Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6)(13)
It was a gorgeous sight to behold, especially shining in the sun like that, the close-cropped waves of coppery wine color, glittering like he was some well-built King Henry the Eighth. I was aware that I was more than a little disappointed he wasn’t my tall, dark, handsome knight come to sweep me away on his scoot. My fantasy had never involved a tall, ginger, handsome knight.
“I have to thank you, then.” As a gesture of goodwill, I held out my hand to shake again. Again, his hand lingered a split second too long for propriety’s sake. “But what were you doing up here? There isn’t much in the way of scenery.”
He took a step closer to me, still holding my hand. The thin, skin-tight T-shirt he wore did nothing to stop the heat wave emanating from him. He was on fire in more ways than one. “Someone was following you.” Again with the ice blue, pinpoint eyes.
My heart flip-flopped with sudden fear. I believed him instantly, I really did. But I had to pretend that I didn’t. So I scoffed. “Me? Who would bother following me?”
“That was my first question. Why would someone be following you?”
“What did he look like?”
“Mexican. Short, of course. In his twenties. I noticed him in the side lot of The Bum Steer. He was watching both of you, then took off in his Impala when you pulled onto Bargain Boulevard.”
That pretty much described everyone in the Jones cartel. But I didn’t need this lawyer knowing that. I was starting to panic, and I had to deflect his suspicion. “Maybe he was following June. Maybe he wanted to go steal some pot from her farm.”
He finally let go of my hand. “Let me go ahead now and find him. I memorized the plate of the Impala. I took a photo of him in front of the club. See?”
Of course I didn’t recognize the guy in the IPhone photo he showed me. By that time Fox was already loping back to his Harley.
“Hey!” I called out. “You’re pretty organized and daring for a lawyer.”
He’d already strapped on his brain bucket, and now he pushed the engine button. Over the rumble of his pipes, he called out jovially, “Because I’m not a lawyer.”
“What are you, then?” I yelled.
His jaw was set firm, and there was fire in his eyes. “I’m a sicario.”
And he took off past me without even glancing at me.
CHAPTER FIVE
FOX
I can’t remember when I decided not to bury her. Was it when she laughed at my fake lawyer name, Ben Dover? I carried those cards, which had a fake name but my old real address in case my body was found headless in a ravine, or lashed to a bridge over the Santa Cruz River. Or was it when I imagined her acting in a Triple Exposure film? It doesn’t really matter, I guess. The whole storyline of my life changed irrevocably from the moment I decided not to ice Flavia Brooks, the snitch to the Jones cartel. I was no longer just the tale of an extraordinary, scarred warrior whose measly shot at happiness was eclipsed by his own fate. No, by deciding to spare her life, I was also screwing up mine. Now our fates were intertwined.
I headed up Mormon Mountain, confident I could find the beaner. Who could miss that metallic green ’92 lowrider Impala? Whoever the hair-netted cholo was, whether he was Presención, Ochoa, or Jones, he’d chosen a very stupid cage for an undercover op. When I had to drive a cage, I drove a beater Toyota that blended in, or my late model Caddy. The road was straight as we climbed, but pines crowded the shoulders. The lowrider could’ve taken any one of these little turnoffs, but I felt confident as I slowed down to go through Happy Jack that he was still on the main drag.
I ruled out a Presención, coming to get me for picking off their men last night. A sicario for the Presencións would be following me, not Pippa Lofting, as Flavia Brooks was calling herself. He could be with the Ochoas, who owned a pot farm that rivaled The Bare Bones’. Or, worst of all, a Jones operative who figured out where Flavia Brooks was on his own, and was getting there before me. He’d just tooled on by when he’d seen the cop stop her.
Since my Panhead could carve these hills better than any lumbering Impala, I soon came upon the guy. I backed off a bit, not wanting to be seen. Around a few more corners, a puff of dirt told me which unpaved road he’d taken. I tailed him another five miles in this manner. Now I ruled out the Jones sicario possibility. He would’ve gone back to find Pippa. That left one of the pothead Ochoas.
Something about Pippa had set off long-buried triggers in me. She was tough, all right, so it was no flowery bullshit about wanting to protect her vulnerability. Her syrupy Texas drawl, the way she hooked her fingers in her back jeans pockets, her little cowboy boots, it all prodded at the back of my brain. Her full lips, how mischievously she smiled. The way she tossed her highlighted brunette hair to get the bangs from her eyes.
And then it struck me.
Lola.
Lola McShane.
I almost laid down my scoot when this reality hit me. I recovered in time to sedately pull up behind a boulder. The metallic green Impala was parked about sixty yards up the dirt road. In case of any altercation, I could get out before him.
I had to put Lola aside for a few minutes. This time, I would not be caught off guard. I strapped my assault rifle to my back and for the hundredth time made sure the magazine in my Springfield semiauto was full. I had to make a snap decision not to wear my leather jacket over the rifle. The chances of someone in this remote burg seeing a guy wandering around armed to the teeth paled compared to the odds of me fumbling with the assault rifle when I needed it most.