Ride the Lightning Page 15

  He didn't need any prompting. He slid his hands down my back and lifted me off my feet. I wrapped my legs around his waist and closed out the rest of the world. Nothing existed except his arms around me and his lips on mine.

  After an eternity that ended far too soon, he lowered me onto the edge of the table and stepped back.

  My voice was a choked whisper. "Be careful."

  He kissed my forehead and replied, "Always."

  I gnawed on my thumbnail as he pulled on his leather vest and straightened the pistol in his waistband. When he walked away, I didn't follow, and he didn't look back. Price was on the job.

  CHAPTER 35

  I tugged at the camo hunting cap covering my hair. Sweat and dust triggered an intense itch, but I'd been warned against fidgeting.

  "People notice movement. You can hide on top of someone, as long as you're motionless," said Max while he unpacked and readied a trio of sleek matte gray drones.

  He'd also nixed my outfit of khaki shorts and tank top. The only thing he'd approved of was my tactical boots. As a result, I was wearing a pair of his cargo pants and an olive drab shirt. I needed a belt to take up the extra two inches in the waist, but understood the wisdom of the choice as I sprawled on the ground watching the road leading to the farm. The binoculars were fitted with anti-reflective filters to avoid an accidental glint giving away our position.

  A jacked-up pickup with a tarp covering the bed came into view. He was driving into the setting sun, so I couldn't see the driver. He was also keeping to a lower speed that most of the locals did on the back roads.

  Maybe he has something in the back that he doesn't want to tip over.

  I keyed the microphone on my headset twice to signal Max. In a second, he was by my side, following the truck until it turned and went through the gate to the farm.

  He whispered, "It's show time. Keep watch while I launch the first bird."

  He'd explained to me that each drone had about thirty minutes of battery life. He'd launch and recover them in waves and swap out the batteries with his spares. I hoped this wouldn't take more than ninety minutes but was glad we had the coverage for Ethan.

  The drone buzzed by me with little more sound than the background insect noise and disappeared against the slate gray sky. Max motioned for me to join him in the van and monitor the video feed. A clock on the dashboard ticked down the remaining battery life.

  "There's the truck." A shiver ran through me. This was about to get real.

  Max maneuvered the drone into a hovering position near the tree line for maximum stealth and noise reduction. With the ridiculously high-resolution camera, we had a bird's eye view of the clearing between the farmhouse, and the barracks where the club had been camping.

  "I guess audio is too much to hope for?"

  "I'm a drone pilot, not a magician."

  It was good to be able to laugh, even for a second. I had a clipboard ready to take notes of anything he said.

  "Jewel, do you recognize the driver of the truck?"

  I swore softly. "I don't know the driver's name. I recognize him as a deputy. I've seen him at the club. The passenger is also a deputy, a sidekick to none other than Tony Romero."

  He shushed me with a gesture.

  "There's Mr. Jones. Excuse me, Colonel Jones."

  Without his top hat, it pleased me to no end to catch a glint of light off the sweaty bald spot on his head. He was joined by Duke, a couple of others I recognized but couldn't name, and in a clench of my heart, Ethan.

  More notes. We only had fifteen more minutes of operational time before he'd have to switch out the drones. Concerned, I tapped the clock to get Max's attention.

  "You're right. Odds are they're going to chat for a few. I'm going to deploy number two. Instead of swapping batteries, I'm going to leave number one in place. These are throwaways paid for by Uncle Sam. If number one drops, we'll get it later. I don't want to lose the video coverage."

  At a speed of up to forty miles per hour, the second drone was almost instantly in place and hovering to give us another perspective on the scene. We had roughly twelve minutes of overlap and planned on making it pay.

  After passing out beer from a cooler, the deputies pulled back the tarp covering the bed of the truck.

  "Bingo."

  The yellow overpack drum glowed against the backdrop of the fire engine red.

  "You hammered it. Without your intel, I'd have no clue what I was looking at."

  I turned my attention to the feed from the second drone. In three minutes, it would be our only camera. Its position included coverage of an open-sided shed. Two bikers tinkered with a piece of machinery on a cart. Flipping back to the other feed, the deputies had moved to the side of the truck while Ethan and a prospect jumped into the bed and wrestled the drum onto a dolly. The Colonel slapped his chest and joined the deputies. Three members of the club formed a line behind the open tailgate. Their crossed arms and rigid stance radiated stress and danger.

  My gut clenched.

  "Max, can you zoom in on that shed. I have to see what they're doing."

  "Some, but if I bring the bird in any closer, I could risk being seen."

  "Do it, please. Ethan is in trouble." I had trouble keeping the panic down in my voice.

  As he shifted the camera, the first drone fluttered, throwing the video feed off-kilter before dropping to the ground.

  "Number one is down. I should recover number two and deploy number three."

  "No."

  A raised eyebrow was his answer. He brought the other camera lower in front of the trees and zoomed on the garage. A flash of flame caught my eye and crystallized my fears.

  "We have to get Ethan out of there. He's compromised. They either know he's a cop or think he's a snitch. That blowtorch is to take his club tattoo before they kill him."

  Max studied the screen and turned to face me. Something in my expression must have convinced him. Ice replaced the questions in his eyes.

  "Can you ride a motorcycle?"

  "Yes." My experience was dirt bikes and puttering around a track, but if Max was willing to trust me, I was all in.

  "The keys are in the ignition. The platform it's sitting on pulls out from the van to form a ramp. I'm going to launch the third bird and get my backups ready. We're going to need them. Go. Now."

  "What's the plan?" I asked as I got out of the van.

  "There is none. Go get Ethan. I'll cover you as best I can."

  "See you on the flip side."

  The smile he gave me didn't reach his eyes.

  CHAPTER 36

  The Harley Buell was an order of magnitude more powerful than anything I had ever ridden. Going down the hill, the shaky buzz of adrenalin almost caused me to dump the bike twice. The slow pace I had to keep was agony, but if I went over, I wasn't sure I was strong enough to stand it back up.

  When I got to the road to the farm, it was time to commit to my choice. I decided to ride right into the middle of it. Surprise was the only thing I had going for me. I was outmanned and outgunned, but I had no other options. It'd rippled through the legal community when a Houston prosecution included the grisly details of a gang tattoo repossession via blowtorch. I knew from my association with Los Gatos Negros that it happened more often than law enforcement ever knew. Ethan wouldn't be allowed to die carrying the club colors.

  I couldn't let my fear be the reason Ethan lost his life. I twisted the throttle and picked up speed as I passed over the cattle guard leading to the farm.

  I leaned into the handlebars to lower my profile. My vision tunneled, and the sides blurred as I accelerated into the last curve and burst into the clearing. It was telling that everyone looked toward me except for the three forming the semicircle around the tailgate. They had their orders.

  I roared past the truck and made a turn almost too fast for my skill. The bike wavered, but I kept it upright. The Colonel and the two deputies had to jump out of the way to avoid being mowed over as I circled ar
ound to their side.

  I risked a look at Ethan and caught his perplexed expression as I pulled the bike into another dangerous tight maneuver. I knew he recognized me and was wondering what I was doing. Then he scanned the group and recognition of the danger dawned on his face. He might not understand it, but he knew why I was there and that it was time to run. In one fluid move, he kicked the drum on its side and sent it rolling off the tailgate. The yellow lid popped off and a familiar sound of snapping glass competed with the growl of my engine.

  Ethan took advantage of the momentary confusion to vault over the side of the truck. With the speed borne from his days as an athlete, he feinted his way past two of the bikers while the others were wrestling to cover and right the drum. The fits of coughing told me that enough of the Shine had vaporized to slow them down. A sensation I knew too well.

  The pistol shot rang through the clearing. Ethan cringed and rolled. I held my breath, expecting to see blood. Instead, he scrambled on his knees and was on his feet running toward me. I reached for my own weapon as the deputy sighted on Ethan's back.

  Instead of a shot, there was a scream as the would-be shooter flailed at the drone angling in on his head. The carbon-fiber blades cut his face and forearms, and blood caught and splattered the others. Another drone fluttered across the clearing. The batteries were nearly dead, but after the injuries inflicted by the first one, the bikers scattered. Two pulled their pistols and shot at the small craft as it careened between them before crashing into the truck's windshield.

  Max had given us the seconds we needed. The bike springs settled as Ethan sat behind me and whispered in my ear, "Go."

  I didn't need prompting. I cranked the throttle and fought to balance both of our weights. I still wasn't up to speed when the roar of the club's Harleys sounded behind us. As we clattered over the cattle guard, a tanned hand clamped over mine on the throttle grip, and his feet edged mine off the pedals. His left arm was warm around my waist as he took control of the bike.

  We leaped forward, wheels spinning in the gravel. As we whizzed around the first corner, my heart caught as Ethan leaned us over at an angle I'd never have been able to control. I responded to the pressure of his arm around me and let him use my weight as a counterbalance.

  The road leading up the hill to Max's perch flew by. I glanced over, hoping to see the white van. I knew he was there doing what he could. One more gun and a 4-banger vehicle against an MC wouldn't help much. His weapons were drones and his cell phone.

  A bump at the border of the gravel road and pavement sent us airborne for a couple of wrenching moments. Ethan turned us northwest, away from the beach and the bar. We only had one way to go and that was away from everything familiar. With the sheriff's office involved in this, we had to get out of the county. The FBI office was a three-hour ride to Jackson. I had a feeling he was going to split the difference and head toward the Highway Patrol barracks in Hattiesburg. In one turn, my time in Mississippi was over. I silently thanked everything that I could trust Joey to take care of my dog until I could get back. If I could get back.

  Two sounds interrupted my musing. The first was the scream of high-powered engines behind us. The club could chase us, but the sporty Buell was faster than any of their heavy customized cruising bikes and trikes. The second was more troubling. Sirens. One of the deputies had called it in. The stiffening of the arm around my waist told me that he heard them as well. Side roads weren't a good option. In this part of the county, many of them dead-ended or looped around in a dizzying mess that went nowhere. The cops knew these roads far better than we ever would. To turn off could be a death trap. Our way lay straight ahead.

  * * *

  The roadblock was an SUV with a flashing light bar and two club cab trucks. The bike shuddered under the sudden deceleration as Ethan brought us to a smooth stop. As four shotguns trained on us, Sheriff Sheldon raised a bullhorn.

  "Hands up and get off the motorcycle. Don't even think about it."

  The rest of the club roared up before we could move. I caught some signals, and two parked their bikes while the rest of the club turned and rode away. They were the volunteers to be arrested so they could take care of Ethan and me in custody. They were the assassins.

  The bullhorn roared again. "I said hands up. I won't say it again."

  One of the deputies racked his shotgun, and there were laughs from the others. This was a parody of my actions at the club. I also knew then that we'd never see county jail. There'd be an "incident" somewhere along the way. Max was our only chance.

  I didn't have a chance to talk to Ethan before he dismounted the bike with his hands in plain sight. I had no choice except to do the same. After the deputies nonchalantly cuffed the bikers, they swarmed us. Tony Romero grabbed me by the hair and kicked out my legs, slamming my face into the pavement. The taste of dirt and oil mixed with the metallic tang of fear in the back of my throat as he cinched the cuffs tight.

  He wrenched me to my knees and whispered in my ear, "Don't worry, Dearheart, you're too butch for my taste. Still, you might want to mind your manners."

  I spit out fine gravel and said, "Fuck off Romeo."

  "Bad choice. I was going to do this with your boyfriend, but it'll be more fun watching you fry. See, I need charges to book you two in on. They won't let me file felony pain-in-my-ass."

  Before I could answer, he pulled the pistol out of the holster on my waistband and shot from underneath my arm. In an odd slow motion, like I was watching a movie, Harry Sheldon shuddered, put a hand to the red bloom on his abdomen, and crumbled to his knees. Pandemonium erupted.

  "Gun! She slipped her cuff."

  "Bitch shot the sheriff!"

  "Get her down."

  "Officer down. Get an ambulance."

  Romero dropped my pistol and slammed me to the road again. His knee on my back sent a spear of pain through my bad shoulder. My discomfort must have conveyed, because he grabbed my bound hands, and pulled them away from my back, hyper-extending my joints. I bit my lip trying to endure it but finally had to scream. Satisfied, he released the pressure.

  "Time to take a ride. You'll confess later."

  "After I get the Billy Ray cocktail?"

  That stopped him and told me that I had it all correct. For all the good it was going to do me now. I'd also sealed my own fate. I was half-dragged half-carried to the SUV and thrown in the back seat. Ethan got the same treatment into one of the club cabs, and the docile bikers were loaded into the back of the third truck.

  CHAPTER 37

  The old sheriff substation building had seen better days. From the emergency response exercises, I knew that the county kept them open and marginally functional after moving all the major duties to the new jail.

  Tony Romero pulled into the small sally port in the back and said, "Old Grady is on duty. He won't ask questions. Put her in the bubble. I'll help with the others. We need to make this fast."

  The other deputy licked his lips, clearly uncomfortable. "He's FBI. Are you sure you want to do this?"

  "Nobody will miss a bad cop. Dude went rogue and got high on the company supply. And this cunt shot Harry. We'll get medals."

  "If you're sure."

  "It's the only way out. Keep thinking about how you're going to spend all that money you've been collecting. You didn't have any complaints then."

  During the drive, I'd worked my way into a sitting position. I had no way to run or fight, so I slid over the seat and out the door. The deputy caught me when I went off-balance, and the irony hit me. I'd been in this situation before.

  "If this was Austin, you'd be punching me right about now. Can we please not do that?"

  My words obviously baffled him. I had no choice but to smile.

  The "bubble" turned out to be exactly what I thought it was. Every old-fashioned jail has some form of it. I sat on the bench in the small holding cell directly behind the control panel in the main office. To my right and down the hall was a pair of open cells with bu
nks where inmates were held. They'd put Ethan and the bikers in there.

  I had no illusions about what was going to happen. Unless Max came through, Ethan would get dosed with Shine and die from a knife wound that a "careless search" had missed. I'd get a needle full of scopolamine and in a rambling confession, admit to shooting Sheriff Sheldon. The final charges would depend on whether or not he survived the wound. Then what? My guess is that I'd conveniently hang myself in my cell. At least, that's what the reports would say.

  Unless Max came through.

  The sounds of a scuffle pulled me out of my spiral. Ethan wasn't being as docile and accepting of his fate as I was. Blood from a cut on his forehead and the split lip on the officer they'd called "Old Grady" told me what I needed to know. The crack of a baton across Ethan's knees short-circuited his next attack, and he dropped to the bench.

  "Fucking biker trash. Give me one of those paper towels before I bleed all over the place."

  That got my attention. In my vehicle, the conversation made it very clear that Romero knew Ethan was an FBI agent. Why should this guy be any different? The only answer was that he didn't know the truth. That not all the cops involved in this were dirty.

  "Sorry about that, Sarge. Let me get him back into the cell before he can do any more damage." The solicitous slime in Romero's voice told me I was right. The rot didn't go all the way through the department. That gave me a shred of hope. I had to believe Ethan had picked up on it as well.

  Romero unsheathed his baton and went to grab Ethan by the collar. In a flash, he lunged off the bench, pushed Romero aside as easily as slipping a block on the football field and latched his teeth into Grady's thigh.

  He knows.

  The scuffle that ensued would have almost been funny if our lives didn't depend on it. Grady yelped in pain and danced around the room trying to dislodge Ethan, but he held on like a Gila monster.

  That's going to leave a mark.

  Romero rained baton blows on Ethan, every loud crack landing on my heart. After another drag around the small area, he let loose and fell face-first to the linoleum. The well-timed roll away from Romero's kick told me that he was completely in control. That ought to be enough to land him in the solitary confinement cell. I turned my attention to the dark stain spreading on the leg of Grady's khaki uniform.