Guns & Dusty Roads: The Iron Brotherhood Series (3 page)

And besides, she could definitely use the man’s expertise in all things technology and surveillance.

“Okay,” she finally let on.  “I may have a contact that could let us on to the biker angle, another man who could help put me in touch with anyone who’s been making noise lately for distributing out weapons, or maybe flashing around some extra money.”

Just as she’d expected, Charlie looked overjoyed with this information.  The man nearly clapped his hands together in glee as he popped up and down in his seat!  “Awesome!” he enthused.  “How can I help?”

Even despite herself, Kara found herself grinning back at the man.  There was something just infectious about his smile, she thought to herself.  He was a quirky, odd, excitable little fellow, but Kara couldn’t think of a single agent at the Bureau who had the same level of energy after years on the job.

“At the moment, I only need one thing,” she said, and she saw Charlie’s expression fall slightly.  “But don’t worry, I think you’ll like helping me out with this one,” she continued, and the man perked back up a little.

“Anything, boss,” he said with complete sincerity.  “You tell me, and I’ll go get it!”

“Anything?”

The man wiggled his nimble fingers, fingers trained from years of flying over keyboards and probing into tiny electronic devices.  “Trust me, I can manage it,” he said with utter conviction.  “Just name it.”

Kara leaned back a little in her seat, glancing up at the ceiling.  “I’m going to need a bike,” she said, her expression unfocusing slightly.

“A bike, got it,” Charlie repeated.  “Any specific type?”

“Yes.  I need a Harley - ideally a Fatboy, maybe one with a modified lower ride if possible.  I’ll be okay if you can find only a twelve hundred CC engine, but I’d prefer one of the new models, at fourteen hundred and fifty CCs.  I’m going to need saddlebags and a full leather outfit, as well as the number of a guy who can do custom detailing and modifications on a bike for us, for Bureau rates.”

After a moment of silence, Kara’s eyes tracked over to Charlie.  He was sitting there, staring at her, his mouth hanging slightly open.  No doubt, Kara thought to herself, the man was picturing her dressed all in skintight leather and astride a motorcycle.  She had heard it from several men who’d seen the real thing that it was an utterly arresting site.

“Charlie?” Kara snapped her fingers at him.

After another moment, the man blinked, zoning back into reality.  “Yeah?  Bike, Harley, old and strong, leather everything, got it.  Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Kara added, once again tilting back and half-closing her eyes as she gazed up at the ceiling, picturing her next move.

“Make it red.”

Once Charlie had all the details of her size, wisely not making any comments as Kara told him her measurements, Kara leaned back in her chair for a minute or two longer, considering her next move.

She would have to call the man, she decided.  Email?  Sometimes, it took him weeks to respond to those.  And given his mobile lifestyle, she had no way of guessing where he might be, so that she could track him down.

She could always trace his phone, but that might be seen as a waste of Bureau resources - and beside, was that any way to treat family, even family members she hadn’t seen in years?

So instead, after taking a deep breath, FBI Special Agent Kara Sybil pulled out her phone, scrolling through the extensive list of contacts.  After several swipes of her thumb, she found the name she was looking for, and pressed down.

A minute later, as she lifted the phone up to her ear, she could hear it ringing on the other end.

After six rings, the person at the other end of the phone picked up.  For a moment, Kara heard nothing but the rushing sound of wind at the other end of the phone, and then a gruff, heavy, thick voice said, “Yeah?”.

“Hi, Uncle Grazer?” Kara said, trying to sound a little less professional than standard Bureau training put into her voice.  “It’s me, Kara.  Um, do you have a minute to talk?”

“Kara?”  The voice sounded surprised, but not upset.  Instead, however, Kara thought that she caught a note of wariness.  “Is that you?  What have you been up to?  Did you like my Christmas present?”

Kara rolled her mind back, trying to remember what she’d gotten from her uncle several months previously.  “Wait a minute - weren’t you the one who sent me all those llama skins?” she said, the memory suddenly flooding back to her.  “My god, Uncle, those things stank to high heaven!  They weren’t even tanned!”

“Well, I might have needed to think ahead a little more, but they were so soft, they reminded me of you!” the man exclaimed on the other end of the phone, now sounding much more excited and open.  “Kara, my girl, it’s great to hear your voice again!”

“You think I’m soft?  Me, the FBI agent?  The woman who carries a gun strapped to her hip?” Kara shot back, but she couldn’t keep a smile off of her face as her uncle chuckled along with her on the phone.  “Maybe your mind’s the thing going soft, like that llama fur you sent me!”

For a few minutes longer, they reminisced together, swapping back and forth stories about various relations.  Grazer was Kara’s father, and her whole dad’s side of her family somehow managed to lead various different wild lives.  Her father had been in the military, but his brother had taken a less disciplined approach.  He’d always been a bit of a gearhead - Kara could remember her father inviting over his brother “for dinner” any time that their car started making weird noises - and had channeled that into fixing motorcycles.  From there, it had been just a short jump to joining a gang himself.

Kara hadn’t seen the man in person in years, but she still had fond memories of him, still remaining from when she was a child, before she’d grown up and left her innocence behind her.  She could remember the man coming over and sitting down on their couch as he waited for her mother to finish preparing dinner.  He was a huge man, and the entire couch would slump down in towards him.  Sitting next to him on the couch, Kara would always find herself slowly sliding down until she collided with his hip - at which point, he would sweep her up in a bear hug, smelling of motor oil, the metallic tang of engines and mechanical work, and his own deep musk.  Those hugs always felt like she was being grabbed by a happy and overenthusiastic bear. 

Grazer also always told her that he picked up his nickname from time at the buffets with the other bikers, after a long day on the road putting the pavement behind them.  “I’d just love to get a taste of everything,” he told her and the rest of her family over dinner, as he took another heaping spoonful of loaded mashed potatoes.  “I’d spend so long just adding different things onto my plate, well, they thought that I was grazing like a sheep on grass!”

Now, after Grazer had been brought up to date on how Kara’s parents were doing, and after she had heard that the gang was still going strong, the man paused, clearing his throat. “So, let’s get down to those brass tacks,” Uncle Gazer said, his voice losing just a little of that jolliness.  “What’d you call for?”

Kara knew that she should get down to business, but she couldn’t resist poking the big bear a little.  “What, a favorite niece can’t just give her uncle a call?” she asked.

“Oh, she can,” Grazer responded.  “But I know you, my little girl, and you are more focused on your job than anyone else I know.  And when you call me, especially before ten in the morning on a Tuesday, I know that you’re focused only on work.  So drop the act, and let’s just get right to it.  What are you after?”

The man might be direct, but he could smell bullshit.  Kara dropped the pretenses.  “I’m after a group of gun smugglers,” she said, her tone all of a sudden sounding much more businesslike.  “They killed a truck driver last night - a man who was also suspected of smuggling.  And one of the witnesses says that he saw a biker in the area, just before the man was killed.  The biker might even have spoken with the victim.”

Kara felt as though she could say more, but she stopped there, waiting.  Let Grazer fill in the rest of the story as he saw best.

The man was quiet for a long moment, considering, and then he spoke up again.  “So what do you need?” he asked, simply.

“Access, and introductions,” Kara replied.  “I still remember how to handle a bike, since you taught me - but I don’t know anyone in these gangs, anyone who could get me the connection I need, and could also vouch for me.”

After she finished talking, she waited, but there was nothing but silence from the other end of the line.  “Uncle, I really could use your help with this - but I need to get moving right away,” Kara added, trying to drive her point home.

Finally, her relative spoke again.  “Kara, some of these people, these gangs, can be extremely dangerous,” he said, sounding very unsure.

“Uncle, I’m used to dangerous people!  I work with them every day in the FBI, chasing down criminals.  This is no different.”

Her uncle let out a long sigh, but Kara held firm.  She knew that she could outlast him.  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do to get you an introduction,” he finally told her.  “But Kara, I’m not happy about this.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Kara said to him, ignoring that last little comment. 

She hung up, and then stood up, looking around the office.  “Charlie!” she shouted.  “I need that ride and gear right now!”

CHAPTER 3

Four hours later, Special Agent Kara Sybil was riding astride her new vehicle, pushing the limits of how fast she could send it roaring down an open, straight stretch of highway.

Charlie had definitely managed to come through, she thought approvingly to herself as she gave the throttle another twist, feeling the big, heavy engine in between her legs instantly pick up with a throaty roar.  Charlie managed to find a classic Fatboy, a 1990 - the first year that this make of chopper had been produced.  Apparently, this particular hog had been confiscated from a drug dealer’s stash, he had told her - and despite being more than twenty years old, it had fewer than ten thousand miles on it, most of which were probably out on the drug dealer’s private racing strip.  Hell, it didn’t even have any scratches on the long chrome exhaust pipes!

And best of all, just as Kara had requested, the seat, fenders, and gas tank were a bright, cheery, cherry red.

The wind roaring along the highway cut through small, specially designed vents in the leather suit that Agent Sybil had also received from a very eager FBI equipment specialist.  The leather pants and jacket both contained built-in rubber pads, made of the latest ridged silicon rubber, designed for maximum kinetic energy absorption if she took a spill, while at the same time maintaining the slimmest profile so as not to put extra bulges in her figure.

Kara did have to admit, after she had gotten changed into her new outfit, that her figure looked quite amazing in these tight clothes.  The leather pants were the perfect size, following the curves of her long legs and nicely rounding out at her ass.  In these pants, she could definitely see the results of her intensive training sessions spent in the gym four times a week, including twice-weekly kickboxing sparring sessions.

When she’d stepped out of the changing room in the outfit, Charlie had looked as though he was about to pass out, all of the blood rushing out of his head and into… other areas.

Even on the highway, however, Kara’s helmet kept most of the road noise out of her ears, reducing the roaring of the hog between her legs down to a pleasant rumble.  As always, Kara insisted on the full-face helmet, coupled with a mirrored face shield.  “You know what we call open face helmets?” she remembered Uncle Grazer telling her when she was younger, still learning to handle a motorcycle. 

“What’s that?” she had asked him, watching in awe as he checked over his own motorcycle.

“Jaw removers,” he’d replied, nodding approvingly as his engine turned over immediately upon the push of the starter button.  “Remember, even though these things are awesome and badass, you have to respect their power.  And that means wearing protection, every single time.”

Kara still kept that lesson in mind, and it ended up applying to much more than just motorcycles.  From always using her seatbelt (she never knew when she might find herself in a high-speed highway chase) to always double-checking the safety on her gun (she’d seen several FBI agents hospitalized for “friendly fire” incidents where they nearly shot off their own toe), she always made sure to be as safe as possible.

Yet being safe didn’t mean that she couldn’t enjoy herself, she thought with a savage grin as she gave the throttle another twist, the bike beneath her putting on another burst of speed.

Yes, this would do excellently.

Kara wasn’t just cruising along this highway for no reason.  Just as she’d been getting changed into her new outfit, she’d received a text from Uncle Grazer, specifying a small pit stop just off the highway, a hundred miles from the nearest town.  Kara could make it to the spot by the time specified in the text - but only if she rode fast.

As she opened up the throttle on the Fatboy, grinning fiercely at the pickup and pull the machine between her legs exerted on her, Kara savored the rush of the oncoming road.  She had no problem going fast.

One dusty but exhilarating ride later, Kara pulled off the highway and took the exit ramp down to the little rest stop, clicking smoothly back down through the Fatboy’s gears as she pulled into the parking lot.  The big machine obediently reduced its roar down to little more than a gentle rumbling, although she was certain she could feel the engine wanting to pick up again, to jump back up to fifth gear and strive for the redline.  By keeping this thing as a trophy, not taking it out, that drug dealer had been doing the marvel of engineering a disservice.  Kara was glad he’d been brought down in a raid - he deserved it.

Pulling into a parking space in the lot of the rest stop, Kara noted that there were two other motorcycles already parked here, side by side in one of the spots near the door.  It looked like, as fast as she’d rode, Grazer and his contact had been faster.

Kara instantly recognized one of the two bikes.  It was a big Victory touring bike, the robin’s egg blue color half-hidden beneath a layer of highway dust.  The leather on the seats was creased with innumerable lines, well worn but well maintained.  It was a bike big enough to carry a hefty, equally big man - and it was perfect for her bear of an uncle.

The other bike, however, was new to Kara.  It had to belong to her contact, she assumed, and she ran her eyes over it, sizing it up as she tried to picture the man who might ride astride it.

This motorcycle was another Harley, like hers, but a different style.  Dyna was the model, Kara was fairly sure.  The machine looked like a cross between a 70s throwback and a modern standard bike, stylish but in a restrained, reserved fashion.  The machine was an unassuming black, also coated with a thin layer of road dust.  Despite the dust, however, the machine looked well cared for - its owner used this vehicle daily, but Kara could spot the little signs of near-constant maintenance.  It looked sleek, low, powerful, and slightly dangerous, suggesting the same about its rider.

Kara didn’t want to spend too long standing outside, so she turned to the diner, taking a deep breath as she strode towards the doors.

The truck stop was set up like an old 1950s diner, complete with the plastic seats inside in booths and the long counter running the length of the interior.  A bell jingled above the door as Kara pushed it open.  She’d left her helmet outside, hanging off of her bike, but she unzipped her jacket, letting out the heat of the highway as the door swung shut behind her.

It took no time at all to spot Uncle Grazer, sitting in one of the booths.  If anything, the man looked even bigger than Kara remembered!  Yet as he rose up out of his seat to greet her with a crushing hug, she observed how he still carried the weight well.  He only had a very slight gut hanging over his massive belt buckle at his waist, and his arms and legs looked like they’d been built of tree trunks with a wrapping of meat around their exteriors.  When he gave Kara a squeeze, she felt the air forcibly expelled from her lungs.

“Good to see you, my favorite niece!” Grazer boomed as he released the FBI agent, letting her get in a much-needed breath.  “Grab a seat with us, relax after that ride out to this place in the middle of nowhere!”

Kara did as suggested, settling into the booth next to her uncle.  The seat beneath her shifted as the big man plopped back down beside her, but Kara’s eyes were already running over the other man in the booth - the one who hadn’t stood up when she arrived.

He looked dangerous - that was Kara’s first impression, although she was hard pressed to say what exactly gave her that feeling.

The man sat there in a position that at first appeared to be relaxed and open, but on closer inspection turned out to be poised, muscles ready to spring into action.  Kara saw that pose often, especially among her sparring opponents in kickboxing.  An opponent could look totally at ease, but would flash from total stillness into a flat-out attack in the blink of an eye.  Kara had learned not to underestimate those people.

The man had dark hair, cut fairly short, and a five o'clock shadow covering the lower part of his face.  Many men, Kara had observed, tried to pull off a look like this, hoping that it would make them look dangerous.  Instead, they simply came off as scruffy.

This man, however, looked dangerous.  He put the FBI agent in mind of a lounging tiger; relaxed, but able to switch almost instantly into attack mode at the slightest provocation.

As she sized him up, Kara could also feel the man’s eyes on her, doing the same thing.  She made sure not to make any threatening moves, but the man looked thorough; Kara didn’t doubt that he could spot her training, both with the FBI and with hand to hand sparring.  He probably also caught the Glock 22 at her hip, loaded with the standard 9 millimeter Luger rounds issued by the FBI.  That, in itself, was a strong indication of what she did.

“Ah, yes, introductions!” Grazer boomed as he dropped back down into the seat beside Kara, making the whole booth quake slightly as his weight settled in.  “Kara, this is Cross, an old friend of mine.  I figured that, after you called, it would be worth introducing the two of you.”

“Cross,” Kara repeated, holding out her hand across the table.

This was another test, of sorts.  Kara was expecting the man to either refuse to take the offered greeting, or to try and crush her fingers in his own, showing off his strength and dominance.  Here, however, she found herself surprised.

Cross reached out and took her hand, but instead of the crushing grip that Kara was expecting, he merely showed a comfortable firmness as he gave it a single shake.  Kara had shaken hands with many different people, from criminals to other legal agents, all the way up to politicians.

None of them, however, ever managed that same level of confidence as Cross showed, with a single handshake.

“Now, Cross here knows about your career, what you do for your day job,” Grazer went on, as the two of them looked into each other’s eyes, sizing each other up.  “And while Cross usually doesn’t have much to do with the FBI, or any other law enforcement, well-”

“We don’t want trouble,” the man himself spoke up, cutting off Grazer mid-sentence.  His voice was deep, but full of a deep rumble that Kara didn’t mind.  He didn’t have that gravelly sound of a smoker, or someone trying to sound intimidating.  Instead, there was almost a deep bass tone beneath his words, like the low purr of a lion.

“The last thing that we need is a full-scale police incursion in our ranks,” Cross continued, his eyes not dropping as he stared back at Kara from beneath heavy brows.  “I don’t like working with you, but it’s better than finding tactical teams stopping anyone with suspected gang activity.”

In other words, Kara read into this, the man didn’t want his own gang’s illegal activities being pulled into question.  He was hoping that, by throwing this other gang to the FBI’s jaws, Kara would possibly cast a blind eye towards his own illegal transgressions.

Unfortunately, at least for now, he was still correct.  Kara knew that her bosses wanted the heads of these gun runners, and they would probably be willing to throw out all sorts of pardons and immunity if they could get a suspect to parade in front of the cameras and TV crews.

So as much as she disliked the idea of letting a criminal go free, she slowly nodded as she gazed back at Cross.  “I can work with your group surreptitiously,” Kara replied, even though she disliked having to agree to this.  “If you help me get to these gun smugglers, I’ll overlook anything else that I see - for now.”

Kara assumed that this would convince the man - but instead of believing her, she saw Cross glance sideways, over at Grazer!  The man didn’t even believe her - and she wasn’t the criminal at this table!

Grazer, however, gave the man a nod.  “Kara, my dear, I think you’ll be well set with Cross, here,” he said, hoisting himself back up to his feet with a grunt.  “And I’ve asked him to keep an eye out for you, too - just stick close to him and he’ll help out.”

Even those words irked at Kara.  She was fully trained and capable of handling just about anything - she did not need a keeper of any sort!  And a glance at Cross revealed that he felt the same way.  The man looked anything but comfortable with this arrangement, even though Kara was agreeing to all of his over-the-top demands.

But Grazer seemed to look past this with a mild grin.  He reached out and gave Kara another pat on the shoulder, and then ambled out, leaving her alone with the other biker.  Both Kara and Cross sat there, silently assessing each other, until the sound of the big man’s motorcycle had disappeared into the distance.

Finally, after another minute or so, Cross finally sighed and leaned back from the table.  “Well, neither of us likes this, so let’s get it over,” he said, possibly the most honest thing to yet come out of his lips.  “So, let’s get going...”

CHAPTER 4

Several hours later, Special Agent Kara Sybil was following Cross up the steps to the porch of a large, two-story rambling house, focusing on keeping her breathing slow and steady.

After Cross finally agreed to help out Kara with tracking down the gun runners she was after, they spent a good extra hour sitting at the diner where they had first met, going over different details of the gang. 

There was a lot to learn.

Cross began by introducing Kara briefly to his own gang, the Iron Brotherhood.  He showed off the three pieces of the Iron Brotherhood’s patch, which featured the outline of a heavy, brawny man with his head replaced by a bare, serious looking skull.  The body below the skull was big and blocky, looking as though it was covered in sheets of armor - probably an allusion towards the “iron” part of the name.