The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (4 page)

"Good Lord," said Clint, rolling his eyes and looking to the heavens. "Are you hard of hearing or something? I went straightaway to handle my business before I checked in."

"And you don't remember when you left?"

"I do not, sir, on account of me being tired from the long ride. I don't want you thinking I was intoxicated or nothing." Clint laid his hands on the table and sat up straight. "You mind hurrying this up?"

"Settle down," ordered the detective. "Did you see anyone else at the bar?"

"Sure I did."

Maxim stared at Clint until the man realized he should elaborate.

"Well, the usual crowd, I suppose. Some Mexicans. Some Indians. Some tourists. You know, I was surprised I didn't see you there."

Maxim ignored the comment.

"I mean," said Clint, "seeing as to the frequency of your visits."

"I got your meaning," said the detective, doing his best to keep calm. "Did you see any fights or have any words with anyone? Was anybody messing with your bike?"

Clint shook his head. "Officer, I only saw the bottom of my glass. Now can I get going?"

Maxim shot the man a stupefied look. Clint was not worried about his situation. The detective decided to deliver a wake-up call to the suspect. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the few pictures he had personally taken of the crime scene, then slid it in front of the biker.

"When was the last time you saw this knife?"

Clint stared hard. "I cannot recall, Officer."

"Detective."

"Right."

The fluorescent light hanging close to their heads began to buzz, and Maxim rapped against the housing to silence it. "But you carried it with you down from New Mexico?"

The suspect shrugged. "Now I don't think I said all that."

"But you did. Carry it, I mean. You always have your daddy's knife on you. You wouldn't part with it, wouldn't sell it. Unless you accidentally dropped it at a homicide scene."

The biker's eyes widened. "What?"

The detective leaned past Clint and swiped the image on his phone over to the next. It was a wide shot of the victim. "You do know a man was murdered? Hung upside down, drained, skinned. A bit like that mule deer you cleaned last winter."

The suspect was surprised but didn't grimace or show displeasure at the photo. "Now that's a common technique, there. Certainly not something that can be attributed only to myself."

"Can't say the same about the custom-made knife, Clint."

No one said anything for a minute. The evidence was damning and the picture of the victim convinced Clint he was in trouble. He was beginning to close up. Maxim wondered if he should lay off. He could ask about the gun. He could ask about the vic's identity. No matter what he came up with, however, he was positive the knife was the easiest link to establish. Starting there was best.

Maxim thought about how Clint had been so willing to show him the knife when he'd first asked. The biker had led him out to his Harley as if everything was normal. It wasn't until they were outside that the misdirection began. The detective recalled Clint's bike. Unlike the others, it was missing gear.

"What happened to your saddlebag, Clint?"

The man stammered before answering. "What saddlebag?"

"The one that hangs off the back seat of your bike. I've seen it many times before. Where is it? And don't tell me you pawned it."

Clint didn't answer.

"You don't have it stashed anywhere, do you? Because if Sanctuary officers find it and it's full of drugs—"

"I ain't touched that stuff since Lucky's. It's against my parole."

"You sure, Clint? Once you cross the line, it's easy to go back."

"Of course I'm sure. Listen, I wish I could help but I can't. This ain't got nothin' to do with drugs anyhow. One fuckup and I'm tagged for life. I ain't the only one who does things we ain't supposed to, you know."

Maxim didn't follow. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking 'bout your high and mighty superior fucking attitude. Like just 'cause a man breaks the law once, all of a sudden he's a shitbag. Don't you forget that I was in the clubhouse last year when Gaston gave you that briefcase full of money."

The detective's eyes darted to the one-way mirror, then he quickly turned away so as not to draw suspicion. He hoped nobody was outside watching. Maxim stormed around the table and leaned over Clint so that their faces were only inches away. "Listen to me, you fuck. That case of money was used to draw out the previous Seventh Sons president. To get her away from hostages. It wasn't a payoff."

"That's funny," retorted Clint, mildly unsettled but appearing resolute in his accusation. "Because, to my knowledge, that briefcase was never recovered."

Still keeping his voice low in case they had a spectator, Maxim whispered, "There were scores of officials on that scene. The money was lost. It could be anywhere."

The biker returned Maxim's fierce stare. "You think Gaston cares what you did with his money once it left his hands?"

Without thinking, Maxim grabbed Clint by his shoulder and lifted him from his seat. He tried to pin him against a wall, but felt the man's overwhelming strength kick in. Clint was, like the other Seventh Sons, a werewolf. An
hombre lobo
. And he didn't need his animal form to overpower the detective.

The biker shoved Maxim away. Clint sneered as the detective slammed his shoulder into the window. It sent a loud rap through the building. Maxim turned to grab his pistol but saw Clint raise his hands in the air. He backed into the wall and said, "Now, I wasn't trying to hurt you, but you need to be thinking twice before you manhandle me."

The detective stood still, not drawing his weapon. Within moments, the interrogation room door swung open. It was Hitchens. The sergeant. Another wolf, but one that wore blue.

The black man's eyes were bloodshot red. "Is something going on in here that I should know about?"

The biker quickly shook his head. He wasn't interested in starting a fight. Maxim contemplated the situation and relaxed his pose. "No. Sorry about the noise. It was my fault—just got a little excited."

The sergeant stood in place, still fuming. "Good," he replied to Maxim, but his aggressive tone was for Clint. "Because if I get even a whiff of a detective getting assaulted, you will not exit this building." Clint nodded.

"It's okay, Barney," said Maxim, using the sergeant's first name to emphasize their friendship. "I can take it from here."

Hitchens nodded. "Sit down, Clint." The suspect did as he was instructed. "I don't need to chain you up, do I?" Clint shook his head. "Okay then." With that, Hitchens left the room.

Maxim took a few moments. He realized antagonizing the wolf wasn't his best tactic. As they settled down, the detective recovered his cell phone and glanced at the picture. He got to thinking about the case again.

"This body is bad for Sanctuary, Clint. It's bad for the Sons."

The biker swallowed. The brief scuffle had sobered his expression. "Listen, Maxim. You're asking me to admit to carrying a knife near the scene of a murder where it was used."

Maxim nodded, agreeing on the heart of the matter. "Can we talk in hypotheticals, Clint?"

"I hypothetically don't give a shit." He said it quickly, like a built in part of his renegade nature, but no mirth was in the words.

"I'm inclined to believe that you had nothing to do with this man's murder, but if you lie to me you are backing yourself into a corner. At best, you're impeding an investigation. If there's some other charge you might be concerned about, the marshal's office doesn't need to look into that."

Clint pushed out his lips. "I would have believed that before you had that angry black man arrest me for DUI."

The detective nodded. He understood the bitterness, but that was Clint's mistake to live with. Sanctuary could forgive certain transgressions that might be punished in bigger cities, but endangering citizens was not acceptable.

"Hypothetically," repeated Maxim, "if you had that knife at Sycamore Lodge, then knowing what happened to it from there would be the best way to clear your name."

Clint took a deep breath. He was still unconvinced, but warming to the idea. Before either of them could speak, the door opened again.

"I need another minute," said Maxim.

"You won't get it," replied a female voice. Maxim turned and saw a woman wearing a business suit pushing past him. She was blonde, a little younger than him, and from what he could tell, new in town. "Mr. James, do not say another word. I'm your legal representation."

"It's okay," said Maxim. "Clint is just about to tell me what he knows."

"No he isn't, Detective."

Maxim turned back to the biker and nodded. Clint glanced at the woman, then back at him, then shrugged and remained silent.

"What the fuck, Clint? I thought we understood each other."

"Detective Dwyer!" admonished the lawyer. "We'd love to assist the police, but I need time alone with my client beforehand. We can schedule a formal interview at a later time."

Maxim wanted to scream, but this was part of the job. "Assisting the police means answering my questions now, while the body's still warm."

The woman flashed a blank expression. She had nothing left to say. Maxim took another peek at Clint, but the interview was over.

"Fine then," said Maxim sternly. "Take your time. You're officially under arrest. Get comfortable."

 

 

 

 

The Public Health Service Commissioned Corps, which Diego had long served, was a United States uniformed service, but not an armed service. As an ex-Ranger, Diego was an exception and received ancillary weapons training. In fact, he had a great fondness for firearms. He had just never used them illegally before.

Diego checked the payload in his Benelli M4 combat shotgun. It was modern and silver colored, a private joke since he used to hunt werewolves. Of course, there was nothing silver about his high-velocity buckshot. Weapons like this needed the right ammo. Autoloaders were prone to jamming, but that was user error. Not the gun's fault. Put a cheap shell in this shotty, get a cheap result.

West Wind exited the clubhouse supporting three heavy duffel bags over his shoulder. He chuckled when he saw the care Diego gave his weapon.

"We're not hunting pheasant today, little man," said the Apache.

"We're not hunting anything."

"You know what I mean. I hope you've got more than birdshot in there, 'cause this trip's for real."

Diego knew what West was saying. He'd fired the shotgun at the range and when hunting, but that was the extent of its use. He ignored his uncertainty and held up the Benelli. Aside from its color and the lack of certain attachments, marines were outfitted with the same firearm. "This is large game buckshot. 12-gauge. It'll take anything down."

West Wind puffed out his chest and squared himself to Diego.

"Well, almost anything," admitted Diego.

"Nah," said Omar, walking away from his bike. "That's a badass shotgun. Don't let West get you down—some of us just have classier taste. Check this out, for instance." The kid pulled out a .44 Magnum. "A Colt Anaconda. Plenty of stopping power, even in a revolver."

West muttered something under his breath. Diego tried a smile, but seeing Omar so excited to get use out of his giant handgun was unsettling. "Whatever you say, Taxi Driver."

"Nah, that was a Smith & Wesson. But de Niro was a badass in that anyway."

"He got shot up."

"But he didn't die. Anyway, that's the life. They can pry this from my cold, dead hands if it comes to that."

Diego shuddered. There was no shaking the feeling that he was making a big mistake by going along.

Sometimes the biker told himself he had no choice. He had a duty to help his brothers, just like when he was in the Corps. Then he would realize he was being an idiot. What was he thinking by getting involved? It was an unsettling kind of indecision that turned his stomach and made everything bitter.

Diego felt a hard slap on his back, Gaston's way of making a friendly gesture.

"You need to know how much I appreciate this. With Clint out of commission, you're really coming through for us."

Diego nodded and slipped the shotgun into a holster attached to his Scrambler.

The Seventh Sons all readied their bikes in the morning sun. None of the jovial mood from earlier remained. A determination was in their eyes, a burden in their thoughts. Each of them knew the stakes.

The bikers were all decked out in their riding gear. Gaston only wore thick cargo pants and a red workout shirt. West had a jean jacket on with cut-off arms. Most of the others had more traditional jackets. For Diego, that meant his black leathers. Except for the steel buckles on his boots, his entire body was covered with a worn, matte finish. The leather was thick and protective because it needed to be. While the rest of the MC members had their individual styles, none needed the protection as much as Diego. They were wolves. Their bones were stronger. While they could suffer damage and break, the next moon would see them completely healed. Without that advantage, Diego needed the interior armor plates and helmet. The stuff even came in handy in fights.

West watched them from the raised porch of the clubhouse. "He'll only come through if he does his job," he grumbled.

"You weren't here last year," said Omar, already sitting on his Harley. He wore a brown leather bomber jacket with the collar up. "He helped the club out when we were in a bind."

"I've heard the stories," said West. "But I haven't seen shit yet."

"And you're not gonna see any today either," cut in Gaston. "Things are gonna go smoothly today. We're just riding in a show of force, but nobody's gonna shoot anybody." The president walked away to ready his Harley.

Diego turned around as well. He was hoping if he ignored the Apache, he would go away. But the man was tenacious. Diego heard his boots hit the dirt and approach him.

"I'm not worried about things going smoothly. I'm worried about shit hitting the fan and relying on a weakling to watch my back." West stopped right behind Diego. "You haven't proven yourself to me. You haven't even been bit."

Diego turned around. Some of these guys, West included, liked to scuffle to settle differences. With their inhuman strength, that would never be a fair fight. He knew that. He had to accept that. But he didn't need to put up with the trash talk.

"I've been bitten before." Diego pulled a sleeve back and exposed the scar on his left forearm. During the club's conflict a year ago, Maxim and Diego had gotten into a shootout at the train yard. Carlos Doka, one of the Yavapai Indian werewolves, had almost killed him. Instead, Diego had stabbed him near the heart with his silver knife. That was how he'd lost the weapon. The wolf scampered away with it embedded in his chest. It was unlikely that he lived the night.

The biker pulled his jacket sleeve back down. It wasn't his only scar. It wasn't the only time he'd been bitten by a wolf. When he had worked for the Commissioned Corps, he hunted them. That was his job. That's why his training had allowed him to fight the stronger opponents. And that's why he wasn't scared of West. But there was a time and place for everything, and Diego didn't have his silver knife anymore. Besides, he told himself, the wolves weren't his enemies now.

West Wind snickered. "You let that mercenary live. He got away." West spat on the floor. He hadn't dealt with the Yavapai outfit before, but he hated them anyway. Diego wondered if it had something to do with his Apache blood. "But it's not the same, Diego. You got the shot. You didn't need to beat the disease. Not like everybody else here."

The other bikers were silent. They weren't even pretending not to be watching. Diego knew they liked him, but he also knew that West was right. They all shared a bond that he would never know. His vaccinations permanently protected him from their affliction. Beating the disease, surviving something with a near one hundred percent fatality rate, was something they were all proud of.

Diego decided not to suck it up this time. He knew he was being reckless, but it was a reckless kind of day. He was about to ride out to a meet with a rival gang. Who was West next to that?

"Let's get something straight, asshole," Diego said, stepping forward to the Apache. "You're the new guy here. You might have wolf blood, but you're a loose cannon. And if anybody hasn't proven themselves yet, it's you."

West glanced at the other bikers and let out a guffaw. To a normal human, Diego would have taken that moment to knee the man in the stomach, but wolves were too strong. The blow wouldn't do any damage and would just open him to retaliation. Instead, Diego leaned in and grabbed the duffel bags behind him. With a sharp tug down, West was pulled backwards by the neck and lost balance. Then Diego used that moment to ram his shoulder into the big man, knocking him to the floor.

The Apache fell to his side and rolled over the bags. With a mix of embarrassment and frustration, he threw the straps away and sprang up to meet his attacker. Immediately, Gaston and the other Sons grabbed hold of him.

"Lay off!" screamed Gaston. "Damn it! I need every one of you in the game."

There was a bit of a struggle, just enough for West to show that he wasn't backing down easily, but then they all relaxed. West clenched his jaw and fumed, never taking his eyes off Diego.

"It's easy to talk shit," said Diego, "when you're nearly invincible. You might not mind riding into enemy territory knowing that you'll be healed up in a few days. I don't have that fucking luxury. And on top of making sure things go smoothly, I don't need you breathing up my ass."

West didn't make a move. The others let him go and patted him on the back. Everybody knew Diego was right. Even West. Fighting amongst themselves now was the last thing they needed.

Gaston nodded and addressed the MC. "These guys are dangerous. The Pistolas used to be a small club. Local. But they've more than doubled their membership. They've made deals with San Diego and Los Angeles. It looks like they own the California desert now. Until we settle this dispute, our main line is at risk. And I don't want stupid grudges getting in the way."

The president turned to the newest club member. "He's coming along with us, isn't he?"

West didn't respond. Then Gaston turned to Diego.

"And I have no idea why you would pick now of all times to make a statement. Maybe it's 'cause you knew we would stop West 'cause we don't need this shit now. But you'd better watch yourself. I won't stop what you start again. You wanna rumble, that's on you."

Diego and West made sure to stare each other down during the speech.

"I'm not kidding," continued Gaston. "The Pistolas should not be taken lightly. They've made a lot of moves in a short time. As we found out when Diego discovered their money van, we were one of those moves. We know for a fact that they tried to cut us out. And for all we know, they still want to."

"They have to cut out my heart before they cut me out," said West.

Gaston nodded. "Don't think they won't. Word on the street is that their new top tier is ruthless. They've used clever tactics to one-up their competition. They play nice at first. One second, you think they're business partners. Then they shoot the shit out of you. Their MO is to shoot you in the back twice."

Omar chimed in. "I still don't know why we don't just take them out."

Gaston shook his head. "We can't shit on El Paso like that. In the end, we
are
middlemen. That means we'll always be sandwiched between supply and distribution. That's why we have the setup between California and Texas. It's perfect for us, but part of the job is dealing with scumbags who don't want us around."

"Not to mention we need to keep a low profile for the CDC," added Diego. If anyone was a constant reminder of the agency's oversight, it was him.

Diego had never liked the illicit activities of the club. He had no interest in the drug business. But there was something romantic about the way the Seventh Sons did business. It wasn't about drugs or guns or an empire—it was all territorial. The Sons owned Arizona, and if anybody wanted a piece, they had to go through them.

"One last thing," said Gaston. "Without Clint, it's six of us. We need to watch our backs. The Pistolas are big. They'll likely show up with more men than we have."

West recovered the duffel bags from the ground. "Yeah, well we have fewer bodies but better firepower." He gave two of the bags to Curtis and Trent and kept one for himself. He unzipped it to show it off. "Adaptive Combat Rifles."

Diego recognized the sleek black weapon. They were replacements for Army carbines. "Bushmaster ACRs?"

"Nah," said West Wind, grinning like a toddler up to no good. "Remington."

"That's the military model. They're illegal for civilian use."

"Damn right on both counts. Fully automatic selective fire, 6.8 mm Special Purpose Cartridge assembly—this is the perfect urban warfare weapon."

"They also look like the same assault rifles the Yavapai used to carry." Diego leered at Gaston. "Where'd we get these?"

West laughed. "I thought you didn't want to know about the club's extra-curricular activities?"

Diego tilted his head. "It's a little late for that."

"These rifles are contraband," instructed Gaston. "Keep them out of sight. Do not get caught with them. Everybody else's sidearms are fine. You know what kind of ship I run. I like legit guns. We don't wear colors, so we won't be breaking laws anywhere. Just in case, we'll have Omar scout ahead." Gaston turned to the kid. "Then you'll ride behind us, making sure we're not followed. I don't know what Maxim is up to but he can't trail us on this one. Understood?"

Omar nodded and zipped up his jacket. Everyone else straddled their bikes. Diego's black Triumph Scrambler had a shiny wax coat. He hoped it, and all of them, would come out in the same condition.

"Let's play it cool," Diego said. "I don't want shit to get ugly. I don't want to have to kill anyone."

West scoffed but didn't say anything. The others started their motorcycles. Gaston walked his hog beside Diego.

"Make no mistake. I know you're buddies with that cop, but the boys in blue ain't your brotherhood. No more one foot in and one foot out. You're riding with us now. You need to jump in."

His throttle roared and Gaston sped ahead. A cloud of dust swirled as the Seventh Sons rode out in force.