“We’ve got shit, and shit is all we’re going to get,” Pecan said.
“Fuck!” Crank spat.
Shiv, and the rest of the Legions present, nodded in agreement.
Crank scrubbed at his face. It galled him that whoever took the shot at Stilts was going to get away with it, but if there was nothing, there was nothing. They had pressed hard the first two weeks, but over the last week, they’d slowly been pulling back.
He looked to Shiv. “Any ideas?”
“As much as it pisses me off to have to say this, but I think we’re going to have to sit on this until something breaks. We’ve been beating the shit out of our contacts for three weeks and, as Pecan said, we’ve got shit.”
“Fuck!” Crank sat, grinding his teeth as he thought, while the rest of the club waited for his decision. He couldn’t think of a thing they could do that they hadn’t already tried at least once.
“Goddammit. Make sure everyone knows that if they get even so much as a whiff of something, we want to know.”
“They know,” Pecan said.
“Stilts deserves better than this,” Crank snarled, his frustration getting the better of him.
Shiv put his hand on Crank’s shoulder. “Sometimes we get fucked, no matter how bad we want it. Don’t let it eat you up. You’ve done all anyone could do.”
He glared at Shiv. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, it’s supposed to make you realize that, sometimes, shit happens that you can’t control.”
“Yeah, okay. Shit. I need a drink.”
Shiv gave Crank’s shoulder a squeeze then turned him loose. They walked to the bar where Chains was pouring shots, setting out an extra one for their fallen brother.
“To Stilts,” Crank said, and then paused as the rest of the Legions repeated him. They tossed back their drinks just as Crank’s phone rang.
He winced as the liquid fire burned down his throat, and then fished the phone out of his pocket. He smiled as he accepted the call.
“Jack’s Mule Barn, head ass speaking.”
“Crank, you need to get to Motor’s,” Lana said, her voice firm and professional.
Crank’s blood instantly went cold, and the smile was leached from his face. “What’s happened?”
“Just get here,” she said and was gone.
***
Crank hauled his bike to a stop with maximum effort braking, the rear tire on his hog skidding as he wrestled the big bike. He’d outpaced the rest of the Legion, but he could hear them coming as he hurried across the grass. There were four squad cars and two detective cars sitting in the drive, their red and blue lights flashing in the cold early afternoon air.
“Don’t go in there,” Lana said as she stepped into the doorway, blocking his entrance.
“I have to,” he said, gently muscling her aside.
He turned to the kitchen, where the bulk of the officers were, and froze.
Motor.
He was lying on the floor—the larger part of his head split open—blood and gore everywhere.
Crank’s eyes widened as he glanced around the kitchen, taking it all in. There was a shattered pane of glass in the window and opposite it a hole in the wall. He took a step back and looked at the combined living room and kitchen wall. There was a large hole where the bullet had passed through, and then across the room from that, another hole in another wall.
Lana tugged at Crank’s arm. “Come with me,” she said, pulling him away from the carnage.
He was pale as death and seemed to be in shock. She was leading him outside as the rest of the Legions hurried toward the house.
“What’s going on?” an older brother demanded.
“Mr. Blasick was shot and killed last night,” Lana said.
The biker started around her, but she put her hand on his chest. “I can’t let you go in there. It’s a crime scene.”
Shiv jerked her hand down from his chest and started to step around her again, but she moved in front of him and blocked him.
“Don’t make this worse.” Her voice brooked no argument. “Worry about the living,” she added, glancing at Crank.
Shiv looked at the nametag on her chest. “You Lana?”
“Yeah. Officer Lana Winters. And you are?”
“Don Griffin. They call me Shiv,” he said. “Crank’s told me about you. What happened?”
“Still investigating.” She paused and peered around, then jerked her head toward the street.
When they were standing by the bikes she continued, her tone now softer. “Forensics still needs to go over the place, but it appears there was a single shot fired through the kitchen window. A large caliber bullet struck Mr. Blasick in the head. It was probably fired from a rifle of some kind, and he was killed instantly.” She looked around again. “You didn’t get any of that from me, understand?”
Shiv nodded as he looked at his brothers. “Stilts.”
“That’s what we’re thinking,” Lana said. “Any idea who would be targeting the Legion?”
“No. But we’re going to find out.”
Crank eyed her. “Why did you call me?” he asked, his voice as soft as she’d ever heard it.
“Because I knew you’d want to know.”
He nodded, the muscles in his jaws working. “How’d you find out?”
She looked around again. “Again, you’re not getting this from me. We got a report of a gunshot last night. We checked it out but didn’t find anything. It happens. About an hour ago we got a call from a neighbor about the broken window. She thought some kids had broken it—throwing rocks or something. An officer was dispatched, and when no one answered the door, he called Canvas to let Mr. Blasick know about the window. When he got no answer there, and with the gunshot report in the area, he looked a little closer. He couldn’t see the body, but he saw the mess. In his estimation, there was a medical emergency, and he entered the residence.”
“We need to see,” Pecan said.
“I can’t let you go in there.”
Pecan started toward the door, the rest of the Legion following. Lana began to back pedal, moving to get in front of the group of men.
“Pecan!” Crank ordered. “Don’t. There’s nothing to see. Don’t make this worse.” He gazed at Lana again. “I know you stuck your neck out. Thank you for calling me.”
She nodded; relieved that things weren’t going to get out of hand. “I’ll stop by your place after my shift ends. If you don’t burn me, I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can.”
“Legions!” Crank shouted as he swung a leg over his bike. “We’re done here.”
He could tell his brothers didn’t understand why he was siding with the cop, but there was nothing they could do, and he didn’t want to create a scene. He had to get away. Seeing Motor on the floor, his ruined head… it was too much. He needed some distance.
“Let’s ride!” he said as he thumbed the bike to life. He pulled away from the edge of the road, not waiting on his brothers, knowing they would follow.
“What did you tell them?” Ed asked when Lana returned to the house.
“Nothing. Only that Mr. Blasick had been killed.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. If I didn’t tell them something they would have all been in here and we would have either had them screwing up the scene or had to arrest them all. That seemed like the easiest way.”
His eyes narrowed as he watched her. “How’d they find out?”
She held his gaze. “Someone must have called them.”
“Yeah. Someone. Be careful there.”
“I was just trying to defuse a potentially bad situation.”
Ed grunted. “So long as that’s all it was.”
“That’s all it was.”
“Sergeant Callahan!” Detective Lillard called as he approached. “You and Winters start a canvas. As soon as Plunkett and Ives are done, I’ll send them to join you.”
Ed nodded then turned back to Lana and smiled. “Ready to do some real police work for a change, Rookie?”
She returned a grin. She’d never done a canvas, but how hard could it be? “Will you be there to hold my hand, Patrol Sergeant Callahan?”
Ed snickered and gave her a gentle push on her shoulder. “I think you can handle knocking on a few doors. We’ll start up the block and work our way back. You take the other side.”
Lana glanced around. Motor’s house was on a street that had a broad, wide, weed-choked drainage ditch that separated the houses, with two one-way roads and a crossover between them every other block.
“You got it.”
God help her, she knew she shouldn’t feel this way considering the circumstances, but she was a bit excited to finally get to do something other than ride in a patrol car, pull over speeders, and talk to victims of theft when everyone there knew there was little the police could do. For the first time since she’d joined the force, she felt that she might actually make a difference.
She and Ed walked together until they reached the crossover, where Lana peeled off.
“We know this was the direction the shot came from, so, let’s go up one more block,” Ed said as she began to cross the road.
She nodded. A canvas was normally only on the block surrounding the scene of the crime, but Ed’s logic made sense.
She hurried to the other side of the ditch using the crossover that connected the two roads, then walked up another block. She walked to the first house, squared her shoulders, and rang the bell. It was time to go to work.
After a moment, the door crept open. “Yes?” an elderly man asked.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Patrol Officer Winters. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright?”
He blinked at her. “Ah, yes.”
“In the past twenty-four hours, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary in the area?”
The man blinked at her again for a moment, clearly confused why a police officer was standing at his door. “What do you mean?”
“Any strange cars parked nearby? Did you see anyone you didn’t recognize walking past? Anyone that seemed nervous or out of place. Anything at all like that?” she asked, keeping her tone non-threatening and pleasant, and then waited for his answer.
Lana stepped down from the porch. The man had been no help, but that was to be expected. Most of the people she talked to today wouldn’t have seen or heard anything that would be helpful.
Tightening her mouth, reminding herself that police were all about the grinding details, she walked to the next house, rapped on the door, and waited for it to open.
***
Crank rode alone. The Legion had returned to the clubhouse only long enough to throw together a plan on who was going to do what, then they had ridden out again to talk to their contacts.
He hadn’t joined them because he had to gain some distance first. He was on a hair trigger, ready to lash out and kill the first person he even suspected of murdering Motor. The killing of Stilts could have been a one-off, a random targeting of an innocent man, but Motor’s death now made it clear the Legion was being targeted.
He banked the bike through a turn, his face burning and his hands aching with the cold, but he relished the frigid discomfort; the millions of tiny needle-like stings from the frigid air reaffirming he was alive.
Motor’s death had been a gut punch unlike any he’d ever received. The killing of Motor made it personal. Not the personal like with Stilts, but deeply personal.
Whoever had done this had targeted his family. Not the family of brotherhood, like with Stilts, but the kind that went all the way back to his childhood. Motor may not have been his father, but he was more of a dad to him that his own father was. He’d loved that old man—more than his own father and mother—and to lose him in such a way was like someone twisting a knife in his guts.
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The club was in a messy business, but they were small time. They didn’t run drugs or guns, so they didn’t have to deal with the violence those trades brought. They were muscle. Mostly legal, with a side business that occasionally crossed the line, but he made sure they didn’t use more force or violence than necessary to accomplish their goal. Never in the past had they had to deal with something like this.
He wondered as he roared along, the throbbing V-Twin singing its road song, if maybe the Filken family had put out a hit on them. They could certainly afford it. William Filken, the father, owned a string of high-end auto dealerships and a race team. Had what they’d done to Randy caught up with them? They had been exceptionally careful with the Filken operation, and there wasn’t even a whiff of evidence that could tie them to Randy’s murder. He didn’t see how it was possible, but it could be that William had put the hit out simply because they were the most likely candidates for the murder of his son.
If there were a contract out for them, they would eventually find out, and when they did, if it were the Filken family, Crank wouldn’t rest until they were all dead, their house burned, and the ground surrounding it salted so nothing would ever grow there again.
He rolled to a stop, waiting for a car to pass so he could make a right and begin his circle back toward Amberton. He shivered once as the sun warmed him, a cascading ripple of muscle spasms passing through him, but the cold couldn’t cool the rage that burned inside of him.
As the car passed, he pulled onto the road, the wind once again biting at his skin like pin-sharp teeth.
He was going to find the man, or men, that had done this, and he was going to kill them.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Without mercy.