Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6) Page 13

  I backtracked, rooting through a few bars that fronted the square. I found Wolf Glaser and Tracy playing pool with Roman and Gudrun. Nothing. If anyone had seen Pippa it would have been Tracy, who seemed to be her new bestie.

  I had to get the fuck out of town, get down to Beatty before Phil Din got the drop on me. One last thing I did was ride to the motel where someone had booked a block of rooms. No Pippa Lofting. No Flavia Brooks, no single woman anywhere.

  Who the fuck hadn’t I spoken to? I ran through the Bare Bones roster in my head. I’d seen Russ Gollywow practically humping some Bone Licker in a different bar, different pool table. Sax Saxonberg and Bee had been waiting in line at a roach coach with the late-night munchies. Kneecap had been in the same line, looking like he’d gone back for thirds. Who the fuck hadn’t I seen? I could think of no one.

  So Pippa had taken off with no one?

  Of course, I’d tried calling her several times. Of course, it sounded like her phone was turned off. Out of desperation I even texted her.

  Pippa. I need to talk to you, to explain.

  But explain what? I had no fucking idea.

  I had been sent to kill her. I had decided against it almost immediately.

  But are those really mitigating circumstances? “Well, yeah, I fucking admit it. I was sent with a hit on your back, but when I saw your excellent rack, I changed my mind”? I absolutely couldn’t blame her for running far, far away from me. She might already be on a flight back to Pure and Easy to collect her things and move to a new town.

  Lytton. That was the one guy I hadn’t seen. He answered on the first ring.

  “Hey. I’m in our room with June. Where are you?”

  “Out in the parking lot. Listen, I’ve lost track of Pippa. I’ve asked everyone, and no one has seen her.”

  Lytton consulted with June. “June saw her go into a bar with Tobias.”

  Tobias. That guy hadn’t occurred to me because he wasn’t an official Bare Bones charter member. I also instantly knew why she was going into a bar with Tobias. “Okay, listen. Shoot me Tobias’ number when you get a chance. I’ve got a bead on Phil Din. I’ve got to take off right now or the moment’s lost forever, if you know what I mean.”

  “I get it. Are you coming back to my place when you’re done?”

  “Absolutely, man. Abso-fucking-lutely. If you see Pippa, just give her a vague reason why I had to split. You don’t need to go into detail. She’ll get it.”

  “Godspeed, man.”

  I pounded it as fast as I dared back to 80 east where I’d hang a south at Battle Mountain. Once I got through the network of bikes coming and going from Winnemucca, it was clear sailing. I had changed out the plates on my Panhead in case it wound up a Road Warrior type of deal with Din on the highway, but I didn’t think it’d come to that.

  Tobias must have come up with intel on Pippa’s sister, the intel I had not been able to provide. I kicked myself for not having warned Tobias long ago to refrain from giving Pippa any intel. It was too dangerous for her to even be caught calling her sister. I was intimately familiar with the pain of being unable to call a sibling. Especially since her predicament was none of her doing, I agreed there had to be a way for her to call Shelda. She could call from one of Lytton’s burners, for instance.

  Shit like this was flying through my brain as I cleaved the desert in half. I had Street Viewed the Atomic Inn in Beatty. Some woebegone, rundown midcentury crap house with a cardboard alien out front to draw in the nuclear crowd. There were some empty hills immediately to the northeast of the shithole. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

  I wanted to ask Jones what in the name of a strongly worded Human Resources sensitivity training memo he was thinking, putting another sicario on my tail. He obviously didn’t trust me, but did he mean for Phil Din to kill me? If Phil was reporting back to Jones, it was pretty painfully obvious he’d told Jones that I’d been seen in very close proximity to the mark, Flavia Brooks. I felt trapped—in an almost worse dilemma than when I had to run from New Mexico.

  I had been preaching to Pippa and anyone who’d listen that the best way to predict the future was to create it. I felt I was creating it right now, but what sort of future did Pippa and I have? Especially if she ran from Pure and Easy.

  It was pretty bright out by six in the morning. I quietly scoped out the downtrodden motel, pleased that the electric blue Corvette was parked there. I went around by the Chamber of Commerce, cutting off on the dirt bike road I’d seen in the satellite image.

  Perfect. I lowered my bipod and set my rifle on a slight embankment that even had a sandy depression where I could lie and wait. I estimated I was at three hundred yards, and the rangefinder proved me correct. Good ol’ Phil Din would have never heard the report of my rifle at a hundred yards, but at three hundred I had to be careful. I had customized my tactical rifle beyond belief—a special barrel, trigger, and bolt action—all made to fit me alone. The scope was sighted in so accurately I’d hit the same spot every time.

  As I dug into my trench, I could not believe that I actually missed Wolf Glaser. At this distance, Wolf could blab all he wanted. There was no way Phil Din would ever hear us, or even consider a sniper might be waiting for him to come out of the Atomic Inn. I thought how sweet the love story was between Wolf and Tracy, actually. He’d apparently been pining, much to everyone’s annoyance, for a year now, waiting to steal Tracy back. Roman had verified Wolf’s incessant but romantic story of how she’d been saved from the trap house.

  The website had mentioned that the Atomic Inn served a free breakfast. I was right on the money that Phil Din wouldn’t take advantage of the cereal dispenser and the rubbery eggs. Like clockwork he exited his dingy room. Through my scope I could see him fumbling with his car keys with his gangrene-riddled fingers. Santiago Slayer was right. It did look like he wore zombie makeup. Of course he had a long-sleeved jacket on, but the decay in his mandibles was evident. I’d seen Krokodil addicts whose fingers had literally fallen off in front of me. I’d seen their calves eaten down to the bone. There was no coming back from that shit.

  I waited. I was making a huge assumption that he’d head on toward 95 and Winnemucca, and that’s what he did. I squeezed the trigger while he waited to turn right onto 95. His head whipped toward the passenger seat like he was falling asleep with a spray of blood and brains. Hitting him this way, instead of standing up in the Atomic Inn parking lot, made it a lot less obvious. It earned me precious seconds to pack everything up and tear out of there, hitting the highway before poor dead Phil ever could. Or should I call him Jim Fell?

  I chuckled as I hit the highway. Tonopah had a diner that was a safe bet for breakfast. It was about half an hour until a couple of CHP cages went flying past me toward Beatty, cherries and sirens at full tilt. That made me chuckle even harder. Since the highway was a straight shot and practically no one was going in my direction, I checked my phone. There was a text from Tobias.

  Fox, Pippa took off last night when I gave her Shelda’s info. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.

  Fuck! Took off where? I read the next text from Lytton.

  You gonna be at my house before I am? My housekeeper said there’s a guy asking around for Pippa. Name of Randy Blankenship.

  Fuck me dry! There was no point in heading north anymore. I hung a U at the next safe place to do so. I’d have to ride right past the Din murder scene, but nothing seemed to matter anymore.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PIPPA

  “So what’re you calling this bud and breakfast inn?”

  I giggled. “Smoky Mountain High. At least, that’s it for now.”

  My sister giggled too. “In Colorado…”

  I slapped her arm. “Oh, God! You were the one into John Denver. You drove us crazy with his CDs. All of that corny whining…”

  “Hey! He was my boyfriend!” Shelda reached for the bottle of wine I’d brought. “Oops, empty. Let me get another one.”

&
nbsp; “Sure. I’m taking a taxi back to the airport.”

  “When do you have to leave here?”

  I looked at the clock on my phone. “One more hour. Boo.”

  “Boo,” Shelda called from the kitchen. “And you know Randy Blankenship’s gonna be waiting for you. What an asshole.”

  Randy was her handler too, but he’d only flown to Oklahoma City a couple of times to check on her. She wasn’t a witness in the case. Jones had threatened her safety, holding it over my head if I dared try to escape from the warehouse. WITSEC had promised to relocate her with me, but they’d flaked on that promise. They claimed it was too dangerous to keep us together—if Jones got one of us, he’d get both—but we were miserable apart.

  After Tobias had found her phone number, I’d turned on my phone for a brief minute to call her, gotten her address. And the rest, as they say, was history. I’d hitched a ride with a solo biker going to Reno to catch the next flight to Oklahoma City. It had stopped in Denver so it had taken me all day, and now night was falling again. It’d be sunrise before I landed in Phoenix, miserable all over again. More so now because the man I’d thought I was falling in love with had been sent to kill me.

  “So tell me,” said Shelda in a new tone as she came back with the opened bottle of wine. “Are there any dudes in your life? Your new persona of Pippa Lofting sounds very attractive. Knitting and working at a weed dispensary. What guy could hold out against that?”

  I couldn’t even giggle now that she’d mentioned dudes. “I don’t know if I’m ready for dudes, you know, after Russ and all.”

  “Yeah, but it’s been awhile. I’m dating someone. Miss Sally Decker knows how to turn on the heat.” That was Shelda’s new persona. She swam in the community pool every day, rode a Vespa, and worked in a jewelry store. She used to be a chemist for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. I had ruined her life by dating the wrong dude.

  She told me about her new fling for a half an hour. I was glad for a distraction from Fox. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t questioned a hitman showing up in Pure and Easy. No one else had because they didn’t know there was a price on my head. Why would they question it? They wouldn’t.

  However, I couldn’t let myself off the hook. I kept reasoning with myself that he could’ve easily killed me before he even shook my hand. He could’ve sat on a hill with a sniper rifle, or whatever it was hitmen did in real life and not in the movies. He could’ve picked me off while I drove down the highway. Picked me off from the opposite side of the street, from a second story window while I dried my hair in my front room.

  But he didn’t, so I told myself that was a good sign. But was it, really? Was it? Was it a fucking good sign that Fox had even shown up in Pure and Easy in the first place, having agreed to take out an innocent woman who was the true victim in this case?

  Maybe he didn’t know that, I kept telling myself, trying to assuage my feelings of betrayal. Maybe he didn’t know you were the innocent victim. Maybe he was just following orders. Then he wanted to meet you first, to see who he was picking off. Once he met you, he decided against it. Now he’s in a dilemma about what to tell Jones.

  Jones. That maniac who fucked my life for no good reason. I never did a thing to him other than idiotically date a guy who owed him money.

  It went on and on like that, over and over in my mind during the interminable trip to Oklahoma City. It had occurred to me I could turn on my phone and google the allegedly real name Fox had given me. But I didn’t want to chance it that Randy Blankenship had some kind of software that could tell the second I turned on my phone and ping my location. He’d told me that was what the cartel could do, so I should turn it off if I ever thought they were on my tail. I hadn’t listened to any of the predictable irate voicemails from Randy. I’d just read the one text from Fox wondering where I’d gone.

  “Hi baby,” I said into my dog’s ruff. “Hi baby, hi baby. Dabba doo. Dabba doo.” I couldn’t stop saying that. I was beyond overjoyed that the one promise that WITSEC had kept was to allow Monstro to stay with Shelda. My scruffy giant mutt was the light of my life. Shelda wasn’t making much money at the jewelry store, but they allowed her to bring Monstro to work and keep her in the back. I kept telling her, only half-jokingly, to never quit that job.

  “Kiss kiss kiss,” agreed Shelda. “I kiss her every chance I get. The people at work do, too. I found a dog park to take her to on Sundays. Don’t worry. She’s in good hands. So you never answered me. Any dudes in your life?”

  I frowned, my face buried in the silky fur. Maybe it was easier to answer this way, not looking into my sister’s eyes. “Yes. One tall, redheaded, handsome hitman named Fox. Or should I say Trav—”

  “What? Hitman? Har-de-har, Flavia. No, really. I want to see you happy after the disaster named Russell Heston. Any promising stoners walk in the dispensary?”

  I came up for air, my fingers scrunched in Monstro’s fluffy ear. “I was serious about the hitman, Shelda. Some incredibly, exquisitely sexy guy showed up in P and E, admitting he was a hitman, but saying he was there for the sights.”

  Shelda’s jaw hung open. “Hitman? For reals?”

  “For fucking reals. Working for a motorcycle club, that didn’t seem too unusual, you know?”

  “I guess,” Shelda said skeptically.

  “And I didn’t think twice. He was with another hitman named Santiago Slayer.”

  “But of course.”

  I had to chuckle then. It did all sound so improbable. “But of course. This new hitman, Fox, saved my ass from getting a fast riding award.”

  “A what?”

  “Speeding ticket. He saved me from the cop, and then he appointed himself my protector. Only, he really wasn’t.”

  Shelda’s face was as still as an unmuddied lake. “He was trying to kill you.”

  “That’s why I just flew from Reno and not Phoenix. We were at a biker rally in Winnemucca, Nevada when I put two and two together.”

  “Flavia! You have to relocate again! Maybe they’ll finally assign you to Oklahoma City!”

  “I fucking doubt it. They say it’s too dangerous, us being together.”

  “But wait. If he was sent to kill you, why didn’t he try yet? Or has he?”

  “Not to my knowledge. That’s the part I don’t get. He was sent by Ortelio Jones to kill me, to stop me from testifying, right? Then what stopped him?”

  An idealistic gleam came into Shelda’s eyes. She was such a romantic. “He fell in love with you!”

  “Pfft. I doubt it, Shelda. I doubt it very much.”

  “Did he ever kiss you?”

  “Well…”

  My tone must’ve said it all, because Shelda cried, “He did kiss you! Then it’s true!”

  I stood, holding Monstro’s head fast to my thigh. “I’ve got to go now. But you’re right. I’m going to have to relocate again now that Ortelio Jones knows where I am due to Fox reporting back to him.”

  “How do you know Fox reported back?”

  “Pfft. How else is he going to get out of telling Jones where I am? He can’t just tell him he’s surfing in San Diego. Anyway, they sent another hitman out to get me, or Fox, or both of us. That guy definitely reported back.”

  “Flavia! I don’t think you should go back on that plane!”

  “It’s all right. I’m sure Randy Blankenship will be waiting for me.” I sighed heavily. “Besides, I hate to give up all my cloning research there. It’s pretty fascinating, the wild world of marijuana.”

  Shelda stood too. “But you have to give it up.”

  “I guess so. Hate to, though. Like I hate to go now.”

  It wrenched my heart to have to leave Shelda and Monstro. I put one foot in front of the other as I willed myself to get into the back of the taxi. I was drunk and it only served to remind me of that Blue Nun incident. The taxi driver had red hair. Everything, it seemed, reminded me of Fox Isherwood.

  Of course I couldn’t sleep on the plane. I’d never been able t
o do that. And there was a layover in Denver where I had to get out and switch planes. Whatever happened to the days of nonstop flights? I grabbed an egg and hash brown burrito that I wolfed down, then I stared at my darkened phone. I glanced around as if someone would be following me in Denver. When I turned the phone on, my heart actually flip-flopped with nerves.

  Ignoring the voicemails and texts, I quickly went to internet and googled Travis McShane Taos. What I read would’ve knocked me to the floor if I hadn’t already been sitting.

  The Taos News reported in 2014 that

  Lawyer for the District Attorney’s office, Travis McShane, 33, has allegedly jumped bail on his manslaughter charge. McShane has been indicted with first degree manslaughter in the murder of Ben Kightlinger, 31. McShane’s wife Lola reported the attorney as missing the morning of June 21, saying he’d driven off the night before and never returned. Bail had been set at $500,000.

  McShane had been indicted in January for the murder after what appeared to be a duelling incident left Kightlinger for dead in the backyard of his White Lane, Taos home.

  With shaking hands I googled for more on this Kightlinger affair. Earlier articles shed more light on the duel. It appeared that Travis McShane did not try to run from charges that he’d shot Kightlinger, who was found with a pistol in his own hand, shot through the forehead. There seemed to be some intimation that Kightlinger had been screwing around with Lola McShane, so the charges were reduced to manslaughter. But no one could avoid the reality that McShane had actually done the deed—that wasn’t in question. Yet his wife seemed bitter after he ran.

  “I’m not surprised Travis ran,” reported Mrs. McShane. “He’s been under tremendous pressure since the incident. He can’t stop blaming himself for committing such a heinous crime.” That didn’t sound terribly supportive of Mrs. McShane. And then there was the tidbit buried way down in a very short article after Lola reported Travis missing. Mrs. McShane reported no news in the affair from her White Lane, Taos home.