Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6) (22 page)

“I want to know who took out my father! I won’t blast this pretty little lady’s brains all over the parking lot if you hand over whoever killed my father!”

I didn’t trust a word of it. He wouldn’t leave Madison alone even if I came out with my hands up.

Not in a million fucking years.

PIPPA

“Slushy, can I tell you something in confidence?”

“Of course you can. I wouldn’t be worth half a damn if I didn’t honor attorney-client privilege. What’s up?”

We were pulling our arrows from the hay bales out back of Smoky Mountain. My next task was to see if the first room the men had taped yesterday was dry enough for painting, and I was working my arm up to it. We were standing fairly close as we yanked arrows, so there’d never be a better time. “I’m in the WITSEC program.”

Slushy paused. Even doing something as casual as archery, he still wore a loud red shirt with a clashing chartreuse tie. Sitting in his office behind the indoor range, even if he knew he’d never see a client other than a Bare Boner all day, he got dressed up. “Part and parcel of the job,” he said.

“I see. I knew something was up. Your story about the abusive ex just didn’t ring true.”

“It didn’t? You doubt a woman who says she’s been abused?”

“Not at all. It was your description of San Francisco. With its sunny summers waterskiing on San Francisco Bay, I knew something was up. As Mark Twain said. ‘The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.’ So what’s your question?”

He didn’t ask me what I’d done to enter WITSEC. “Well, I’m afraid it’s the Joneses I’m testifying against. And they’re pretty much not going to rest until I’m dead. They know I’m in P and E. They sent that monster with the rotting jaw to kill me.”

Slushy squinted against the sun. “Yeah. Krokodil’ll do that to you every time. Haven’t seen that guy around since the Citadel archery range. Is he…off the grid now?”

I was glad Slushy had picked up on that. “Yeah,” I said with relief. “He won’t be bothering anyone anymore. Fox saw to that. Problem is, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know? The Joneses aren’t going to be put off because one of their
sicarios
wound up splattered. They’re going to keep coming and coming until they get me.”

“When’s testimony?”

“Right now it’s set for September.”

Slushy stroked a nonexistent beard. “September, September…” He snapped his fingers. “We give the Joneses a different body! A woman, of course, but someone fucked up beyond recognition.”

I frowned and recoiled from the lawyer who had always seemed pretty benign—cuddly, even. “Slushy! Do you know what you’re saying?”

He erased my thoughts with his hand. “Well, of course, we wouldn’t go out of our way to
obtain
a body like that. But if one happened to show up, we wouldn’t be averse to shipping her over to Jones with a note attached to her toe saying it’s you. Hey, who the fuck is that?”

I looked to the parking lot overlay job. No one was supposed to be parking there for obvious reasons, but a few motorcycles—not Harleys—and a couple of muscle cars had pulled onto it. This didn’t bode well, and I dropped my bow and started jogging for the motel only forty yards away. No one was out on any of the back decks, but some muscle cars and bikes drove around that way anyway and parked.

“Hide!” Slushy called out as I sprinted in the back lobby door.

I stepped behind a Coke machine just as a couple of heavy-booted baby gangsters stormed the lobby, the bell on the door tinkling harmlessly in contrast to their stomping and shuffling, the clicking of military grade weapons.

“
Mamá, ven aquí
,” said the one in authority.
Mama, get over here.
“You,
cabróna
, you’ll do. Where are all the men?”

I could view the front door but not the lobby where the women were. I could hear the tremor in Tracy’s voice a mile off. I didn’t hear the rustle of anyone else, so the men must’ve gone back to their work in the units. I didn’t dare peek out from behind the vending machine, but I presumed they had Maddie.
I should’ve been armed. I should’ve gotten Fox to take me to the gun range and teach me. Why wasn’t I walking around armed? These must be Jones men, coming to find me.

“I don’t know,” Tracy said in a feeble attempt at cover-up.
They must be looking for Fox
.

A harsh crack told me someone had slapped Tracy. “
Cabróna!
Me cago en tu puta madre!
”

“I don’t know!” Tracy sobbed. “Look around!” At least two other women whimpered, and I presumed June and Emma had stayed in the lobby after polishing off the boob cake.

I had the feeling the baby gangster was about to slap Tracy again when more stomping boots came down the front walkway. This time the screen door was flung open violently, and Ford commanded,

“What the fuck is going on around here, Abel? Hey! Take your fucking hands off my wife!”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Abel poisonously. “Someone has murdered my father and I aim to find out who.”

Murdered my father
. So this wasn’t about me at all. These guys weren’t even Joneses.

They were Ochoas.

“Ruben has been murdered?” Ford was doing a good job pretending it was all a surprise to him. More boots stampeded down the front walkway. In the doorway, I could see Ford hold out his hand in the “stay” position, telling Faux Pas, Knoxie, Speed, and a couple others to hold still.

A frightening
click
told me that someone was prepared to shoot. Abel Ochoa probably had his barrel directed at Ford’s temple. Ford slowly raised his hands, confirming my belief. “You damn well know he’s been killed, you fucking
pinche guey
.
Que te jodan
and your fucking family, Illuminati. We’ve been supplying your dispensaries with product for years and this is how you repay us?”

“I didn’t know anything about it, Abel,” said Ford, smooth as butter. “It was none of my doing. I heard some vague gossip that Ruben was dead, but that’s it.”

“It’s true,” cried Maddie. “Ford knew nothing about it.”

I guessed Abel transferred his barrel from Ford’s head to Maddie’s then. “Oh yes, my beautiful
cabróna?
Then who
did
know about it?”

“Leave her the fuck alone, Ochoa!” yelled Ford. “She knows less about it than I do!”

“We’ll fucking find out about that,” sneered Abel, and he was banging out the door with his henchmen. I glimpsed one of the captive women was a Leaves of Grass cleaning woman. The last thing I saw was someone reach out and whip the pistol from the back of Ford’s jeans, then bash him on the head with it. However, Ford followed them through the screen door. I heard a scuffle and some more thuds.

Out front, Abel yelled, “I want to know who took out my father! I won’t blast this pretty little lady’s brains all over the parking lot if you hand over whoever killed my father!”

I jumped when the back swinging screen door creaked. It was only Slushy, though, creeping bent over, holding two bows in one hand, a sheaf of arrows in the other. He was a bizarre sight in his suit and tie, holding what amounted to little kids’ bows.

“Here,” he whispered, handing me one and some arrows, “for protection.”

“They’re Ochoas,” I whispered back, although no thugs were close by. “Coming to get whoever murdered their father.”

“Don’t tell me who,” said Slushy, crouching down beside me.

“I won’t. And I’ve got a better idea. You stay here.”

I stayed crouched over so any Ochoa glancing in the window wouldn’t see me. I tiptoed past my friends to my office and unlocked the wall safe. I took out the small handgun Lytton had provided me with—the one I’d never learned to use. It was loaded, though, I knew, so I tiptoed back and gave it to Slushy. “Trade you,” I said.

Slushy handed his bow to me, too, without even looking at it. “Wow. Just, wow.”

“You know how to use it? It’s loaded.”

“I work at a fucking
archery
range, Pippa,” he whispered. “But I also work for a motorcycle club. So yeah, I do.”

“What the fuck?”

There was a big clamor out front. Men swore in Spanish, the Mexican cleaning woman screamed, and Abel yelled, “
No dispares! Es un camión de combustible!
”
Don’t shoot! It’s a fuel truck!

Fox!
Since there were no enemies in the lobby, I ran half-crouched to the front window for a good view. Sure enough, Fox was driving the fuel truck in a slow semi-circle around all the beaner vehicles and scoots. He even casually leaned his bare arm out the open window, like he was taking a Sunday drive. What was he doing? I could’ve had Slushy shoot Abel who was clutching Maddie, but someone else would’ve shot one of our men who lined the front porches of the rooms down the line. It would’ve just been a bloodbath, a free-for-all. We had to be strategic. I didn’t know where all the male Mexican workers had gone. Probably hiding in the rooms. This wasn’t their beef.

And we had to figure out what Fox’s end game was. He could’ve just hidden in his truck somewhere until this all blew over. But he just drove casually out into the open, as though daring them to kill him. Did he have a death wish? Was all this mercenary murder finally too much for him? Was he willing to take a bullet for the club? Well, that much was obvious.

I couldn’t see Abel Ochoa, but it sounded like he was waving his gun around, he was that frantic. “You fucking
pinche guey!
You fucking Anglo! Get the fuck out of the parking lot!”

Fox’s expression was sunny and carefree. Had he lost it? Did his golf bag not have a full set of irons? “Don’t worry, Ochoa. I’m just here to gas up the equipment. Don’t mind me.” And he continued in his half-circle, making a circuit of the parking lot.

“Who are you, you
pinche guey
? Who is he?” he asked in a quieter tone.

“Fox Isherwood,” said Maddie, clear and steady. “He’s not one of us. He just drives trucks for us.”

“Then how did he know my name?” hissed Abel.

I could practically hear Maddie shrug. “Doesn’t everyone know you?”

That was a smart answer. Flattering the guy’s ego while avoiding answering the question. But Fox’s lack of concern must’ve gotten to Ochoa, because the guy let go of Maddie and stepped off the verandah. Now I could see him waving his pistol.

“Get out of that truck!” Abel shrieked. “Shut down the fucking engine and get the fuck out!”

Fox finished making his circle, but he didn’t turn off the engine. My heart sank when he stepped out of the truck. Of course he had a pistol shoved down the back of his jeans like they all did. But it’d be suicide to use it now.

“Get up there! Get up there!” yelled Abel, shooing Fox over to the front verandah with the rest. Fox didn’t make it to the front steps, though. In one flashing motion, he turned fast as lightning and threw something on the ground. Abel wasn’t quick enough to react, it was so unexpected.

Voom!
The trail of gasoline Fox must’ve been spilling from the fuel truck’s hose was on fire! Circus-like, flames quickly ate up the trail he’d laid down, setting fire to men’s pants before they could get out of the way.

Pow
! The first shot was fired. Fox pulled his own pistol from his pants and shot Abel clean through the forehead. The guy collapsed to the ground, splayed out like a chalk outline. All hell broke loose then.

Men ran, on fire. Flames engulfed a motorcycle, exploding the fuel tank. When a beaner ran to save it, he caught on fire too. He was put out of his misery by Ford, who must’ve gotten his gun back. The guy crashed into his flaming motorcycle, and they died as one, together forever.

The same thing happened when a beaner tried to save his Camaro. His pants wound up on fire, too, and a fresh burst of automatic machine gun fire put an end to him, as well as dozens of bullet holes in his beloved car.

Where was that machine gun fire coming from? I ran out front with my bow, yelling at the women to stay inside. I looked around, but non-flaming targets were few and far between. That was when I heard a clattering inside the lobby. Looking through the front door, I could see the back door was open. I remembered a couple of beaners from behind the building. I ducked inside the door just in time to see two Ochoas pointing their guns at the women.

I thwacked one of them in the throat with an arrow. I had to stand way back by the couches to get him at that close range. It was classic to see his eyes cross. He dropped his gun and put a hand to his throat, then fell in a giant pile of limbs. I nocked another arrow, but someone else got to the second guy before me. Another clean shot through the middle of the forehead, and he crashed onto my desk. A little rivulet of blood ran over some of my papers. June, sitting on my desk, reached a foot out and kicked him to the floor.

“Thanks,” I said, to both June and Slushy, who had plugged the guy.

He grinned. “No sweat.”

I ran out front again with my little bow. It seemed like every Boner was armed now, and it was impossible to find a beaner to bury anymore. If machine gun fire hadn’t gotten them, a Boner had. Fox was looming over a prone body, pistol in hand, but the guy wasn’t moving. I ran over to him, tossing my bow aside and grabbing his arm.