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  “If he’s going to be yelling the whole way that’s going to make Mickey nuts,” Fritter said, he wasn’t sure who to. Probably Knuckles, who nodded his agreement.

  Big Neck shouted something in Italian, angry and sharp, not at all romantic, and one of the guys pulled out a pistol and cracked the guy in the temple. He crumpled immediately, and Mickey helped catch him by pure reflex.

  “Jesus,” Fritter breathed just as Big Neck laughed.

  “There you go, gentleman, problem solved. Now get a move on. They expect you inside of an hour.”

  They’d just make it, but he was right. They had to go now.

  “Mount up,” Tank bellowed, sliding on his shades and heading for his bike.

  “Fuck,” Fritter was chanting as he headed to his bike.

  “Chill,” Knuckles instructed him. “Not our worry, not our business. Right?”

  He let out a long breath as he straddled his bike, then started his motor. He watched the three goons return to the plane, laughing and back-slapping the whole way. He had such a knot in his stomach, but he had no idea why: delivering a guy to undoubtedly be killed, or apprehension that something bad was about to happen.

  The two feelings often felt exactly the same.

  Knuckles led the U-turn back to the security check point, Fritter followed. The van trailed them close, and he tried to tamp down the unease that was making his gut roll.

  Just a delivery, just a delivery, just a simple living, breathing, fucking delivery.

  On the highway it was easier to force his focus. They headed north towards Bakersfield, luckily with no towns between Hazeldale and their destination.

  Miles flew by, the air doing a decent job of scrubbing his nerves. No problem. Short delivery, fifty grand split six ways. And no heavy lifting.

  He nearly laughed remembering Knuckles comment about the cargo not being heavy. And the dude was kind of skinny.

  The van honking brought him out of his thoughts. As he quickly checked over his shoulder he heard the squealing of tires, and from nowhere four sport bikes roared into formation behind them.

  “What the fuck?” he was shouting, but no one would hear it. Mickey was pulling to a stop as the bikes continued up behind Fritter and Knuckles, and he heard the popping of gunfire somewhere behind Mickey.

  Out of instinct he hit his brakes, and there was more squealing rubber as two of the riders behind him swerved to avoid collision. He was already reaching into his waistband, pulling his Glock free as the strange biker to his right was bringing his arm up. There was a muzzle flash but Fritter was already firing. The fucker all but flew off his bike as a round proved a motorcycle helmet’s visor was no match for a .22 caliber bullet. The bike thankfully caught the sand on the side of the highway and rolled off into the ditch, effectively crushing its operator underneath.

  To his left he saw only Knuckles, rolling slow like him now, making a circle in the air with one finger. He nodded and then pulled a U-Turn. Two of the riders behind them were approaching slowly, but as they about-faced he heard them rev their engines and they both shot ahead.

  Fritter and Knuckles each had a handgun out, but Fritter waited. Mickey was on the other side of their attackers, and friendly fire would really fucking suck. Then they were under fire and there was no room for debate.

  Fire tore along his shooting arm, but he ignored it and managed to somewhat aim before delivering one round into the front tire of the bike directly in front of him. The rider fought for balance, dropping his weapon as he tried to gain control with both hands. He lost that fight, the bike sliding sideways behind him, taking out the fellow next to him like bowling pins. The bikes were still skidding.

  “Fuck!” Fritter was shouting, breaking hard enough he felt the force nearly throw him over his handlebars. It would have if he hadn’t braced for it. His back end slid right a bit, and he put a foot down to keep from dumping as he came to a stop.

  There were more gunshots behind the van. There was no way to know what the hell was going on. As Knuckles pulled to a stop next to him they shared a look, dropped their kickstands and dismounted in a fucking hurry.

  The van’s driver door was open. Knuckles headed that way, pausing in front of the van where he had some cover. He tried to see through the driver’s door window but the vehicle was blocking everything.

  Knuckles was in front of the opposite head light. With a wild whoop the crazy fucker was off, running along the passenger side like a man with a death wish.

  “You fucking nut job,” Fritter muttered, starting up the other side much quicker, shoving the door shut as he went. He had his Glock pointed downward, sidestepping the whole way to present a smaller target.

  The world was very sharp, very bright and vibrant. His breathing and pulse were eerily regular, but he could feel the sweat under his arms running down his ribs. The only sign he was fucking terrified.

  He heard the footsteps a split second before the shadowy form appeared at the ass end of the van. It took surprisingly little time to realize it wasn’t anyone he recognized, and calm as you please he brought his arms up and fired off a single round that caught the guy in the arm holding a fucking Uzi. The second shot, delivered a half second later, took off the side of his head and he topped over.

  “Holy shit! Fritter, you okay?”

  He let his body sway against the van, back flattening on the panel. He caught his breath, shooting arm hanging down loosely. His free hand he clasped on his elbow, feeling the warm wet that wasn’t sweat.

  He didn’t want to look. He fucking hated bleeding.

  “Hey, hey, stay with us there buddy.”

  Fritter opened one eye with a chuckle. “I’m alright,” he assured Tank, letting the big guy take the Glock from him. “Is everyone whole?”

  “You bet. You’re the only one hurt.”

  “That’s hardly fair.”

  Tank chuckled, then he heard ripping, opening both eyes this time. Tank had torn the sleeve off his flannel shirt, and as Fritter watched he tied off his arm above a spot that was really starting to fucking sting.

  “Thanks big guy,” he mumbled. “What do we do now?”

  “They shot out two van tires,” Tank mumbled, shoving the Glock down the front of Fritter’s pants. “Mickey’s calling Jolene. Getting her to report the van stolen.”

  “Shit,” Fritter muttered. “What about the dude?”

  Tank’s mouth set in a grim line as a gunshot rang out, kind of behind Fritter but not quite. He jumped about two feet, heart hammering and that sick feeling returning. “Shit, really?”

  “Only way, man. Knuckles is using one of their weapons, Sachetti won’t know the difference. It can look like it was a stolen van, kidnapping, then this guy’s buddies came to get him back. Works for law that way.”

  “Who were these guys?” he asked. “They were on fucking crotch rockets. And they were shit riders.”

  Tank shook his head. “No idea. Not sticking around to check IDs. We’re outta here. Five minutes ago.”

  Fritter nodded.

  “You okay to ride?”

  “Yeah. What about Mickey?”

  “He’ll have to ride bitch. That might draw some attention but I want to get gone. No time to wait around. You’re sure about this arm?”

  “I’m fine,” he insisted, pushing away from the van, pulling his shirt down over the Glock. “But you’re right. We gotta go.”

  Tank nodded, satisfied. “Good. You get going. I’ll sort the guys out. Knuckles should be good to go, too.”

  He was, too. The crazy bastard was climbing onto his Harley and gave Fritter his customary grin. “What the fuck happened to you?”

  “Threw myself in front of a bullet to save you,” Fritter mumbled, tightening his helmet strap and swinging a leg over his ride.

  “I still ain’t putting out.”

  In spite of the adrenaline and pain and holy shit rattling around in his head, Fritter had to laugh.

  “Let’s ghost,” Knuckles shou
ted, engine rumbling awake. With another whoop he tore off, back the way they’d come. It would mean passing through Hazeldale again but whatever.

  Fritter followed, noting that Buck was pulling in behind Knuckles. Rusty let Fritter by, then pulled out behind him. He pointed at Tank and then Mickey, who was climbing on the back of the big guy’s Fat Boy. Mickey flipped him off, but Tank was just shaking his head as he fired her up.

  Laughing was good. Laughing would do, for now anyway.

  Chapter Five

  “Really?” Downey mumbled, raising an eyebrow at Martin. “You drop a stolen vehicle report on my desk?”

  “Look at the vehicle,” he suggested, bemused. Little fucker was less scared of her now for some reason.

  She sighed, turned away from her keyboard and flipped to the second page of the report. Then she frowned. “Grainger Garage’s cargo van disappeared last night?”

  Martin shrugged. “Jolene Grainger just called it in. Funny thing is, I saw it go by on my way to work today. Driven by Mickey and followed by a bunch of guys on motorcycles.”

  “Jesus Christ,” she mumbled, rubbing her forehead. “You know wherever than van is, it’s going to be noisy. Right?”

  Martin shrugged. “At least they keep it interesting.” Then he was gone, leaving her shaking her head.

  “You’re an idiot!” she called after him, a laugh his reply.

  She didn’t want to know any more about this than she absolutely had to. Some days it irked her that she was all but taken for granted when it came to a certain criminal element of Markham, but at least for all outside appearances her little county had one of the lower crime rates in California.

  Mostly because a lot of it went unreported, but ... details.

  Still, a report of a stolen vehicle meant it was going to be found and it was going to be messy and a headache. And she wasn’t getting any help from the MC, which meant their investigation couldn’t possibly go anywhere.

  She really didn’t need this during an election year.

  At least they wouldn’t have to go looking for the stolen property. She set the file to the side and went back to her paperwork that was already a week behind schedule.

  When the phone rang she reached out absently, eyes scanning all the fields of her annual budget report due for city council. “Sheriff Downey,” she barked, swallowing a curse word as she realized she’d put a period instead of a comma. No, the department had not spent thirty-point-four dollars on fuel. Thirty-four hundred, yes.

  “Umm, Sharon?”

  She frowned, turning away from the screen yet again. “Yes? Who is this?”

  “It’s ... it’s Jasmine.”

  She sank back into her desk chair, swiveling around to the back wall of her office. Ah yes, the other woman. Her ex-husband’s current wife. There was no jealousy, though. They’d been married for thirteen years now, and that was longer than Susan had worn Steven’s ring. Jasmine was actually a lovely woman. They’d likely never be friends, but they could be amiable and tolerate a dinner party together.

  “Jasmine? How are things?”

  “I’m at the hospital. Steven ... he ...” She fell into sobbing and Sharon suddenly sat up.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “There was an accident. A drunk hit Steven as he was driving home last night. I’ve been at the hospital all night. He was in surgery for ten hours.”

  Sharon closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “Okay. What’s the doctor saying?”

  “He’s still in recovery. He’s got a broken leg, pelvis, collarbone, arm, God knows what else. He’s going to be in traction for quite a while.”

  Sharon turned back to her desk, taking a deep breath. “Okay. What do you need me to do, Jasmine? Anything I can do to help, I’ll do it.”

  “It’s ... it’s Brayden.”

  Now she was sitting up straighter. “Was he in the car?”

  “No, no. He’s fine. But ... I’m going to be here at the hospital while Steven recuperates. Can ... can Brayden come to Markham once school is out?”

  Sharon felt a completely inappropriate smile tug at her mouth. “He’s ... he’s sixteen, Jasmine. He can take care of himself.”

  Now Jasmine sounded uncomfortable. “He almost got kicked out of school. Steven and I had to beg them to let him finish eleventh grade. He can’t keep a job and ... he’d got some friends that make me uncomfortable. I can’t watch him, and I worry about what he might get up to. He ... he listens to you.”

  Sharon rubbed her forehead. “We’ve got elections starting here. My summer is going to be spent working on my campaign.”

  “I wouldn’t ask,” Jasmine cut in, more forcefully than she usually spoke. “But I can’t spend my time worrying about him and being here with Steven. I hate to ask but—”

  Sharon sighed. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right, of course.”

  Shit, she was the worst mother the world ever knew. After the divorce Steven and Jasmine had requested custody of Brayden, and it made sense. They were both around, Jasmine worked part-time. Sharon worked shift work in a dangerous job. She’d been quite comfortable letting them take her son to their fashionable Bakersfield condo, driving up there every second weekend to be the part-time parent.

  Clearly that had been the right call.

  “Okay, he can stay with me,” Sharon said, scratching her temple. “When does school end?”

  “In a week. He’s done as of Thursday, so whenever you’re available I can put him on the bus or—”

  “No, no. I’ll come get him. I ... I can come Friday after work. I have to stay until around five but I can head out right after that.”

  “Okay, that sounds good.” Jasmine was sniffling again. “Thank you, Sharon.”

  “Don’t thank me, Jasmine. He’s my son, of course I’ll take him. Until school starts, if you need.”

  “Thank God. Thank you.”

  Sharon spent a few more minutes discussing the details, then hung up the phone and stared at the handset for a moment.

  There was likely a time she’d loved Steven Westhall, but they’d both been very young. She thought she’d known what she wanted out of life, and they married in Pasadena then settled in Bakersfield with Steven selling commercial real estate and Sharon working traffic with the Bakersfield PD. Little excitement, no real stress. Comfortable life. So, so happy.

  It wasn’t anyone’s fault but hers. She changed what she wanted out of life, but didn’t say a word to anyone. She was twenty-six when she got pregnant with Brayden, and the first time she’d felt him kick she knew she wasn’t going to be a great mother. She wasn’t even sure she wanted kids. And at that point she somewhat wished she wasn’t pregnant.

  Again, she told no one about any of this.

  The first time she’d met Brayden, however, that was all dashed. She’d loved him, she really did. She just had no idea what she was doing. She didn’t have that inherent ability to hold a baby so he couldn’t fuss, she couldn’t hear one cough and know what was wrong. She loved him, and as he grew older she was starting to get the hang of it but he took all of her attention. This left nothing for Steven.

  The sheriff’s seat in Markham came open, and that led to a terrible argument. Name-calling, almost to the point of throwing things, shouting in each other’s faces until Brayden, still in the crib, started wailing from the other room.

  Sharon wanted that seat, wanted to be back in her hometown. And she would have loved to raise her son in this town, too. The city was busy and made her dizzy, claustrophobic. A smaller town was where a kid should be raised, like she was.

  And of course in the midst of the immediate issue, all her unhappiness came out. How she didn’t want to just be a traffic cop, happy to let her husband really make the money that paid the bills. And she hated the city, hated the “friends” they had who were really all Steven’s friends anyway. All of it came spewing out like the chance to get out of Bakersfield was an emotional diuretic.

  And that’s when sh
e found out about Jasmine, a woman that had looked after their son a few times. A woman that was one of her supposed friends in Bakersfield who invited her over for girls’ night martinis and rom coms at the theater. Steven loved Jasmine, he wanted to marry her.

  They were filing for divorce within a week.

  Time made the edges of the break up softer, less cutting. Sharon, as lonely as she might seem, still preferred life this way. But losing that constant contact with Brayden was the only regret of the whole situation. They still got along great, and Jasmine was right; Brayden listened to his mother a lot more closely than his father. They had an odd buddy relationship, yet he deferred to her authority when she had to exercise it.

  He was sixteen now. It grated on Sharon a little to see him exhibit the entitled air of a white kid from a well-to-do household. Maybe she should have insisted her visitation weekends take place in Markham. It might help him to see how the other half lived.

  Her phone rang again, rousing her from memories. She snatched up the handset. “Sheriff Downey.”

  “You know that van? Patrol found it. You’re not going to be very happy.”

  Chapter Six

  “This is gonna hurt.”

  That four-word phrase always came right before it hurt like a fucking bitch. Fritter clenched his jaw and let his head fall to the back of the leather armchair. Next to him, Jeremy Fox was on a low mechanics’ stool squinting at the stitches he was finishing up on Fritter’s right arm. Fox was an asshole, but he provided professional minor medical services in exchange for a few dollars, and a blowjob from a sweetbutt usually didn’t go unappreciated, either.

  “Okay. This’ll heal up good. You’ll just have a badass scar.”

  “Perfect.”

  Fritter watched the doc cover up the jagged red line with gauze, tape it in place, and then get up from his stool with a professional smile. Knuckles was there right away, handing over a plain white envelope.