Outlaw’s Ink

by Sophia Gray

  The bank's elderly security guard hadn't put up a fight. There hadn't been any exploding dye packs stashed in the money bags.

  And best of all, there were no state police vehicles on their heels.

  The Metal Monsters MC—of which Carter was currently president, with Oiler and Hazmat as his vice president and sergeant-at-arms, respectively—had gotten away clean with nineteen thousand dollars, and no one had been hurt in the process.

  Carter felt the cool night air on his face as the dusty corn fields on either side of the highway slowly gave way to dry mesas and desert blooms. He saw a bullet-pocked sign by the side of the road that read, “Welcome to Cactus Hollow – Spiky Name, Flowery People! Enjoy Your Stay!”

  His face broke into a wide grin and he let out a triumphant yell, popping a wheelie. He heard the other two laugh wildly, revving their engines and racing him to the sign ahead.

  Until about a month ago, Carter had been the club secretary for the Hobgoblins, a biker gang based in Pensacola. They'd gotten into an ugly turf war with the Naggia family, a Miami crime syndicate determined to stomp out all of their competition in Florida's drug trade. The Hobgoblins were proud and tough, but their club of roughly three dozen brawlers and gearheads was easily outmanned and outgunned by the Naggias, who also controlled most of the state's cops and judges.

  Within two weeks of fighting with the Naggias, almost every member of the Hobgoblins was either dead or in prison—and Carter, Hazmat, and Oiler were laying low in Mobile, burning their old patches and wondering what to do next as the little money they had quickly run out.

  Carter had always dreamed of starting his own MC, and the other two quickly agreed to join him. Oiler came up with the name “Metal Monsters,” and he even designed their new patch, a menacing robot face he remembered from an old sci-fi flick he'd loved as a kid.

  But establishing a club with any balls behind it would also take money, and Hazmat came up with the idea to go on a bank robbing spree across the south. The plan was to travel in a wide and unpredictable arc, hitting local banks in remote towns across five states: Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, Oklahoma, and finally Texas. The takes would be relatively small compared to more prestigious banks in bigger cities, but the security would be minimal, making them far more low-risk.

  Then they'd find a safe place to hole up in southern Texas, waiting for the heat to die down before they relocated and set up their new club. The law wouldn't have any proof that they were the ones who committed the crimes—the masks they wore would make sure of that—but word of their robberies would ring out among outlaws, securing their reputations and attracting new prospects to their MC.

  They'd carried out the first two heists without much trouble, since surprise was still on their side. They took twenty-five thousand from the bank in Mississippi, and another ten thousand from the one in Louisiana.

  But by the time they attempted their third score, the news of their previous robberies had reached the Arkansas State Police, who were on high alert along with a handful of feds from the FBI's field office in Little Rock. Carter and the boys managed to grab a little over seven thousand dollars before a shoot-out with the cops forced them to flee, sirens wailing behind them for miles until they were able to evade the squad cars via the side roads.

  “Okay, time to pack it in,” Oiler said as they made camp in the Ouachita Forest that night, cooking pork and beans over a small fire. He was a small, wiry man in his late twenties, with prematurely-receding blonde hair and beady brown eyes that always seemed to be blinking. His voice was generally soft and hesitant, like a shy child who was called to the blackboard to explain a difficult math problem.

  “Knockin' over three banks without gettin' shot or arrested ain't a bad tally overall,” he continued, stirring the pot. “An' forty-two thou might not be as much as we wanted, but it's still not a bad haul for sixteen days. If we don't wanna end up behind bars, I say we call it good an' find a place to hole up.”

  Hazmat glared at him over the fire. His scarred and weathered face resembled a pirate's, and his copper-colored hair was shaved into a short mohawk. His pale green eyes perpetually seemed to flicker between confusion and anger.

  “First of all, when it comes to makin' a rep for ourselves, three banks ain't five,” Hazmat counted off on his stubby, freckled fingers. “Second, if we wanna get the Monsters properly set up, we're gonna need a lot more than forty-two thou to establish a steady stream of guns an' product to run. An' third, if you're pissin' your pants about bein' behind bars, maybe you oughtta work at a fuckin' Starbucks 'stead of tryin' to be a biker.”

  “Hey, don't be mean, okay?” Oiler said plaintively. “You've seen me in enough scrapes to know I'm not yellow, so don't act like we're on a playground. Havin' balls and havin' brains ain't no either/or scenario, and I happen to think riskin' serious prison time after what we just escaped in Pensacola is pretty stupid. Maybe if you'd done a six-year stretch like I have, you'd understand why I ain't so eager to go back.”

  Hazmat waved him off impatiently. “Shit, there you go again. You're always bringin' that up. Where I come from, guys brag about the time they spend outside the joint, not in it.”

  “I ain't braggin' about the time I did,” Oiler said, spooning some beans onto his plate. “I reckon it's the most horrible and degrading thing a man can go through, and I don't ever plan on seein' those bars around me again no matter what. Besides, one of my biggest reasons for goin' along with this whole cockeyed plan is I got a wife an' kid over in Jacksonville who count on the money I send 'em. But I ain't gonna be able to send 'em much if I'm makin' two cents an hour stampin' license plates in the pen.”

  “No one's stampin' nothin',” Hazmat insisted. “Carter's got inside info on the bank in Texas, so we can't lose. Won't even have to case the joint or nothin'. Ain't that right, Carter?”

  “Not only that,” Carter said, “but if we do it right, it'll triple our cash.”

  Also, Carter had made a promise to someone important that he'd rip off this particular bank, though he chose to keep that to himself.

  “Fine,” Oiler sighed, “so let's pretend this last bank down in Texas is some kind of miracle job like Carter says it is, where somehow there's no cops or security guards anywhere in the state and we'll all fly away on the backs of unicorns with big bottomless bags of money. Why don't we just make that our next and last score, then? We've been lucky so far. Why risk some bank in Oklahoma on the way?”

  “Because it's there,” Carter said decisively. “And because luck's not good for anything unless you push it.”

  So they had, and oh, the First Farmer's Bank and Trust had been the sweetest little honey of a job Carter had ever pulled in his life. No chase, no shots fired, no hassle of any kind.

  And by this time tomorrow, their spree would be at an end and they'd all be richer than they'd ever been before.

  Carter saw a roadhouse called The Boot Hill Saloon and motioned for the others to follow him to it. He needed something to wash the taste of adrenaline from his tongue and calm the jitters on his skin before turning in for the night.

  They pulled into the parking lot, cut their engines, and slung their saddlebags over their shoulders before heading inside.

  Chapter 3

  Billie

  The bell over the door to the saloon jangled and Billie turned to look as Sheriff Greg Panzer strolled in, just as he always did at ten o'clock whenever Billie was working. He'd made a habit of this ever since she'd gotten the job, and the pattern they followed was always the same.

  “Pour you a drink, Panzie?” Billie asked as he sat down at the bar. “On the house, what with all the serving and protecting you do.”

  Sure enough, the sheriff gave his usual response. “No thanks, Billie. I'm on duty.”

  Billie smiled, shaking her head. “Aw, how come you ain't no fun anymore, Panzie? Back when we were in tenth grade, you used to be able to drink a whole case of beer in one night.”

  “Yeah, I had on
e hell of a metabolism back then,” he chuckled, patting the gentle slope of his belly ruefully. “Didn't have a badge, either.”

  “So now that you're the sheriff, you figure having one beer with your old high school sweetheart would cripple you in your never-ending battle with the sinister forces threatening Cactus Hollow? Is that it, Panzie?” she countered.

  He rolled his eyes and tried to sound impatient, but pink spots of embarrassment were slowly spreading across his cheeks and forehead. He'd always hated it when she called him Panzie, but it had never stopped her.

  “I didn't say nothing about no sinister forces or whatever,” he replied, trying to make his voice sound deeper and more authoritative without much success. “I just take my job seriously, is all. And we was never sweethearts, not that I can recall. You were always with other boys.”

  “Too shy to ask me out between boyfriends, huh?” she asked teasingly. She knew he'd never have been able to work up the courage to ask her out back then, any more than he could now. He still got red-faced and tongue-tied whenever he was in the same room with her.

  True to form, Panzer's face was turning a deep shade of crimson, and he began to stammer. “The, uh, the way I remember it, there were always some pretty heavy areas of, um...overlap between your relationships,” he said, clearing his throat.

  “Is that a nice way of pointing out I dated around a lot?” Billie prodded, batting her eyelashes at him innocently. “Can you blame me? When you're born and raised in a dump like Cactus Hollow, it's an ongoing battle against boredom. We're not all cut out for the thrill of law enforcement.”

  Panzer laughed, relaxing a little. “I think the last law I actually had to enforce around here was when I told Old Man Fordham he had to cut back the branches on his spruce 'cause it was growing over onto Doc Samuels' property, and that was about two months ago. Other than that, it's mostly just crossword puzzles and re-election plans.” A shadow passed over his face briefly. “There's a chance that could change pretty soon, though.”

  Billie raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Sounds exciting. What's up?”

  Panzer shrugged his wide shoulders. “Probably nothing. But about an hour ago, an APB came over the fax down at the office. Some bikers knocked over a bank up in Boise City earlier today. Apparently, it's their fourth robbery in the past month, and all of them have been banks in little nowhere towns like this one. The state and federal boys seem to think they might be headed this way based on the places they've hit so far, so they want local cops like me to keep an eye out. Not that they've ever got proper descriptions of the guys,” he snorted derisively. “They wore masks, just like anyone would.”

  “Jesus,” Billie said, popping open a bottle of beer and taking a sip. “You really think they'll show up here?”

  “Nah,” said Panzer, yanking a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his ruddy face with it. “There's about a million towns like this one around here, so the odds seem pretty damn astronomical. I've never had to draw my service weapon in the six years I've been a peace officer here, and I doubt I ever will.” He rapped his knuckles on the bar's wooden surface.

  “You're probably right,” Billie agreed. “Besides, we get so many bikers in off the road around here, how could you tell it was them?”

  “Yeah, the whole thing seems pretty silly.”

  “Still, though,” Billie sighed wistfully, “if they came through here, at least a little shoot-'em-up would liven things up around here. You could finally have a chance to act like a real lawman, instead of just rescuing kittens from trees.”

  Panzer stared down at the bar. “Is that what it would take to get you to like me, Billie?” he asked, almost too quietly to hear.

  Billie was taken aback by the question, and for a moment, she considered pretending she hadn't heard him. Instead, she said, “I like you just fine, Panzie. You know that.”

  “You know what I mean,” he retorted, shaking his head. He still couldn't make eye contact with her.

  Billie didn't know how to answer him. She knew he'd had a crush on her ever since the second grade—hell, everyone in town knew that. But even though she had a soft spot for the big, lumbering, well-meaning lunkhead, she'd never been attracted to him that way, and she'd always been grateful that his shyness had prevented him from ever bringing it up directly.

  But now that he had, would she be forced to tell him outright that she wasn't interested? He was still a good friend, and she didn't want to hurt him.

  Before she could think of a proper response, the door jangled again and she silently thanked God for the interruption. She turned and saw three men in black leather MC vests. Each of them carried a saddlebag.

  The bar got plenty of visitors like these most nights, but Billie couldn't take her eyes off the man in the middle of the group. He was tall and lanky, with long brown hair and piercing eyes. His movements had a casual grace to them, almost like a dancer's body. The muscles in his arms were lean and taut, and Billie could tell that beneath his vest and t-shirt, his chest and abs were firm and chiseled.

  He was the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen.

  “Three beers,” the biker in the middle called out to her, leading the others to a small table in the corner.

  “Coming up,” Billie answered, watching his tight ass as he walked.

  Panzer followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing with jealousy. His entire body grew tense, and the patches of color reappeared high on his cheeks.

  “Well, well, well,” Panzer growled suspiciously. “What have we here? Three bikers, just like the APB said.”

  Billie laughed. “What, you think that's them?”

  “Could be,” Panzer said, nodding. “I'd better go over and ask them a few questions, make sure they're not here for any trouble.”

  Billie couldn't believe her ears. One minute Panzer was about to confess his feelings for her, and the next minute he was willing to prove it by shaking down some random bikers just because he thought it would impress her?

  “So what, you're going to go over there and demand to search their saddlebags for masks and big bags of money?” she asked incredulously. “Just because they happen to be riding motorcycles?”

  “If it comes to that,” Panzer replied, sliding his bulk off the bar stool and touching the handle of his gun. “That's what they gave me this for.” He was trying to sound tough, but there was an unmistakable tremble in his voice.

  She didn't like the idea of Panzer causing a scene in her bar and embarrassing himself. Besides, the more she looked at the handsome one, the more she hated the thought of seeing him get shaken down for no good reason when he probably hadn't even done anything wrong. The idea that the three robbers they'd just been talking about had suddenly decided to walk through the door seemed completely ridiculous to her.

  Billie put her hand on Panzer's shoulder. “Look, why don't you save yourself some trouble, okay? I recognize those guys. They were in here a few hours ago, so there's no way they were up in Boise City knocking over a bank. They're just some thirsty road hogs passing through town.”

  Panzer looked at them again, but his hand withdrew from his gun. “You're sure it was them?”

  “Positive,” Billie assured him. “So relax, okay?”

  Panzer looked sheepish, but somewhat relieved, too. “Okay. Guess all this talk of bank robbers has me wound a bit tight. Anyway, my shift's done, so I guess I'll head off now.”

  Billie felt bad for lying to him, even though she knew it was probably for the best. “Now that you're off, are you sure I can't pour you that beer?” she asked.

  “Nah, you've got other patrons to look after,” Panzer said, loping toward the door. “See you tomorrow night, Billie.”

  “See you then,” she answered, putting three beers on a tray with small napkins under them.

  As she did, she wondered where Panzer would go next. Would he patrol the town aimlessly in his squad car even though he was off-duty, half-heartedly looking for crimes that weren't there so he could prove h
imself to her as a tough lawman?

  Or would he go home to look through old yearbook photos of them together, re-reading the innocent notes they wrote to each other in the blank pages and pretending there was something more behind them?

  She shook her head to clear these thoughts, put on her most flirtatious smile, and headed over to the table in the corner.

  Chapter 4

  Carter

  As the Metal Monsters swaggered into The Boot Hill Saloon, Carter immediately noticed the beautiful barmaid in her skimpy denim top and cutoff jeans. Years of playing it cool with the opposite sex had given him the discipline to check her out in his peripheral vision without looking at her directly and betraying his interest—but even so, he found himself struggling not to stare openly at her petite frame, cascading reddish-brown hair, and prominently displayed cleavage.