Rest & Trust (20 page)

“They call it a motorcycle club. But yes. Exactly. I’m with one of them. And they’re all my friends. They look out for their friends. I don’t think they’d like to find out that you’re making threats.” It felt incredibly good to be able to say that. A whole crowd of outlaw bikers interested in keeping her safe.

“You’re
with
a biker?”

“Yes.”

“Sadie.” He said it the way Sherlock sometimes said her name: with exasperated disappointment. She hated it.

“Like I said, Blake. You can’t threaten me into being your friend. Or anything else. Do what you want. Just know that I have people watching my back now.”

He took several steps back, toward his car. “You’re not the person I thought you were.”

“And you’re not the person I thought you were. So we’re even. Have a nice life,
Fred
.”

She stood on the sidewalk until he was in his car and had driven out of sight.

Her heart was pounding again, but this time it was different. This time she felt like she’d just done something powerful. And she wasn’t alone. She kind of wanted to roar.

~oOo~

That afternoon, Sherlock called—much earlier than usual. Since he’d been gone, his habit had been to text an occasional note, nothing of much substance, just a snip of what he was up to, and then call her late, after she was in bed, or around the time she’d started thinking about it. He liked to hear her voice at the end of the day. She liked that, too.

She hadn’t called him at all, though she’d texted regularly, replying to his, or telling him about her own day.

But it was midafternoon when his name showed up on her screen, and she answered with her heart thumping again, already guessing that something was wrong. Bike Week was over; he was headed home today. She hoped he hadn’t been in an accident.

“Everything okay?” was the first thing out of her mouth as she answered the phone.

“No.” That one syllable held the weight of the universe in it.

“Oh, God. Are you hurt?”

“I’m going to call you on another line. It’ll read ‘unknown,’ but answer.”

Then he was gone. A few seconds later, an unknown call lit up her screen, and she answered.

“You’re hurt!”

“No, sweetheart. I’m okay. We’ve got trouble here, though. I won’t be home for a while.”

Her next thought was that he’d been arrested. But would he be able to call her if he had? Twice? On different phones? No. She didn’t think that was it.

“We lost two men last night.”

Her brain skipped, and she didn’t understand. “Lost?”

“Sadie.”

“Oh. Oh, God. Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Look, we don’t know if this is going to hit home. I know you just got back from Muse and Sid’s—”

She knew what was coming, so she cut him off. “He’s coming to pick me up again.”

“Not quite. Muse is busy with something else. I’m sending Nate to you. You didn’t meet him, but he’s a big black kid. About my height, but about three hundred pounds. He’ll be wearing a kutte, but it won’t have the Mane on the back. It’ll say ‘Prospect.’ Okay?”

“He’s taking me to Muse and Sid’s?”

“No. This is bigger. We’re taking all the women and kids to Bart and Riley’s house. That place is a fortress.”

“Riley? You mean—”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed. “This isn’t the time for movie star bullshit. She’s Bart’s old lady. That’s all that matters.”

One of the guests of honor at the charity rally had been Riley Chase, who happened to be married to one of the Horde. Sherlock was telling her that she was headed to Riley Chase’s house.

“Um, okay. Sherlock, what’s going on?”

“I’m keeping you safe, Sadie. I’ll always keep you safe.” His voice shook with emotion, and Sadie closed her eyes. It was like she could feel him through the phone.

She believed him—it was why she’d known that her threat to Blake had real teeth. But she had a question. “Is it always like this? Your life?”

“Not always, no. When it is, it can
feel
like it’s always like this. But most of the time it’s pretty dull.” He sighed, the sound like static in her ear. “We can talk about what you think about that when I get home. I don’t have it in me to have that talk now.”

She needed some time to think, anyway. She didn’t even know what she should think. She only knew what she knew: she loved him. She needed him. “Okay. But what about you? Are you safe?”

His dejected chuckle filled her ear, but he didn’t answer otherwise. “I’ll be a few more days than I thought. We need to take Lakota home to his family before we head back. I’ll see you at Bart’s as soon as I can get home. Nate’ll be there in a few minutes. Pack up. I’ll call when I can. I love you, little outlaw.”

Lakota. The one who’d helped her at the party. She barely knew him, but her throat got tight anyway. “I love you. I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t know if he’d heard her; when she looked at the screen, the call was already over.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

After Bike Week, Sturgis slowly reverted into a small Great Plains town. All of the Horde, both charters, stayed, waiting for Lakota and Jerry’s bodies to be released by the coroner. They moved camp closer to town, and they waited.

While they waited, they sought: for information, and for understanding. So far, there was little of either to be had. There was no sign of the so-called Immortal Sinners in Sturgis, and no sign that Sherlock, Bart, or Dom had yet found that they’d been there at all. Like they’d ridden in expressly to wreak the destruction they had and then had ridden back out immediately thereafter.

Hoosier had called in help from the Red Rebels out of Markham, California to keep watch over the Horde family while Muse rode to South Dakota. Though it wasn’t their way, they were taking Lakota to Pine Ridge to be buried with his blood family, and only the Horde would be invited onto the reservation for the funeral. Lakota would be buried as a member of the Oglala Lakota tribe rather than as Horde.

On the morning of the second day, the Horde sat at a diner on the edge of the strip and gave desultory attention to the food before them.

Sherlock pushed his plate away and turned to Hoosier. “There’s still not much on this crew—The Immortal Sinners. Nosing into Fed space from here, we’d have to do it with a giant flashing light over our heads, so all we got until we’re home is what we can straight search for, but it looks like they’re not making any waves at all yet. It’s only been a little over a month since they got our attention in Idaho, and that was their first mark on the map—and we cleared that up, so it got no LEO notice.”

Bart cut in, “It’s almost like they formed purely to come at us.”

“And you think it’s La Zorra they’re really after?” Showdown asked. Most of the Missouri Horde had been quiet, following SoCal’s lead. Missouri was not in this game, after all, and they hadn’t just lost a long-standing member and a Prospect.

In answer to Show’s question, Hoosier nodded. “The timing of the ambush, with our expansion in the north, and a brand new crew causing us trouble? Hard to believe it’s not related. I think it goes…deeper than that, though. One of the guys we faced in Idaho was a Leandro.”

“Is that a name we should know?” Badger leaned in.

Connor answered, “We have personal history with the Leandros. Long way back.”

Sherlock wasn’t convinced that Hoosier was right, but the SoCal President did not want to let the idea go. He seemed to want it to be the Leandros back and gunning for him. Like a family feud or something. Still, risking Hoosier’s wrath, Sherlock shook his head. “We won’t know if this goes that far back until we get home and I can dig deeper. All we know for sure right now is it’s obviously a message. The way they cut Lakota? And Jerry? Carving them up? They’re serving notice.”

Connor made a subtle cutting motion with his hand, and Sherlock shut up just as the Sturgis Chief of Police arrived at their table, standing right behind him.

The Horde had gotten to know Chief Lance Berger a little over the past day or so. He was a standup guy, a biker himself, albeit a leisure rider, and as head of Sturgis law, he understood men who rode, and he understood club life. For all the madcap insanity and drunken shenanigans that made Bike Week, truly bad conduct was normally minimal, and good deeds plentiful. It was a place to see bikers at their best. Berger was an ally, even knowing exactly who and what the Night Horde was.

Their own Sheriff in San Bernardino County was similarly club-friendly, though his affinity had more to do with his wallet than with his aesthetic. Montoya didn’t ride, but he liked the envelope he picked up every month, and he liked the way the Horde paid regularly into the Widows and Children’s Fund, and donated big to any Sheriff-sponsored fundraiser.

Sherlock would be suspicious of a man whose interests were solely financial—all the Horde would—but Montoya also liked the way the Horde handled trouble the Sheriff’s office couldn’t and then let Montoya bask in the credit. They kept their turf clean and quiet, and they took their dirt outside. When enemies did cross their boundaries, the Horde handled the problem quickly, completely, and far away.

Berger leaned over Sherlock slightly and asked, “Mind if I sit with you a minute?”

Hoosier nodded at Berger and flicked his hand at Keanu. The young patch got up and grabbed an empty chair from nearby table, and the Horde made room at their crowded hodgepodge of tables.

“You got news, Chief?” Connor asked.

“Some. I got questions, too. A plea, more like. But news first. The ME is ready to release the bod—your brothers. I’ve been in touch with West’s family down at Pine Ridge, and his sister…” Berger fumbled in his pocket for his pad.

“Leah,” Ronin supplied quietly. If anything, the man had been
more
quiet since they’d all stood at the Chip around that stretcher. But there was a raised tendon in his neck, like a length of rope, that hadn’t relaxed in more than a day. Sherlock thought Ronin was the embodiment of ‘contents under pressure,’ but if not for that thick cord under his ear, no one would know.

“Right. Leah.” Berger got his pad out anyway. “She’s on her way up to identify the body.” Several Horde reacted to that, but Berger waved them off. “I know we have an ID. It’s not in doubt. But we need a blood relation to confirm, if one exists.”

“So you’re going to make his little sister look on him, even though you know the ID is solid? Over a fucking technicality?” Fargo didn’t bother to filter the anger from his voice, and Berger turned a wary eye on him.

“I’m sorry. The ME will make it as…easy on her as she can. On the point of kin, I got a problem for Gerald Klepp. West is listed as his emergency contact. Were they related?”

Hoosier answered wearily, “Lakota was Jerry’s club sponsor. They’re not blood kin. Jerry didn’t have any family but us.”

Sherlock knew that, of course he did, but it hit him hard nevertheless. Jerry had had nobody but the Horde. He’d been a Prospect for more than two fucking years, and they’d never offered him his top rocker. He hadn’t been the world’s best Prospect; he wasn’t particularly bright, and he was easily intimidated and slow to take initiative, but he’d been loyal as fuck and willing to do any shit they’d asked of him without hesitation.

In the tardy light of reflection, Sherlock looked around and wondered how many of his brothers had grown into their rocker
after
they’d sewn it on. More than a few, he’d wager.

Himself, for one. Though he had intellect, loyalty, and initiative, Sherlock wasn’t the best rider, or the best fighter, or the best mechanic. He wasn’t the strongest or the most fearless. In all of those categories, he thought himself merely competent. His tech skills, such a mystery to his brothers, had eased his way.

Jerry would probably have made a fine patch. But he’d gotten caught up in the pall of suspicion Jesse had cast over the table. Still stinging from that horrific betrayal, nobody had been willing to open the Keep doors for anyone less than a superhero, and they’d left Jerry standing alone in the cold, pouring their beers and cleaning their toilets.

Shit. Sherlock dropped his head.

Berger said, “Okay. I’ll release him to you, then, Hoosier.”

He sighed, and Sherlock looked up to see the Chief gripping his knees as if he had to steel himself to say the next thing. “Now, I’ve got a plea. We can talk freely here.”

Sherlock knew that, because they were jamming. Even if Berger were wearing a wire himself, only static would record. When Sherlock nodded and said, “I know,” Berger gave him a sidelong look and then a smile.

“I need some help. We haven’t had something like this go down here in…longer than I can remember. I’ve got Staties breathing down my neck, I’ve got Feds. They’re all looking for a reason to claim jurisdiction.
Scalping
a full-blooded Oglala? That’s a fucking hate crime. But that mark they carved into their heads? Nobody’s seen it before. The only reason I’m still running this show is they can’t tie it to a bigger narrative. They are trying, though, and I need your help. I know you want to fix this your way, and I’m not inclined to meddle in that. What those bastards did—it turns my stomach. But I need a solve. I need a narrative that keeps this in my hands. I know you know something.”

“Nothing that’ll keep it in your hands, Chief,” Hoosier answered. “We appreciate what you’re doing, though. Tell us what you need. Exactly.”

“I need this to be about the bike.”

He meant Trick’s bike. HAL, which had been destroyed in the attack. They’d smashed it to shit—the trailer, too, the trophy, everything—and then burned the rubble. It was the fire that had drawn attention to the bodies lashed to trees in the woods.

Trick spoke up. “You need a story about somebody who showed undue interest. Maybe he—they—came at me after I won.”

Berger brought his eyes to Trick and held there. “That would go a ways, yeah. If you can fold that damn symbol into the mix, that’ll help.”

“I can do that.” Trick nodded and then tipped his head in Connor’s direction. “Connor was with me when they confronted me.”

Connor nodded. “That’s right.”

“How does that fix the hate crime angle?” The Missouri Horde had been staying quiet, as was right, but Nolan had just asked a damn good question.

“It doesn’t. That’s what that was. But I can minimize it, sell it as an augmentation to the charges rather than the motive.”

“Then that’s the story.” Connor said. “Give us a little bit to get it straight, and we’ll come in.”

Just then, Ronin stood up and left the table. Conversation ceased as they all watched him walk out of the diner.

They were some distance from the front window, but the path was clear enough from Sherlock’s seat that he saw Ronin meet, and then hug, a young woman with shoulder-length black hair. She was small and slim, and for half a second, Sherlock thought Sadie had come to Sturgis. Then the pair separated, and Sherlock saw that the woman was darker-skinned, with more exotic features, than Sadie.

Fuck. That was Leah, Lakota’s sister.

Who knew Ronin well enough to have greeted him with a hug. Sherlock looked around the table to see that his SoCal brothers were similarly surprised. How close had Lakota and Ronin been?

While they all watched like they’d bought tickets for the show, Ronin’s hand went to her face as if he were wiping a tear away. Then he kissed that cheek and took her hand. Together, they came back into the diner and walked to their table. All the men came to their feet.

The girl was more than exotic. She was stunningly beautiful—and not a girl. Lakota was—had been—a year younger than Sherlock. Leah was obviously his younger sister, but she looked to be in her early thirties. Her small stature made her seem younger from a distance.

It was Leah who spoke. She ignored the Horde and turned her attention to Chief Berger. “I’m Leah West. I’m here for my brother.”

~oOo~

The Pine Ridge Reservation was the poorest community in the entire United States. With a per capita annual income of a few thousand dollars, adult alcoholism and addiction rates above eighty percent, and the second-lowest life expectancy in the Western Hemisphere, the reservation was a study in desolation. At least thirty thousand people lived here. No—they existed here. They subsisted here.

Pine Ridge was the site of Wounded Knee. As the Horde rode in formation behind the hearse that carried their brother’s body, Sherlock studied the battered hovels, the filthy children, the packs of dogs trotting over dusty, dead fields, and thought that Wounded Knee had been happening every day since 1890.

Leah had taken the bus to Sturgis, and now she was riding bitch with Ronin, at the head of the formation, in front of the hearse. They drove through a little town, past houses in conditions ranging from ramshackle to worn but tidy, past a small commercial district that consisted of a trading post and a gas station, and finally turned onto a dirt road.

At the end of the road was the nicest house they’d seen. Nothing fancy by any means, but solid. A well-kept single story home that Sherlock would have bet good money was a pre-fab. Two single-wide mobile homes, also in good condition, framed the larger house. Three solid but aging cars and an archaic, rusted pickup were parked in a neat row on a gravel pad.