“Well, well, well. Just the two of us. All alone. Whatever shall we do?” Lucky took a step closer, Bo took a step back.
“Follow me,” Bo said, touching a finger to his lips.
Yeah, the hair was different, the beard and moustache were new, but the face and body belonged to Bo. The eyes, though. The same dark brown flecked with
gold stared out from the man’s face, but nothing in them said Bo lived there, or even made regular visits.
Lucky followed Bo’s leather-covered back to the far side of garage, passing a familiar F-150. Through the open door he peeked into the backseat
area at an open panel. Shit! The entire sidewall of truck bed made one huge compartment, complete with a false bottom on the bed itself. No doubt the other
side matched. He spotted several smaller caches as well. He must’ve hauled up one hell of a lot of shit.
Bo slid a panel on the far wall out of the way to expose another door, and keyed in a number sequence on a control panel. The state of the art lock seemed
out of place in the rundown garage. “Here’s what you brought up from Texas,” he said.
“Are you sure we can’t be heard here?”
“Yeah. If Mateo wants to record what’s going on, he takes folks into the office. If he wants to speak privately, he comes out
here.”
Lucky stepped inside a vault. Shelves lined the four walls of a closet-sized space, most of them filled to capacity with cardboard boxes similar to the one
Bo’d brought into the office.
“They’re making the rounds of the clubs tonight with what we brought up last month, but here’s your haul, still untouched.
And plenty more where that came from.” Bo reached a hand into a case and extracted a handful of packets, each filled with gleaming crystalline
powder. “We’re still building our local customer base.”
Lucky took a packet from Bo’s hand. Yep, the same stuff from the SNB conference room. He stuffed the evidence back into the box and added a
transmitter, slipping the device into the corrugation of the cardboard. “Where’s Reyes?” he asked. “And why do you
appear to be running the show?’
“Mateo prefers to stay behind the scenes, trusting me to do the dirty work.” Bo’s formerly manicured nails now sported jagged
edges and showed a rind of black underneath the tips.
Dirty work
might be literal.
Wait.
Mateo
, not
Reyes
. Normally Lucky would scold Bo for getting too close, but in this case, the closer Bo got, the quicker
they’d disband Reyes’ outfit and go home. “Exactly how close are you and Reyes?”
“Closer than I thought I’d be at this point. By the way, how’s Art doing?”
“Well enough to be moved, last I heard, and on his way to Atlanta.”
“Good. Too bad about Jack, but rumor says I took him out to get his job. I never thought being accused of murder would ever win me so much clout
and put me closer to my target.” Bo dropped a bombshell. “It happened fast, but I’ve been promoted to Sergeant at
Arms.”
“Jack?”
Sergeant at Arms?
“The informant, and the last guy to hold the position.” Bo fumbled with a few boxes and lowered his voice. “By the way, I owe
you another birthday spoiling when all this is over. Does the jacket fit? I had to guess the size.”
Last year, Lucky had fought against acknowledging the passing of time. This year, he held his tongue. If Bo owed him a spoiling, he’d have to
stay around long enough for Lucky to collect. “Yeah, just fine. And thanks.” Though the dragon statue from last year’s
birthday had grown on Lucky, he’d get much more use from a jacket, particularly if they did a lot of riding this assignment.
Bo locked up and led Lucky outside. “Did you bring the jacket and your helmet?”
Lucky nodded and trotted over to dig the requested items from the Malibu’s trunk and put them on. Once the sun set, he’d be grateful
for the padded leather’s warmth. Strange how an outlaw biker gang conformed to helmet laws. They’d likely be laughed out of the gang,
though, if arrested for no helmet instead of racing, fighting, drug dealing, or another hardcore pastime.
Bo climbed onto the driver’s seat of the bike like he’d been born there.
“I could drive,” Lucky ventured. Hell, until he saved up enough for a down payment on his own, driving a bike owned by the SNB would
work.
“I’ve got a motorcycle license. You don’t.”
“I do too. Had the thing since I turned twenty.” He’d acquired his first license during one of Victor’s indulgent
moments, and even after losing his bike he’d renewed it for wishful thinking. Though Lucky wouldn’t admit now to having once owned a
Kawasaki.
“Does your license say ‘Getsinger’?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Got it on ya?”
“Well, no, but—”
“It’s my bike.”
“No it’s not.”
Bo grinned, teeth gleaming beneath his open face shield. “Says so on the registration.”
“Ah, come on. Have a heart.” Lucky put all of his acting skills to work on a convincing pout, and apparently fell short. Chances were
cameras watched their every move, but while Reyes might think him an annoying asshole, not knowing the history, he wouldn’t get the subtext.
“You don’t know where we’re going, I do. I don’t let other men ride my bike, no way, no how.”
Lucky pulled out the big guns, mouthing “I’ll blow you.”
Bo answered with an eye roll. “You’d blow me anyway,” he mouthed back.
Well, yeah. Lucky would. “Then I’ll—”
“Ricky?”
“Yeah?”
“Get on this damned bike before I leave your ass.”
Grumbling, Lucky climbed on the passenger seat. Good thing Cyrus’s driving beat Bo’s, because Bo drove like a grandma heading to Sunday
school. Cyrus had better appreciation for speed and the joys of a well-leaned curve.
Before pulling away, Bo popped a CD into the bike’s player. To the strains of Billy Ray Cyrus’
Achy Breaky Heart
, they headed
off into the evening. “They’re playing our song,” Bo said.
Lucky wriggled a hand under Bo’s ass. Hey, he’d insisted on driving.
Chapter 14
They pulled up to a barn in the middle of nowhere. Two men wearing Cruisers’ colors stepped from the shadows to open the doors, allowing Bo to
drive inside. “That stash at Mateo’s—” Bo’s words echoed from the helmet he pulled off over his face.
“Just the tip of the iceberg.”
The doors closed and the lights came on. Holy shit. Boxes sat on shelves as far as the eye could see. Though merely a dilapidated tobacco barn from the
outside, inside the building rivaled many pharmaceutical warehouses Lucky’d been in. “Those guys at the garage are being tested. If
they prove themselves loyal, they move up in the ranks. Feel privileged to be here. Most of the gang would give their eyeteeth for the honor.”
Yeah, Victor had used similar methods for selecting his inner circle.
“She’s loaded and ready to go, boss,” one of the bikers said, a grizzled man with too much gut and too little hair.
“Good. Now, Ricky, you’re about to find out why we hired you.”
They stepped out a back door. A shiny Kenworth sat idling, a trailer hooked up behind. A tractor-trailer? A whole trailer worth of goods? Damn!
“Now you get to drive,” Bo said. “Follow me. And trust me, if we weren’t desperate for a driver who can manage
thirteen gears and a splitter—” Bo cocked an eyebrow at one of their escorts, who flushed and turned away. The guy must have made that
transmission howl with pain. “Anyway, if you couldn’t make this baby go quiet, you wouldn’t be here.”
Lucky climbed into the cab. Listen to those horses run. A shiver raced up his spine. Damn. Nothing like being in the cab of a diesel. He familiarized
himself with the interior, then shifted into gear and rounded the barn to fall in behind Bo. They drove south, down I-85 to Atlanta, and pulled up outside
an apartment complex on the outskirts. Lucky rolled down the window when Bo came alongside. “Get out,” Bo commanded. Lucky turned off
the engine, locked the Kenworth’s doors, and placed the keys in Bo’s outstretched hand.
“Stay here and be quiet.” Bo, or rather, Cy, hopped off the bike and disappeared behind an innocuous looking seven-story building.
Lucky kept his eyes on the side mirror, watching the action without appearing to.
From the garage front to the freelance delivery boys, the main warehouse and even the distribution routes, the whole enterprise reminded Lucky of Victor
Mangiardi setting up a new operation in a small town. Yet Victor was dead and had never dealt with non-pharmaceuticals. Coincidence? Or did everything
illegal simply remind Lucky of Victor?
He sent off a text message to Walter. Somewhere in the department, pinpoints lit a map, tracking the position of the goods. Right now the SNB probably had
enough evidence to bring down a few dozen people, but that wasn’t Walter’s style. He’d mentioned a huge operation and DEA
involvement, but nothing in the intel folder mentioned a warehouse. The team needed to bide their time, let the perpetrators dig in deep, and then swoop
down to round them all up. Inter-agency cooperation also meant time lags to pass the word and get everyone into position, whereas Walter could assemble a
team and have them on site in a matter of hours.
A loud cough brought Lucky out of his musings. A moment later, Bo took his place under the bike’s handlebars. “This was our only
stop,” he said. “Now to go make payroll.”
The crew had already assembled by the time they arrived at the garage, most of the leather-set well on their way to drunk. Bo held court at the head of a
scarred table, tallying up sales. A man Lucky recognized from photos stood at Bo’s back. Ah, the head honcho himself. Though Bo didn’t
flinch when the man’s hand fell to his shoulder, he held himself far more stiffly than normal.
Reyes missed Lucky’s height by an inch or so, but his naturally stocky build more than made up for his lack of stature. Pure evil lurked in the
intelligent eyes that darted this way and that, never missing a single detail, no doubt. Lucky felt those eyes upon him more than once, even if, upon
glancing up, he couldn’t catch the guy in the act. One butt-ugly as hell motherfucker, inside and out. And more mean per inch than Lucky.
A hatchet-like face, complete with a vivid scar across one cheek, marked Reyes as someone who’d seen his fair share of dangerous situations. The
fact he’d lived to see another day indicated he wasn’t a man to take lightly. Coal-black hair, shot through with gray and tied at the
neck, spoke of Spanish ancestry, and his blue eyes and pale skin stood out among the others in the room who boasted Hispanic roots.
Nothing about Mateo Reyes seemed familiar, except for the pinched cruelty of his mouth that brought Stephan Mangiardi to mind. Here was a man
who’d just as soon kill you as look at you. And Bo’d managed to ingratiate himself with a hardened criminal.
Lucky observed Bo with a mixture of pride and concern as he counted out the proceeds of the night’s sales and handed a portion to each man.
Once the errand boys left, Bo said, “Be ready for another trip on Wednesday. When we’re more comfortable with you, we’ll give
you your own route.” He stepped closer to murmur, “Meet me at the bar,” then strode across the garage, Reyes on his heels.
Bo shouldn’t be alone with a suspect, no telling what might happen. “Hurt him and die,” Lucky growled under his breath.
***
Lucky picked at a pile of sweet-potato fries, one of the few items offered after midnight at the bar, trying hard not to stare at the door. He let loose a
heavy breath when the door swung open and Bo strolled in. “Gimme a beer,” Bo called, stepping up to the bar. He chatted with the
barmaid a moment, perusing the surroundings, and did a double-take as if only then noticing Lucky’s presence. He made his excuses and drifted
over to Lucky’s table.
“What you doing out so late?” he asked, folding himself down into a chair across the table.
“Ah, couldn’t sleep,” Lucky replied. “How ‘bout you?”
A slow grin spread across the man’s face. “Taking care of business. I’ll be heading home directly.” He dropped his
voice and added, “Pull your car around back. I’ll be there in a minute.” After stopping by the bar for another chat with the
barmaid, he dropped a few coins into a gaming machine, a study in casual indifference.
Lucky paid his check and wandered out into the night, hiding his car as Bo instructed. He dug the helmet and leather jacket out of the trunk and readied
himself for whatever Bo planned. A few minutes later a quiet
chuk-chuk-chuk
announced the bike’s approach.
Bo pulled to a stop, not saying a word while Lucky crawled on the back of the Road King.
The bike roared into the night, the pipes making sweet music. Somehow the sound seemed purer at night. Now if only a few bills could be rearranged, making
a visit to the local Harley dealership doable once this case ended.
They sped around a curve and out of sight of the bar. Time to relax, though Lucky’s hold on Bo didn’t ease. Any excuse for contact. The
temperature rose a few degrees as they sped down West Broad, past Steak ‘n Shake, KFC, a Pizza Hut/Taco Bell combo, and Checkers restaurants. The
lingering scents of fried chicken, barbeque, and burgers crept under Lucky’s face shield to tease his nose. Soon enough, they left the street
lights of town for the darkness of country, the headlight’s beam providing the only light.
For about twenty minutes they rode, eventually leaving asphalt for a dirt road. “Hang on,” Bo said, “the ride’s
about to get rough.”
Boing, boing, bump, clack!
Damn! Lucky’s teeth clicked together on a bounce over a vicious rut. Dry red clay filled his nostrils. He tightened his hold on Bo and ducked
down closer to anchor them together and use his partner for a windbreak. The juddering evened out onto a smoother path, and the Harley’s
headlights fell on a log cabin that sported a garage. The door rose, and Bo eased the bike inside.
He parked and held the beast still for Lucky to dismount, then shucked his helmet. An overhead light illuminated his smile. “It’s not
much, but it’s home. For now.” He held out his hand for Lucky’s helmet and placed them side by side on a shelf.