All the Sky (37 page)

While they were getting married, the Horde was clearing out the rental. He’d meant it when he’d said that he’d brought her home.

~oOo~

A week after they’d moved into the house, a week after they’d gotten married, the Horde got called on a second weed run in the month. For the previous months, the run had been fairly predictable. Some details changed—the pick and drop locations, the drivers, the decoy cargo—to keep off law radar, but it had been predictably once a month. This run was short notice, less than two weeks since the last run. Although a second run had been a possibility since they’d signed on, everybody’s nerves were raw. Since Halyard had reared his head, since Sophie’s awful death, knowing that he was in on this job in some way, or at least connected to the weed source, which they now knew was a fucking Mexian drug cartel and complicated everything, the Horde had been hyper-vigilant and suspicious. It was hard to know where trust was warranted, if anywhere. Decades-long relationships no longer supported automatic goodwill.

But Bart had given them some real help when he’d come for Sophie’s funeral. Havoc didn’t know if he’d ever be able to see him as the friend he’d been, but Bart was now putting himself, and maybe his family, on a razor-sharp line he was straddling. He’d sat at the table with them and explained that the Scorpions were still allies and business partners, but they would not, could not shield or support the Horde as they had in the past. As far back as the blowup in the clubhouse a few years back, the Scorps had been reacting to cartel pressure. The Perro Blanco cartel was controlling most of the Scorpions’ business on a national scale. What the Perros wanted, the Perros got. Period. They had sanctioned Halyard’s taking of Sophie. Interfering with that would have meant dire consequences for the Scorps and everyone close to them. That was why Hoosier had called Bart off of warning the Horde.

In that climate of risk, Bart had still sat down with Dom before he’d gone back to California and worked out a way to share intel that should be shielded from the Scorps or anyone else looking, a way that the younger, less experienced hacker might be able to see what Bart saw and know to look for it as soon as possible. It was the best Bart could do. And if he was discovered, it would mean his bloody end, and Riley’s, too. And the little girl she was carrying. Them first, while Bart watched. That’s how the Perros worked.

Havoc had seen a movie once, a long time ago. He didn’t really remember much of it—there’d been too much talking. He liked his movies to explode. But one thing had stuck with him. The real badass had killed his own family when his enemies had used their safety as leverage, and then he’d killed everyone who’d crossed him or who’d known somebody who’d crossed him. Every fucking one. From then on, Havoc had thought of that character as the epitome of a scary fucker to stay the fuck clear of. Keyser Soze. Perro Blanco was a whole fucking cartel full of Keyser Sozes.

So what Bart was doing for the Horde, walking a fine line of loyalty, potentially bringing the club he was patched into and a Mexican drug cartel down on his head, went a long way to atone for not warning them about Halyard. Not all the way, but a long way. Far enough that Havoc was able to hug him when they left. He’d even hugged Riley.

He now understood the powerful pull of a woman in his life. One woman. One true.

The unexpected run started smoothly, business as usual. The pickup went off without a hitch. They had an extra rider, because they were bringing Wrench along on this run, trying to give him a chance to show he was ready for a patch. He was going to time out soon if he wasn’t. Havoc still didn’t think he had the smarts or the stones, but he was willing to be proven wrong. So Isaac, Show, Omen, Hav, Len, Mikey, and Wrench were escorting a supposed shipment of auto parts. Badger, Dom, and Double A had stayed back in town.

Wrench had a bullshit customization on his Dyna Switchback that made the damn thing
louder
—like a Harley wasn’t loud enough. By the time they crossed the Poplar Street Bridge in St. Louis, leaving Missouri behind for Illinois, Havoc had decided that Wrench was gonna eat that fucker before the day was through. But otherwise, the Prospect was doing well, following the flow of the formation, not standing out unduly—other than the ear-splitting noise. What an asshole.

Except for Havoc’s fried nerves and blown eardrums—and, he could tell, his brothers’ as well—the drop was going according to plan. They rolled into a lot and around to the back of a warehouse outside Springfield, Illinois. They parked and dismounted as the guys taking the handoff walked from their short row of SUVs.

And then Wrench walked up to the back of the truck, unlatched the door, and gave it a good push, rolling it up.

Len saw it happening first and yelled, “Wrench, no!” He made a dive in that direction. But it was too late to stop him.

Isaac had checked the cargo at the pick. He’d negotiated that with Becker, but it was between the two of them. The actual terms stated that this was supposed to be a blind run.

So far, the cargo had always been weed and some innocuous shipment of goods as the dummy—televisions, microwaves, auto parts. Once, it had been refrigerators. No big deal. But Isaac always checked, waiting for the day when there was something insane in the fucking truck.

Allowing him that peek had been Becker’s gesture of goodwill.

They’d sat at the table yesterday and detailed to Wrench exactly how the run would go down. Exactly. They’d had him repeat the information back. So why the fuck he’d just rolled up that door was anybody’s guess. But it sent things in a straight line right down to hell. Within seconds, the air resounded with gunfire. Broad fucking daylight. An isolated location, but still broad fucking daylight.

Before he could get to cover, Havoc felt a bullet whiz past his ear and then searing heat across his cheek—he’d been grazed. He dropped to the ground, still too fucking exposed, and aimed, catching one of the guys in his shoulder. Havoc waited, and when the guy rolled and came up to aim, Havoc put one in his head. He looked for Isaac—he had good cover on the far side of the truck. Good. He looked for Show—less great cover, lying behind his downed bike.

The truck driver came out of the cab and aimed at Isaac. Havoc yelled, “Boss!” and aimed, but Isaac spun and took the driver out with a bullet through his throat.

Lying on the pavement, in the open and with no good cover to get to, Havoc let the world fade away and instinct take over. He heard a shot and let his body find its source. Again and again until the air was quiet.

He had not been hit again.

And then he stood and saw what had been wrought. Isaac was his first priority. His President was standing, pushing his Glock into his jeans. Show was up, too, running across the lot—to Len, who was down. Fuck! Omen down. Mikey. Wrench.

One of the bad guys groaned and rolled up to sitting, bleeding heavily at his hip. Havoc pulled his piece out and aimed.

Isaac’s voice rang out. “Hold up, Hav. He’s the only one of theirs breathing, I think. Him and the second driver. Disarm and bind him for now. We need to think.”

Havoc did what he was told, going to his bike to pull his mini-kit from his saddlebag. He grabbed a few long zipties and bound the fucker. Then, for good measure, he pulled his bandana out of his jeans pocket and shoved it in the guy’s mouth. He bound the second driver, and then he went to stand with his brothers.

Omen, Mikey, and Wrench were all dead at the scene. Len was gut shot and fading. But he was conscious and fighting. Show was on his knees, pushing the shirt he’d taken off his own back into Len’s stomach.

Show looked at Isaac. “It’s through and through, but he needs real medical care. We need friends, Isaac. We’re far from home. We need friends, and now.”

“Yeah, we do.” Isaac pulled out his burner.

~oOo~

It was late, deep dark, when Havoc pulled up to his own garage and parked his bike—scuffed and dented, but not too much worse for the day’s wear—inside. They’d found friends in the Haymakers MC, a recreational club not far from the drop point. The Haymakers were a club they’d ridden many charity runs with, but who did not even dabble on the wrong side. But they’d stood up for their brothers and found them help for all of it.

A call to Becker and some deft finagling on Isaac’s part had sorted out the drop. Heavily armed cartel reinforcements had shown up to collect their dead and their cargo. The Horde had stood—those who could—and waited to see if they’d just be mown down in a hail of automatic gunfire. And for a moment, when one of them had brought his AK forward, it looked like they would. But he’d shot the survivors of their own crew, the men Havoc had bound. Then they’d collected what was theirs and had driven off.

Finally, their dead lying in the back of the Haymaker club van, the Horde—even Isaac, despite his pain—had ridden back home in a somber caravan, protecting a different, more precious kind of cargo.

Now Omen, Mikey, and Wrench were at the Worden funeral home, being looked after by people friendly to the Horde, and Len had been stabilized in a hospital in Illinois and then transported to County, courtesy of some elaborate string-pulling by Tasha Westby, club daughter and their favorite ER physician. He had a rough trip, but he looked good to recover fully. Thank God for through-and-throughs.

When Havoc came out of the garage, Cory dashed off the porch and flew into his arms. The other old ladies had obviously been in touch. She said nothing, just wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and tucked her head under his chin. He held her, letting her warm presence calm his spirit.

“Don’t ask, honey. Don’t ask.”

Her voice muffled against his shirt, she said, “Okay. I’m just—God, I was scared.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

The porch light came on, and Nolan was standing just outside the door. When their eyes met, the kid simply nodded. Already he knew the score.

~oOo~

“We knew we risked exposure getting in on this weed run. We didn’t know we were bending over for the Perros, but we knew there was risk, and we took it on anyway. We got a nasty taste of that risk last week. We got maybe more new trouble with this new Sheriff, who so far looks buttoned-up tight. John at the Worden funeral home got a call, deputies sniffin’ around looking for extra bodies. Cleanin’ up after that bullshit in Illinois drew us attention we don’t want. John held ‘em off, and we’re cool, for now. But we are in the thick of it again, brothers. We need to be smart. And we need to find an out that keeps us whole. Wrench was a fuckin’ moron, rest his soul. We can’t have any more stupid. We are a small club again, burying two patches side by side. But we need smart bodies, not just warm ones.”

They’d buried their dead only hours before, but they did not have the luxury of a leisurely mourning. Len was still in the hospital, but they didn’t have the luxury of waiting for him to return to the table. The club had cycled back to a period of crisis and chaos.

Isaac leaned back in his chair. “Way I see it, we got a few important goals. One—fill out this table.”

Show leaned forward. “Double A’s nowhere near ready for a vote. We need smart men right now.”

Havoc realized where they were headed and sat forward, offended. “You want us to poach?” Doing to another club what the Scorps did to them and Bart stuck in Havoc’s craw.

Show answered. “A couple of Haymakers expressed an interest in a different kind of club. Haymakers are strictly a rec club. If members aren’t satisfied where they are, not sure that’s poaching.”

But Havoc wasn’t convinced. “What good are weekend riders gonna be to us?”

“You saw Zeke and Tommy. They handled the shit we dished out on their turf without a blink. Zeke rode outlaw back in the nineties. His first club—The Widows’ Sons—lost a turf war and disbanded. They were into some heavy shit back then. He knows the score, vouches for Tommy.”

Havoc thought about that, and then sat back, nodding. Okay. Now he could get behind it.

Isaac picked up his count. “Two—we end Martin Halyard, for good and all.” He looked at Havoc. “M’I right, brother? You want him?”

“You know I do. Won’t trade the club for it, or my family, but if and when I have the shot, I’m takin’ it.”

“Understood. Three—get our new Sheriff on board with us, or find a way to work under his nose. Because right now, he wants us. We’ve never had heat from law on the club, not like he can bring. So be smart, brothers, and be cool. Four—find a way clear of the cartel. I know we have friends with the same goal. Becker, for one. Maybe Hoosier. Maybe even Sam, though I don’t trust him for shit anymore. Am I forgetting anything?”

Badger spoke up. “Yeah, boss. The town. Protecting the town, keeping it running right. Making sure the people have what they need. Taking care of our own. That’s our first priority, right? Why it is we do what we do?”

Havoc swiveled in his chair to take a good look at the cheeky little shit. Where’d those balls come from? All at once, he realized how different Badger had become. How different he even looked—bigger and broader. Older, in ways beyond years. Damn. The kid had gone and become a man.

He turned back to see Isaac staring Badger down. “You’re right, Badge. Goes without sayin’. But I’ve said it before—we can’t take care of our own if we’re dead or inside. We voted in this business. Unanimous. Now we have to make it work, or we have to find our exit. Dom—you need to up your game, brother. We need something on Sheriff Seaver, something we can use to bring him to our way of thinkin’. And we need to be ready to find some sort of peaceful transition out of this run. Because I got a feeling that we haven’t seen how bad it’s gonna get.”

~oOo~

The house was dark when he got home, but the porch light was on. Cory had taken to leaving it on for him when he was late—as he often was these days. In addition to the newly hot club business, he was stopping in almost nightly to check on Valhalla, make sure everything was on the up and up. He’d hired a new manager—not Bonnie, who’d refused, but a dude named Brent, who was an old work friend of Shannon’s from her Tulsa days and had come highly recommended.