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  “There was an opening on the Mexico-to-Tacoma pipeline when the Gypsys bit it,” Martin filled in for her addled brain. “Lot of money moves through our county, unfortunately. It was just a matter of time before someone set their sights on that territory.”

  Of course her mind went to the Rebels, wondering if they were aware of all this. After brief internal deliberation she had to admit they probably were. “Did they have something specific going on?”

  “The real estate agent trying to sell the Gypsys clubhouse had reports of a break-in. Greene wants you to see it.”

  She sighed. “All right. You need me on anything today?”

  “Nah, go ahead. He likely just wants your take on what to do.”

  Sharon nodded, closing the file folder she’d just received on the highway massacre that had been yanked from her hands. She was still kicking herself over being so easily overrun. She could have fought the Feds taking it from her; as Sheriff, the only law man actually able to take a case from her office would be a US Marshall. But holding that case for the Markham Sheriff’s Department to handle was ridiculous. They weren’t equipped to handle it or deal with the kind of heat that case could bring. She’d be kicking up dust just to become a laughing stock.

  With a flick of the wrist she locked the file away. She still appreciated them sharing their findings. They certainly didn’t have to do that; it was a gesture of respect. And if they wanted to figure out what was happening they’d likely need her to deal with the MC for them.

  The day was hot and sticky but not overcast. Sunshine beamed down with maniacal cheerfulness, instantly heating her skin, hair, and turning the uniform into nothing short of a wearable toaster. In the car she cranked the AC up to full strength and pointed it towards Hazeldale. It was a short drive but the highway was busy. Local traffic seemed to think getting out of town would be a good idea, likely heading for the beaches along the San Luis County coast.

  In Hazeldale the desert gave way to green spaces and easements planted with eco-appropriate greenery. She never knew who it was in Hazeldale with the green thumb, but the small-town touch of flower planters next to the city-owned buildings was always a bit humbling. Markham didn’t have that.

  The Sheriff’s outpost was attached to the Post Office. Sharon parked on the street and made her sun-drenched way through the metal and glass doors, giving a nod to the attendant at the mail service desk and passing through a deco-style brass and wood door into the Hazeldale sheriff’s office. It was all one room with every officer having access to a desk, which were stacked two clusters of four to make the most of the space. They officers took turns at reception and answering the main phone. Dispatch was in its own room, but officers were shifted to man that duty as well.

  There just wasn’t money for a full detachment. It depressed her every time she had to visit.

  Deputy-Sheriff Greene approached her with one hand out. He was one of those nervous types, a bit high-strung but friendly. Tons of nervous energy rolled off the man like waves.

  “Sheriff Downey, I’m so glad you’re here.” Without taking a breath he moved to one of the desks, picking up a file folder and turning back to her, setting it on the high reception counter. It was stuffed with reports.

  “What’s this?”

  Greene jerked his head at the pile. “This is all the calls from people who are seeing Dirty Rats rolling through town. It never turns out that a crime has been committed, but once we hit them with a noise violation. Texas Murphy owns that clubhouse property, and he’s too scared to throw them out. Even though they’re basically squatting.” Greene sighed. “I don’t know what to do here. People are antsy, they’re starting to give me the gears on these guys.”

  “When the Gypsys were in residence, was it like this?” she asked, absently opening the folder and skimming over the first report.

  “No. We never saw them. They never fucked with the locals, and none of the townspeople thought to take issue with them. All they did was ride their bikes around and pay their rent on time.” He shoved a thumb and finger into the sides of his nose, just above the bridge. “I need advice. Markham has had that MC around town for a really long time, and I can’t see the citizens just putting up with guys like these.”

  Sharon flipped the folder shut. “No, we wouldn’t put up with guys like these. The Dirty Rats are a parasitic MC. They roam around, infesting new areas, making themselves unwelcome until something better opens up somewhere else. The Rebels are from Markham, they live there, just like the Gypsys lived here until recently. The Rats are far more dangerous, and they don’t care who they piss off. If anyone makes a stand they’re liable to get themselves hurt.”

  Greene had paled but his voice was steady. “What do we do then?”

  She thought that over. “They love it when you’re scared. They hate by-the-book, incorruptible law enforcement. They also don’t have the patience to change a town’s attitude. Don’t let the locals get their shit in an uproar, show that we’re going to be the burr under their saddle.”

  “What?”

  “Call a locksmith, and get Texas to meet us at the clubhouse. We’ll serve notice, change all the locks. Does it have a fence?” Sharon was already heading for the small room off the main that served as the Deputy Sheriff’s office.

  “Um, yeah. Rolling gate and razor wire. The Gypsys had it put in.”

  “Good. Let me make a phone call, and in the meantime call a locksmith, Joe.”

  Using his first name got him moving. She shut the door to his office and grabbed the phone, dialing a number and letting out a nervous breath that she wished didn’t make her sick to the stomach.

  “Yeah?”

  She didn’t recognize the voice but carried on like it didn’t matter. “This is Sheriff Downey. Is McClune around?”

  “Jayce? Yeah, he’s playing pool. Just one sec.” There was a rattle as the phone was set down, then muffled voices before a scraping sound.

  “Sheriff? Not sure we got a lot to talk about.”

  “I’m in Hazeldale,” she said, cutting him off in a business-like tone. “They’ve got a Dirty Rat infestation. They’ve taken over the Gypsys’ clubhouse and they’re being a nuisance to the residents around here. I’m going in with the Deputy and we’re changing the locks, serving notice that they’re not welcome.”

  There was a pause, then an embarrassed cough. “Well, shit.”

  “Yeah. Is there anything I need to be aware of dealing with these guys? Do they have ties with you or your business in any way? I mean, I don’t want details. I just want to know how lightly to tread.”

  “Be careful,” he said, evenly. The pauses between his words seemed long. “These guys are not friends. They are brutal. Violent. And they are not going to like a woman laying down the law. You better not be going in alone.”

  “I’m not. And I know they’re dangerous. I just want to make sure they’re not going to go running to a friend’s place to flop. Like, say, Markham.”

  That got her an amused chuckle. “No friends of mine, Sheriff. Your officers there tough enough to stand any backlash?”

  She thought of the six people that made up this detachment and had to nearly laugh. But there was no choice. The town couldn’t just let these animals take over.

  “They can take it,” she assured him, hoping like hell she was right.

  In the main room Greene was just hanging up the phone. “I called our locksmith. He’ll meet us there in half an hour. Tex is terrified but he’s coming, too. Bringing a few good ole’ boys from his dad’s farm along, but I told them to keep their distance.”

  “Good. We can’t have civilians sticking their necks out, though.”

  “I tried to talk him out of it but he’s scared. He wants someone at his back driving home.”

  Sharon sighed. “Fine. But I’m not on the hook for any yokels who bring retribution back on themselves. This has to be us, Joe. Who else is on shift?”

  “Smith, Tyson and Finch.”

&nb
sp; “Call them, tell them to meet us, too. And maybe try to bring in Bev and Taylor. The more of us the better.”

  Greene was already dialing and nodding. “Sure.”

  Downey pulled her department-issue Colt revolver. Old school maybe, but familiar and hard to fuck up. Rarely jammed, no fancy mechanisms to get stuck. Convinced it was ready for duty, she called home but there was no answer. That hopefully meant Brayden was job hunting.

  “Can’t find Taylor but Bev will meet us too,” Greene said from the doorway of his own office, bringing her out of her thoughts of her teenage son sitting in the back yard, doing nothing, not hearing the phone because of his damn iPod.

  “Okay,” she basically whispered, getting to her feet. “Let’s head out. Remember; back straight, no give, no smart ass comments. All business. They’ll try to make it personal but it can’t be. Just professional. With everything.”

  Greene nodded. “Okay.”

  “You know your officers. I want the most stone-faced fuckers coming in with us. Anyone who might cave can watch the cars, guard the gate. Far enough away maybe these Rats won’t smell their fear.”

  “The only one I worry about is Finch. He’s more nervous. And I think Bev hates bikers.”

  “Then they’re on watch. The rest of us kick these guys out.”

  She was tense on the drive over. Next to her, Greene held the Stevens 320 shotgun across his lap, barrel pointed at the door, one knee bouncing. He couldn’t be still, which was so strange because she knew how calm he usually was under pressure. His nerves didn’t manifest when he really needed to keep them in check, so she didn’t let herself worry about being the only level head.

  The gates to the compound stood open. It looked like it had been a restaurant at one time. The flat roof was edged with angled eaves, finished with cedar shakes flaking paint. The doors and boarded up windows had been painted with the same forest green color, and as they stopped just outside the gates Sharon let herself feel the despair of the building seep in.

  She’d never set foot in this place. The only glimpse she’d ever had of its interior was shot on Gertie Dénise’s phone, and the scenery hadn’t been the focus of that video. At the memory she wiped her hands on her pants, willing the sweat to stop. She had to be calm. Indifferent. Like stone.

  Like a cop.

  She stood at the curb, then as the locksmith van arrived she unsnapped the holster at her hip. As the man was getting his equipment in order two more Markham County Sheriff’s Office cruisers arrived, one parking behind the van and the second across the street facing the opposite way. No one said anything; Greene had briefed Ian Smith, Gabe Tyson and David Finch already. Beverly Marco was on her way in her plainclothes.

  Once Texas arrived she had to give instructions. She didn’t bother waiting for Bev; the woman had been with the department for fifteen years and didn’t need to be told what was what.

  “I’m sure you see what I see,” she said, shoving a few errant hairs behind her ears. “There are no bikes here, no other vehicles. I’m comfortable assuming there aren’t any Dirty Rats inside, but they may have a hang around watching the place. I have an eviction notice to post on the door, not that it makes a lot of sense since they were never renters, but it’s what I have. What I want to do is get inside, let the locksmith change the main door and deadbolt, as well as the back door that Texas tells me his key doesn’t even work in anymore. I’m assuming sometime since he handed over the clubhouse those locks were changed. Maybe the Gypsys, maybe these guys. I don’t know. What I do know is it’ll be a lot better for all of us if we do this before the Rats even know we’re here.” She nodded to the lanky, spectacled officer standing next to Greene with his arms crossed. “Finch, you and Bev watch the gate when she gets here. No one enters the compound. We’re working under the direction of the owner of this property, he will be with the rest of us as we enter the building.” She nodded to Greene. “I want you to stick close to Texas. Tyson, you’re with the locksmith, make sure no one’s hassling him.”

  Now she turned to Texas, and the poor bastard was sweating right through his polo shirt. “You got a new lock for the gate?”

  “Yessir. Ma’am. Yes ma’am.”

  “Good.” She ignored that he’d called her sir. He was so scared she could basically smell it. No wonder how the Gypsys were able to rent this place.

  “What about you and I?” Ian Smith asked.

  “We’re sweeping the place, too. We’ll follow Texas and Finch. You got a camera?” Smith nodded. “If there’s any major damage we’ll take pictures for Mr. Murphy’s insurance.”

  “Thank you,” Texas cut in graciously then appeared mortified that he’d interrupted.

  Sharon gave him her best, reassuring smile. “Don’t mention it, Tex. Any questions?”

  “We’re going in armed, right?” Greene said.

  “Of course. Be careful in there. These guys are dangerous, and if they left a few strung out stewards behind to watch over whatever might be in there, you never know what might happen.”

  She turned and headed to the door, hearing the clanging of the locksmith’s toolbox as he scrambled after her. It was unlikely, but she would love to find some illegal material inside, keep these bastards from returning if they knew the law was onto them and had not only seen their shit but taken it. Guns, drugs, any of it would be a windfall. And with the landlord giving his blessing and requesting the squatters be removed there was no worry about not having a warrant. This wasn’t their property; it belonged to Texas Murphy and they had no rental agreement.

  It took no time at all for the locksmith to get the door lock and deadbolt open. He set his toolbox down to hold the door open then stepped out of the way, like he knew the drill.

  Smith took point leading them inside, Colt at the ready, pointed high. Sharon followed, flanking the opposite way.

  The first thing that hit her was the smell. There was the stink of stale beer, some used beer, and a musty building that had been shut up on a hot day. But underneath was a foul odor of rot and shit that she could taste at the back of her throat.

  “What the fuck is that?” Smith asked, mostly to himself. It was the only thing she could hear, she realized just as he said it.

  They circled the room, checking the coat check, kitchen and small room behind a beat-up bar. There was furniture left here; some sofas, low tables, a pool table that she didn’t look at for too long because of bad memories of Gertie. A hallway led to what she assumed were dorms but there was absolutely no light down there.

  “You got your Maglite?” she asked, not sure why she was nearly whispering. It just didn’t feel like anyone was here.

  “Yeah, I got it.” Smith was already sliding the flashlight out and shining it down the dim corridor, overhand with his Colt leading in the opposite hand. All the doors on both sides of the hall were shut tight, not even a crack of light underneath. There were no windows at all and the place was all the more soulless because of it. One by one Smith opened all the doors, finding unmade beds that had been at the ready for who knew how long.

  It was like a home where people had vanished in the middle of the night. Of course, Sharon had a better-than-educated guess as to what had happened to the Gypsys but it didn’t matter in the least to her if it ever came out.

  “I’ll go get Greene and Tex,” she said once the last room was found to be eerily abandoned, like the others.

  Smith nodded. “I’ll do an official search now.”

  “Watch for needles,” she instructed unnecessarily then made her way back to the front door where the locksmith had set to work. A peek outside showed her that Bev had arrived and her and Finch were dutifully minding the gate, which they’d pulled nearly closed, only allowing a single-person gap. Tyson gave her a nod and she motioned Greene and Tex inside. “It stinks,” she warned them. “I didn’t look at the johns too closely but you might want a cleaning service and a plumber.”

  Tex just shrugged, following Greene inside. “I’m ju
st surprised they didn’t burn it down.”

  They started wandering around, Tex mumbling to Greene about how much it would cost to get all the furniture taken to the dump, and it was as Smith was joining them again something echoed up under their feet.

  “What was that?” she asked, perfectly in unison with Greene.

  “Someone’s downstairs,” Texas said, sounding terrified again.

  “There’s a basement?” Smith asked. “Where’s the door?”

  It was a good question. They’d searched every foot of this disgusting place.

  “Storm cellar by the back door.” Texas looked chagrined. “I forgot about that.”

  Sharon jerked her head to the back door and Smith led the way again. With a shove the room was lit with more sunshine, making it seem all the more grim. Right next to the door on the concrete walkway was a storm cellar door, just like Texas said. Smith kicked the lock off the hook-and-eye contraption and the weathered wood gave was easily. There was a loud groan as she helped lift the plywood slab up, leaning it against the building. “I got this one,” she offered, readying her service weapon and stepping carefully down the steep stairs.

  “Right behind you Sheriff.”

  And she appreciated that, she really did. As she hit the dirt floor the smell of shit became stronger, and the wooden door in front of her, like the storm cellar door, was just a piece of plywood on homemade hinges. A Master Craft lock held it closed.

  She looked over her shoulder, and Ian was two steps up still. He nodded and brought his Colt up to his shoulder.

  With the butt of her pistol she knocked the lock from the door, pulled the lock contraption free, then took a steadying breath before yanking the door open.

  Nothing could have prepared her for the smell, concentrated as it was in that dark, dirt-floored room. It was piss and shit and sweat and fear rolled into one heady, intolerable stench. She made a sound of disgust and covered her mouth, then felt Ian move closer.

  She didn’t want to enter. Something about the despair wafting from the dark beyond the threshold was telling her to run, but she couldn’t. When a beam of light cut through the dark she nearly fired on it, then realized it was Ian.