The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (30 page)

 

 

 

 

There wasn't any light. Not yet. Diego didn't dare open his eyes.

The first step was simply to be aware.

It wasn't a conscious decision. It had just happened. One minute, the biker was blissfully asleep. The next: awareness and pain.

Consciousness was overrated.

His neck was stiff. There was a throbbing in his head, a build-up of pressure. Something wasn't right. Something was out of balance. Diego felt like he was floating, but not the kind of blissful, weightless floating of space. This was hard on his body, as if he were deep underwater and reacting to the pressure.

He tried to breathe slowly and regain his faculties. He remembered marching Yas to the back of the property. Getting ambushed by Hotah. He had been captured, but not killed.

There it was again. That sound. So close to him.

Diego de la Torre opened his eyes.

The brightness hurt. For a moment, it was blinding, but then he realized it just enhanced the pulsing in his brain. He had been knocked out, by a wolf, no less. A direct strike to the skull. He probably had a concussion, or worse.

The strain on his head intensified. Diego tried to move, to ease the tension with his hands, but he was stuck. Bound, somehow, but free. A wiggle of his arms set his whole body in motion, a sickening swim that made him nauseous.

Stop moving, he thought. Stop.

The sound. Above him. Diego's eyes refocused. On the ceiling above his head, he saw a swath of red. He thought of Omar. The boot print. He was looking at a pool of blood, only this time, it was his.

Flaunting the physical order of the universe, a drop of blood escaped Diego's head and flew straight up into the air, towards the ceiling. Towards the slowly building pool.

The biker jerked away from the unnatural sight. His entire body swayed again.

The room wasn't that dark, actually. He'd just been disoriented. And the laws of physics were working just fine.

Diego de la Torre was upside down.

He was in the portable. Yas and Jim stood by the other wall, just noticing he was awake.

Shit, thought Diego, I shouldn't have moved.

He looked to his feet. He was hanging from the chains on the ceiling, each foot attached to a horizontal iron bar. His hands were tied behind his back with something. Not metal. Not plastic.

Below him, a square was cut out of the carpet, presumably to make his collecting blood easier to clean.

"Nice of you to join us," said Hotah. Upside down and lit by a single incandescent bulb, the man was terrifying. He wasn't tall but he was squat and built of muscle. He wasn't wearing a shirt; the only decoration over his hard muscles were two necklaces of bone that hung around his neck. His hair was wild, dirt-stained and uneven, and fell over his cheeks. Gray eyes stared passively behind a mask of black and gray face paint. He was a wolf, and he was dressed for war.

Diego tried wiggling his hands behind his back. There was some give in his bindings.

"You know," Hotah said, "the Pistolas tried to push us around first. We're closer to the Imperial Valley. To them. But they don't want Chino Valley. The reservation isn't as easy for them to maneuver in. So we told them that we would help take out the Sons. A good deal for both of us."

Diego winced at the sound. It must have been a small cut. Head wounds bled a lot, especially when upside down.

"How long do you think that's gonna last, asshole? You're a bunch of mercenaries, selling yourselves to the highest bidder."

Hotah smiled. Diego's orientation started to spin Hotah out of sight, but the Yavapai placed a solid arm on the biker's leg to steady him. Diego stopped with the three men ahead of him.

"They can't take on the whole reservation. The tribe follows us. The casino supports the entire town of Prescott. We're too much of an institution to displace. We may not control the most fruitful land, but we're kings of our desert. Can the Seventh Sons say the same? Sure, your MC has contacts—governments, police, gangs—but you're just a leech on everyone else. You take. You don't create prosperity. Nobody will mourn the passing of the Seventh Sons."

"The police are on to you," said Diego. "They know you were the gunmen that attacked Clint. They know you killed Omar."

Hotah narrowed his eyes and shot a glance behind Diego. The biker twisted his head, trying to see the other side of the room. The angle was bad.

"There's no evidence of that," asserted Hotah. "What they know and what they can prove are two different things."

"Says the fugitive hiding in the desert."

Again Hotah glanced behind Diego. "It's just for questioning," he said, but his voice had lost its confidence.

Then Diego heard footsteps. A fourth person was in the room. The man came around into view.

"You."

 

 

 

 

The car door opened. Maxim flinched. He lowered the binoculars as the interior light glared. He had been so focused on the stakeout that the sudden movement had caught him off guard. Maxim glanced across the driver's seat and saw Raymond Garcia returning, holding a couple of fast food bags. The agent tossed one his way.

"I hope cheese works for you."

The detective examined the contents. A burger wrapped loosely in paper rested on top of a box of fries. Something yellow dripped from the sandwich, but Maxim doubted it was cheese. As Garcia sat down, he placed two sodas in the cupholders.

"Anything?" he asked.

Maxim shook his head and took a bite of the burger. It was greasy. Too much mayo. The bun was soggy. For some reason, it was delicious.

"You know, this stuff will kill you," mumbled Maxim through a mouthful of food.

"That's what guilty pleasures do. Don't tell me you never eat fast food?"

"Hey, I may live alone but that doesn't mean I can't cook." Maxim shoveled some fries into his mouth. They were good but a little too salty.

"How's a homicide detective find time for that?"

"Benefits of a small town, I guess." Maxim wasn't really just a homicide detective. He investigated all of Sanctuary's big cases. When he was busy, like the last few days, he would sometimes forget to eat. But that wasn't the usual routine. "Most of my work can wait till the morning, you know?"

Garcia didn't answer while he bit into an onion ring. While half the crust remained in his hand, the entire onion slid out and burned his lip. He doused the pain with soda, checked the binoculars, and then returned them to the dash.

They ate the rest of their meals in silence. After half the burger, Maxim's stomach caught on to the quality of the meal. He crumpled the sandwich in the paper and abandoned it in the bag, settling for the fries instead. Garcia had already scarfed everything down and was back to the stakeout.

"I think you're right about waiting until the morning," he said. "It's almost two. Nothing's gonna happen tonight."

Maxim grunted in agreement. He began to consider the possibility of a nap when, right next to his head, something hit the window.

It was a loud rap. Both men flinched away from the sound. A large black blur fluttered in their vision and dropped to the ground.

The window was open a crack to let in the cool air, but nothing had come inside. The glass had held. In an instant, Maxim leaned against it and peered down. A raven stood on the asphalt holding its wings spread.

"A bird flew into the window."

"You're kidding me," said Garcia, leaning over the detective to get a look.

The raven didn't appear to be hurt. It eyed them cautiously, showing its feathers.

Raymond moved back to his seat and shook his head. "Looks like some kind of mating display."

Maxim laughed nervously. "Maybe he's hungry." He stuck a french fry through the thin opening in the window and dropped it to the floor. The bird cocked its head a few times, picked up the fry, and bounded with it to the edge of the lot until it was partially hidden in the shadow of a bush. It only took a couple of bites before spitting it out.

"Even he won't eat this stuff."

"What is that?" asked Raymond.

"It's just—" Maxim stopped when he realized Raymond wasn't talking about the raven. He had his binoculars up again, watching the building. "What is what?"

Raymond studied the scene before answering. "I don't know. I thought I saw someone pull something from the back of the truck."

Maxim immediately went to alert. He scanned the yard but it was too far to make anything out. "The bed of the pickup?"

Garcia nodded. "Yep. I thought someone was back there. But I don't see anything now."

The detective furrowed his brow. The thought that they had missed something was unsettling. Maxim glanced at the bush. The raven was gone. Only the french fry remained. He turned around and surveyed the street and the sky. Nothing was amiss.

"What if there's no one in the main building?" asked Raymond. "We're covering the front and back doors. We can see the truck and the yard. But we don't have a good view of those buildings in the rear."

"You think someone's in the back. They came out and got something from the truck and went back in?"

"I don't know that they grabbed anything. Nothing big, anyway. The movement was quick and small."

Maxim took his turn with the binoculars and examined the red truck. It appeared undisturbed. "Could've been a raven," he said with a smirk. He leaned back in his seat, watching. The thought of something developing completely dominated Maxim's attention. No more thoughts of sleep. No more munchies. He was wired. Sharp.

And luckily, it didn't take very long to see something.

The yard, what was visible of it anyway, was lined with a cinder block wall on the far side. A figure scaled it and breached the backyard.

"Someone's there," he said.

The figure ducked against the wall and turned his head both ways. He was a big man. An Indian. It was—

"Shit," said Maxim.

"What is it?" Garcia waved his hands impatiently and Maxim passed the binoculars over.

"It's West Wind," said the detective.

Raymond Garcia turned and stared at the detective. "A Seventh Son."

Maxim's stomach turned, and it wasn't the fast food. He'd sworn to the agent that the Sons weren't involved. That they weren't the enemy. West was the newest member of the club and Maxim didn't know him that well. And here he was, fucking everything up.

"He doesn't appear to be armed, but I can't tell for sure." Garcia opened the car door.

"What are you doing?"

"We need to go in there," asserted Raymond. "Either the Yavapai or the Pistolas are inside. The presence of the Seventh Sons is trouble." The man stood outside the Explorer and checked the binoculars again. "It's a bit of a walk, but it's better than alerting anyone to our presence. I say we just hoof it along the street." Garcia slammed the door.

Maxim exited the vehicle, if only to keep up with the FBI agent. He had second thoughts about what they were doing, but he knew Garcia was right. "Backup will take a while."

Garcia nodded and passed a spare bulletproof vest to Maxim as he donned his own. "Call it in. We've got to move."

The detective peered into the night sky, wondering where the moon was hidden. "It's dangerous, Ray..."

The man pulled his dark blue jacket from the back seat and put it on, yellow FBI lettering leaving no room for compromise. "It can't be helped."

Maxim checked the spare magazine on his belt. The one reserved for special occasions. "These things... They're animals."

"I've seen worse." Garcia took a few steps toward the highway and turned back with a solemn expression. "This is it, Maxim. Time you see who the Seventh Sons really are. Time you find out what you're made of."

As the man stormed towards the old building, Maxim couldn't help but feel some admiration. And guilt.

 

 

 

 

Kelan was taller than his best friend but skinnier and less imposing. The three Yavapai men smiled as they listened to him speak calmly.

"Chuck said no arrest warrants have been issued. They're just looking for us. Tribal PD will be involved with whatever case they're building. We can contain whatever evidence they have."

The words only relaxed Hotah on the surface. Diego could see the lingering worry under the skin. The man walked away and peeked out a window, although the view of the street was blocked from there.

"Kelan," exclaimed Diego, confused. "You were supposed to be at the reservation."

He smiled. "That was the plan, but once Hotah captured you, he gave me a call. He knew I couldn't pass this up."

"You don't know what you're doing."

"Don't worry. I made sure I wasn't followed. It's just us, here."

Diego glanced at the other Yavapai. Hotah moved to the other end of the room to check another window. Diego worked at freeing his wrists.

"No," he whispered. "You don't understand."

Hotah called out. "I'm gonna check outside again."

Kelan turned his head. "Don't go to the front. They'll be looking for you up and down this highway."

"I'm not an idiot," he grumbled, and walked out.

Kelan turned back to his prisoner. Yas and Jim were across the room, behind him, but watching Hotah through the window. Diego took this as his opportunity. "Look, your sister says you're a good guy."

"Don't mention Kayda," he warned.

Drip
.

"Fine. But this," said Diego, waving around with his face, "this whole thing—it's not just about getting back at the Sons."

Kelan scoffed suspiciously and kneeled next to the suspended man. "Meaning?"

"Think about it. Your brother, Carlos, led the mercenaries. Now that he's dead, you're the man. You should be in control."

"I am."

"Then stop the bloodshed. Prove your guys aren't running wild."

"My guys follow my lead."

"They're making moves behind your back."

Kelan just laughed. "This is a pretty desperate ploy to save yourself. You're gonna be my friend now?"

"You need all you can get. You think Hotah's your buddy? What if he wants to lead? If he takes you out next, who's in charge?"

The Yavapai momentarily glanced at Yas and Jim and then looked back at Diego.

"Kelan, the Seventh Sons didn't start this war. We didn't kill Doka, I swear to you. It was Hotah and
his
guys. They murdered your brother. Tried to kill you when they attacked the Lodge. I'm telling you, they're coming for you next."

Kelan didn't know what to say for a minute. They both turned as the door swung open. Hotah returned with a red twinkle in his eye. "Nothing out there, Kel." The Yavapai nodded and waved Hotah over. He kneeled down too, so everybody was on the same level.

"This dumb son of a bitch thinks you want to kill me." Hotah pulled his head back in surprise and Kelan turned away from his friend, back to Diego. "A year ago, our outfit was running well. A new casino was being built, Carlos had managed a deal with Deborah to do the dirty work of your MC. It was stuff Gaston and your guys couldn't know about. They didn't have the stomach for it." The Yavapai shook his head wistfully. "There was a market for our services. We were profiting. And you and that cop shut it all down."

Kelan glanced at his boys. "Detective Dwyer killed Skah. He's gonna pay for that. If we ever find Nithya or your sister, they're getting it too."

Kelan extended an empty palm to his friend. "Give me the knife." Hotah observed the two men and reached for a sheath on his thigh that the biker hadn't noticed before. He slid out a long silver knife, Diego's knife, and extended it to his friend. He placed it in Kelan's hand.

"But you," continued Kelan, fingering the grip, red eyes burning into Diego, "you stuck this knife into my brother's chest."

He suddenly stood up and stepped away. Kelan brought the knife down hard towards the biker. Diego pulled against his bindings and tried to wiggle away. The blade pierced the floor a few feet from Diego's face. He stared at the knife embedded in the exposed flooring as Kelan watched in glee.

"I want to kill you most of all, Diego de la Torre. You didn't kill my brother. Even worse. You made
me
kill him."

The biker tensed as the man became more frenzied. Saliva spit from his lips. The moon was close.

"Carlos became weak. He was a shell of his former self. He couldn't lead anymore. The mercenaries were fading into oblivion." Kelan shook his head in rage. "With the Pistolas pushing into Arizona, we needed a shot in the arm. We needed to do something.
I
needed to do something."

His words became soft, almost apologetic. Hotah and the others watched their leader with admiration as he spoke of his sacrifice. "After months and months of trying to nurse my dear brother back to health, he still wouldn't recover. He was alive, but the silver had permanently crippled the wolf. He never healed. He never turned. So I did what I had to do for our people.

"I started this war, Diego. I took advantage of the Pistolas' timing. I shot my brother in the head with Clint's gun to put him out of his misery. I skinned him with Clint's knife. I strung my brother up for the tribe to witness, to give them what they needed to get behind the mercenaries again. I put Clint's gun in the hands of your dead brother, to enrage and implicate your MC. The downfall of the Seventh Sons was entirely orchestrated by the Yavapai, and the next move in this fight is going to be bleeding you dry and skinning you, just like you made me do to my dear brother."

There was a bang as the door slammed. Everybody jumped and spun around, ready for a fight. Kayda Garnett stood in the doorway, watching her brother with tears streaming down her face.