Vacant MC (The Nighthawks MC Book 11) Page 3

  Joru put her head in her hands. “Now I’m a high value target.”

  “Not really,” said Sigrun.

  “Hey!” said Joru, feeling the words.

  “You cannot testify about something you can’t prove. No rape kit, the idiot bastards. So, not so much value. But, this guy’s obsessed with how great he is. You went against the ‘code’ of no one speaking out against him,” said Sigrun.

  “Most of us have dated someone like him. These assholes think of people as possessions,” said Tori, plainly. “And they’re about an eleven on the danger scale.”

  “Fear,” said Sigrun. “That’s the tactic sons of bitches around the world try to use. Doesn’t work on Valkyries though.”

  Joru took a deep breath and stood up. “With your shield.”

  “Or on it,” finished Sigrun. The women grabbed each other on the back of the necks and touched foreheads.

  “That never gets old,” said Herja, on the couch, exhausted after doubling the women she was training, and keeping an eye out for assassins all day.

  “You guys are creepy,” said Tori with a half-smile. “But, I get it.” The other women laughed.

  Henry sighed. It was a long damn day. He still had motorcycle-class clients; not a single one had canceled, despite the shootout. They had the cops take away the spent bullet casings, repaired the masonry, and kept going. Gregory still taught evade and escape classes, now dubbed “E & E.” He had kids to teach across the way, slipping off when he could. The parents still sent their kids in, since Gregory had them picked up in bulletproof van. A lot of Nighthawks and Soldier Pack saw fit to hang out in the club, planning trips, or happily shooting the breeze. All were armed to the teeth. He took the bike home, always keeping an eye out. He had a bulletproof vest, ready for anything. Getting too old for bullet wounds, he thought.

  Henry was at a light when the woman came out of the convenience store. He noticed the expensive jacket, and the obvious motorcycle helmet. He tapped his cell and pinged Gregory at the same time he pulled his gun.

  She pulled hers as well, dropped the bag she was carrying, and ran at him. “Tell us where she is!” screamed the woman. She had a coppery face and thick red lips; the faceplate was up on her reinforced helmet. “And I’ll let you live, old man.”

  “Fuck you,” said Henry, putting up his foot and revving the motor. He felt the Harley growl in response.

  They shot their guns at the same time, and Henry bent backward. He heard the ping as the bullet hit a car behind him. The woman with the gun went flying, and his Harley crossed the crosswalk with the bike cutting off a blue truck. He pulled up and pointed his .45 at the woman. “You move, you die,” he said.

  Motorcycles came roaring up from both sides. Gregory was on one, on his own way home. Rota was on the other one. All three of them now had pointed guns at the woman. She held up her hands. Gregory kicked away her weapons, pulled out a plastic tie, and arrested her ass.

  They got the helmet off and patted her down for weapons. “He’s close, this bitch has groceries,” said Gregory.

  “I’ve got her,” said Henry. “Go-go-go.”

  “Within two blocks,” said Gregory. He ran one way, Rota the opposite, screaming into her own mic. They whipped around opposite corners.

  Henry kept his gun on the woman. She had wiry black hair and chocolate eyes. “Save some fucking time and tell us where he is,” he said.

  “He who?” she asked.

  “The rapist who took a potshot at a woman he raped years ago. Then, he shot a DEA agent. He ain’t getting older, woman,” said Henry.

  “Gary’s no rapist,” said the woman.

  “Wrong name,” said Henry. “His name is Edwin Mulger Yonck. Now, let’s start over. Where is the man who raped our friend?” Motorcycles came, stopping there, and across the street. They parked in lots, on the sidewalk, got off, and, with guns at their sides, fanned out.

  The woman sputtered. “He… he’s a contract guy.”

  “A contract killer,” said Henry. “And a rapist. And apparently, as much of a compulsive liar as he was with his ex-spotter Zim.” He smiled. “So, you like hanging out with contract killers?”

  She shrugged. “The money’s good. The bath salts are better,” she said, referring to dangerous drugs that looked like colored salt.

  An Iron Knight rode up. “I’ve got her,” he said.

  “Thanks,” said Henry. “Woman here’s a prostitute and drug user. Took a shot at me.” He looked over at the very-stunned man, now out of his blue SUV, screaming at someone on the phone. “Shot that guy’s car instead.” He waved down at the woman. “You just took stupid to a whole new level, woman,” he said, and ran, gun at his side.

  Frenchie was three blocks over, talking into a throat mic. “No, Ma’am, do not call the locals. We’ve got three motorcycle gangs on the street. Don’t want anyone on the blue side getting shot.”

  Henry waved two fingers at her and pointed up where a curtain twitched. A second later, he shoved her; hard, as a rifle came out. Glass exploded from the building behind them, a breakfast restaurant, closed since five. Henry helped Frenchie up, and they split.

  “Shots fired!” yelled Frenchie into her mic.

  “Got him, Gregory,” said Henry into his still-open mic.

  They split up; he left; she right. He ran in front, as he was the one wearing the bulletproof vest, and he wasn’t sure if Frenchie was. He hit all the buzzers at once, and someone let him in. He ran toward the stairs. Gregory’s beast of a bike, his brand-new Harley, roared. Shots came down from the window, and Gregory’s .45 barked back. Henry ran up to the third floor, following the sound of gunfire. Terrified residents ran past him.

  Gregory found the right door; a woman in a motorcycle jacket and a helmet fired at him. His gun barked twice. She fell; her collar wasn’t up right, and he got her in both the neck and the left knee. He stepped back as she got off one more shot before she breathed her last. A mother with a child in her arms ran back into her apartment, screaming wildly.

  Henry didn’t have to kick in the door, it was already open a crack. He pushed it in and heard the bark of a gun. It wasn’t the rifle Yonck had; that had a distinctive sound. “FBI!” he heard. Then he heard the sound of a body hitting the ground.

  “Nighthawks!” he said, hoping not to get shot. Yonck had dragged his expensive sniper rifle backward and had been trying to make it out of the second bedroom. He wasn’t wearing a motorcycle helmet, and Frenchie had gotten him right between the eyes. “Nice shooting,” said Henry. “Want to come in?”

  Frenchie was on the fire escape, both hands on the gun, in the classic FBI firing position. “Sure, why not,” she said. “Stand down,” she said into her phone, as he heard Gregory say the same thing into his. There was the sound of running feet, and Harleys roared as their owners got on them and rode away, making a deafening sound through the open window.

  “Damn,” said Henry, “I liked this gun.” He put the safety on. “Now the police are going to have it as evidence.”

  “FBI,” said Frenchie. “And, I’ll buy you another one myself.”

  “Gregory,” said Henry, into his still-open mic. “Anyone shot down there?”

  “A lot of stucco and some brick,” said Gregory.

  “The other one dead?” asked Frenchie.

  “What do you think?” he said, as Henry went over to give her a hand into the apartment open window.

  “I think we’re damn lucky I wasn’t the one you had in your sights,” said Frenchie, swiping glass out of her long hair.

  “Same here,” said Henry.

  The FBI, DEA, and ATF showed up. Gregory and Henry were the only ones that stayed to talk to the alphabet soup of agencies. Frenchie didn’t let the interrogations go on long; after all, all three agencies had been looking for the dead man.

  Henry and Gregory stood on the steps of the Federal Building. “Let’s go tell Joru ourselves,” said Gregory.

  “Then food, then home,” agre
ed Henry.

  Joru wasn’t at Wraith’s. The men got hugs and colas from Sigrun. They went to Skuld and Rota’s place, and found nearly every Valkyrie right there, and on guard. They were hailed as heroes and given chocolate silk pie and more cola. The women listened to female singers screaming, and danced with a wild abandonment, happy to end the siege, and relieved that the rapist and killer was dead. The men escaped before their eardrums burst.

  “Steak,” said Gregory, mounting his bike.

  “Moo,” said Henry. Gregory laughed.

  They found a steakhouse and worked their way through some onion rings before, bit by bit, the Nighthawks, Soldier Pack, and Iron Knights (who were involved in the chase) arrived. Bannon showed up with the day shift, and they ate steak, shrimp, ribs, baked potatoes, and vegetables, taking up two long tables in the back, meant for parties. Some had beer, some wine, but only one, as they were all driving home. The rest had colas or teas.

  Bannon stood and said, “We got the bastard!” Everyone raised their glasses. “To Gregory, who didn’t stop, and Henry, who took two out of the three. And,” he said, as an exhausted Frenchie came into the room, “appropriately, a woman took out our rapist. Success!”

  Someone put a glass of merlot in Frenchie’s hand. “To killing the bad motherfuckers,” said Frenchie. They cheered. They made room for Frenchie and dined like kings and queens.

  The next day, Joru woke at dawn. Tori stretched, rolled out of her own pod, and the two women took turns in the bathroom. They got on their bikes and rode down to Lake Mead. They stood there on a rock, the hot desert wind in their hair, and smelled the water. They sat and gleefully put their feet into the water.

  “Later on, I’m gonna work with the street girls, get them out,” said Joru. “I shouldn’t have let it go. I should have ranted and raved and showed up on their doorsteps at three am until someone put those bastards away.”

  “Yeah, you should have,” said Tori. “Every single damn time it happened, if we went after the fuckers, they’d stop. They’d be too terrified to hurt us.” She sighed. “That includes me. Wasn’t an officer. Was a boyfriend. Hit me. I was only fourteen. I didn’t stop him. I hated him. I… eventually, I wised up, got out of it. Two years later, he did it to Chelsie, a girl in my class.” She grinned. “Her dad beat the living daylights out of him, and her mom watched. From what Chelsie said, her mom stood over him, a lighter in one hand, a beer can in the other. Threatened to light his balls on fire if he ever touched another girl; woman, or whatever. Guy started drinking like a fish, got in a car accident. Dead before I signed up.” She sighed. “Wanted to be badass like Chelsie’s parents, so I joined, became a soldier.”

  “Oo-rah,” said Joru. They bumped fists. “I’m a fucking mess,” said Joru. “Those two fucked up my head real-bad. Gotta get it screwed on straight. Become a Valkyrie. Defend every little girl that comes to me for help.” She stopped, swallowed. “I wanna adopt kids someday. I do. But, need a head screwed on straight first. Then I’ll do lots of shit. Make my life count.”

  “Valkyries have two psychologists,” said Tori. “I’ve got one, Kate. You should use her.”

  “Okay,” said Joru.

  Tori took two sodas out of her vented summer motorcycle jacket, popped the top on one, and handed it to Joru. She popped the top on the other one. “To being a total badass,” she said.

  “Badasses rock,” said Joru. They touched cans and relaxed in the sun.

  Wraith sat up very carefully in her recliner. She was still in her neck brace, because her flight through the air had strained her neck muscles. She was so glad she didn’t hit the floor or a wall with her head. She knew damn-well she was lucky to be alive.

  “Lay back,” ordered Sigrun. She complied. “Gregory and Bannon are our friends.”

  “What the fuck?” asked Wraith, as both men sat, and pulled up chairs.

  “We know who’s been saving us time and money,” said Gregory. “The secret’s out.”

  “We want you to be our secret weapon, hiding in your lair,” said Bannon. He handed her an envelope.

  She took it and opened the flap. “That’s… a lot of zeros,” she said, looking at a contract.

  “We want to ask you, when you feel ready, to say bye-bye to the Agency and hello to us,” said Gregory. “We’ll move you to our insurance when…”

  “I already quit,” said Wraith, “Two weeks’ notice. By then, I should be better, and off the meds.”

  Gregory and Bannon stared at her earnestly. “We hope you accept our offer,” said Bannon.

  “We could throw in a company car, but we hear you love Harleys, and that one of the Soldier Pack is building one for you,” added Gregory. “And,” he said, his voice filled with hope, “if you want to take over my Evade and Escape classes…”

  Wraith laughed. “I didn’t evade so well. And, it will be months until I can ride. Cannot strain anything else. Ever.”

  “If you don’t want to…” said Gregory.

  “Oh, I want to,” said Wraith. “No one should have to go through this. So, give me some time.”

  “All the time you need,” said Bannon.

  “Bullshit,” said Gregory. “We need you to be our secret weapon in your lair. We’ll install screens, and get a faster computer…”

  “We’ll ask Daisy Chain to teach you stuff,” said Bannon. “Woman asks for top dollar, but her work is superb.”

  Wraith laughed again. “Done. Now, go away and buy me some screens or something.” The cat jumped on her lap. “I have a cat to pet.”

  “Yes,” said Bannon.

  “On it,” said Gregory. They stood up.

  “I’m kidding,” she said. “I’ll order my own damn screens. And set my own budget. I promise, I’ll make back every penny in new clients.”

  “Okay,” said Gregory.

  “Excellent,” said Bannon. They rushed out the door before she had time to make more demands.

  “You were a little hard on them,” said Sigrun, getting them each a glass of iced blackberry tea.

  “I was!” she said, laughing. “And they have clients coming out their ears. Got to keep their current ones happy. I think some of the Soldier Pack are coming along nicely. One or two might make excellent associates.”

  Sigrun dropped off the tea and sat down. “You think big.”

  “I think there are people out there that need help. Bannon and Gregory can help them.”

  “Where the fuck are we going to put computer screens? And, no, you can’t have my bedroom.”

  “I’ll think of something,” said Wraith. She turned on the television. “Now, go finish the last two projects so we can watch TV.”

  “One’s drying and the other one is a group mural. Can’t go painting on it now. No light.”

  “Ooh, painting party. I’ll give you the card, let you order pizza. Knock that thing out.”

  “Alrighty then,” said Sigrun, stealing the remote. “Shall we watch sexy men put out fires, or sexy people in a hospital?”

  “One after the other,” said Wraith, “of course.”

  “Of course,” said Sigrun, snuggling in.

  Henry awoke to a tug on his hair, a gentle one. He opened one eye, and found Damia looking at him, eyes serious. He rose up on his elbows and looked at the clock. He wanted to groan; but knew it might alarm Damia. It was several hours past his normal wakeup time. His body felt bruised. He’d run around like a maniac on a Harley for days now, being shot at, and shooting people. He resolved to sing his taking of a life later.

  He said, in a quiet voice, “I am fine, little one. Just tired.”

  Damia smiled that brilliant smile of hers, the one they thought they’d never see. It clutched at his heart and made him feel like sunshine itself, simultaneously. “Inola got a new pony.”

  He wanted to lay back down and sleep, but Damia needed to show him something. “Let me wash up, and we will go to see the pony together.”

  Damia nodded, her blonde curls bobbing. Henry sat up,
put his feet on the floor, and shuffled to the bathroom like an old man. Once inside, he stretched, popping his spine and knees, and did his morning ablutions. His sun song could wait, especially since the sun had been up for hours. He dressed in underwear, socks, jeans, and a tee, and followed the little girl down the stairs.

  In the kitchen, Vi smiled but didn’t say a word. She put a biscuit with sausage and egg into one hand, and a huge lidded cup of coffee in the other. “Bless you, sister,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  She blushed prettily. At the door, he put one leg up, then the other, like a flamingo as Damia put his boots on for him. He stumbled out onto the porch and saw the pony. His heart clutched again, but not in a good way. The poor thing was in the paddock with the farrier, working to cut off its too-long hooves and oil them. The little pony was a patchy one, matted brown and white, with a tan nose and forelock, and a black mane and tail. Inola had already shaved off the mess and was now handing the pony little bits of their extra-calorie feed. The pony, a mare, delicately took the feed from Inola’s hand.

  Henry remembered to eat; he needed his hands free. He ate the sandwich, wiped his fingers, and pocketed the napkin, while he took sips of the scalding coffee. He put the coffee down on a post and walked to the animal with its ribs showing. He sang then, of sunshine and sweet grass, moonlight and clear water. He ended up with his hand on the pony’s head while the farrier, Tim Robb, finished.

  “I never get over how you two can calm an animal,” said Tim, straightening out his lanky frame. He put away his tools and the hoof oil, and stretched, elongating his already-long spine. “And your songs make them happy.”

  Damia reached out and stroked its shoulder. “Her name is Blaze,” she said, clearly. “She needs food and water, and vet care. Vet Varner is on her way.”

  Robb knew damn well that Damia had autism. He hadn’t heard two words from the girl. He took off his cowboy hat, ran a hand through his floppy brown hair that was cut short on the sides and back, and put the hat back on before he spoke. “That’s exactly right, young filly,” he said, playing the cowboy to the hilt. It worked; that bright laugh sounded out over the paddock. Inola and Henry locked eyes, merriment in Inola’s, joy in Henry’s.