by Zahra Girard
“I think she’d appreciate some pro bono work on her car. She wasn’t happy about what that chase did to her baby.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough. If only all of life’s problems could be solved with some grease and auto wax. Go tell Trish to set Ruby up for some work and some detailing. I’m going to call Bowen Dale and set up a meet. Then we can end this nightmare and get back to normal.”
“Amen, brother.”
By the time I get Trish filled in on the details of Ruby’s situation and back to Stone’s table, he's already rounding up some men. Mack, Axel, Razor, Rusty, and Stitch all stand at attention around him.
“In an hour, we’re to meet Bowen Dale at a rest stop thirty miles east of here on the highway to Las Vegas. Snake here was kind enough to take care of our FBI problem, so we’re going to make the exchange. We give Bowen Dale the fed’s laptop, proof of his death, and his nephew’s pistol. In return, we’ll receive the location of our weapon’s shipment and we’ll be free of the illustrious fuckhead, Bowen Dale Cooper. Check your weapons, boys. We leave in ten minutes.”
Time moves fast as soon as Stone finishes his speech and I’m so caught up in the flurry of preparations I don’t have time to say goodbye to Addie before we head out on the road. It’s probably for the best this way, anyway; the less I talk to her, the less I’m tempted to waver in my decision. She’s too good for the club life, too good to be my old lady; she needs to find her freedom away from all this shit and build the life that a talented and kind-hearted woman like her deserves. Maybe I’ll check in on her from time to time, reassure myself I did the right thing by witnessing her success. It’ll hurt like hell seeing her living a life without me, but it’ll feel damn good knowing she’s doing well for herself.
Hell, it’ll probably be the best thing I ever do’ setting an outstanding woman like her up to live a life free of this violence and darkness.
But that only happens once we take care of Bowen Dale Cooper.
“It’s time, brothers,” Stone’s voice rises above the rumble of the clubhouse getting ready for a showdown.
Armed and ready, we ride out.
Our enemy is waiting for us.
His retinue is reduced since we saw him last; just two armed men, but those two men have the kind of guns with them that are enough to decimate anyone in their way. The only sign of Bowen Dale’s personal loss are a few extra wrinkles on his forehead. We form our bikes in a semicircle around him, Stone front and center, while the rest of us hang back, hands on our guns, ready to attack if things go sideways.
Bowen Dale doesn’t blink in the face of our presence. Doesn’t look like he gives a shit that he’s outnumbered or outgunned. And why would he? He’s got our guns hostage, and the financial hit from losing that shipment could sink the club.
“Stone, glad you came to your senses before any more blood had to be spilled. I was starting to think I’d have to kill some of your family members to get you to see sense and, if I’m honest with you, I never enjoy killing the fairer sex. They always look so pitiful when they’re dead. Like wilted flowers.”
Stone’s fists clench and I tense, preparing myself for an all-out shootout.
Then he steps forward and extends his hand.
“Bowen Dale Cooper, you are one terrible son of a bitch and I hate that we’ve had to come together under these circumstances. But I’m glad we could sort things out before anyone who’s actually important died,” he says.
Now it’s Bowen Dale’s turn to look on the verge of murder.
“Show me what you brought before I change my mind about visiting your wife.”
With a flick of his wrist, Stone beckons me forward.
I’ve got a duffel bag slung over my shoulder containing all the necessities for this meeting. Unzipping it, I hold it out to him and he greedily takes it from my hands.
“You’ve got there everything your heart could ask for, Mr. Cooper,” I say. “That’s the laptop from Agent Jones’ hotel room, just like you wanted. Also, there’s your nephew’s Desert Eagle. A nice gun like that, I thought I should return it, even though I was tempted as hell to keep it.”
“Where’s the proof of Jones’ death? I want to see that motherfucker’s corpse.”
“His corpse is probably in the city morgue at this point in time. I spilled his brains out in the loading bay of an abandoned warehouse in the old part of town. Didn’t use a silencer, either. So someone sure as hell probably heard it and called it in. Still, I took a few pictures on my phone. Let me show you,” I say, carefully sliding my hand to my pocket and throwing a stern look at Bowen Dale’s men. “I’m going to reach into my pocket now and take out my phone, so you two keep your fucking weapons in your pants, you hear me?”
I take out my phone. Open up the photo gallery and pass it over to Bowen Dale.
There’s a look of malignant glee on his face.
“Fantastic work. Blew his brains all over the pavement. Did he scream before he died? Did he beg for his life?”
I shake my head. Glee turns to slight disappointment.
“No, sir. I caught him by surprise. He didn’t know what hit him before I put lead in his skull.”
“Shame. And I would’ve preferred video — something to truly remember that rat bastard by — but this will do,” he says. Then he hands the duffel to one of his men, who loads it into the black Mercedes they drove to the meet. “Stone, you’ve lived up to your word. Eventually. And I’ll live up to mine. Once I’m a safe distance away, I’ll call you with the location of your cargo. It’s all there. In fact, you’ll find that none of its even been opened. It was a pleasure doing business with you, though I hope that we never again cross paths in this life.”
There are no handshakes exchanged. Nothing more is said as Bowen Dale gets into his Mercedes with his men and drives off into the distance. True to his word, about fifteen minutes after Bowen Dale leaves, Stone’s phone rings. He listens for a brief moment, nods, and then waves to Mack and Rusty.
“Fifteen miles north of Lone Mesa, off Albert Road, there’s a dirt track that leads toward some hills. Follow it for two miles. On your right you’ll see what used to be a gravel path leading to a cave set in a hillside. Our shit’s in there. I want you two to head back to the shop, get a fucking truck, grab Goldie and Sarge, and get there and get our cargo home.”
The two men hardly stick around long enough to answer in the affirmative; they race to get on their bikes and zip down the highway on their way back to Lone Mesa.
“What about us, Stone?” Razor says.
“We just going to sit here and let that old bastard get away? I bet we could track him down, get some sweet revenge. It’s a shame to let that limp-pricked son of a bitch win like that,” Axel says. He’s got his thick arms crossed over his massive chest.
Stone looks to me. “You want to fill him in? Or should I?”
“I got it, sir,” I nod. I turn to Axel. He’s got one inquisitive, bushy eyebrow raised. “The next thing we’re going to do is go talk to FBI Agent Perez about Agent Jones’ murder. Tell her what really happened.”
“You going to confess or some shit? What the fuck is going on here? I didn’t think we were a pack of fucking rats,” Axel says. Somehow, his bushy eyebrow gets bushier. And his arms clench tighter, making his massive chest stand out even more. The man is like a boulder. A boulder with a grumpy attitude.
“We’re going to help Agent Perez get revenge on the man who really killed her partner.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Adella
I get a phone call not minutes after Snake and my father head out to confront Bowen Dale Cooper. It’s a call that I’ve been expecting and one that, under any other circumstances, I’d be over the moon to receive.
I step outside to the parking lot, phone clutched to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Is this Adella Stone?” Says an unfamiliar man’s voice.
“It is.”
“This is Bennie from the Sant
a Monica Arts Committee. I wanted to call and remind you that the event is the day after tomorrow and we would really, really love it if you could make it. We just got done looking at your submissions and it’s incredible stuff. We’d love to put it near the front, give it a really good placement so you can showcase your work.”
“Really? You think so?”
God, I’m smiling like such a doofus right now.
“Totally. Adella, you have a freaking great eye for someone new to the art. Did you study anywhere or what?”
“No. I mean, I read some books and I looked at what some other people have done, like Steve McCurry and Annie Leibovitz, and tried to see how they composed things.”
“Well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. We can’t wait to show your stuff off.”
“You mean that? Really?”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re talented. You know, the goal of our event is to support and showcase local artists. As part of that, we allow them to sell some of their works at the event. If you put some of your stuff up for sale, I wouldn’t be shocked if it were sold out by the end of the night. The things you do — blue-collar portraits, real-life small-town America — it’s hot right now.”
“Sell my photography? Really?”
I hadn’t even considered doing that; never thought I’d be reaching so soon the point where people wanted to actually buy my photographs. That all seemed like a milestone further down the line.
“Of course. If you need help coming up with prices, show up to the event a couple hours early; we keep sales records for past events, you’re welcome to look through them and see what similar stuff is selling for. Anything we can do to help new talents get off the ground.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much, Bennie,” I say. Then I take a deep breath, look back through the door inside, toward my family. “If something should come up and I couldn’t make it, are there any other events that I could show my work at?”
There’s quiet on the other end of the line for a second.
“No, not really. We do these new artist showcases to start the season. It’s one of our biggest events. If you can’t make it to this one — and I really suggest you try — maybe there will be space for you next year.”
Next year? Another year waiting for the stars to align for me to break free? I can’t wait that long. I have to go, now.
“No, no, I’ll be there,” I say.
“Good. One last thing — we’re holding a symposium the day after the event. Sort of a way to connect rising talent with experienced photographers and potential employers — magazines, websites, newspapers; you know, a networking thing. We would love for you to stick around.”
“I will. Again, thank you so much, I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
I’m valued. Wanted. Respected. Any other time, I’d be ecstatic, validated. But now? Now it just means that my life here at the clubhouse and as part of the MC family has come to a temporary end.
It’s time for me to leave.
For a little while.
To strike out on my own, to build something for myself.
And hearing one of the photography event organizers call me personally, that my photography work is being given a prime placement next to several more experienced and in-demand photographers, and that they’d like me to stick around for an artist’s symposium, drives home to me it is definitely time for me to leave.
I can make it out there on my own.
It will be hard. It will be lonely. But it is not impossible.
And the more I put myself out there, the more possible it becomes.
I hang up the phone and head back inside, brimming with both pride and regret.
“What’s wrong, Addie?” My mom says.
I’ve done my best to keep my face straight, but she knows me too well. And I feel a little pale, probably because my heart feels like it’s totally dropped out of my chest.
“Nothing, mom,” I say, making myself smile. “It was just those people from the photography thing. They liked my work.”
“Really? That’s great. When all this stuff with Bowen Dale is over, we’ll have to see about helping you find another event so you can finally show off your work.”
“We will. They told me that my style was just what they’re looking for. Authentic life portraits. Real, regular people. The guy even said that I could probably sell a decent number of my photos at an event like theirs. Maybe I could even make a living at it. If I got a part-time job to go along with it. At least for the start, until I make a bigger name for myself.”
“That’s incredible, Addie. I always knew you were talented,” she says.
“Thanks, mom,” I say, giving her a tight hug that, though she doesn’t know it, will be one of the last hugs she gets from me for a while. I’m not saying goodbye for good — in fact, I’m not saying goodbye at all, because that would be too hard — but it will be awhile before my family sees me again. “Since we haven’t heard anything from dad to indicate that the deal has gone bad, I’m going to go back to my place. I need to relax. Will you be able to handle the bar by yourself?”
She gives me another hug.
“Of course. And I am so proud of you, dear. You’ve got bright things ahead of you.”
She gives me a look like she knows what I’m about to do. And maybe she does, in a way. Moms always have a kind of intuition, and my mom is no different. In fact, she’s special.
“I love you, mom. And dad, too. Can you tell him that when he gets back?”
My heart breaks knowing that she will have a lot of questions when they figure out I’ve left. And I hate leaving without telling them where I’m going, but this is something I need to do. If I tell them, they’ll convince me to stay. And I can’t keep sacrificing, over and over, when I don’t know how many more opportunities I’ll have.
“Yes, dear. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine, mom. I’ll see you later, OK?”
“Goodbye, Addie. See you later.”
She’ll cry when she realizes what’s happened. But at least it isn’t permanent. Once I have my life settled — which could happen sooner than I think considering how enthused and supportive the event organizer sounded — I can reach out to her. Let her know where I’ve been and what I’ve been up to. I hope she’ll understand.
As soon as I’ve said my goodbyes, I hurry out the door to my bike, tears brimming in my eyes, and I hide my face behind my helmet even though there’s no one there to see me cry.
When I get back to my place, I pack a backpack and load up a saddlebag with some other essentials. It only takes a few minutes. In my mind, I’ve rehearsed this moment countless times — the time when I break free. Where I set out on my own and start my life.
I always thought I’d be proud. That I’d do this with a smile on my face and supportive parents at my back. Instead, I’m sneaking out like a thief in the night, running away without a word, and the only things I’ll be leaving behind are hurt family and the man I love.
Bags ready, I get on my bike. With a heavy heart and a brain foggy with silent grief, I kickstart my bike and head onto the road, toward the future I’ve always wanted.
The future that’s cost me everything.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Snake
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Agent Perez’s smokey, gruff voice comes through the solid timber of her motel room door.
“She’s kind of hot in a bitchy way,” Axel says, leaning close to me to whisper. “If she weren’t a fed, I’d ask her out. Hell, I might anyway. Bitch or not, she’s got a fine ass.”
“Keep your voice down, Axel,” Stone growls.
“I can fucking hear you, you barrel-bellied fuckwit,” she shouts. In the silence after, there’s the sound of a pistol hammer cocking back. “If you’re here to take me out, you’re the nosiest fucking hit squad I’ve ever heard of. And I’ll have you know, I once went after the Polish Mafia in Minnesota, and those sausage-eating sons of bitches a
re as subtle as a fucking drunken polka band. So re-evaluate your stealth or get the fuck off my doorstep.”
“Shit, I really like her,” Axel says, raising his voice, because that’s just the kind of man he is. “You know, I thought about hiring a dom once. Something about a woman in leather who just wants to kick your ass before sucking your dick is fucking hot. Didn’t follow through. Too damn expensive.”
“I will shoot you through the fucking door if you don’t tell me why you’re here in the next three seconds,” she screams.
“BD Cooper killed your partner and we’re here to see if you’d like to arrest him,” I answer.
There’s another click; the deadbolt comes undone. The door flies open faster than I can blink and there she is, gun in hand, eyes on fire.
“The fuck did you just say?”
“Exactly like you heard. BD Cooper killed your partner. We know how you can track him down. Do you want revenge or not?”
She holsters her gun. “Tell me how.”
I nod. “You can track your partner’s cell phone number, yeah?”
“I’m not fucking NCIS, my name isn’t fucking Leroy Jethro Gibbs but, yeah, I can fucking track his number by the GPS chip on his phone. If it’s on, that is.”
Stone nods, then he gestures toward the interior of Agent Perez’s room. “That’s good enough for me. Grab whatever shit you need to make it happen and then come with us. Because I can promise you BD Cooper’s location and all the firepower you need to take that son of a bitch out.”
“You’re offering me a partnership?” She says. “You think I even want your help?”
“I don’t give a shit whether or not you want my help, Agent Perez. But I know you want revenge on the piece of shit who killed your partner. And I’m the only man who can give that to you.”
* * * * *
After hours of driving, and another few hours of waiting, we’re outside a low-range hotel on the California-Nevada border, looking at a blip on a map that confirms our target’s location. No one pays attention as we pull into the parking lot — this is the kind of place where no one looks twice as long as you keep your eyes to yourself.