Iron Goddess (4 page)

As Terrance drove them back to Iron Goddess, Shea replayed their confrontation with Oscar in her head.
Was he telling the truth?
Maybe it
was
the Confederate Thunder who'd broken in and shot Derek.
But Oscar was hiding something; she could feel it.

“Do the Jaguars have a clubhouse somewhere?” she asked.

Terrance stared at the road ahead without glancing at her. “Give it a rest.”

“Dude, we gotta figure out who shot Derek and teach 'em a lesson.”

“No,
we
don't. I'm not throwing away everything I've worked for over this. Let the cops handle it.”

“This guy Oscar shook you up, didn't he? I'm sorry he found out you're trans.”

He pounded the steering wheel so hard she thought it would break. “I don't give a damn what Oscar thinks about me being trans.”

“Then what're you so pissed about?”

“You, Shea! I didn't want to go there in the first place, and then you pull a gun? In a restaurant?” He whacked the steering wheel again. “What were you thinking?”

“You're overreacting, seriously.”

“Goddammit, you pulled a gun! They could throw us back in prison for that. You have any idea what a fucking nightmare that was for me?”

“It wasn't no picnic for me either, and I did twice the time you did.”

“Not the same. Trans people
die
in prison. Everyone wants to fuck with you.”

She hadn't thought about that. “Look, man, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be fucking sorry, Shea. Sorry won't keep my black ass out of prison when you do something stupid. And this time it won't be women's prison. I'm legally male now, so they'll send me to men's lockup. How you think that'll play out?”

“All right, I'm sor—I mean, I get it. I'll let the cops handle it. Okay?”

Terrance grunted.

“Come on. At least look at me!”

“I'm driving.”

She pulled out her Zippo and started flicking it. Terrance grabbed it from her hand and threw it out the window.

“Hey, Lenny gave me that.”

He didn't say anything.

“Damn, T. You seriously need to get laid.”

Terrance parked the truck behind Iron Goddess. He hadn't said another word the rest of the way back. Shea followed him through the shop's back door, still marked with pieces of the crime scene sticker from that morning.

The workshop looked as it had before the robbery. Tool chests and other equipment were all where they should be. A few bikes were on lifts in various stages of assembly. Switch and Lakota were wiring up a large cruiser.

Terrance stomped through the workshop to the office, slamming the door behind him.

“How'd it go at your business meeting?” asked Lakota. A grease smudge marked her cheek.

Shea shook her head and scowled. Lakota shrugged and returned to her work.

Shea walked past the office to the showroom. Monica stood with a clipboard taking inventory of what remained on the shelves.

The showroom looked as empty as before, but Monica had cleared the floor of debris and put the remaining merchandise back where it belonged.

“Was that Terrance slamming the office door?” asked Monica.

“Yeah, he and I are havin' a disagreement.”

“So he slams the office door? Guess I don't need to ask how your meeting went.”

Shea smirked. “How's the inventory coming?”

“Just finishing up.” Monica flipped to the front page of her list. “Looks like the thieves got nine production bikes, the three Pink Trinket customs, twenty-two helmets, four GoPro cameras, a couple intercom sets, seventeen pairs of boots, and twenty jackets. Not including the Trink bikes, wholesale cost for the stolen inventory comes to 160 grand.”

“Fuck.” Shea ran a hand through her hair.

“Any news on who mighta done this?”

“An old acquaintance of mine thinks the Jaguars did it.”

“Oh shit. The Jags?” Monica dropped her pen as her eyes widened with fear. “Is that what Terrance is pissed off about?”

“Terrance and me met with a Jaguar he used to know. Things got a little heated.”

“Please tell me you're kidding.”

“Don't worry about it, Mon. It's no big deal.” Shea grabbed the inventory list from her and pretended to look through it.

“No big deal? Those psychos killed my cousins. You didn't do anything to piss that guy off did you?”

“I gotta call the insurance company.” Shea walked away.

Monica trailed her. “Oh shit! You did, didn't you? That's why Terrance is all pissed off. I'm right, aren't I?”

“Isn't it time for your break?”

A loud crash from the office startled them both. “What the hell was that?” Monica asked.

“Sounded like Terrance's desk chair hitting the wall.”

Terrance stood in the far corner of the office with his arms crossed, glaring at the floor.

“My purse is in there. How can I go on break with Terrance throwing shit around?”

Shea handed Monica a twenty. “Grab a bite to eat next door. He should be cooled off by the time you get back.”

Monica strolled to the front door, the silver bell tinkling as she opened it. “Hey, Shea?”

“Yeah?”

“I hope Derek makes it.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

At the sales counter, Shea thumbed through the inventory list. The thieves had gone after the more high-end gear, ignoring the cheap stuff.
Clearly someone who knows motorcycle gear.
A few Thundermen did, on occasion, buy oil or the odd motorcycle part from Iron Goddess. She'd never gotten the impression they were casing the place.

The MC made most of their illegal money selling crystal meth.
Have they added burglary to their list of ways to earn?
It was worth checking out. She just had to do it without ruffling any feathers. If her sister really had married the Confederate Thunder's current president, she might know whether they had hit Iron Goddess.

Her jaw clenched thinking of Wendy and the way she had betrayed Mama's memory. The idea of calling her made Shea sick. But Derek deserved justice and she needed to get the Pink Trinkets' bikes back. Seventeen years had passed since they'd seen each other. Who knew if Wendy would even talk to her?

With no other leads, Shea picked up the phone to call Willie.

“Cortes County Sheriff's Office, Sergeant William Foster speaking.”

“Willie, it's Shea. You got Wendy's number?”

“I thought you didn't want nothing to do with her.”

“Yeah, well, you got me thinking. Maybe it's time she and I patched things up. She's the only family I got left, after all.”

“Well, her and your father.”

Her body tensed. “Please don't mention that son of a bitch.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Listen, I'm not supposed to give information to civilians. This is the Sheriff's Office, not directory assistance. You try looking Wendy up on the Web?”

“Willie, be a pal and look it up on your computer. She's my sister, for chrissakes! I ain't stalking her or nothin'.”

Computer keys clicked on Willie's end. “She might not have a number in our system, unless she's got a record.”

“She's married to the president of the Confederate Thunder. She's bound to have been picked up for something. Speeding, shoplifting…”

“Grand theft auto,” he added.

Shea rolled her eyes. “You're hilarious.”

“Just kidding. She's in here, but nothing as exciting as your rap sheet.”

“Dammit, does she have a phone number in there or not?”

“Yes, she does.” He gave her the number.

“What's on her rap sheet?”
How had Wendy turned out after a lifetime with the club,
she wondered.

“Domestic disturbance. Guess her husband used her face for a punching bag a time or two. I shouldn't be telling you this.”

“Domestic disturbance, huh? Imagine that—history does repeat itself.” Shea almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

“You can't tell her I told you. I could lose my badge.”

“Yeah, yeah. I won't. Thanks for your help, Willie.”

“Hope the two of you can mend fences.”

“We'll see.”

Before she hung up, he interjected, “Oh, Shea! You wouldn't know anything about a disturbance at Tres Olivos, would you?”

Shit.
“Tres Olivos?”

“Mexican restaurant up in Ironwood.”

“Haven't heard a thing.”

“Uh-huh. I got a report about a white female and a black male causing a ruckus there a little bit ago. Place is connected with the Jaguars street gang. The Sheriff's Office may not be the only ones looking for these two troublemakers, if you get my drift.”

“I get your drift.”

“I'll find out who shot Derek. I don't need you doing my job for me.”

“Good to know you're on the case. Later, Willie.” She hung up.

As Shea stared at the paper with Wendy's number on it, her heart pounded in her chest so hard her vision blurred. There was a whole lot of shit from her childhood she didn't want to remember. Reconnecting with Wendy could bring back a flood of painful memories. And she still couldn't forgive her sister for her last betrayal.

The office door opened. Terrance clomped through the showroom. He always seemed bigger when he was angry.

“Yo, T, I'm sorry for earlier.”

He was her Jiminy Cricket, steering her away from her fondness for trouble. His anger intensified her loneliness.

He paused a moment, staring at her with a blank face until the front door jingled.

Monica walked in. “Hey, Terrance! Feeling better?”

He smiled at her. “A bit.” He left without another glance at Shea.
Clearly I'm still on his shit list,
she thought.

“Good to see Terrance has cooled off,” said Monica.

“Uh-huh.” Time to see what Terrance had destroyed.

In the office, a dent the size of a fist now decorated the wall. One of the casters from Terrance's chair occupied a corner of the floor. The chair itself sat cockeyed behind his desk. No other obvious damage.

She sat in her chair, the Glock in her waistband pressing against her spine.
Don't need that sticking in my back while I'm dealing with this crap.
Shea pulled it out and locked it in her desk drawer.

Her fingers drummed on the wooden surface as her sister's phone number stared back at her.
This is ridiculous
. She could race her bike through twisties at breakneck speed, play bumper cars with semis on the highway, and go toe-to-toe with a Mexican gangbanger, but calling her own sister scared her shitless.
What the fuck is wrong with me?

She forced her fingers to dial the number, the phone trembling next to her ear.

It rang four times before a voice that sounded like Mama said, “Hi, you've reached Wendy. Leave a message.”

Her mouth felt like flypaper. After an awkward pause, she said, “Wendy, it's Shea. I…I need to talk to you.” She left her number and hung up.

A wave of nausea pulled at her stomach. Shea forced herself to take slow, deep breaths, but it worsened until she dry-heaved over the plastic trash can by her desk.

After a few minutes, her stomach settled. At least she'd left a message. Now there was nothing left to do but wait for Wendy to call her back.

Two hours later, Terrance remained holed up in the office ordering replacement merchandise, still refusing to talk to Shea. Monica was rearranging what inventory remained, so the showroom wouldn't look like Iron Goddess was in the final days of a going-out-of-business sale.

The glass guy hadn't shown up to repair the front door. No response from Wendy either. Shea was relieved, in part. She didn't want Wendy back in her life. Unfortunately, Wendy was Shea's only way to know whether the Confederate Thunder had shot Derek and robbed Iron Goddess.

In the workshop, Shea assisted Switch and Lakota, who were installing the fuel injection module Switch had repaired earlier. Switch seemed back to her usual, stable self. Shea hoped she stayed that way.

“Did I hear you leave a voicemail for your sister?” asked Lakota.

“Can't a girl have some privacy around here?” Shea unhooked the battery, while Switch secured the module.

Lakota laughed. “Office has thin walls, remember? How long since you saw her last?”

“Seventeen years.”

“Screw.” Switch held out her hand, oblivious to the conversation. Lakota fed her the screws, one by one, as requested.

“Seventeen years, huh? I can't imagine. I go more than a couple months without seeing my brothers and sisters, I get crazy homesick.”

“After my mama got killed, I was afraid I'd end up like her. Or worse, like…like my father.” The screwdriver trembled in her white-knuckled grip. “I needed space.”

“Seventeen years is a lotta space.”

“Yeah, well…” Shea reattached the battery once the module was in place.

Switch turned the key and pressed the starter. The bike rumbled to life. “It works.” She looked at the others, beaming.

A vehicle squealed to a stop in the rear lot and honked its horn. A trim man in blue and white coveralls walked in the back door, pushing a dolly loaded with cardboard boxes. Shea flagged him down.

“How's it going?” The delivery guy handed her a tablet and a stylus.

“Been better.” Shea recognized the shipment as helmets, jackets, and boots they had ordered the week before. “This helps.” She signed the tablet with the stylus, then handed it back to him.

He unloaded the dolly and gave her a wave. “Hang in there.”

Shea loaded the boxes onto one of the shop's dollies. “I'll be in the showroom if you need me.” She backed through the door and down the hall. She knew Terrance would be pissed if she put the new stock on the shelves without first entering it into the system. She didn't care. The showroom was as bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard. They could enter the new merchandise later using the enclosed inventory list.

The bell on the front door jingled. Shea looked up hoping the glass guy had arrived, but it wasn't him. A thin woman with stringy red hair ducked behind the plywood, as if hiding from someone.

“Can I help you?” Last thing she needed was a crazy woman wreaking more havoc at Iron Goddess.

The woman turned around. Shea froze. The newcomer looked thirty with hard years under her belt. Her clothes hung off her frame like a painter's drop cloth. Shea stared at Mama back from the dead.

“Shealene, please help me!”

The voice was her mother's. How was this possible?
Am I going crazy?

“It's me, Shea. Wendy!”

Shea's eyes widened. The last time she'd seen her baby sister was when the county sent her to live with Monster, her godfather and a member of the MC. Wendy had been a chubby seven-year-old back then. “Wendy? What are you doing here? I just wanted you to call me back.”

Outside the roar of multiple bikes with unbaffled pipes shook the windows then stopped. Wendy glanced outside again. “Oh shit! Don't tell Hunter I'm here.” She rushed past Shea toward the restrooms.

Three guys walked in wearing leather cuts with Confederate Thunder three-part patches. One of them, a bald-headed man with a scruffy, braided chestnut beard stood by the front counter and pointed toward the restrooms. “Mackey, check down there.”

Mackey, a stout guy with the face of a weasel, nodded and sprinted toward the restrooms. A Confederate stars-and-bars bandana circled his blond, greasy, shoulder-length hair.

“One-Shot, go 'round outside, make sure she don't sneak out the back.”

“Roger that.” One-Shot stood six-foot-something with a military-style crew cut. He ran back out the front door and around the building.

“I don't know what you boys want, but you're gonna have to leave.” Shea approached the bald-headed man. The patches on his vest identified him as the president of the MC. No doubt this was Hunter, Wendy's old man.

“Mind your own business, bitch.” Hunter tried to push her aside, but she caught his hand and twisted it around in an arm lock. He let loose a sharp squeal.

“This
is
my business, dirtbag!” She tightened the arm lock a pinch to drive home the point. “And in case you didn't see the sign on your way in, I don't allow club colors in my shop.”

A scuffle erupted across the room. “Let me go, you asshole!” Wendy screeched as Mackey dragged her by the hair from the ladies' room.

Shea flipped Hunter around to face Mackey and her sister. A Beretta M9 protruded from Hunter's waistband. She considered reaching for it, but doing so meant releasing the arm lock. She opted to hold tight for the moment.

Mackey held Wendy with a tight grip on her hair, right at the scalp. Her face twisted in pain as she fell to her knees, her arms flailing.

“Let 'er go, or I rip your buddy's arm off,” Shea yelled.
No one treats women like that in my shop,
she thought,
not even my good-for-nothing sister
.

“You stupid bitch,” grunted Hunter. “You're good as dead.”

Mackey pulled a snub-nosed revolver and squeezed off a couple of rounds in her direction. The deafening gunshots reverberated through the empty shop. Both bullets punched through the plywood on the door behind her.

Shea ducked down, using Hunter as a shield, and grabbed the Beretta. Hunter wheeled around to punch her until he saw the gun pointed at his head.

“Call off your dog.” She stood up, keeping Hunter between her and Mackey.

Hunter glared until Shea flicked off the safety. “Mackey, hold your fire,” he said.

Rather than dropping the revolver, Mackey pressed it against Wendy's temple, still holding her by her hair.
This guy is getting on my nerves,
Shea thought.

From the garage came a loud crash followed by shouting. It sounded like Lakota, Switch, and the other Thunderman.

“What the hell was that?” asked Hunter.

“If I had to guess, I'd say that was Switch.” Shea pulled back the hammer on the Beretta. “Tell your buddy to put his gun on the floor and let Wendy go.”

“Soon as she tells me where she took my little girl.”

“Go fuck yourself, Hunter.” Wendy's face flushed dark red. “I ain't telling you shit.”

Mackey cracked her on the head with the revolver, dropping her to the floor, then pulled her back up again by her hair.

“You fuck!” Shea pointed the Beretta at Mackey but held her fire. Switch burst in shrieking like a bird of prey and knocked the revolver out of Mackey's hand with an exhaust pipe. Before he could recover, she swung again hitting him in the head. Mackey dropped like a fifty-pound sack of rice. Wendy recoiled against the wall and curled up into a ball.

Switch continued pounding him until Terrance ran up and took the exhaust pipe out of her hands. Lakota wrapped Switch in a bear hug, whispering in her ear until she settled down.

“Nice timing, guys,” Shea said, enjoying the unsettled expression on Hunter's face.

“Got the other punk out back wrapped up with duct tape,” said Terrance.

“This ain't over, you ugly bitch,” said Hunter. “I got a right to see my little girl. Ain't nothing you or your overgrown monkey here can do to stop me.”

Shea smacked Hunter in the face with the Beretta. A line of blood dripped onto his shirt.

“Listen, you redneck piece of shit.” She put the gun to his forehead. “This ain't family court. We don't settle custody issues here. So unless you want me to pull the trigger, I'd suggest you leave and not come back. That goes for all the Thundermen. You got that?”

Hunter glanced at Terrance, then back at Shea, wiping blood from his nose. “I got it.”

“One more thing—which of you rednecks broke in here last night?” She wasn't sure they had, but wanted to see how he reacted.

A sneer twisted onto Hunter's face. “What're ya talking about? Why would we wanna break into this dump?”

“Let's see. Scumbags broke into my shop. The Thundermen are scumbags who're always looking for a quick buck. You do the math.”

“We were in Bradshaw City all night.”

“Oh yeah? Doing what?”

“None of your goddamned business.”

“You lying to me?”

In spite of the gun in his face, he smiled. “Guess you'll either have to take my word for it or shoot me.”

She kneed him in the crotch. “Get out of my shop.”

He doubled over in pain. “Bitch, you're gonna pay for that.” He limped over to where Mackey lay on the floor and nudged him with his foot. “Get the fuck up. We're leaving.”

Mackey groaned and struggled to his feet, massaging a lump on the back of his head.

Hunter turned back to Shea. “Where's One-Shot?”

“Terrance, drag that other guy up front. And don't be gentle about it.”

“Will do.” Terrance disappeared into the workshop.

She ushered Hunter and Mackey through the front door. One-Shot showed up a moment later, with Terrance on his heels.

One-Shot pulled at the duct tape on his mouth with a great deal of wincing.

“Let me get that for you, son.” Terrance ripped the tape off One-Shot's face, leaving an angry welt.

One-Shot grabbed the side of his face. “Motherfucker!”

Terrance pulled him to his feet and pushed him toward Hunter and Mackey.

Shea pointed the Beretta at their bikes. “Now get the fuck outta here. Next person I see here wearing Thunderman colors gets two in the chest.”

Hunter grinned. “Well, ain't you Daddy's little girl.”

It took every ounce of restraint she possessed not to shoot him.

The three men started their Harleys in a deep rumble that echoed off the building. As they backed away from the curb, Hunter held up his hand in a gun shape pointed at Shea. She pointed his Beretta back at him.

Mrs. Brooks, the owner of the Kokopelli Café, came running out, looking alarmed. “Did I hear gunfire?”

Shea slipped the Beretta into her waistband, covering it with her shirt. “Naw, Mrs. Brooks,” she said with her most innocent smile. “One of the bikes in the workshop backfired a couple of times. Sorry to bother you.”

Mrs. Brooks didn't look convinced, but went back into the café.