Restricted MC (The Nighthawks MC Book 14) Read online

  “Dickwad,” said Wraith. “What about that guy who tried to kill our client, Sheik al Raman?”

  “Even worse dick,” said Daisy Chain. “Guy’s smart enough to diversify out of oil, invest in education and alternate energy sources. Turns out his own brother was gunning for him. Both his wives just testified against him in a Saudi court about other financial shenanigans, plus his accountant has already been convicted. They don’t like fratricide there.”

  “Don’t like it here, either,” said Wraith. “And, we took out the assassin. His accounts frozen?”

  “All twenty of them,” said Daisy Chain. “Turns out he was defrauding the Saudi government as well, and they don’t like that, either.”

  “Sucks to be him,” said Wraith. “Any other candidates?”

  “That fat fuck, the one that’s the lawyer for Sarah, Jamie Choi, and Kat’s kid,” said Daisy Chain.

  “Chalke,” said Wraith. “What about him?”

  “He was forced to sell off assets he bought with ill-gotten gains, including trying to loot Sarah’s trust fund, until I found out and Bannon put the kibosh on that, and Bannon told lots and lots of authority types.”

  “Quit preening,” said Wraith. Daisy Chain laughed. “And?”

  “He has a very old client, both physically and in the number of years Chalke, Tanner, and Danby have served. Twenty-two years, practically a first client. She’s eighty-nine, and had all her faculties until two months ago when she suffered a stroke. Chalke, with his power of attorney, looted eight million dollars from one of her funds.”

  Wraith paused to pick her jaw up off the floor. “Tell me he threw a million at the Hessian Front.”

  “He did, and change,” said Daisy Chain.

  “Way to bury the lead,” said Wraith.

  “You were asking questions, and I have answers,” said Daisy Chain. “Now, the fat fuck knew that the SEC for insider training, the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police’s Financial Crimes Section, and the FBI were about to catch him. He also blamed…”

  “High Desert for putting the screws to him,” finished Wraith.

  “The various three and five-letter agencies and police departments may have received some help,” said Daisy Chain, with no modesty whatsoever. “He should have been after me. I’m the one helping to bury him.”

  “Instead, the Hessian Front went after us and our allies,” said Wraith. “Why the hell hit Dirty Rock and not my house, or Gregory’s house? Why go after Valkyries, and Henry’s farm, with all its women and children?”

  “Because they’re racist, sexist, misogynistic killers. Remember the swastikas between their toes? I’ve got an in with the medical examiner. Leona says they had lightning bolts on their lower spines, and the 88s for Heil Hitler tattooed just under their shoulders on each side. Their leaders apparently have 14 for their slogan, ‘We must secure our people and a future for white children,’ with an 88 for Heil Hitler. So, they tattoo 1488 on their ankles. Racist bullshit. Got shut down in Germany and Switzerland, where the government is cracking down on skinhead mercenary groups.”

  “Come to America for fun, profit, and lots of people to hate,” said Wraith, in a singsong voice. “So glad we killed them. How many are left, who’s running them, and where is the fat fuck Chalke?”

  “Eighty-two to start with, down to thirty-eight with bank robberies and arrests for various crimes, sneaking across borders, getting caught, going down in various African wars. In Africa, they work for both sides. Get the money and shoot all the black people they can find.”

  “That’s just… ugh. Now I’m super-glad they’re dead. How many are here?”

  “Been working with ATF and the FBI to figure that one out,” said Daisy Chain. “These racist fucks get almost no investigation, mostly because Homeland is busy going after anyone with a vaguely Arabic last name. You hear about that six-year-old boy they wouldn’t take off the terror watch list?” Daisy Chain grunted and tapped more keys. “And the eighty-year-old British grandmother?”

  “So, don’t work with Homeland Insecurity,” said Wraith. “Plenty of good three-letter agents to work with.”

  “Not planning on it,” said Daisy Chain. “Anyhoo, got nineteen in-country, and a total of fifteen bought the dust tonight.”

  “So, four more.”

  “Three, one’s still hanging on. Gonna bite the dust in… wait, hospital says he just coded. Frenchie’s down there and sent me a text. So, searching on the final three. Bastards use aliases. Using facial recognition to get them coming into Vegas via Frankfurt. Those three came from Oslo. Hans Jurgen, Dieter Danzig, and Karl Kraus, all with very good fake passports. Our buddy Hans’ real name is Marcus Ratzenberger, Dieter is Viet Schimschiener, and Karl’s real name is Elmar Schwan. Elmar is the leader, wanted in six countries.”

  “With a name like Elmar, who wouldn’t want him?” asked Wraith.

  Daisy Chain snorted. “He’s holed up somewhere. When I find him, we can roll. Be nice to take down Viet and Mucus, too.”

  Wraith snorted. “Mucus Marcus, you mean. And, give the word.”

  “Better if the cops take him down,” warned Daisy Chain.

  “We need hands off,” agreed Wraith. “Pocero’s friends with half of SWAT. Tell the SWAT ladies and gentlemen, they’ll remove Viet, Marcus, and our beloved Elmar from the face of the earth.”

  “Will do,” said Daisy Chain. “Emmerich Schmidt, real name Ingolf Seydel, just bought it.”

  “Holy shit,” said Wraith. “What’s with the names? Their mothers wanted them to get beat up at school?”

  “Explains the racism,” said Daisy Chain. “Comes from a feeling of powerlessness.”

  “And seriously fucked-up parenting,” said Wraith.

  “Got it…got it…Backroom Pony,” said Daisy Chain.

  “I know it. Nasty little bar,” said Wraith. “Did a few deals for the DEA there.”

  Wraith waited while Daisy Chain notified Frenchie. “On my way to embed with SWAT,” Frenchie said. “This one’s a croaker. Gotta do something.”

  “Don’t get dead,” said Wraith.

  “Ditto,” said Daisy Chain.

  “Won’t,” said Frenchie. She hung up.

  “You never answered my question about the fat fuck, Chalke,” Wraith said to Daisy Chain.

  “Can’t do a damn thing until he lands,” said Daisy Chain. “He was headed for Cancun. I kind of promised a little something-something to the pilot’s company if he fakes engine trouble and has to land in Arizona. Apparently the fat fuck’s asleep due to the champagne and two call girls and won’t notice.” She grinned. “Got some of Henry’s friends, not to mention friends of Xenia (who happen to be Valkyries) who are there in law enforcement. Even ready to let the fat fuck believe he’s landed in Mexico until they get him into the sheriff’s vehicle.”

  “You are fucking awesome. You are da woman,” said Wraith.

  “And you owe me something big,” said Daisy Chain.

  “What? Season tickets to… something? Star Trek or Star Wars memorabilia? A Matrix coat?”

  “One, I hate sports and the opera,” said Daisy Chain. “Two, no, I don’t collect that shit. I tend to break plastic. Three, I’m a dwarf in a wheelchair. Where the hell would I wear a Matrix coat? No, I want an even bigger, badder setup than I have here. I’ll send you a list.”

  “Can I get to it after I’ve slept and kissed my kids?” asked Wraith. “And made absolutely sure all the crime scene techs are off of all our property, and Frenchie didn’t get dead, and no files will be charged with our people, who were defending themselves. And gotten all of our current clients out of the city. Could have missed a Hessian or two.”

  “Whatev,” said Daisy Chain. She hung up.

  “And then she was gone,” said Wraith. She got a text from Daisy Chain. “A desk with supercooled water that seats sixteen hard drives? Must we?” she said. Thandie wisely ignored her. Wraith sighed, and ordered the damn table.

  Wraith received another text about
a TAC channel. She listened in with her mic muted.

  “Quiet at the front door,” said one voice. Wraith recognized it, it was Sergeant Jaycee Campbell, team leader, SWAT, on swing shift.

  “Back’s good,” said Hutchins.

  “On my go... three, two, one. Go-go-go!” There was a door slamming in, shouts, and a loud jukebox. Yelling. Screaming. Someone unplugged the jukebox. “Police! Got runners!” said Campbell. “Get ‘em, Hutch!”

  There was running, a metal door opening and closing, a bottle breaking, shouts, grunts. “Don’t move, fuckface,” said Hutch.

  There was grunting, and a foot hitting human skin. “What part of don’t move don’t you understand?” said Frenchie.

  Wraith raised her hands over her head, and said, “Woo hoo!” into her muted mic.

  There was the sound of running feet and a “Stop!” Two shots, two return shots. “And racist fuckface number three is down,” said Hutch. “Got numbers one and two.”

  Frenchie said, clearly, “Shot Mucus. I mean Marcus. Got Viet, and Hutch has Elmar.” She laughed evilly. “Taken down by a black man and a woman. Sucks to be them.”

  Hutch laughed. “Racist fucks.” The sound of feet running, feet walking. “Mucus, I mean Marcus, is dead.” He walked back. “Let’s see what our two friends with no necks and Heil Hitler tattoos can tell us.” Rustling. “Nice lightning tattoos on each bicep,” said Hutch.

  A door slammed. “Lots of charges,” said Campbell. “And, I would love to help interrogate, a lovely caramel-skinned woman like me.” Grunts heard as the men were pulled to their feet. “You have the right to remain silent.” Someone spat, and then said some things in German.

  “Nasty,” said Wraith. “Just called Frenchie a whore with diseases who fucked her father.” She texted the translation to Frenchie.

  “Someone has a potty mouth,” said Frenchie. “And that’s a terrible thing to say about my dad, who is living nicely in Wyoming, thank you.”

  More German. “The slogan of racist fuckfaces everywhere,” said Wraith, and texted the translation to Frenchie.

  “This is gonna be fun,” said Hutch, as they dragged the racist mercenaries to waiting police cars.

  Henry, Wraith, and Freya watched through the window as Frenchie, Hutch, and Campbell of SWAT, and Pocero’s commanding officer (Commander Dyson Salter) were there. The commander was a beanpole of a man with gray hair, narrowed eyes, and a hard face, and he interrogated the men. Frenchie and Hutch took Viet, the weaker link, and Elmar was interrogated by Campbell and Salter.

  Henry and Freya watched Campbell and Salter get nowhere with Elmar, and soon joined Wraith watching Frenchie work it. “I’m just a… what did your friend call me? A diseased whore who fucked my father? Like I said, nasty thing to say about my dad. He says ‘Hi,’ by the way.” She grinned. “But, I’m FBI. You committed a targeted hate crime against women, children, and people of color. You attempted murder. We got into your hotel room, found the primary targets you hit, the secondary targets you didn’t have time to hit, like the Nighthawks’ clubhouse, with little kids sleeping inside.”

  Henry’s face grew hard as he listened in. He was saddened that such people lived in the world.

  “Plans within plans. Attacks by foreign mercenaries on American soil on civilians. Not good. Not good at all.” Frenchie grinned Wraith’s death-head grin. “And we have it all. Names, fake and real ones. Dates, locations, maps, even building plans. Got them from downtown, just cost a little to print, right?” She threw photo after photo of each piece of evidence. “Got receipts for the guns from pawnshops all over the city. Have the guns, matched the serial numbers. We have the guns at the FBI lab, because of the foreign-mercenaries thing. The thing is; you didn’t count on people on farms being armed. You didn’t count on running into ex-soldiers on one of those farms.” She threw down autopsy photo after autopsy photo on the ground. “Every. Single. One. Of. Your. No-neck. Racist. Friends. Are. Dead.”

  Viet quailed, pawed through the pictures, cursed in German. Then, he began to cry. He shouted in German, and tried to strangle Frenchie, despite his being chained to a chair and his wrists to a loop in the table.

  “You killed all my friends, you fucking bitch. You went against your race,” texted Wraith to Frenchie.

  “Oh, thank you for confirming this was a racially motivated attack,” said Frenchie.

  Special Agent Hoffman, who spoke fluent German, came in, and sat down next to Frenchie. Hutch kept leaning on the wall by the door. “Who paid you?” asked Hoffman, in German. “Someone must pay, and it might as well be your employer. No one will ever employ you again. Anywhere.”

  “Some fat man,” said Viet, in English. “He gave us money, told us to find the allies and hit them as well, in coordinated attacks. Keep us ready to protect our children from the black menace.”

  Hutch snorted. “And a white woman, a caramel woman, and a black man took you down,” said Hutch. He laughed. “And our boss is black, too.” He laughed again. “Looks like your little race war won’t happen now.”

  Viet went into a string of German. “Names, dates, places,” Wraith texted to Frenchie. “And a lot of cussing. He really hates you and Hutch.”

  Frenchie smiled as Special Agent Hoffman slid a pencil stub and a notebook towards Viet. A second later, Frenchie broke his hand as she took the pencil away from him. Viet had tried to stab himself in the neck.

  “Call a medic,” she said, to the ceiling.

  “That’s just…” said Wraith. “Pitiful. He’s going to fry, and so will his leader, and they’re the last two of their organization in the States.”

  “They’ve got others,” said Henry. “They may come back.”

  “If so,” said Freya, “We’ll be ready.”

  Fat Man

  The sheriff’s deputies in Arizona deliberately put a day into processing and transporting Chalke. He was jailed with drunks, male prostitutes, cattle rustlers, and junkies, and forced to wear orange. He was offended, but had no real understanding of the trouble he was in. Eight million dollars —now 6.6 million, would pay for one hell of a lawyer. No one questioned him without a lawyer present; he was simply told he was being arrested and extradited back to Las Vegas for absconding with clients’ money.

  He was relieved, then thought, of course, money. I’ll hire an attorney and be out on bail. He used his telephone call to call his own law firm, and was firmly told that his office had already been cleared, and the firm was taking steps to disassociate itself from him and protect themselves. There were hints that his accounts had been frozen by the police or possibly the SEC. He squelched his inner squeak of terror and demanded that they call an attorney of his acquaintance for him. It was agreed, and then the call ended.

  Chalke was squashed in a van between a man that sang, chattered, and ground his teeth the entire way, and a male prostitute who kept talking about his sex life, his love of big men, his attraction to Chalke, and other disgusting things.

  By the time they arrived in Vegas, his head was pounding, and the sun hit him like a hammer. He was put into the Las Vegas jail, allowed to shower in front of other men, which disgusted him, and was driven to a place where he entered by the back door. He was brought into a concrete room and made to sit down on a chair. His attorney, David Marks-Powers, asked for Michael Magnum Chalke, Attorney at Law, to remove the hand and foot cuffs.

  “My client isn’t a flight risk.” The deputy shrugged and left Chalke still chained.

  A woman with flinty eyes came in to the interview room, and sat down. Another man leaned on the door. Both were in black suits. “I am FBI Special Agent French. Sleep well, Mr. Chalke?” she asked.

  “No,” said Chalke. “I’m waiting on my apology.”

  The woman focused those flinty eyes on Chalke. “Your apology? Why, Mr. Chalke?”

  “I was taken off my flight to Cancun. I expect to resume my vacation forthwith.”

  The woman gave a small, ironic laugh. “I doubt it. First, this li
st is not exhaustive. The SEC is still investigating charges of insider training. So, for starters, we have sixteen counts of murder for hire.”

  Chalke gave a disbelieving laugh. Attorney David Marks-Powers, with his diminutive frame, his dark blue, double-breasted Brooks Brothers suit with its ivory pocket square, and his salt-and-pepper hair looked very distinguished. He drew out his favorite poker face, but he was rattled. He listened closely. He was a white-collar, criminal defense attorney, one of the best in the state. He successfully defended clients from accusations of embezzlement, Ponzi schemes, and mismanagement of funds. Murder for hire was a first for him in his twenty-four years.

  “You are accusing my client of murder for hire? And why sixteen counts?”

  “Let me tell you about your client,” said Frenchie. “First, he attempted to embezzle funds from the trust fund of a little girl, Sarah. Sarah became a ward of the firm when her mother died. She trusted your client, Mr. Chalke, to protect her daughter, but, instead, he attempted to steal from her.” Frenchie handed over documents showing Chalke’s attempt to loot her fund. “He made the mistake of hiring a security firm to take care of her, mostly because he couldn’t be bothered to even hire a nanny, and she refused to go to a boarding school. They were hired to protect her, and they took this duty seriously. This company is High Desert Security and Protection. This becomes important, later.” She showed the proof, with memos, emails, and bank transfers. “He could simply have lived off the money from managing the trust, and if he built it up right, this account alone could have kept him in suits and pocket squares like yours, for life, but he wanted the money directly.”

  Frenchie gave the attorney a moment to go over the financial data. He seemed out of his league now.

  “High Desert hired an attorney out of the funds paid to protect her to hire a forensic accountant. He found this embezzlement, and turned over his data to the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. He then spoke to other clients that Sarah remembered from spending a lot of time in his office, and they hired him as well. Mr. Chalke then sold a house he’d bought with his profits from previous embezzlement and covered some of the missing funds, such as Sarah’s. More and more funds were found missing. Clients also spoke about insider information given to them, and one client went directly to the SEC. The forensic accountant went there, too, and the SEC is very interested. They will be speaking to you in a day or so, from what they’ve told me. Now, the LVMPD has plenty of data, and will prosecute you on these crimes, Mr. Chalke. Detective Mark Somers will handle that.” The man with a shock of black hair, a narrow face, caramel skin, and snapping black eyes now nodded. He stayed leaning against the door.