The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (8 page)

 

 

 

 

Kayda knocked on the warped front door. The house was older than she remembered, but already she was comforted. This was, after all, why she was here. She would work herself up to facing everybody else, but her grandfather would be the first and most enjoyable visit.

While waiting for the old man to answer, the wind chime hanging from the metal lattice caught her ear. It brought back a flood of memories as a child, stretching her arms high in an attempt to reach it. It was funny. She had so many memories of jumping up at it, but she couldn't remember the first time she was tall enough to grab it. It was one of those milestones that wasn't a big deal as soon as it could be done. There was always something better to reach for. She brushed her fingers across the clay and string, as if to prove she was taller now.

While pacing on the small porch, Kayda's thoughts turned to the old neighborhood. Her eyes eventually moved to the street. That's when she saw the red pickup. She thought her grandfather would be here alone. Now she knew she would have to say hi to her brother as well.

The door swung open and a man with wiry skin browned by the Arizona sun stood on the threshold. "Kayda."

Kelan was her half brother, really. The younger of two big brothers from another father, they were ten years apart. She had always looked up to him and Carlos. They were cool. Confident. Leaders of men. But their status had made them tough and distant.

At first Kayda feigned surprise, but she realized she was trying to feign excitement. "I didn't expect you here, Keekee."

"Don't call me that," said Kelan. He stepped away from the door to let her in.

Kayda stepped inside, already feeling awkward. "You shaved your hair?" she asked, although the answer was obvious. His short-clipped black hair was buzzed evenly around his long head. She had never seen him like that before. It made his features more statuesque. The two brothers had always had hair running down their backs. Then Kayda suddenly realized why Kelan's hair was short.

"I cut it when Carlos went missing," said the man. His eyes were smoldering.

Kayda had never gotten along with her eldest sibling. He was a cutthroat. Sure, Kelan wasn't the nicest of brothers either, but Carlos was downright cruel. When Kayda had seen the news reports about the Paradise Killings, it hadn't surprised her.

"I'm sorry," said Kayda. She wasn't, but she said it. The truth was that she was always afraid of the influence of their older brother. If Kelan was a firecracker, Carlos was the lighter. With one gone, maybe the other had a chance.

"Don't be. You disappeared. Your healthcare degree was too important." Kelan said the last part with mockery on his face. He didn't respect her desire to get an education. To help others.

Kayda didn't know what to say. She wasn't sorry that she had left. That she hadn't even called on the phone when the media reports broke. Getting involved in the family's crime spree was the last thing she needed to worry about while she was working on her degree. Not to mention, it was Carlos and Kelan who drove her away in the first place.

Her half brother clenched his jaw and avoided looking her directly in the eye. "You should have stayed away."

"I came here to see
Pahmi
, you know. You weren't supposed to be here."

"You're not supposed to be here, half sister. He's not your father so stop calling him that."

Kayda shot her chin up, refusing to be baited by her brother into an argument just as she arrived.

After their mother had died, Kayda had gone back and forth between living with her real father, off the reservation, and living here with her grandfather. He'd always treated her as his own child, chiding her brothers for picking on her. She'd come to realize that continually moving away from the tribe to live with her real dad had made her more of an outcast, but she wouldn't change her past. Her father had instilled a sense of duty in her. A sense of gratitude. Going to school in New York had opened her eyes to more than just her tribe and the casinos and the highways. After she was done here, she would join the Master's program in the Peace Corps and escape far, far away from the Yavapai. If they didn't want her, she wouldn't insist on staying.

It was only her
pahmi
that she needed to say goodbye to.

"What are you doing here?" asked Kayda.

Kelan progressed into the kitchen and slung a backpack over his shoulder. "Just dropping off food for the old man. Someone has to take care of him, you know." Her brother had finally looked her in the eye when he said that. "We'll all be at the casino tonight. Except for him. He's too frail to move that much. He mostly stays in bed. If you don't upset him, maybe you should stay with him tonight."

"You don't want me at the opening celebration?"

"What do you think?" Kelan strode out the front door and paused for a second. "This life was never for you."

He closed the door and left her standing there alone. It was rough. Kayda hadn't been prepared for seeing him yet. She thought she'd have more time to ready herself. Now, it was over and done with, and her brother had been colder than she imagined.

"
Pahmi
," she called out, moving to the bedroom. Her grandfather's name was Wicasa, but she used a term that meant simply "father." "
Pahmi
."

He was waiting for her, right there on the bed as Kelan had said. He was old, but he didn't look ancient or brittle. His brown skin and large nose were worn, but not strained by the effects of extreme age. If it wasn't for his long mane of white hair running down his shoulders, he wouldn't have appeared older than sixty. He certainly didn't look sick or decrepit.

"Wiha," said the old man lovingly. Kayda's full name was Wihakayda. It was more traditional. Her half brothers' father had wanted normal American names for his boys and overrode their mother's wishes. Strangely enough, her white father had let her choose whatever name she wanted. It was ironic, thought Kayda. She had the traditional name, yet she was the outsider.

Kayda gently hugged her grandfather. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed him until she saw his kind eyes and measured smile.

"Are you sick,
Pahmi
?" she asked. His eyes lit up at hearing the endearment once again.

"I'm fine, Wiha. My bones just don't have the patience for celebrations anymore. I see you received my letter."

She nodded. Although she hadn't spoken to him, he had tried to get in touch. He'd written that the tribe was going through changes and opening a new casino. It was a simple letter, but there was a subtext to his words. The family was changing, he meant. Things would never be the same. There was a sort of subtle urgency to the letter, the only one ever sent, including during the period of her brother's disappearance. Along with finally getting her bachelor degree, it was what had convinced Kayda to come home.

"Maybe you don't find that much to celebrate, lately?"

The man's smile grew taut. "You returning to me brings greater joy than any casino could."

Kayda almost felt a tear in her eye. "Stop." Her grandfather was a sap, but she fell for it every time. She rapped him on the shoulder and sat on the edge of the bed.

He took a moment to study her. He beamed proudly, but with a forlorn sentiment. "Your skin is so light," he said.

Kayda laughed. No it wasn't. She was much darker than all the white people in her class. "I didn't get as much sun in the city, I guess."

The old man nodded as if he understood. "How was school? Your graduation?"

"You wouldn't believe it,
Pahmi
. I met so many people. Saw so many things."

"And healthcare management? Have you decided where that will take you?"

The girl looked away from him. She didn't want to tell him that she would be leaving the country. All this time apart and then reunited, only to leave again. She didn't want to spoil the moment. "I'm not sure, yet." It was true enough. The Peace Corps couldn't promise to send her anywhere specific.

Wicasa's face grew serious. "Is Robert happy with you?"

That was her real father. Her grandfather didn't dislike him, but he had never agreed with the man's decision to leave the reservation after her mother died. It had meant taking Kayda from him for weeks at a time.

"He just wants what's best for me,
Pahmi
."

"It's best for you to be with your people. To reconnect with your roots. To be a member of this tribe once again."

Images of her brother flashed through her mind. "They don't want me here."

"Of course they do."

"They don't respect me."

"You must work to gain that respect."

Kayda flailed her arms in the air. "What would you have me do? Go to the opening ceremony? Give a speech about the importance of family? Why should anybody listen?"

"The Doka family has great Yavapai heritage."

"I'm a Garnett, not a Doka," she asserted. "I've never been a Doka. Carlos made that clear."

The old man's eyes lost some of their tension, as if they were tired. "Carlos is no longer with us."

Kayda nodded. Nine months was a long time to remain missing. "I know,
Pahmi
. And I expect Kelan to fill his shoes well. You heard him out there. He doesn't want me at the casino. He doesn't want me on the reservation. Then you resent my father for trying to give me something better. Dad never had anything against the Yavapai ways. He just didn't want me to be limited."

Wicasa nodded as if the crux of the conversation had been reached. His granddaughter shot him a questioning look, and he appeased her with an answer. "The only limits, my daughter, are the ones you place in your own path. I never resented your father. I never begrudged you the chance to go to the big city. To study. To gain knowledge, not just from school, but from the world. No, sweet Wiha, I am proud of you. More than you can ever know. But now that you are home, now that you are a woman, you must find the strength not to run away."

 

 

 

 

New Mexico was especially uninviting today. The sun had set but the asphalt still emanated heat like an idling engine, punishing the road warriors who dared expose themselves to the elements. Diego smiled. Exposure was the thrill. Snaking through the mountain passes at a heavy lean. Speeding along open highway, one with the rubber and the road. The Interstate was built for this onslaught.

This time, however, Diego de la Torre couldn't enjoy the ride. At this point, after Omar's phone call to Gaston, they knew they were riding into a trap. The biker did a head check behind him and saw West fifty yards at his tail. Ahead of him at the same distance was Trent. They were keeping themselves spread out, not easily contained, but that was about the extent of their plan.

The Seventh Sons had no way of knowing for sure if bullets would be flying their way. It was unlikely, they had decided, but large amounts of money had a way of bringing about the unexpected. They knew the risks, and they rode on ahead towards them.

For the others, all to a man except Diego, there was less cause for concern. They could take a bullet or three. Of course, nobody wanted that—the pain could be unbearable—but when it came down to living or dying, the werewolves had much less to worry about than Diego did.

The biker wanted to kick himself. He was scared but that wasn't the problem. Fear was good. It kept a person sharp. Diego certainly wasn't unfamiliar with danger. He used to hunt werewolves, back when he thought it was a just cause. He had been in a shootout with Maxim against the Yavapai mercenaries. Doka had nearly taken his head off. But all that was for a noble purpose. A driving instinct within him to protect his little sister.

Now? Diego was worried about taking two in the back because of the drug business. Cold hard cash. It cheapened the danger and made it pointless. Stupid, even.

Diego had wanted brothers. Now he was involved in the family business.

Everything was fine, he assured himself again. They had gotten Omar's call in time. The kid had raced ahead while the others slowed the transport down, making a long gas run and faking mechanical trouble. It had given them time to get to their ranch on the edge of Arizona and prepare. The rest of the ride? That was just waiting. And it was the hardest part.

The darkness had taken over along the way. The Interstate wasn't well lit in this stretch. Diego took comfort in the taillight ahead of him and the headlight behind. The winding road often stole from him even that ease, but eventually, the darkness proved a boon. Up ahead, Diego saw the glow of red lights strobing on and off.

It was beginning.

As planned, Trent didn't alter his speed and rode on past. Diego and West, taking up the rear, would do the same. As Diego approached, he saw the van pulled over to the side of the highway. Two black state police cruisers sat behind, the officers still inside their vehicles. Riding past, Diego saw Manolo waiting in the driver's seat of the van, watching them ride by. That same playful smirk contorted his face.

Step one was showing no association with the vehicle. If this was a random stop, the bikers would only call attention to it. Riding on by, drawing attention away, would have been the usual course of action anyway. And if the contents of the van were discovered, the MC would be far away by that point. But the Seventh Sons knew this stop was anything but random.

Omar had seen the unusual police presence when he scouted ahead earlier. It wasn't much, but he was a sharp kid. He'd come this way enough to know what was normal and what wasn't, and along with Diego's suspicions, it had been easy to put two and two together. Still, Gaston was taking a chance on what would happen next.

The bikers all continued ahead, pulling in to a tighter formation. Within minutes, Diego had accounted for everybody except Omar, who must have been in Albuquerque by now. That's when a line of police Tahoes and motorcycles came screaming onto the Interstate from behind an overpass.

Lights flashed everywhere. The police yelled over loudspeakers. Two SUVs blocked off the street ahead and behind, and the motorcycles herded them towards the dirt. It was a well-executed stop, likely planned days in advance.

It's too bad, thought Diego, that the MC had pulled in close again. He would have liked to see how the police handled them if there was half a mile between the lead and the tail. But once the van was out of the picture, Gaston had figured that they were safer together. Diego had to agree.

His Triumph Scrambler came to a halt. Two police bikes skidded in the dirt and the officers immediately dismounted and charged him, guns in hand. Diego only had time to raise his visor before he raised his hands. He sat on his bike and waited.

"What were you doing with that van?" one of them barked at him, grabbing him and pulling him away from the Scrambler.

"What van?" Diego answered as they shoved him toward the road and sat him down, lining him up with the others. The trooper pulled Diego's hands behind his back and zip tied them at the wrists.

"What's this?" asked another.

Diego twisted in the dirt to see one of the officers slipping a silver-colored shotgun from its sheath on his bike. "That's a legal weapon, Officer."

Arizona and New Mexico had some of the most lenient gun laws in the US. No permits were necessary to openly carry. Shotguns were especially common.

"Get your hands off me," yelled Gaston as he allowed them to sit him down. "What did we do?"

"Why don't you tell us?" one replied.

Now that the entire MC was properly detained, a man exited one of the parked Tahoes and approached them. He had the same black uniform as the others, but the three stripes on his arm signified he was the acting sergeant. As soon as Gaston noticed him, there was recognition in his face.

"Cortez. What's going on?"

The man turned his head in a single stiff shake in response. "Just doing what the chief tells me to, Gaston."

"Yeah, well this is bullshit. I'd like a word with him."

Cortez eyed the bikers on the floor. "You might just get your chance. You sure you boys aren't doing anything illegal out here?"

"Sure as shit," said Curtis. One of the officers shoved a boot into his back, but Curtis held strong. It didn't have the intended effect. When Cortez turned at the commotion, the officer backed off.

"You mind if we search you boys?" asked the sergeant.

"Do we have a choice?" asked Gaston.

Cortez nodded and the officers began rummaging through their pockets.

"We're just taking a ride," said Gaston. "Since when is that a crime?"

"It's a crime to transport illegal narcotics and firearms in this state. In all fifty of them, in fact."

Gaston shook his head. He played it off pretty well, but it didn't matter that much. Everyone knew he was lying. The important thing was not admitting guilt. Police officers, unfortunately, had to account for such details of the law.

"Firearm," called the officer looking in Curtis' jacket. He pulled out a pistol.

"That's mine," said the man.

"I got one too," said the officer searching West.

"Same here," for Trent.

"Yup," said the cop who pulled a pistol from Gaston's ankle holster.

The president shook his head. "It's not illegal to carry without a permit."

"In Arizona you don't need a permit to carry concealed, but you do in New Mexico," replied Cortez. He waited as the final officer checked the last of Diego's leather clothing.

"Nothing here, sir." Diego de la Torre smiled.

Cortez was unruffled. "Search the bikes."

It was no matter to Diego. They'd already found his shotgun.

As the state troopers executed the order, the sergeant continued. "Unlawfully carrying a concealed firearm is a petty misdemeanor, boys."

Gaston rolled his eyes. "Cortez, concealed carries are okay for vehicles."

"You got off your vehicle."

"I was dragged off by your boys."

Cortez nodded. It was a dismissive gesture. The police weren't concerned with pistols. They were legal, by any stretch of the law. Their lawyer would see that they weren't even fined.

One of the officers from an SUV slung the black duffel bag from West's Harley to the floor. The two other bags were dropped beside it in quick succession. The state trooper unzipped it. Sergeant Cortez stepped over and examined the contents.

"Firewood?" he asked.

Gaston shrugged. "We were gonna make some s'mores." The Seventh Sons tried to hide their smiles as the officers continued their search in vain.

When Trent and Curtis had taken a detour to the Arizona ranch, they replaced the contents of the duffel bags. They could have just dropped them off, but they wanted to see what kind of intelligence the police were working with. From what Diego could tell, the troopers didn't specifically look for the ACRs. The duffel bags were among the last of their possessions searched.

The mystery of the stop aside, the police didn't have anything on them. No drugs, no prohibited weapons, no criminal acts. The Seventh Sons hadn't even been speeding.

"Well," said Cortez, returning to the bikers, "here's what we're gonna do. We're going to look through your cell phones to see if you have any suspicious calls connecting you to that van. You boys are gonna come down to the station where we can straighten that out and settle these gun charges."

Gaston scoffed. "It's a misdemeanor. And a bullshit one at that."

"And if you don't do what I say it's resisting arrest which, I assure you, is a felony."

The MC president almost growled.

It didn't matter. Not really. They had been escorting the van to Albuquerque. That shipment would never make it now. Their time was no longer reserved. The officers slowly stood each of them up.

"Diego," intoned Gaston softly. He beckoned him over with a nod of his head. "Get back to the clubhouse ASAP. Contact our lawyer. She's gonna rip these charges apart and have these cops' badges."

Cortez stepped in between the two men. "I thought you said you wanted to speak to the chief, Gaston. Besides, this one's not going anywhere."

"You can't hold bullshit gun charges over me, Sergeant," said Diego. "My shotty's strapped to the bike."

Cortez extended his lower jaw as he mulled over his play. The difference between cops and gangsters wasn't always that great. Both could pretty much do whatever they wanted in isolated circumstances. The rub was that police officers were accountable for the legality of their actions after the fact. Every step of the way, however fabricated, required a legitimate trail.

"You'll need to stick around as we go through your cell phone, at least," he countered.

Diego flashed his teeth again. "That's not an issue, Sergeant. I never carry one with me."