Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6) Page 16

  I narrowed down my focus. At least ten of my friends were working on the motel. Ten Ochoas taking them by surprise while they hung drywall? Easy. Even if the Ochoas were on their way to Leaves of Grass, the second they saw all that Illuminati Brothers equipment in the motel parking lot, the Harleys, the cages, they’d know what was up. They could easily change their plans. And no doubt they were armed to the teeth.

  I was actually surprised one of them hadn’t pulled over to take out my fuel truck, or to run my Panhead off the road. The truck’s door was clearly labeled with the Illuminati logo. Why had they all passed us by without so much as a glance? Now they’d know we were coming up the hill, and would be expecting us. I approached the motel and the big boulder Lytton suggested we hide behind.

  Noisily and creakily, I pulled the giant tanker to the shoulder. I was sure the Ochoas could hear the heavy truck crunching rocks. I leaped out of the door, pointing to Wolf Glaser to follow me behind the boulder. Now we were silent as we padded hunched over around the back side of the giant rock.

  Yes. The Ochoas had surrounded the motel. I counted eight of them ringing the V shape of the midcentury motel, all clutching Russian ladies. There had been at least two other beaners, so they must’ve gone around the back where each unit had a little deck area for viewing the nonexistent lake. All of the Bare Bones vehicles were parked off to one side in the grass due to the parking lot overlay job, but the Ochoas had parked on the old parking lot, only half of which was paved and had never been compacted. Ford, Knoxie, Faux Pas, Speed, Kneecap, Gollywow—they were all standing around on verandahs of different units. Some guys held mudding knives or electric drills. I knew some went around armed day and night, but of course they didn’t dare draw their weapons, being surprised at a disadvantage like they were.

  “What the fuck,” groused Wolf. “Those are innocent fucking people in there. What kind of arms you got in your saddlebags? Sniper rifle? Chopper or street sweeper?”

  “I’ve got the sniper rifle and a SAW,” I said, mentioning the squad auto weapon, a portable light machine gun. “But I’ve got one better. I’ve got a fuel truck.”

  A car slowed down to rubberneck at the sight of the ring of thugs surrounding the renovated motel. One of the baby gangsters shot out the rear window, causing the car to speed away toward Leaves of Grass. That was just brilliant, getting a stranger involved, a stranger who was ninety-nine percent likely to alert the cops.

  “God damnit,” said Wolf. “They’re showing us they’re willing to kill. Oh fuck, who’s that?”

  Abel Ochoa and a few other thugs stomped out of the office. The other guy held a Mexican cleaning woman by the arm, but Abel Ochoa had Madison Illuminati whipping her around like a lariat. Abel shrieked in that high pitched tone of someone upset beyond any logic or reason.

  “I want to know who took out my father! I won’t blast this pretty little lady’s brains all over the parking lot if you hand over whoever killed my father!”

  I didn’t trust a word of it. He wouldn’t leave Madison alone even if I came out with my hands up.

  Not in a million fucking years.

  PIPPA

  “Slushy, can I tell you something in confidence?”

  “Of course you can. I wouldn’t be worth half a damn if I didn’t honor attorney-client privilege. What’s up?”

  We were pulling our arrows from the hay bales out back of Smoky Mountain. My next task was to see if the first room the men had taped yesterday was dry enough for painting, and I was working my arm up to it. We were standing fairly close as we yanked arrows, so there’d never be a better time. “I’m in the WITSEC program.”

  Slushy paused. Even doing something as casual as archery, he still wore a loud red shirt with a clashing chartreuse tie. Sitting in his office behind the indoor range, even if he knew he’d never see a client other than a Bare Boner all day, he got dressed up. “Part and parcel of the job,” he said.

  “I see. I knew something was up. Your story about the abusive ex just didn’t ring true.”

  “It didn’t? You doubt a woman who says she’s been abused?”

  “Not at all. It was your description of San Francisco. With its sunny summers waterskiing on San Francisco Bay, I knew something was up. As Mark Twain said. ‘The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.’ So what’s your question?”

  He didn’t ask me what I’d done to enter WITSEC. “Well, I’m afraid it’s the Joneses I’m testifying against. And they’re pretty much not going to rest until I’m dead. They know I’m in P and E. They sent that monster with the rotting jaw to kill me.”

  Slushy squinted against the sun. “Yeah. Krokodil’ll do that to you every time. Haven’t seen that guy around since the Citadel archery range. Is he…off the grid now?”

  I was glad Slushy had picked up on that. “Yeah,” I said with relief. “He won’t be bothering anyone anymore. Fox saw to that. Problem is, I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know? The Joneses aren’t going to be put off because one of their sicarios wound up splattered. They’re going to keep coming and coming until they get me.”

  “When’s testimony?”

  “Right now it’s set for September.”

  Slushy stroked a nonexistent beard. “September, September…” He snapped his fingers. “We give the Joneses a different body! A woman, of course, but someone fucked up beyond recognition.”

  I frowned and recoiled from the lawyer who had always seemed pretty benign—cuddly, even. “Slushy! Do you know what you’re saying?”

  He erased my thoughts with his hand. “Well, of course, we wouldn’t go out of our way to obtain a body like that. But if one happened to show up, we wouldn’t be averse to shipping her over to Jones with a note attached to her toe saying it’s you. Hey, who the fuck is that?”

  I looked to the parking lot overlay job. No one was supposed to be parking there for obvious reasons, but a few motorcycles—not Harleys—and a couple of muscle cars had pulled onto it. This didn’t bode well, and I dropped my bow and started jogging for the motel only forty yards away. No one was out on any of the back decks, but some muscle cars and bikes drove around that way anyway and parked.

  “Hide!” Slushy called out as I sprinted in the back lobby door.

  I stepped behind a Coke machine just as a couple of heavy-booted baby gangsters stormed the lobby, the bell on the door tinkling harmlessly in contrast to their stomping and shuffling, the clicking of military grade weapons.

  “Mamá, ven aquí,” said the one in authority. Mama, get over here. “You, cabróna, you’ll do. Where are all the men?”

  I could view the front door but not the lobby where the women were. I could hear the tremor in Tracy’s voice a mile off. I didn’t hear the rustle of anyone else, so the men must’ve gone back to their work in the units. I didn’t dare peek out from behind the vending machine, but I presumed they had Maddie. I should’ve been armed. I should’ve gotten Fox to take me to the gun range and teach me. Why wasn’t I walking around armed? These must be Jones men, coming to find me.

  “I don’t know,” Tracy said in a feeble attempt at cover-up. They must be looking for Fox.

  A harsh crack told me someone had slapped Tracy. “Cabróna! Me cago en tu puta madre!”

  “I don’t know!” Tracy sobbed. “Look around!” At least two other women whimpered, and I presumed June and Emma had stayed in the lobby after polishing off the boob cake.

  I had the feeling the baby gangster was about to slap Tracy again when more stomping boots came down the front walkway. This time the screen door was flung open violently, and Ford commanded,

  “What the fuck is going on around here, Abel? Hey! Take your fucking hands off my wife!”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Abel poisonously. “Someone has murdered my father and I aim to find out who.”

  Murdered my father. So this wasn’t about me at all. These guys weren’t even Joneses.

  They were Ochoas.


  “Ruben has been murdered?” Ford was doing a good job pretending it was all a surprise to him. More boots stampeded down the front walkway. In the doorway, I could see Ford hold out his hand in the “stay” position, telling Faux Pas, Knoxie, Speed, and a couple others to hold still.

  A frightening click told me that someone was prepared to shoot. Abel Ochoa probably had his barrel directed at Ford’s temple. Ford slowly raised his hands, confirming my belief. “You damn well know he’s been killed, you fucking pinche guey. Que te jodan and your fucking family, Illuminati. We’ve been supplying your dispensaries with product for years and this is how you repay us?”

  “I didn’t know anything about it, Abel,” said Ford, smooth as butter. “It was none of my doing. I heard some vague gossip that Ruben was dead, but that’s it.”

  “It’s true,” cried Maddie. “Ford knew nothing about it.”

  I guessed Abel transferred his barrel from Ford’s head to Maddie’s then. “Oh yes, my beautiful cabróna? Then who did know about it?”

  “Leave her the fuck alone, Ochoa!” yelled Ford. “She knows less about it than I do!”

  “We’ll fucking find out about that,” sneered Abel, and he was banging out the door with his henchmen. I glimpsed one of the captive women was a Leaves of Grass cleaning woman. The last thing I saw was someone reach out and whip the pistol from the back of Ford’s jeans, then bash him on the head with it. However, Ford followed them through the screen door. I heard a scuffle and some more thuds.

  Out front, Abel yelled, “I want to know who took out my father! I won’t blast this pretty little lady’s brains all over the parking lot if you hand over whoever killed my father!”

  I jumped when the back swinging screen door creaked. It was only Slushy, though, creeping bent over, holding two bows in one hand, a sheaf of arrows in the other. He was a bizarre sight in his suit and tie, holding what amounted to little kids’ bows.

  “Here,” he whispered, handing me one and some arrows, “for protection.”

  “They’re Ochoas,” I whispered back, although no thugs were close by. “Coming to get whoever murdered their father.”

  “Don’t tell me who,” said Slushy, crouching down beside me.

  “I won’t. And I’ve got a better idea. You stay here.”

  I stayed crouched over so any Ochoa glancing in the window wouldn’t see me. I tiptoed past my friends to my office and unlocked the wall safe. I took out the small handgun Lytton had provided me with—the one I’d never learned to use. It was loaded, though, I knew, so I tiptoed back and gave it to Slushy. “Trade you,” I said.

  Slushy handed his bow to me, too, without even looking at it. “Wow. Just, wow.”

  “You know how to use it? It’s loaded.”

  “I work at a fucking archery range, Pippa,” he whispered. “But I also work for a motorcycle club. So yeah, I do.”

  “What the fuck?”

  There was a big clamor out front. Men swore in Spanish, the Mexican cleaning woman screamed, and Abel yelled, “No dispares! Es un camión de combustible!” Don’t shoot! It’s a fuel truck!

  Fox! Since there were no enemies in the lobby, I ran half-crouched to the front window for a good view. Sure enough, Fox was driving the fuel truck in a slow semi-circle around all the beaner vehicles and scoots. He even casually leaned his bare arm out the open window, like he was taking a Sunday drive. What was he doing? I could’ve had Slushy shoot Abel who was clutching Maddie, but someone else would’ve shot one of our men who lined the front porches of the rooms down the line. It would’ve just been a bloodbath, a free-for-all. We had to be strategic. I didn’t know where all the male Mexican workers had gone. Probably hiding in the rooms. This wasn’t their beef.

  And we had to figure out what Fox’s end game was. He could’ve just hidden in his truck somewhere until this all blew over. But he just drove casually out into the open, as though daring them to kill him. Did he have a death wish? Was all this mercenary murder finally too much for him? Was he willing to take a bullet for the club? Well, that much was obvious.

  I couldn’t see Abel Ochoa, but it sounded like he was waving his gun around, he was that frantic. “You fucking pinche guey! You fucking Anglo! Get the fuck out of the parking lot!”

  Fox’s expression was sunny and carefree. Had he lost it? Did his golf bag not have a full set of irons? “Don’t worry, Ochoa. I’m just here to gas up the equipment. Don’t mind me.” And he continued in his half-circle, making a circuit of the parking lot.

  “Who are you, you pinche guey? Who is he?” he asked in a quieter tone.

  “Fox Isherwood,” said Maddie, clear and steady. “He’s not one of us. He just drives trucks for us.”

  “Then how did he know my name?” hissed Abel.

  I could practically hear Maddie shrug. “Doesn’t everyone know you?”

  That was a smart answer. Flattering the guy’s ego while avoiding answering the question. But Fox’s lack of concern must’ve gotten to Ochoa, because the guy let go of Maddie and stepped off the verandah. Now I could see him waving his pistol.

  “Get out of that truck!” Abel shrieked. “Shut down the fucking engine and get the fuck out!”

  Fox finished making his circle, but he didn’t turn off the engine. My heart sank when he stepped out of the truck. Of course he had a pistol shoved down the back of his jeans like they all did. But it’d be suicide to use it now.

  “Get up there! Get up there!” yelled Abel, shooing Fox over to the front verandah with the rest. Fox didn’t make it to the front steps, though. In one flashing motion, he turned fast as lightning and threw something on the ground. Abel wasn’t quick enough to react, it was so unexpected.

  Voom! The trail of gasoline Fox must’ve been spilling from the fuel truck’s hose was on fire! Circus-like, flames quickly ate up the trail he’d laid down, setting fire to men’s pants before they could get out of the way.

  Pow! The first shot was fired. Fox pulled his own pistol from his pants and shot Abel clean through the forehead. The guy collapsed to the ground, splayed out like a chalk outline. All hell broke loose then.

  Men ran, on fire. Flames engulfed a motorcycle, exploding the fuel tank. When a beaner ran to save it, he caught on fire too. He was put out of his misery by Ford, who must’ve gotten his gun back. The guy crashed into his flaming motorcycle, and they died as one, together forever.

  The same thing happened when a beaner tried to save his Camaro. His pants wound up on fire, too, and a fresh burst of automatic machine gun fire put an end to him, as well as dozens of bullet holes in his beloved car.

  Where was that machine gun fire coming from? I ran out front with my bow, yelling at the women to stay inside. I looked around, but non-flaming targets were few and far between. That was when I heard a clattering inside the lobby. Looking through the front door, I could see the back door was open. I remembered a couple of beaners from behind the building. I ducked inside the door just in time to see two Ochoas pointing their guns at the women.

  I thwacked one of them in the throat with an arrow. I had to stand way back by the couches to get him at that close range. It was classic to see his eyes cross. He dropped his gun and put a hand to his throat, then fell in a giant pile of limbs. I nocked another arrow, but someone else got to the second guy before me. Another clean shot through the middle of the forehead, and he crashed onto my desk. A little rivulet of blood ran over some of my papers. June, sitting on my desk, reached a foot out and kicked him to the floor.

  “Thanks,” I said, to both June and Slushy, who had plugged the guy.

  He grinned. “No sweat.”

  I ran out front again with my little bow. It seemed like every Boner was armed now, and it was impossible to find a beaner to bury anymore. If machine gun fire hadn’t gotten them, a Boner had. Fox was looming over a prone body, pistol in hand, but the guy wasn’t moving. I ran over to him, tossing my bow aside and grabbing his arm.

  “Get inside!” I cried.

  Hi
s face was so placid, so calm. As though he stood in the eye of a hurricane. “Not ’til I’m sure they’re all dead. You get back inside.”

  But I wouldn’t leave his side. Wolf came across the street now, a little machine gun slung across his back. Luckily there wasn’t much traffic up here if you didn’t count hunters, fishermen, or people looking for their lodging. He looked so cool and collected, like Clint Eastwood walking calmly through the carnage, until the fuel truck exploded.

  Fox had made sure to park it away from the motel. He probably thought it would catch fire a lot sooner and give a needed distraction to the Ochoas.

  Wolf must have forgotten that. He was crossing the highway and had made it almost to the unpaved part of the parking lot when the thing just detonated, flaring up in a giant mushroom cloud and sending a shockwave that knocked him on his ass.

  I was surprised how heedlessly Fox ran out there to get him. No one else did. They were too busy making sure the women were safe, or making sure the Ochoa they’d gunned down was truly dead. Some men were already involved in dragging bodies, flaming or not, into one of the rooms that hadn’t been renovated yet. Speed had found a fire extinguisher and was running around putting out fires in cars, motorcycles, and flaming Ochoas. Now he ran to the fuel truck.

  But by the time I reached them, Wolf was standing, grinning his trademark grin. Fox had his hand on Wolf’s upper arm, as though Wolf was disabled. “Come on. We’ve got to get inside, start cleaning up this mess.”

  Faux Pas and Knoxie ran past with fire extinguishers too. I wondered what we were going to do with all the burned bikes and cars. A few were unscathed, but we wouldn’t want to be caught dead with them on our property.

  “Boy, this is the last thing Randy Blankenship wants to see.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Fox. I hadn’t realized I’d said it that loud. “It was all we could think of at such short notice. I guess I didn’t have to blow up the fuel truck, but I couldn’t stop the gas from flowing without getting out and turning off the valve.”