Iron Goddess (17 page)

As Shea cruised through the parking lot, one of the prospects charged out of the building and tried to block her way. “Where the hell you going with my bike?”

She swerved around him and pinned the throttle down the hill toward the perimeter fence. The Harley felt sluggish compared to her Iron Goddess bikes.

A Thunderman armed with an AR-15 stood next to the closed gate, talking on his cellphone. He stepped into the middle of the driveway and raised the rifle. “Stop the bike!”

She considered running the gate, but it was too risky on a bike. Frustrated, Shea screeched to a halt inches from the guard, her mind racing.

The guard walked alongside the bike, lowered his rifle, and shined a flashlight in Shea's face. “What the hell you doing?”

“Wendy OD'd. I gotta get her to the hospital.”

The guard shined the light at Wendy. She raised her head. “Please, Hooch,” she said in her most pitiful voice. “I don't feel so good.”

“You can't take her to the hospital on the back of a bike. She could fall off,” said Hooch. “Let me have Razor bring a car around.”

“We ain't got time. She's having trouble breathing. Open the damned gate,” said Shea through gritted teeth.

Hooch glanced up the hill at the Church, then back at Shea. “Oh all right, but I better not get in no trouble for this.” He unlatched the gate and rolled it open.

Shea roared through the gears driving south and caught the highway to Ironwood. Wendy held on tightly to Shea's battered chest, making it hard to breathe. Not that Shea blamed her. The bike didn't have a sissy bar to act as a backrest. One hard bump and Wendy could go flying off the back.

When they reached the outskirts of Ironwood, traffic grew heavy. Central Arizona University students, having arrived from all over the country for the upcoming semester, were enjoying a late Saturday night on the town. Cars with out-of-state license plates clogged Ironwood's Downtown Square. Music poured out of bars, restaurants, and open car windows on Prospector Avenue, the square's main drag. Shea crept along, anxious to get past the rolling roadblock. The aromas of burgers, fried foods, and ethnic cuisine hung thick in the air, tantalizing her stomach.

“We gonna make it in time?” asked Wendy.

The digital clock on the motorcycle's dash read 11:47
P.M.
“Not at this rate. Hold on.”

Shea swerved, splitting the narrow southbound lanes. Horns blared while she whizzed between the cars, accelerating through an intersection as the light turned red.

Past the square, traffic thinned out. They pressed on, following the directions to Ironwood's south-side barrio, the less affluent side of the city. The recession had left a lot of businesses and homes in the barrio empty, either reclaimed by banks or simply abandoned. Streets were dark and littered with trash from the day's monsoon.

Shea's pulse quickened. The barrio was the heart of Jaguar territory. Riding a loud, throaty Harley with the Johnny Reb painted on the tank made Shea feel like a sitting duck every time she stopped at a light.

The directions led them to a dilapidated house on Washington Street. Shea pulled up to the house and killed the engine. There wasn't a vehicle anywhere on the block. Most of the streetlights were out.

“Where is everybody?” Wendy asked.

“Something's wrong.” Shea drew her Glock and stepped off the bike. “Let's go inside.”

“What if the kidnapper shows up? We ain't got the ransom.”

“We'll have to wing it. I don't like hanging out here exposed.”

As they walked up the house's broken driveway, something white on the concrete walkway by the door caught her attention. Shea used Oscar's phone for a flashlight and picked up an envelope with the word
Che
written on the outside. It was empty.

“The kidnapper must have changed the drop location.” Shea balled up the envelope and tossed it on the ground. “We got no clue where we're supposed to be. Fucking Hunter!” She pounded the front door a few times.

“I got an idea.” Wendy reached out her hand. “Give me the phone.”

“Why? There ain't no message or anything.”

“Gimme the damn phone, Shea.”

Shea complied. Wendy tapped away at the screen.

“What are you doing?” Shea looked over her shoulder.

“A few months ago, I put an app on Hunter's phone. It links to his GPS and tells me where he is. If I can load the tracking app onto this phone, I can log in and get his location.”

“You're spying on your old man?” Shea smirked.
Girl had gumption after all.

“I got tired of not knowing where he was.”

“Didn't he wonder about the strange app on his phone?”

“Naw, the app doesn't show up on his screen.” Wendy continued typing on the phone. “There! Found him.”

A map revealed Hunter was four blocks east and one block south.

“Way to go.” Shea rubbed the top of Wendy's helmet. “Let's go join the party.”

They cruised along past dark houses and parked a couple of streets from where the app said Hunter was. Shea drew her Glock. Wendy set the helmet on the bike's seat and turned on the phone's flashlight app.

“Turn it off,” snapped Shea. “They'll see it.”

“You had yours on earlier.”

“Just do what I tell ya for once.”

“How we supposed to see where we're going?”

“Follow me.”

The moonlight provided enough light for Shea to navigate between two houses. When they came to a chain-link fence, Wendy started to climb.

Shea grabbed the back of Wendy's shirt. “Hold up. How you know there ain't a dog in there?” The thought gave Shea a prickling sensation in her scarred facial muscles.

“Does it look like anyone lives on this street?”

Shadows in the fenced-off yard shifted back and forth, swallowing up the moonlight. Tall weeds surrounded an in-ground pool.

Was something moving in there among the weeds or was it the wind?
Her hand trembled while it gripped the wire fence. “All right. Let's go.”

Shea followed Wendy over the fence and into the yard's chest-high weeds. If anything lurked in there, it'd be on them before they knew to run.

Movement near the pool caught Shea's eye. She drew the Glock and zeroed in on a doglike shape. It raised its head, its eyes reflecting like glowing coals. Shea fired a shot. The creature retreated into the brush and scaled the fence in a single bound.

“Geez, Shea, it's just a fucking coyote.”

Shea pushed back against the wave of panic that gripped her chest. “Sorry.”

“And you think
I'm
a screwup.”

On the other side, a six-foot-high cement block wall ran the length of the yard.

Wendy slapped the wall. “Now what?”

“Up and over.” Channeling her fear into motion, Shea leapt up and got an elbow over the top. She threw a leg up, which sent lightning bolts of pain as the road rash rubbed the inside of her pants. She gritted her teeth and forced herself into a sitting position atop the wall. From her vantage point, she had a good view of the next street, where the Thundermen's bikes were parked.

“How'd you do that?”

Shea chuckled. “Ten years of wrestling motorcycle engines—that and a strong desire not to be in that yard anymore. Gimme your hand. I'll pull you up.”

On the other side of the wall, they crept past the parked motorcycles. The engines
tink-tinked
as they cooled. Shea walked along a row of bushes beside a house on the other side of the street. The ratcheting action of several guns being cocked brought them to a halt. Shea raised her hands.

“Who the hell are you?” asked a voice she recognized as Hunter's.

“It's me,” said Wendy. “And Shea.”

“Aw fuck, what the hell are y'all doing here? I told ya to stay at the Church.”

“I know how much fun you boys have playing with each other,” Shea said. “But the situation needed a little girl power.”

“Goddammit, you really know how to piss me off, don't ya? I'm guessing that gunshot was you.”

“Deal with it, asshole. Where's the new drop point and where's the money?”

He pointed to a house on the next street over. “The house over there with the lights on. I got a guy inside with the money.”

Shea started to stroll toward the house. Hunter grabbed her and pulled her back. “Where the hell you think you're going, bitch?”

“The kidnapper told me to make the drop.”

“Forget it. My guy's already in place. We wait.”

“Hey, Hunter…” A voice squawked on a walkie-talkie Hunter had on him.

“Yeah, Goatsy?”

“You should see this. Someone put metal plating along all the walls. Even the front door's reinforced. This place is like a fucking bunker.”

“Shit, it's a setup. Get outta there.”

“What about the money?” asked Goatsy.

“Bring the goddamn money.”

A car turned the corner onto the street and stopped in front of the drop house. The Cortes County Sheriff's Office logo glimmered in the moonlight.

“Hold up, Goatsy. A cop just pulled up in front of the house.”

“Roger that.”

The interior light in the police cruiser lit up. Shea couldn't make out the driver's face. The door opened and a man in a suit climbed out of the driver's seat. The profile revealed the cop was Willie. Shea and the others ducked down further into the shadows, while Willie scanned the area. He pulled a large duffel bag from the backseat, drew his sidearm, and walked into the drop house.

“Holy shit,” said Shea. “What the hell's Willie doing here?”

“Did you call the fucking cops?” Hunter glared at Shea in the dim light.

“Not me. Maybe he's working with the kidnapper.”
And maybe he's also the one fencing the Pink Trinket bikes,
she thought.

“You think Annie's in the bag he's carrying?” Wendy's voice trembled.

“Too small,” said Hunter. “If she's here, she's probably in the car.”

“Looked like someone was in the front passenger seat before the inside light went out, but Willie blocked my view.” Shea's body tensed, as if she were watching the timer of a bomb count down the last few seconds. “What do we do now?”

“Shut your trap, that's what. Whatever happens don't nobody shoot the damn car, in case Annie's in there,” said Hunter.

The lights inside the house went dark. A gun fired.

“What the hell?” Shea chambered a round on the Glock.

“Goatsy, what's happening?” asked Hunter into the walkie-talkie.

“I should have known you bikers would screw things up.”

“It's Sergeant Willie Foster,” muttered Shea.

“Where the hell's my daughter, you fucking pig?” asked Hunter.

“She's nearby and in much better shape than your boy in here. I'm afraid he isn't going to make it.”

Jimbo, the bartender from the Church, stood up.

“Get back down,” Hunter whisper-shouted.

“Like hell. That's my brother in there.” Jimbo hustled toward the house and reached the edge of the driveway when another gunshot sounded. Jimbo fell, screaming.

The air exploded with sound as the Thundermen returned fire. Muzzle flashes flickered like a strobe light inside the house.

Shea pushed Wendy to the ground. For a solid minute, the earth shook with the thunder of open warfare. Shea's ears were ringing when it stopped. The odor of spent gunpowder made her nose twitch.

“Gordo, go check it out.” Hunter's voice sounded dull and distant.

A Thunderman with a big head of thick, curly hair sprinted behind the cruiser. No response from inside the house. When he stepped away from the car, a shot from the house dropped him. Another volley of bullets rang out from both sides. The car's two front windows shattered.

Shea caught a glimpse of movement inside the front seat of the police cruiser.

Annie,
she thought. It had to be.

Shots continued to ring out while Thundermen converged on the house, ducking behind planters, telephone poles, and anything else that would serve as cover. Wendy and Shea remained on the ground behind a bush.

“I think I see Annie in the car,” Shea said. “You stay here. I'll go get her.”

“She's my daughter. I'm coming with you.”

A gunshot ricocheted off a rock a foot from Wendy's head. She shrank back, covering her head with her arms.

“Just stay here. Don't need you getting your head blown off by this fucking cop.”

With her Glock in hand, Shea sprinted to the cruiser and crouched down with her back against the rear door. “Annie? You in there? It's your aunt Shea.”

Shea heard a muffled moan, followed by a thump.

Shea took a breath, leaned over the windowsill, and peeked inside. A shot rang out from the house. She ducked down too quickly to make out any detail in the dark, but someone was hunkered down in the front seat. She hoped it was Annie and that she was alive.

Shea pulled on the handle of the front door and found it unlocked. She threw the door open wide and the interior dome light went on. When she looked inside, a beefy Latino rose up from the passenger seat and pounced on her chest like a cougar, knocking the Glock from her hand.

“
¡Puta!
You shoulda followed my rules,” he growled in a familiar accented voice as he pinned her to the pavement. A large knife in his hand flashed in the moonlight.

Shea grabbed his arms, desperate to keep the knife from plunging into her chest. Inch by inch, the tip of the blade pushed closer. The inked jaguar on his arm looked hungry for her blood. She pushed with the last of her strength, but couldn't stop the blade from creeping toward her. “Nooooo…”

The kidnapper's body shuddered when two gunshots thundered a few feet away. The knife clattered to the ground. He gripped his chest, face tight with anguish, and fell onto his side. Shea raised herself up on her elbows. Wendy knelt in front of her holding the Glock.

“Oh thank God,” said Shea.

“You okay?”

Shea sat up and took the gun from her. “I thought I told you to wait across the street.”

“You think I should've let him kill you?”

“No. Thanks for that.”

“Was it him? Was he the one who took Annie?”

“Yeah, it was him.”

Shea pulled on the back door handle. It was locked. She stuck her head up to look into the backseat. The back windows exploded in a shower of tempered glass and she ducked back down, gasping for breath. She fired a couple of shots at the house, then rose up again and glanced into the backseat. It was empty. “Fuck.”

“What's wrong?” asked Wendy.

“She's not in there.”

“I thought you told him to bring Annie.”

“Guess he doesn't follow directions either.”

“Where can she be? Oh God, you don't think they…”

“Don't say it. I'm sure she's alive. Just gotta figure this out.” The ringing in her ears and the hammering of her heart made it hard to concentrate. “Wait.”

Shea pressed her hand flat against the car's rear fender and felt a pounding. “Someone's in the trunk.”

“Annie?” Wendy's eyes grew wide and hopeful.

Shea crouched behind the rear of the vehicle. Occasionally a bullet
thunk
ed into the car. She wondered how bulletproof the cruiser was until a round ripped through the back door inches from her face, leaving a hole the size of a grapefruit in the fender. “Fuck!”

She fought the urge to run for better cover. “Annie? Is that you? Are you in the trunk?” Shea yelled.

A muffled cry, followed by a couple of thuds—definitely in the trunk. It had to be her. Staying low, Shea slunk into the cruiser, looking for a trunk release.

A gunshot shattered the windshield. She lay pressed against the seat, jaw clenched, waiting for the shot that would kill her. After a moment of silence, she turned and spotted the release. She pulled it, but nothing happened. “Shit.”

“What's going on?” Wendy whispered.

“Trunk won't open.”

“Are the keys in there?”

Shea looked up at the steering column. “Yeah. They're in the ignition.”

“Car might need to be on for the trunk release to work.”

Shea rolled her eyes, kicking herself for not realizing the obvious. “We'll have to move fast. You ready?”

“Just do it already.”

Police sirens wailed in the distance. Either Willie had called for backup or someone had called 911 to report gunfire.

Shea turned the key. Three shots from the house were followed by a volley of gunfire from the Thundermen. She pulled the release lever and was rewarded with a satisfying thunk of the trunk lid popping up. She scrambled out of the cruiser, past Wendy, and toward the outside of the trunk.
It's now or never.

Shea took a deep breath, stood up, and fired four rounds into the house. Several Thundermen joined her in the volley. While they continued to fire, she ducked under the trunk lid. Inside lay a young girl with short, curly dark hair, wrapped with a large bandage on one side of her head. Duct tape covered her mouth and bound her hands and feet. Shea lifted her out of the trunk and pulled her back behind the car.

She drew her knife and cut the duct tape from Annie's hands and feet. The girl screamed when Shea ripped the tape off her mouth. “Mommy!”

Wendy wrapped her arms around Annie, both of them sobbing.

“I don't mean to cut short your reunion, but we gotta get outta here.”

Wendy wiped her eyes and nodded. “I'm just so happy.”

“Okay, when I say go, run for cover behind the building across the street. Got it?”

“Why don't we take the police car?”

“You smell that? Gasoline. Motherfucker musta hit the tank. Our best bet is to run for it. When I say go, you two run back the way we came while I provide cover. You ready?”

Wendy nodded, clinging to Annie.

“Go!” Shea stood up again, firing another four rounds into the house, then turned to follow them.

Motorcycles rumbled in the distance as they ran, while police cruisers came speeding down the street. They had nearly made it to the house across the street when another shot rang out. Wendy fell to the ground.

“Get up!” Shea pulled at her sister's limp body. “We're almost there.”

Wendy didn't move. Annie grabbed at her. “Mommy! Please, Mommy, get up.”

The ground around Wendy's head was wet with a dark liquid. Shea turned her over and half her face was missing. A bloodcurdling scream erupted from Annie. “No! Mommy!”

Shea's throat filled with bile as grief, anger, and confusion overwhelmed her.
This can't be happening.
Not after all of this.
Annie clung to her mother, both of them covered in blood. Shea gasped for air, wrestling with her emotions.
Got to save Annie.

Shea lifted Annie up. “You gotta let her go!”

“No! Mommy!” She clung to Wendy's hand.

Shea shared Annie's reluctance to leave. She shouldn't abandon her sister's body on the street in that run-down neighborhood. No one should have to suffer that indignity. But the street was filling up with sheriff's deputies, and Willie had a warrant out for her arrest.

Shea wrapped her arm around Annie's middle and pulled her away screaming from her mother.