Iron Goddess (8 page)

Shea pulled into the diner's crowded parking lot. The aluminum skin of the building gleamed like an oversized Airstream. Near the entrance, a Harley Fat Boy and a Road King sat parked next to a Ford Bronco. All three sported the skull and Confederate battle flag—nicknamed the Johnny Reb—that served as the club's logo. Shea resisted the urge to spit on the Road King's seat as they walked past to the front door.

Inside, plates and glasses clinked over a hum of conversation. Most of the tables were filled for the breakfast rush. Waitresses in yellow and orange outfits, armed with pots of coffee and trays of food, glided through the aisles like ballerinas.

Hunter sat in a large round booth in the corner.

“Over there.” Shea nudged Wendy in his direction and followed behind her.

Hunter looked up from his steak and eggs. “Well if it ain't my prodigal wife and her sister, Scarface.”

“Nice to see you, too, asshole.” Shea approached the table.

A heavy hand gripped her shoulder. She turned around to see One-Shot looming over her. According to the patches on the front of his cut, he was the club's VP. Mackey, the club's sergeant-at-arms, stood next to him. The place felt way too crowded. Shea wondered if Hunter might be looking for payback.

“After you.” She tried to step away to let Mackey and One-Shot go first, hoping not to get boxed into the booth between them and Hunter.

“Ladies first,” said Mackey with a crooked smile. He pushed Shea and Wendy onto the seat and slid in after them. The side of his face was purple and swollen from where Switch had walloped him with the tailpipe.

One-Shot took a seat on the other side of Hunter.

Shea hooked a thumb at Mackey. “What're Tweedledum and Tweedledee doing here, Hunter? I thought it'd be just the three of us.”

Hunter smirked at her. “You thought wrong. Where the fuck's my gun?” He stuffed a piece of steak into his mouth, chewing so everyone could see the show. He cut up a piece and offered it to Wendy. She took a sniff and scrunched up her nose at it.

“Talk to Sheriff Buzzkill. One of his deputies took it when Annie's babysitter got killed. I reckon they're running ballistic tests to see if it matches the murder weapon.”

Hunter growled. “Stupid bitch, you don't know the shitstorm you stirred up.”

“Forget the gun. Let's talk about how we're getting Annie back.”

“Fine, but you ain't off the hook.”

Wendy cuddled up to him, then erupted into a fit of raspy coughing over Hunter's food.

Hunter pulled his plate away from her. “What the hell's wrong with you?” He turned to Shea. “What's wrong with her? She looks like shit.”

“Beats me.”

“Shea threw away my medicine,” Wendy said with an exaggerated pout on her feverish face.

He glared at Shea. “What the hell'd you do that for?”

“We don't need her all fucked up while we're rescuing Annie.”

“Stupid bitch! Can't you see she's in withdrawal?” He cupped Wendy's chin in his hand. “Don't worry, baby. I'll hook you up. Mackey, call Goatsy, tell 'em to bring me some Oxy.”

Mackey pulled out his phone and made the call while Hunter and Wendy got all lovey-dovey, whispering, giggling, and making out like a couple of lovesick teenagers.

Despite her hunger, Shea's stomach soured at her sister's public display of affection. “Holy mother of fuck, are we gonna rescue Annie or are you two playing tonsil hockey all morning?”

Hunter's face flushed as he sat up and straightened his leather cut. “Any more calls from the kidnapper?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Where's the phone?”

She patted the inside pocket of her biker jacket. “I got it.”

He held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

Shea frowned. “I'm holding on to it for now.”

Hunter's eyes blazed. “I said, gimme the goddamn phone, lesbo.”

Shea's upper lip curled in frustration. “You told him I was gay?” She normally didn't care who knew, but she wasn't in the mood to deal with these idiots' bigotry.

“What? I didn't think it was a big deal.”

One-Shot whispered something in Hunter's ear. Hunter nodded. “Fine. You can keep the phone. For now.”

Score a point for me,
she thought. “So what's the plan?”

Mackey played absently with the pepper shaker. “Jaguars got a warehouse in the Cortes National Forest, fifteen miles east of Ironwood. Use it to store guns, drugs, whatever shit they don't want the cops to find. Probably holding her there.”

Shea wondered if the Jags were also storing the stolen Pink Trinkets' bikes there. “How do y'all know about it?”

“Been there a time or two, back when we sold weed for the beaners.”

“Is it guarded?” Shea didn't want to get caught in the middle of a gunfight between the Thunder and the Jags.

“Not usually. They keep it locked up,” said Hunter. “If they got Annie there, they may have someone watching her.”

“When we going?”

“Ain't no we, rug munch,” said Mackey. “This is club business. Don't need no cunts getting in the way.”

Her hands balled into fists. “We had a deal. We're in this together.”

“I changed my mind.” Hunter raised his chin as a smug grin creased his face.

“Oh yeah? Lemme ask you something. If this warehouse is locked, how y'all getting inside? Any you boys pick locks?” She looked at Hunter, then at One-Shot and Mackey. None of them spoke. “That's what I figured. What're ya gonna do? Knock and see who's home?”

“We'll fucking shoot the locks.” Mackey sneered.

“And whoever's guarding Annie can blow her head off.”

Wendy shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “Don't say that!”

“Point is, Hunter, you need me. I can pick anything that takes a key and a bunch of stuff that don't.”

One-Shot again leaned over and had a whispered conversation with his president. Hunter smiled with a smug look that sent a shiver down Shea's spine. “You can come. Just keep outta our way.”

Mackey grunted. “Hunter, man, why we gotta bring this dyke along?”

“ 'Cause I said so,” snapped Hunter.

“What about me?” asked Wendy.

“I'll drop you back at the motel and pick up my bike.” Shea glanced back at the guys. “I'll meet y'all back here in an hour.”

Hunter turned to Wendy. “When she drops you off, I want you to head to the Church.”

“Oh, baby, can't I just stay at the motel for a while? I don't feel good. Probably shouldn't be driving.”

“Fine. I'll have someone pick you up.”

“No, you don't have to do that. I'll be okay at the hotel.”

“Why would you want to stay in that shithole? You'd be more comfortable at the Church. You can take a nap upstairs in our suite.”

Wendy glanced at Shea, then back at Hunter. “I wanna spend some time alone with my sister. We ain't seen each other in forever. Please? Just a little while. Then I'll meet up with you at the Church. I promise.”

Hunter narrowed his gaze at her. “I ain't so keen on you being by yourself with all this shit going on.”

“Nobody knows I'll be there.”

“The cops know.”

“I ain't telling them shit, you know that.” She showered his face with kisses.

Hunter threw up his hands. “Fine. Do what you want. Just don't stay too long.”

“Thanks, baby!”

Hunter followed them out into the parking lot. A guy with a goat patch beard wearing a Confederate Thunder cut over an NRA T-shirt sat on Hunter's Harley Road King.

Must be Goatsy,
Shea thought, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He slipped something into Hunter's hand as they walked past on the way to Wendy's car.

Shea climbed in and started the Mustang. Wendy sat down in the passenger seat, as Hunter handed her a small plastic bag. “This should hold you till I get back with Annie,” he said.

“Thanks, baby.” She kissed him on the lips.

When Hunter left, Wendy opened the bag, took out two pills, and chased them down with a swig from a half-empty water bottle in the center console. She shut the door. “Okay, let's go.”

Shea's lip curled in disgust. “Real mother of the year, you are.” She pulled out of the parking lot and raced down the road. Wendy didn't say anything.

Shea drove back to the motel, keeping an eye out for the black SUV or anyone else who might be following. Either no one was tailing them or their pursuers were getting harder to spot.

To her relief, her bike remained in the motel parking lot.
At least something's going right,
she thought.

They climbed the stairs to the room. As Wendy opened the door, the phone in Shea's jacket rang. Wendy gasped and dropped the key on the floor.

Shea pulled the phone out of her jacket pocket. “Hello.”

“You the little girl's mother?” The voice was deep and gravelly with a Latino accent, the same one on the video.

Shea directed Wendy into the room and closed the door behind them.

“She's not feeling well. I'm her sister. You can talk to me,” she said, taking a seat on the bed. Wendy sat beside her, eyes frantic.

“
Órale
. What's your name?”

“Shea. Where's Annie?”

“You got my four million dollars, Che?” he asked, mispronouncing her name.

“Put Annie on the phone, so I know she's okay.”

“You don't make the rules,
puta
. I'm in charge.
¿Comprende?
You got the money, or do I kill her?”

“Put her on the phone or you don't get shit, asshole.”

A shrill scream filled Shea's ear, followed by the choking sobs of a child. Shea inhaled sharply, wondering if she'd overplayed her hand.

“You hear that? She's alive, but not much longer, you keep playing games. You got my money?”

“Four mill? No, I don't.”

“That's too bad. She such a pretty girl. But when I cut her open and hang her from a bridge, she won't look so pretty.”

Shea struggled to keep the image of Annie's broken body out of her mind.
Keep it together or you're no good to her,
she told herself. “Look, I can get some money. Just not four million.”

“You think this a game? Maybe I cut off the girl's ear, show you I don't play games.”

“Don't you fucking touch her, you miserable dirtbag. I'll try to get the money. It's gonna take time.”

“Time's something you don't got. Get the money now or the girl swings from a bridge.”

“What the hell you expect me to do? Rob a fucking bank?”

“Maybe you should, if you love your niece.”

“I ain't robbing no bank. I'm willing to pay, but you gotta come down on the ransom. Otherwise, nobody gets what they want.”

“Why should I believe you, when you already talked to the cops?”

The phone trembled in her hand.
How'd he know?
“We didn't contact them. They just showed up. We didn't tell them nothing.”

“Better not. If you want Annie back alive, you get my money.”

“I can come up with maybe a couple grand.”

“Two fucking grand?” he scoffed. “For two grand, I give you a piece. What part you like? Her eyes or her heart? Maybe a finger or two.”

“You sick fuck. We ain't got that kinda cash.”

“Girl's
papi
got
mucho dinero
from selling crystal. Only question is what he loves more—his money or his daughter.”

“You said we got forty-eight hours. I'll talk to the girl's father about getting the ransom.”

“Get the money. Then take out ad on craigslist. Subject say, ‘Come Home Annie.' In the ad, you say ‘We have room ready.' You do that, I know you got the money and ready to make the drop. I don't see the ad by nine tomorrow night, I kill the girl. You talk to the cops again, I carve your name in her chest so everybody know it's Shea's fault the girl's dead.
¿Comprende?
”

“Yeah. I
comprende
.” The call ended.

“What'd he say?” Wendy looked worried but less feverish.
Maybe she really was in withdrawal,
Shea thought.

“He ain't budging. Says we gotta come up with four million dollars or he'll kill Annie.”

“Four million? That's not—That's way too much! Where we supposed to get four million dollars?”

“We aren't. Hunter and I are gonna rescue her.”

“What if you can't find her? What then?”

“We'll find her, all right? Sit tight in the room.” Shea handed her the phone.

“What if he calls back? What do I say?”

“He ain't gonna call before I get back. And if he does, tell him we're putting the money together.”

Shea walked to the door, adjusting the pistol in her waistband.

Wendy followed her and handed her a key to the room. “Shea, please bring my baby back.”

“That's the plan.”

With the breakfast rush over, the diner's parking lot was a lot emptier when Shea returned. Hunter and One-Shot sat waiting on their bikes, with Mackey in the Bronco, looking antsy. Shea pulled up in between Hunter's bike and the Bronco.

Mackey looked at his watch and threw up his hands. “What the fuck? You're late.”

“Got a call from the kidnapper.”

“You learn anything?” asked Hunter.

“Sounds like he's got Annie with him. Wouldn't put her on the phone, but I heard her scream.”

His face twisted in anger. “Motherfucker!”

“Point is, if she is at the warehouse, she ain't alone.” Shea narrowed her gaze at Hunter. “And FYI, he took her 'cause the club deals crystal. Figures you got the four mill for the ransom.”

Mackey held up a full-sized Ruger SR9. “Guess he'll have to settle for a nine mill, instead. Right between the eyes.”

“Enough of this chitchat,” said Hunter. “Let's get this done.”

The Confederate Thunder engines roared to life. Shea followed the guys out of town and down South Chaparral Road into the mountains of the Cortes National Forest. The sweet scent of ponderosa pine, mesquite, and juniper trees filled her nose, taking a bit of the edge off the tension. Campgrounds sprawled on either side of the road, catering to tourists escaping the heat of Phoenix.

Ten miles later, the pavement gave way to hard-packed dirt and gravel, forcing those on motorcycles to slow down or risk catastrophe on the less stable surface.

Near a vine-wrapped stone chimney, the last remains of a pioneer homestead, Hunter turned down an unmarked side road. Here and there, large rocks protruded through the earth, forcing Shea and the bikers to navigate around them. Muddy ruts and washboard ripples rattled the bikes so much that Shea wondered if she would lose a filling.

After a dozen turns through a labyrinth of dirt roads, they stopped and shut off the bikes. The sudden quiet of the forest felt like a shock after an hour of listening to the rumble of the engines and the roar of the wind through her helmet. The crunch of pine needles underneath her boots and the soprano chorus of birds were a welcome sound.

Shea had lost track of where they had turned and wasn't sure she could find her way back if she needed to.

“Where's the warehouse?” She wondered if they had led her here to get revenge for their tussle at the bike shop.

“We walk from here.” Hunter chambered a round on what looked like a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle.

“Walk?” She considered drawing her Glock. “How far?”

“The warehouse is over the next ridge.”

“Why the hell'd we park here then?” Her pulse quickened as she resisted the urge to make a run for it.

“Don't want them wetbacks to hear us coming, do ya? Come on.”

Hunter and Mackey led the way. She stepped aside to let One-Shot follow. He gestured with an open hand toward the others. “After you,” he said in a baritone voice.

She studied his face, looking for hints of conspiracy. After a moment, she fell in behind Mackey, keeping an eye out for possible cover and escape routes should things go south.

They retraced their route on the gravel road to the most recent turn, veered right around the crest of the hill, then up a ways to the summit. The road dead-ended in front of a fifty-foot-wide, sage-green corrugated metal building. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Maybe this isn't a setup.

Keeping to the trees, they stopped ten feet from the building. A garage door dominated the front with a side door painted black to the right of it—both closed. No vehicles outside.

The only sounds came from a pair of ground squirrels chasing each other through the underbrush.

“Don't look like nobody's home,” said Mackey in a hushed tone. “Maybe they ain't got her here after all.”

“Coulda parked inside.” Hunter turned to Shea. “Well? Get us in there.”

“The garage door's probably padlocked from the inside. Best bet is through the side door.”

“What are you waiting for? Do your thing, master thief, and hurry the hell up.”

Shea pulled a leather case from her jacket and unzipped it to reveal a collection of slender steel instruments. She kneeled down in front of the door and studied the lock in the door handle and the dead bolt above it. With her riding gloves on to avoid leaving any prints, she tried the doorknob. It was locked. She inserted the short end of an L-shaped tension wrench into the doorknob's keyhole, resting her ring finger on the long end with the gentlest of pressure, then inserted her half-diamond pick above it. As she slowly pulled it out, she counted the clicks. Only five pins. No problem. One by one, she set each pin until the cylinder turned. She turned the doorknob and pulled. Sure enough, the dead bolt was locked.

“C'mon, ya dumb bitch, we're wasting time,” Mackey hissed. “We're sitting ducks out here.”

She glared at him, keeping the knob turned. “You wanna help, smart guy? Keep this knob turned so I don't have to pick it again.”

“Quit yapping and get it done,” said Hunter.

Mackey grabbed the doorknob, muttering under his breath.

She started in on the dead bolt and counted six pins. She knew from experience a few would be hourglass-shaped security pins. Picking them would be that much trickier. She started from the back, testing each pin with a gentle push upward. Two set right away. The next couple were not so easy and required her to adjust the tensioner and start over.

“Goddammit, can you do it or not?” A corkscrew vein on Hunter's temple throbbed as he loomed over her.

“Shut up and give me a minute.” Her racing pulse made it hard to concentrate on what was going on unseen inside the lock. She slowed down her breathing and let her pick once again give her the lay of the land. One pin, three pins, five, then at last the tensioner turned the cylinder.
I still got it,
she mused with a smile.

“Okay, it should open now. Let's hope there's no alarm.”

Mackey pulled on the knob and the door opened. Shea stepped back and let Hunter take the lead, his gun at the ready. If someone was going to get shot, she wanted it to be him. One-Shot followed carrying a large revolver, possibly a Smith & Wesson .500.

Mackey gestured with his Ruger that she should go before him. When she didn't move, he bared his teeth. “Get in there, bitch.”

She drew her Glock, chambered a round, and stepped into the shadows of the building's interior.

A narrow hallway led forty feet to the back of the building with two doors on the right, followed by a single door on the left. One-Shot ducked inside, then out again, shaking his head. Shea glanced in—just an empty restroom. The door to the second room was open. A small lamp and a computer monitor, both off, sat on a metal desk. On the floor next to the desk, a computer hummed quietly. They continued to the door on the left at the end of the hall. A window in the door revealed it opened to the warehouse's storage area. One by one, they filed in.

The room was forty feet by forty feet with a concrete slab floor and a door along the back wall. Daylight filtered through skylights in the ceiling, giving the place a surreal atmosphere. Floor-to-ceiling shelving units took up most of the space. In the middle of the room a small forklift sat idle near a table surrounded by three metal folding chairs. A musty, chemical smell hung heavy in the air. They spread out to search the place.

Red plastic bins the size of beer coolers were stacked on the shelves alongside fifty-pound sacks of cornstarch, which Shea assumed was used to cut the heroin. Wooden crates filled the shelving unit on the far wall.

On the table, bricks of black tar heroin wrapped in clear plastic were piled next to digital scales, three large mortars and pestles, a large bag of what Shea guessed to be ecstasy, and several industrial-size rolls of plastic wrap.

She recalled a recent conversation she'd had with Derek. A new drug called hex had hit the streets in the past year—heroin cut with ecstasy. Hex was potent, cheap, and popular with the nightclub scene.

With no sign of Annie or her bikes, Shea's hopes of finding either dimmed.

Mackey lowered his gun. “Don't look like nobody's home.”

“Annie!” Hunter called so loud Shea's heart skipped a beat.

They waited, but there was no response.

“Think maybe she's in one of these boxes?” Mackey asked.

A cloud of worry darkened Hunter's face. “Open 'em all up—the wooden crates and the red bins.”

One-Shot located a pry bar near the forklift and pulled the lid off of a wooden crate with a loud crack. He reached in and pulled out an AK-47. “Guns,” he said.

Shea turned her attention to the red plastic bins, as did Mackey. She holstered her gun, popped the side locks on the first bin, and opened it. It held gallon-sized plastic bags filled with brown powder. “Jesus Christ, that's a lot of hex.”

“Hot damn!” Mackey stuck a knife in the bin he'd opened and snorted a small amount of hex. His eyes rolled back. “Damn, that's some good shit, man.”

“You're an idiot, Mackey,” she said. “I hope you OD.”

He flipped her off and grinned like a madman. “Look at all this shit, Hunter! We hit the mother lode.”

Shea grabbed his collar. “Hey, asswipe! This dope ain't ours. Now keep looking for my niece!”

Hunter stepped between them and shoved her away. “Don't tell my guys what to do. You got me, lesbo? Annie ain't here. Don't mean we leave here empty-handed. Everybody grab a bin.”

“What about the rifles?” asked One-Shot.

“Leave 'em. Got plenty of guns back at the Church. We can sell the hex for a lot more than the guns.”

As Hunter walked toward another bin, she stepped into his path. “Listen, moron, you steal the Jaguars' shit, they'll figure out who did it.”

“So what? This gives us leverage to get Annie back.”

She couldn't blame him for wanting a bargaining chip, but stealing drugs from the Mexicans was a sure way to find yourself on the wrong end of a rope. She walked away toward the hallway door. “This is insane. I'm outta here.”

Hunter's fist latched on to her arm. “I said, grab a bin.”

She shook his hand loose. “I ain't grabbing nothing. You do what you want.”

He pointed the Desert Eagle at her. “Grab a bin, bitch, or I'll put you in one.”

Her vision narrowed to the gaping gun barrel in her face. He was close enough, she might be able to disarm him, but she'd still have One-Shot and Mackey to contend with. Fuming, she picked up a bin and walked toward the hallway door.

“See? Things go much better when bitches obey orders,” said Hunter.

Energy erupted in her body. She spun and heaved the bin at him. He staggered back. His gun clattered to the floor. He rushed her, driving his fist into her jaw. She fell hard on her back. Ignoring the crushing pain in her head, she drew her Glock, but he kicked it spinning across the room.

“This is why bitches don't wear patches,” he said, standing over her. “You don't understand who's in charge. You on a job with me? You do what I say.” He kicked her in the gut a few times. Her armored leather jacket took most of the impact, but it still knocked the wind out of her. “That's for stealing my gun and disrespecting me.”

He kicked again, but she grabbed his leg and twisted, throwing him to the floor. She pulled herself up, clinging to one of the shelving supports. As she got to her feet, someone lifted her up from behind. For a moment, gravity lost its grip on her. She flew through the air until she collided with one of the gun crates. Everything went black.