Leave a Trail (Signal Bend #7)(92)

Isaac stared at Becker, then turned to the Horde and gave a curt nod. Becker started first, then Isaac, and then the men all began to undress. Badger’s heart thudded heavily behind his ruined chest. He had his ink now, and that felt like body armor of a sort, but no one other than family—and the men who had done it to him in the first place—had ever seen his chest.

When they were all stripped bare, their clothes shaken out, their boots turned over, they stood there, eight scarred men. Badger knew his brothers’ scars, at least those above their waists. They sparred bare-chested in the ring. So he was not surprised by the lattice of destruction across Show’s back, or the ravages of shotgun and scalpel over Isaac’s. Len’s arms and legs were a railroad yard of raised seams.

They were all replacing their ink to the extent that they could, and they all had new ink that in some way commemorated their struggles. Standing here in the raw, with his brutalized brothers, Badger was overwhelmed by the sudden, complete understanding of what they had been through in the past six years.

Their bodies wore it all like a violent cartography. A map drawn in blood and bone.

The four members present from the Brazen Bulls—a club that had taken its name from medieval torture —stared dumbly at the ravaged Horde. They, too, were scarred. They, too, had paid a toll in blood to the Perro Blanco cartel. But no one had paid the price the Horde had paid.

Isaac broke the awkward silence. “Okay?”

Becker nodded, and the men began to dress. “Thank you, brother. Peace of mind is hard to come by in these times.”

“Let’s talk, Beck. Let’s cut though this crap and just talk.”

Becker nodded again and gestured toward the table. The eight men sat around it and talked.



oOo



When the Horde left tribal lands, they had reaffirmed a brotherhood and had an ally in their war. They also had the seedling of a plan. Not a surefire plan; not even a hopeful plan. A plan to go down taking as many Perros with them as they could—and one in particular. The Scorpions LA, the Brazen Bulls, the Night Horde—together, in total, they were twenty-eight men. Enough to win a battle at the Bulls’ weed pickup in Texas, but nowhere near what they’d need to win the war.

There was one way. Isaac had seen it.

Sitting in the tribal meeting hall, Isaac had made it clear that his primary goal was to force another face-to-face meeting with Julio Santaveria. Considering the history, he was gambling that taking down the Perros in Amarillo, with him at the vanguard, would do it. And then, face to face with Santaveria, he would kill the man. If he succeeded, then, with Santaveria dead, maybe the Perros would be destabilized enough that the clubs could extricate themselves from their traps and be free.

There was no way Isaac would come out of that alive, even if he managed to kill his target, and he knew it. Everyone at the table knew it. Show had reacted so violently to the plan that he’d almost ruined the alliance they were there to strengthen.

Badger wondered if Lilli knew Isaac’s plan. He figured not.

But he understood. It made his stomach burn and his heart clench, but he understood. Isaac was President, their leader. He took care of his club, his family. He stood at the vanguard. It was his sacrifice to make.

Now, after a nearly silent supper at a truck stop, they were riding solemnly home. The sun was low behind them, casting a red glow over the blacktop. Traffic was light. Riding at the speed limit, in a loose formation, Badger had let his mind go, thinking about Adrienne, what kind of ink he’d like her to have. He wanted her to have it before they took on the Perros.

A couple of miles from their off-ramp to home, the red glow got suddenly much more vivid and rhythmic, and Badger turned his head to see the Sheriff’s department cruiser keeping pace behind them, its lights flashing. The siren popped, one brief syllable. Badger looked forward; Isaac was waving them to the side of the road.

Before they’d even dismounted, a second cruiser pulled to the shoulder behind the first.

“Jesus f*ck,” Isaac muttered. “We’re goin’ in, boys.”

“On what? We were riding straight.” Badger had not yet ever been arrested. He’d been pulled over and harassed, but he had not been on any of the five runs on which they’d been taken in during the past year and a half—taken in but never processed. Seaver was just f*cking with them. He had backed off, though, since the day of the B&B fire. The fire they were sure he’d arranged.

Show walked over and stood at his side. “Doesn’t matter, Badge. Keep your cool. He’ll bring us in, make us uncomfortable for a few hours, impound our bikes for a day. It’s a pain in the ass, but keep your cool, and keep your mouth shut. Clear?”

“Yeah, I got it.” His heart was still going, though.

It wasn’t the Sheriff who got out of the first cruiser. Two deputies did instead. And two others got out of the second cruiser as well. They all popped the straps on their holsters and unsheathed their batons.

The driver of the first cruiser—older, heavier than the others—stepped forward. Isaac did as well.

“Deputy.”

“Gotta bring you in, fellas. Need you on the ground, spread eagle. You know the drill.”

“On what charge?”

The deputy’s answer to that was to draw his sidearm. His partner followed suit. Then the other two.

Show muttered, “Fuck,” then turned to Badger. “Stay cool, little brother. Don’t give them a reason.”