Authors: CJ Lyons
Smokey stopped, cocked her head again in consideration, then stepped forward and slid
her hand into Lena’s. An act of complete trust. Lena’s tears broke past her willpower.
Together they faced the wilderness surrounding them.
Which way, Lord? I will follow, wherever you lead.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Caitlyn winced and rubbed her left shoulder as she steered the Subaru down Route 19.
Six months ago she’d broken that collarbone. It’d healed fine—until some Reaper goon
decided to tackle her and throw her to the floor to land on it again.
She knew it was a Reaper because she’d torn a Reaper lapel pin from his collar while
grappling with the asshole. At least she’d gotten in one or two good shots. Still,
it rankled. Definitely not her finest moment.
How the hell did that guy get the drop on me?
was the question foremost in her mind. He’d come from the direction opposite the
elevators, from the guest rooms down the hall. Must’ve been in a room not too far
from hers, because he wasn’t in the hall when she unlocked her door.
Maybe a room across the hall? He could have been watching for her, familiar with the
layout, aware that she’d be in the dark for a few steps, her back unguarded? She made
a note to ask Jimmy to check which rooms were occupied and if any maids were missing
keycards. Unfortunately, since she had no idea what the guy looked like, until they
got the security footage, it might not help much.
Jimmy wasn’t even sure if the security cameras covered that far away from the elevators
and ice machine area. Protested that they’d never had any problems—like it was somehow
her fault, coming into town and stirring up trouble. He’d acted more concerned that
none of his other guests heard the commotion than he had been about her safety.
Her breath steamed the windshield, and she cranked up the defroster. In a way, she
guessed it was her fault. Trouble sure as hell seemed to find her no matter where
she went: a secure federal penitentiary, a crowded resort. She passed Santa Land and
drove through Cherokee headed south. This time she was taking trouble to them. The
Reapers weren’t going to assault a federal agent and get away with it.
It was amazing how much Cherokee had changed since she was a kid. Where there’d once
been only a few ramshackle trading stands selling traditional Qualla crafts or housing
bingo parlors, there were now strip malls and motels and a brand-new hospital. All
thanks to the VistaView.
The Pit Stop, now the Reaper clubhouse, was just as Caitlyn remembered it. A long
two-story log building with a few smaller outbuildings behind it. Tonight the parking
lot was filled with Harleys, many sporting out-of-state licenses, as well as an assortment
of pickup trucks, SUVs, and even two minivans. The lighted sign out front announced
a charity poker run over the weekend. That explained the out-of-state plates, especially
as the Reapers’ home chapter was in Daytona Beach.
Caitlyn didn’t even try to find a parking spot in the lot. Last thing she wanted was
to get boxed in; she liked having an escape route handy. She pulled into the lot of
the abandoned service station across the street, backing into the shadow of the unlit
sign at the front edge of the lot. This way she could pull right out when she was
ready to leave and had an unobstructed view of the clubhouse while she decided on
her approach.
The crowd was going to make things both easier and more difficult. Easier to blend
in as a stranger; more difficult to actually learn anything useful. Not like the Reapers
were going to be talking club business in a bar filled with outsiders. She debated
showing Lena’s photo around, but it didn’t feel right. More likely to bring her attention
than answers. Best to wait until she had a better feel for the Reapers.
She slipped a knife into the front pocket of her jeans where it was just about unnoticeable,
slid her ASP retractable baton into her coat pocket, but locked her service weapon
in her trunk. The Glock 22 was too easy to spot and would mark her as law enforcement
immediately. The smaller Glock 27 at her ankle would have to suffice.
Besides, if she did this right, her best weapon would be her smile. And the lapel
pin she’d ripped off the Reaper who jumped her. She pinned it to the collar of her
shirt, pulling the collar over her leather coat so it was easily visible.
Hanging offense for a non-Reaper.
Bring it on, boys.
She strolled across the street and wove her way through the rows of bikes to the main
entrance. The building was surrounded by a wide veranda that—despite the windows facing
out from the front room—remained mostly in shadows. The heavy bass line of rock music
made the wood floor dance beneath her boots as Buckcherry wailed about a crazy bitch.
“A chick walks into a biker bar alone,” a man’s voice greeted her as she crossed the
porch. “Sounds like a opening to a bad joke.”
She was going to let it pass as a drunken come-on that backfired except he didn’t
sound drunk. Turning to face him, she saw the blond from the VistaView’s check-in
desk leaning against the outside wall of the bar, his black clothing blending into
the shadows. He nodded to her, raising a bottle of Yuengling in greeting.
“You following me?” she asked.
“Looks to me the other way around,” he said. “After all, I’ve been here long enough
to have a beer, get tired of the smoke and noise, and step outside for air.”
“You’re a Reaper?” He wasn’t wearing a cut—the leather vest with patches designating
a member’s status and home charter.
“I can be anything you want, darling. You looking for a Reaper? With the charity ride
there are tons here tonight. Lots of folks who aren’t Reapers, too. Motorcycle enthusiasts.
Like me.”
Didn’t answer her question, but she wasn’t going to push the issue. She almost went
inside but the thought of leaving him behind her ruffled her instincts. He noticed
her hesitation and smiled that sloe-gin smile again. The one that had irritated her
so when she’d met him earlier.
“Would you like an escort?” he asked, pushing away from the wall. Then he noticed
the silver Grim Reaper on her lapel. “Maybe you don’t need one? Wouldn’t want to tread
on another man’s territory.”
“Look, mister—”
“Goose.”
“Excuse me?”
“Goose. That’s my name.” He waited. “And you are?”
She hated pushy guys like him. Arrogant bastards. Controlling. But in a place like
this, that was going to be all she found. Of the bunch this “Goose” was probably least
objectionable. Certainly better looking than most. She softened her expression, managed
a smile, and said, “Caitlyn. Nice to meet you, Goose.”
He inclined his head as if he’d watched too many Gary Cooper movies. “Pleasure’s mine,
ma’am. I don’t suppose you’d care to dance? Or maybe play pool,” he hastened to add
when she hesitated. “At least let me buy you a beer.”
“No to the dancing, but yes to the beer and a game of pool.” Hard to talk or overhear
conversations while on the dance floor, but around a pool table she was much more
likely to get some idea for the lay of the land. Maybe even hear a familiar voice,
like that of the guy who’d blindsided her earlier this evening. One could only hope.
“You sure you’re supposed to be wearing that?” He nodded to her pin once more. “Didn’t
just pick it up in the parking lot or something, did you?”
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
“If you say so. Right this way, then.” He opened the thick, rough-hewn log door, releasing
a barrage of misogynistic lyrics from the Ying Yang Twins—the Reapers’ musical tastes
seemed more focused on degrading sexual acts than any particular genre—and followed
her inside the clubhouse.
The tables and chairs had been pushed back to make more room for dancing. If you could
call it dancing. More like dry-humping, the way the women were grinding on the men.
Caitlyn was seriously overdressed compared with the other women who, no matter their
size, all seemed to have bare midriffs, jeans that barely clung to their hips, and
spaghetti-strap tops—the ones that had straps. And tons of colorful tattoos to draw
attention to all that naked flesh hanging out.
The men were more conservatively attired in layers of denim, flannel, and leather.
Most wearing black leather Reaper vests on top of everything. Like the women they
ranged in age from barely legal to qualifying for Medicare.
Goose definitely drew attention as he ushered Caitlyn through the crowd to the pool
tables in the far corner. Caitlyn scanned for exits. Between the two pool tables was
a fire door propped open to let in air. Probably another down the hallway leading
behind the bar where the restrooms were, but she didn’t like that option: too many
unmarked doors and places to get jumped. With the noise no one would ever hear her
if she needed help. Best to stay in the open with her back to the wall and eyes on
the crowd.
A tall brunette sidled up to Goose. “What can I get you, honey?”
He tilted his Yuengling back, finished it in a gulp, and handed it to her. “Another.
And?”
“A Black and Tan and a shot of Bushmills,” Caitlyn ordered.
“Only Irish we have is Jameson.”
Caitlyn shrugged. She wasn’t planning on drinking it anyway. A shot glass of whiskey
could be an effective distraction or weapon. She might chance the Yuengling if it
came with the bottle top still sealed. “Whatever.”
“My tab,” Goose said. The waitress pouted at that and wove her way back through the
crowd toward the bar.
Both pool tables were in use, but the game in the far corner was winding down. Caitlyn
made her way to the rear wall where she could watch the crowd and be close to the
exit. Plus it was a little quieter here; she could actually hear what the men were
saying.
Too bad they got real quiet real quick when they noticed her. Suspicious stares at
her Reaper lapel pin followed by raised eyebrows aimed at Goose. He said nothing,
but stood close enough to her to make it clear to all she was under his protection.
The thought rankled her, but it was a necessary evil in a place like this. By the
time the waitress returned with their drinks, the pool players had lost interest in
her and finished their game.
“Ladies first.” Goose handed her a cue stick after racking the balls.
Caitlyn set her drinks down, took the cue, and purposefully made a bad break. She
was more interested in having time to watch the room than focusing on the table. Plus,
it would stroke Goose’s ego, showing off for the little lady.
“Too bad. I’ll take stripes.” He bent over the table, aiming his shot, and his hair
fell forward far enough for her to see the outline of a tattoo that began on his neck
and traveled up onto his scalp. A Reaper trademark. Even their prospects got tatts
there, forever sealing their fates alongside the full-fledged club members.
He made his shot and lined up his next. Just as he was pulling his elbow back, she
asked, “Where’s your cut?”
He didn’t react but missed an easy shot. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a Reaper. Shouldn’t you be wearing your cut in here?”
He stood, holding the cue still, and stared at her. Like he couldn’t believe how stupid
she was, challenging him here of all places.
She flicked her lapel, the silver Grim Reaper glinting in the overhead lights. “Maybe
you’re not wearing it because you lost this?”
“Girl’s right.” An older man with gray hair and dark, flat eyes stepped forward. “Mickey,”
he ordered someone without looking at them, “go fetch Goose his cut.”
His own leather vest indicated that he was an original member of the Reapers and president
of the Carolina Mountain Men. “I’m Poppy,” he said genially but without offering his
hand across the pool table. “Looks like I should know you, and yet I don’t.”
Other Reapers began to gather, although her exit route was still open except for one
twenty-something she could deal with, need be. Caitlyn cleared herself more room by
leaning over the table and lining up a shot, angling her stick to move twenty-something
back farther.
“Name’s Caitlyn,” she said after making the shot. “Caitlyn Tierney.”
“Nice to meet you, Caitlyn. Want to tell me what your business here is?”
Suddenly it was all about her and Poppy. Goose had stepped back away from the table,
chalking his cue as if his life depended on it.
Caitlyn abandoned the next shot she’d set up and straightened, looking Poppy right
in the eye. She leaned her cue stick against the table and reached into her pocket,
enjoying the twenty-something Reaper’s flinch as if he thought she was going for a
gun. Not in this crowd, not unless she had to.
She flipped Lena’s photo face up in front of Poppy. “Trying to find this girl. Heard
she came by here a few nights ago.”
Poppy didn’t even bother to look at the photo before flicking it back at her with
a snap of his fingers. Caitlyn re-pocketed it.
“You’re in the wrong place. In case you hadn’t noticed, someone like her would’ve
stood out around here. Just like this gentleman did.”
The crowd behind him parted. Two men hauled a third one forward. One of them held
a gun to his head.
Paul.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lena and Smokey ran into the darkness. She quickly regretted leaving the sleeping
bag behind, but it’d been buried under the fallen plaster and there was no way she
could take the time to dig it out. She had grabbed some of the old newspaper and shoved
it into her socks as insulation. The wind off the mountaintop worked hard to blow
her over, her coat no match for it. And she’d lost her gloves somewhere.
She leaned forward, wrapped her arms around her chest, trying to block the wind and
save as much body heat as possible, and stumbled over the irregular ground. They came
to another cabin. Single-story, cheap wood siding, it appeared identical to the one
she’d been held inside. Unless she’d run full circle? No, the wind had been in her
face the entire time and she hadn’t come that far.