Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6)(19)

Wolf was still standing where he had been, next to my scoot. But his grin was even wider this time. He was deeply inhaling the smoke wafting from the truck.

Grabbing his sleeve, I rattled him harshly. “Jizzmonger! We’ve got to get the f*ck out of here before pigs get here. But we’ve got to take those two bodies with us.”

He nodded, dazed. “Give them a proper burial.”

“Well, not exactly. We’ve got to get them down the road to that pump station.” Good thing it was a Sunday and no employees would be working there.

Wolf looked around. “Too bad we didn’t think to bring a cage.”

“Yeah.”

“Wait a minute.” Wolf whipped out his phone, thumbed it up and down, and punched “dial” on someone’s number. “Hey, Pedro. We need to call in a favor. A favor.”

“Necesitamos un favor,” I shouted over Wolf’s shoulder.

“Right,” bellowed Wolf, in that güero way of assuming a non-English-speaker was just deaf. “Necessary un favor. We’re on that road behind the rest stop south of your gas station. Can you bring your cage—”

“Traer tu coche,” I said into the phone.

Wolf looked at me with irritation, as though I was the one blowing the translation. “Yes, bring your coach, and take the access road to the pump station. You’ll see a burning truck.”

“Verás un camión en llamas. Llega aquí rápido.” Get here fast.

“Yes. Don’t bring your llama. That’s too slow. Get here fast. Got it, Pedro?”

Apparently Pedro got it, and Wolf hung up to let the guy jump into action.

We moved our scoots over the next rise in case any cops arrived, then waited for Pedro with folded arms, leaning back against our rides.

“That Pippa Lofting is hot,” said Wolf. “Smoking hot, I’d say. She’s a firecracker.”

I snorted at his description. “She’s pretty,” I allowed.

“There was something between you. When I got back with the smoothies, it was like I’d interrupted my parents rutting.”

“Thanks a lot!”

“No, not in a gross or disgusting way. You know, in the way that people suddenly jump apart, clearing their throats, looking but not looking at each other.”

We had already finished what little “rutting” we were going to do by the time Wolf arrived with the shakes, so I dismissed him as wrong. “She’s all right. I’m not sticking around, though. Once this job is done, I’m out of here.”

“Why don’t you stick around? We have Slayer on retainer but he doesn’t live here. Not sure where he lives, actually. Such a man of mystery. Who do you work for, anyway?” I remained close-lipped. “Oh, that’s right. Privileged information. I get it.”

“I’m the man of mystery,” I asserted, and then Pedro was coming down the road in a trashed Corolla.

It was time for me to make a phone call.



The Ochoa men stood near a large pipe that went downhill to a lined evaporation pond. I sat on the pipe, up a bit from the three Ochoa narcos. I’d put on my slouch cap and shades, and replaced my bandanna over the bottom half of my face. Lytton had said to keep our IDs from the Ochoas, so I did. I held my Springfield to prevent them from getting any closer. But I held it casually, to let them know I was on their side—doing them a favor.

I said dramatically, “As you can see, those men you thought your guys killed are still alive. And they’re threatening to tell their whole story to the police unless you tell them why you sabotaged their truck.” I paused. “And give them two hundred large to replace the marijuana you burnt.” That last part was Wolf’s idea. Of course I didn’t really give a shit whether or not The Bare Bones were reimbursed for their loss. I was just carrying out Lytton’s—and Jones’—assignment.

Ruben Ochoa said thinly, “Vato, people get f*cked in this neighborhood, they don’t go to the cops—they come to me.” His bandanna was worn like a hippie headband over his fade haircut. He was shorter than me, like most Mexicans were, but his goatee and suspenders marked him as a man of position. “I respect that you came to me first with this news. Manuel. Are those the guys you hit?”

Manuel lifted his shades and bent forward, as though that got him closer to the corpses two hundred yards away. He nodded.

I said, “Well, The Bare Bones has always had a good relationship with the Ochoas. They’d like to keep it that way. They just want to know why you’re burning their trucks.” I took another risk. “Sending men to spy on their pot farm.”

At this point, Wolf randomly waved one of the dead guy’s arms. We’d positioned the bodies as though they were taking a break, leaning back against the berm that ringed the entire pond. With shades and bandannas on, you couldn’t tell they’d been shot at all. All Wolf had to do was splay himself flat behind the berm to make the stiffs look lively.

“Joder!” spat Ruben. “I tell you—what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” I said mysteriously. “But you can call me Zorro.” Which was, of course, “fox” in Spanish.

And Ruben didn’t laugh. “All right, Mister Zorro. I’ll be frank with you. The latest changes in marijuana reform law have led us to rethink our position as brothers in the trade. We don’t sell that much to your Pure and Easy dispensary to make much of a difference. We’re both racing to get the Gunhammer backing, or I’ve got several other sources of legit financing in mind. We both want to go straight, at least as far as marijuana goes.”