Sparrow. A truck across from me was the only other vehicle in sight. They definitely needed a motion sensor on the light. Around me, shops painted carefully by hand sat open amid the lull of the workday. Most farmers were busy clearing fields, plowing, irrigating, or tending to livestock. The shops would be full by evening, especially the two grocery stores and the three bars.
The air was touched with a scent of alfalfa and exhaust from the smoky engine of the green truck that continued to creep forward despite the stoplight. The farmer never truly stopped. By the time the light turned green, he was halfway across the intersection. I figured it was a good thing traffic was low, though as the farmer sped off, it was at a rate not much faster than his crawl through the light. I guessed someone could easily avoid hitting him.
The main street was four lanes, two in each direction. A few dilapidated buildings near the bridge were remnants of upstart businesses either too forward-thinking for the town or limited enough in their scope that after a few sales, they had saturated Sparrow with their products. Somehow, the sight of the town’s main street was familiar and comforting. Sparrow hardly changed, a fact I used to despise but now found reassuring. Enough happened in my life that the stability of the small farming town gave me an anchor I never expected.
I drove fifteen miles from town and pulled down the dirt road to Jagger’s junkyard. Though Uncle Rick felt the damage I did around the farm was enough to send me to work unpaid for his brother, the stacks of cars and organized parts showed the results of my labor. I felt like I was doing something, even if only Jagger and I could tell a difference.
I pulled the motorcycle around Jagger’s wooden shack and stashed it in the lean-to before he could ask me about the shape it was in. I wasn’t sure how to explain it. Frustrated fury at what had happened raced through my veins. I carried car parts and stacked them in piles in an effort to keep myself busy, but my mind refused to stop replaying what had happened.
I had almost seen Magnum get killed. The sheriff was right—it wasn’t worth dying over a truck. I could put myself in danger, but if my actions threatened someone else, I wasn’t ready to deal with the consequences. It was only through sheer luck that Magnum had escaped with his life.
I threw a car door onto a growing pile, then picked up a bumper and dragged it behind me toward the stack near Jagger’s wooden shack. I could have used the four-wheeler, but the physical labor helped to chase the pent-up anger from my body. I wanted to hit something, anything. I threw the bumper into the pile. It landed with a satisfyingly loud crash. Two seconds later, the entire pile tumbled down. I let out a sigh and began to stack it again.
Maybe inviting Magnum to join me had been foolish. He was foolhardy and definitely was not in control of his temper. I wasn’t sure what he would have done if he had been holding the gun. I didn’t like entertaining the idea that he would have shot the driver, but given the circumstances, I was almost ready to shoot him myself. Between the two of us, self-control was going to be severely lacking.
A few days later, I was carrying steering wheels for Jagger’s never-ending organization of the junkyard when the rumble of an engine caught my attention. I watched a rider pull into the junkyard and my heart slowed with recognition and a touch of trepidation.
The rider rode a flat black Er-6n and wore black gloves, black riding gear, and a black helmet with a tinted visor. The effect was daunting and a grin spread across my face. I had seen pictures of myself as the Black Rider, but I had never confronted the image head on. It was pretty intimidating.
Magnum pushed his visor up and a matching smile showed on his face. “Man, this feels awesome! Everyone waved at me in town, and kids even asked to take their picture with me.”
The trepidation returned, but I tried to keep smiling. I didn’t realize how much I had grown to associate myself with the Black Rider. Hearing someone else parading around and accepting the welcome meant for me smarted a little. I swallowed my pride and nodded. “It’s a good look for you. How’d the sheriff find one so quick?”
“Apparently the sheriff has a buddy who owned one. They painted it black and called me. I gave them a few suggestions.”
I walked around the bike. “What did you do to it?”
He grinned. “I asked them to put a fender eliminator kit and a new exhaust on it. It gets more power and that ugly mud flap is gone. I think it looks sleek.” He got off and followed me around the bike. “What do you think?”
“They’re supposed to be the same,” I replied, but I had to admit it looked better.
He nodded. “The sheriff said he’d do the same to yours.”
I stared at him. “Why?”
He shrugged, another smile stealing across his face. I had seen Magnum smile more times in the last two days than in my entire time at Sparrow combined. “Apparently he feels like the town owes you a thank you or something.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. My bruised ribs ached with the movement, reminding me of the past behind Magnum’s words. “They don’t owe me anything,” I said quietly.
Magnum glanced at me. “Yeah, they do. Everyone does, so accept it like a man and let the sheriff upgrade your bike a bit. It’ll look better and give you more power. What’s there to complain about?”
I didn’t reply.
The door to the shack opened and Jagger came out with his little dog, Mick, at his side. At the sight of Magnum standing in his junkyard, Mick immediately started yapping. He charged down the single step and bounced around Magnum, growling and barking with all the ferocity the Chihuahua could muster. Jagger put up with it for a few seconds, then stomped his foot.
“Get o’er here,” he commanded.
Mick barked one last time, then stalked slowly to the porch where he sat with his head on his paws, his eyes never leaving Magnum.
Jagger crossed to the motorcycle. He squinted, his eyes almost disappearing behind his red cheeks. He ran a hand down his long beard thoughtfully. “Hmph,” he grunted noncommittally, his shrewd eyes shifting to me. “Looks a lot like your’n.”
I shrugged.
“Looks better’n your’n,” Jagger concluded with another grunt. I gritted my teeth and refused to comment. Jagger turned his attention to Magnum. He eyed the Bullet leader up and down. “You Fisher’s boy?”
Magnum nodded and glanced at me, unsure how to respond to my uncle’s eccentric brother.
Jagger tipped his head toward a large pile of random car parts. “I’ll be need’n those sorted next.”
The stack was a mess of rusted car hoods, fenders, axles, partially decayed seats, steering wheels, and what was once a nice little BMW that now better resembled a crushed soda can.
“Why that stack?” I asked. I usually wasn’t obstinate with Jagger, because in Sparrow a job was a job and working in the junkyard was less hazardous to my health than farming, but that particular pile towered three times my height and my ribs were already aching.
“’Cause it’s there,” Jagger replied. He lifted the crowbar he used as a cane in a half wave and made his way back to the shack.
“Have fun,” Magnum said with a smirk. He climbed on the motorcycle and slid his visor shut. “I’ll be working on my name, since you don’t like Magnum.”
/> I rolled my eyes at his tone. “Magnum’s a great name,” I said with more than a little sarcasm. “It’s just that I can’t be calling you Magnum when we’re supposed to be in disguise. It’ll blow our cover.”
He paused with his hand on the key. “I guess you’re right. It would make sense to have something that works with the Black Rider.” He started the engine, then lifted his visor and looked back at me. “How about Dark Wing?”
I fought back a laugh. “Like the duck?” He glowered and I put up a hand. “I have the perfect name.” At his eager look, I grinned. “How about ‘the Black Rider’s sidekick’?”
He slammed his visor back down and gunned the motorcycle, leaving me in a cloud of dust and rocks. My smile faltered. I might have been witty, but I was the one stuck sorting through piles of junk while he rode away on a newly customized motorcycle. Somehow my victory didn’t feel very sweet.
I WADED THROUGH JUNK until the sun set completely—the end of the true farmer’s workday, as my cousin Cassidy would say. I drove Jagger’s four-wheeler to my aunt and uncle’s house and waited just long enough for Jake to run out and join me. Somehow it felt right to have the black-and-white dog loping at my side as I made my way along the empty road to the house at the end.
I couldn’t understand why anybody would live so far from the city, but I was grateful for the lack of streetlights as I parked at the edge of the Wests’ lot and made my way across their lawn in the cover of darkness. Buck, Madelyn’s big brown dog, raced through the grass and jumped around Jake. I smiled. If the dog was loose, Maddy was already outside waiting for me.
“Have fun at the junkyard?” she asked from the shadows of the tree.
A tremor ran through me at her soft voice and my heart raced at the thought of her so close. “Always,” I replied. I ducked under a branch and found her watching me, the gold that outlined her hazel eyes bright in the moonlight. She lowered her gaze so her eyes were hidden beneath her lashes.