The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (27 page)

 

 

 

 

The Sycamore moon was hidden tonight. Diego knew exactly where it was, though. It had set with the sun, but it would be hours before the alignment was complete.

The biker had hunted wolves once, in a past life. The moon meant life and death to the wolves, as well as to him, the hunter. It was rife with paradoxes and dual meanings. The argent orb in the sky was both frightening and beautiful, massive and inconsequential. And tonight, as it began a new lunar cycle, the moon was both invisible yet ever present, like a god.

This occasion was anything but an official wolf hunt, however. This was for Omar. This was personal. Diego was here under no orders but his own obligation to a kid he had called a friend.

Another point that made Diego acutely aware that this wasn't an official operation was his complete lack of preparation. He didn't realize until he parked his Scrambler that his shotgun holster was empty, his beautiful M4 unfired and in the hands of a Mexi gangbanger. And unlike the old days, Diego even lacked his silver knife. If his guess was true, it would be in Hotah's possession, taken from a Carlos Doka too injured to fight back. Diego expected nothing less from Hotah; all the rumors he'd heard painted a portrait of a vicious criminal. It would be a trick to take the knife from him and kill him with it, but that was the biker's only play.

This time, quite alone, Diego needed no one else to tell him he was an idiot.

He scampered along the dry creek bed silently. It would have been ideal to do a full circle around the property, to survey who was inside, but the vegetation here was too sparse to make any other approach realistic.

Diego wasn't sure who he would find inside. He guessed that the Pistolas had only been planning to make a pit stop. Did the meet at the diner change that? Did a couple of the Mexicans head to Route 66 while the other two headed back to Cali? And the biggest question: Were the Yavapai hiding out here?

In truth, Diego was betting on a long shot. A last roll of the dice with all his money on the line. He tried to ignore the fact that he had always left Indian casinos with a hole in his pocket, but that was exactly the lure of gambling.

This time would be different.

This moment felt right.

If there was one thing Diego was an expert of, it was wolf behavior. Tonight, before the new moon, Hotah would look to seclude himself or make a move. With all the heat—the police, the FBI—the biker was banking on the mercenaries keeping a low profile. Something in his hunter instinct told him he was right.

Diego crept up to the wall and checked the yard. The scene of his close call today was empty. The biker vaulted the fence, as before, and set himself against the wall of the building. This time he wouldn't expose himself without knowing where the outlaws were.

The wilderness was silent tonight. There were no birds, no crickets, and thankfully no rattlesnakes. There wasn't any sign of people either. Diego wondered whether the Pistolas had gone through with the meet or seen through his lies and skipped town. But Diego had to have been at least moderately convincing. Otherwise, the president would have killed him. But maybe once Diego had discovered this place, they decided to clear out. It certainly appeared to be abandoned.

Diego decided to skirt the wall to the front. Just as he ducked a window, a light went on inside. He froze and glanced above his head. The window was covered with a shade on the inside. Thin paper had been taped over the opening—opaque, but translucent against the light.

Then he heard the muffled sounds of conversation. The words were too faint to make out, but there were at least two men inside. It sounded like they were hanging out in the back room. Diego decided to attempt entry from the front so he could sneak up on them.

Luckily, there was no foliage to crunch under his boots. The sand silenced his approach and Diego reached the cement porch without incident. A quick peek showed all clear, so he snuck around to the door. The lights in the front of the building weren't on, and his ear on the door didn't reveal any sounds within. Then another thought came to him. Diego moved to the other end of the porch and checked the dirt driveway that ran alongside the building. This was where the Pistolas had parked their bikes before. Now, it was all clear.

Diego began to have second thoughts as he returned to the door. At least two men were inside; it would have been nice if he wasn't alone. West might have been right next to him if Diego hadn't turned Maxim on to the safe house. Maybe that had been a mistake, but Diego was freely sharing information just as it was given to him. Second guessing himself wasn't a common thing for the biker to do. Besides, he trusted the detective completely.

The realization didn't make a one-man assault any easier.

Time to shit or get off the pot, thought Diego.

The biker slid his gloved hand over the doorknob and turned it. The door inched open silently and Diego slipped into the empty room. He was in a short hallway that led to a small lobby. An old couch with worn fabric rested against one wall. A small wooden table that was missing a leg lay toppled next to it. Flyers with the title "Chino Valley Visitor Center" were scattered on the floor, outdated and underappreciated. It looked like this had been a welcoming center at some point, but now he was only greeted with cobwebs and whatever furnishings weren't worth selling. Beer bottles, old and new, were strewn about the floor, evidence that this building was never fully abandoned.

Diego walked cautiously towards the back, stepping lightly over the cracked tiles. A room broke off the main hallway and led to another in the back, where the light came from. Once Diego turned the corner, the voices became clear.

"Hotah said to stay here, Yas."

Then back, complaining: "He treats us like we're useless."

Diego took a quick inventory of the room he was in. Cardboard boxes, empty cans of spray paint, and more beer bottles. He picked up an empty Budweiser and figured it would have to do.

"That's not true. You know we're not like them."

"'Cause they don't think we're tough enough to survive the disease."

Diego positioned himself against the opening to the adjoining room and allowed his eyes to adjust to the light. He saw the shadow of the one he figured was Yas, the one complaining, pacing the room.

"We don't even know what he's doing." Diego heard the sound of duct tape being pulled off the wall.

"Don't do that. We're supposed to keep the windows covered."

"This is the backyard, Jim. I just want to check."

Diego listened as the other man paced to the far wall. The biker figured it was worth a peek.

Two men, both Yavapai, peered through the back window, dressed in camouflage cargo pants and desert boots. They were the gunmen from the night before, without the wolf masks. Yas held a beer. Jim crossed his arms behind him. The men appeared a bit nervous, perhaps, but didn't have the anxious mannerisms that Diego would have expected. Wolves should be feeling the effects of the moon, but there was another hour yet—maybe they were still in control.

But what was it Jim had said? They weren't like Hotah?

It would make sense. After the deaths of Carlos and Skah the year before, the Seventh Sons were only aware of two living werewolves among the Yavapai ranks: Kelan Doka and Hotah Shaw. What if these two weren't infected yet?

As Diego studied them a little more, trying to come to a decision, Jim suddenly turned his head.

"Shit," said the Indian.

Yas turned to see what the alarm was. Diego burst forward into the room and lifted the beer bottle over his head. If neither of these men were wolves, then he was confident he could take them. As he prepared for the two men to charge him, he locked eyes with Jim—then the Yavapai glanced to his side. Diego noticed two black Remington assault rifles in the corner nearest him, the ACRs resting casually against the wall.

Everybody lunged at once. Diego flung the bottle of Budweiser at Yas and reached for the nearest gun. Jim leapt ahead to stop him. With a deft move, Diego scooped up the rifle and spun out of the way, shoving Jim into the wall. In a fraction of a second Jim recovered, turned, and rammed his skull straight into the butt of Diego's weapon.

Jim crumpled to the floor.

Yas was now halfway across the room making a beeline for the biker—he slid on his heels as the automatic weapon blasted several rounds over his head. Yas fell back and landed, sitting, on the floor.

All action ceased. Diego stood triumphant over Jim's unconscious body and held the rifle up, dead set on Yas.

"I know you were the ones that killed Omar," said the biker.

"Hey man, I just do what I'm told."

"Where's Hotah?" he demanded.

"I... I don't know. He said he was going out. It's almost the new moon."

"I know that, you piece of shit." Diego hadn't had a chance to look into Jim's eyes, but he had Yas' undivided attention. There was no eyeshine. No sign of the wolf.

"And the Pistolas?"

Yas squirmed uncomfortably. "Who?"

"I know you're working together." Diego raised the butt of his rifle threateningly and Yas put his hands up.

"Okay! Okay! They're not here. They don't need a place to hide. We just use this place to meet with them. It's lower key than the reservation."

"And where are they now?"

"I don't know. Cali, man. We don't want them here seeing the turn, and they don't want to hide out with fugitives."

Diego nodded. That made things much easier for him. "Where's my knife?"

No answer.

"Where's my silver knife?"

"It's in the portable," said Yas, relenting. "Out back."

The biker glanced out the small rip in the window covering. He'd remembered seeing the smaller buildings earlier. They were technically portables—trailer-like structures set on blocks—but they were full size with high ceilings, like a garage or workshop. He would need to check them out.

Diego was lucky Hotah wasn't here, too. If the biker could get the knife back, then he wouldn't be afraid even if the wolf did return. "Let's go get it then."

"Sure."

Yas got up slowly and started moving for the door. Diego checked Jim. He still appeared to be asleep.

"Wait," he commanded.

Diego grabbed the other Remington ACR and slung it over his shoulder. Then he paced to a vacant corner of the room and trained his sights on Yas. "Pull down the duct tape from the window. Tie him up. Legs at the knees and ankles. Wrists behind his back."

The Yavapai nodded and did as he was told. Diego hurried him along as much as he could, but it still took some time. The peace of mind was worth it. Finally, the biker shoved Yas out the back door.

"Slowly," said Diego, keeping a few steps behind the man. The night was silent, the yard abandoned. "Wait," he ordered again. Yas stopped and Diego hurried to check both sides of the main building again. No one there. No vehicles either. "Okay," he said, urging the man to keep going.

Across the backyard, past the scattered succulents that grew wild, the two additions looked like extended sheds. Diego had a hard time coming up with ideas for their use, but like the flyers inside, it was clear Chino Valley hadn't needed a visitor center for at least twenty years. Diego put the thought out of his mind and kept an eye out for trouble.

Boots in the sand, trudging slowly ahead.

"You know," said Diego, "the Pistolas aren't your friends. If they move in on Arizona, they'll strong-arm your tribe too."

Yas scoffed. "Not likely. That's the beauty of the Quad-City. Nobody wants it."

"So what, everybody wins except the Sons?"

"Sounds good to me."

"And what does Kelan think of your grand plans?"

No answer.

For some reason, Diego thought about Kayda. She had been genuinely concerned for her people, but how much did she really know them? The Sons did some bad things, but the Yavapai lent themselves out to the highest bidder. Thinking of it that way made it clear why the Pistolas didn't see the Indians as competition.

Diego felt he could see the whole picture, but parts of it were still blurry.

The two men passed the first portable on the left. It was built at the end of the driveway, along the yard's chain-link fence. Diego hopped up onto one of the concrete blocks supporting it and checked the dark window. He couldn't see anything inside. The lack of movement was a good thing.

"You know the chances of surviving rabies?" Diego asked, returning to the ground. "If you get bitten?"

Yas scoffed again. "I could fight it off. The resistance runs strong in the blood of our tribe."

Diego kept his rifle high. "Maybe, but I bet you know more Yavapai that have died than have made it through."

Yas didn't answer again. He continued walking to the second portable on the right, set against the back of the yard. He stopped when he reached the door and turned around. "We left your knife in here."

Diego nodded. He took another encompassing view of his surroundings. He glanced back at the main building. He climbed up and looked inside this portable. Everything was dead quiet.

"Okay," said the biker. "You walk in first."

Yas took both steps at once and opened the door.

"Slowly."

The man stepped ahead into the darkness. Diego filed in behind him. The ambient light didn't reveal much of the interior, but the smell hit him. The combination of rusted pennies and cleaning fluids. The smell of death and the ensuing cleanup job.

Diego scanned for his knife on a table and a counter but didn't see it. Then he ran his eyes over the contraption. Near the back of the small building was a heavy metal bar braced to the ceiling. Chains hung from it.