Bomb: A Day in the Life of Spencer Shrike

But Drake always pulls into the bay when he comes home, he likes to work on his bike in the evenings or something because he stays late every night. So the bay will open to let the bike in and that will be our window to drive that bot right into his lair, the mechanical hum of the tiny motor covered up by the roaring of the motorcycle.

He’s got quite the setup for a man who came out of nowhere. Warehouse, employees, production schedule, advertising. It’s like he’s got a backer or something. But Ford checked him out. There are no obvious ties and no covert ones either. None Ford can see without taking risks that are not warranted for this particular annoyance.

At least as far as Ronin is concerned. And since Ronin’s the one who has to dig us out if we f**k up, he always gets the final say on shit like that.

The radio in back crackles and then Ashleigh’s voice comes in. “This is Mama Likes a Spankin’, come back good, buddies.”

I look at Ronin. He shakes his head. “You don’t want to know,” he says.

“Go ahead, Red Cheeks,” Ford replies.

“Playtime’s over, time to get busy. ETA”—her voice is drowned out by a loud motorcycle starting up and driving away—“five. Mama out.”

“Someone’s been watching a little too much Dukes of Hazzard.”

Both my partners in crime ignore me now. Figures. I’m always the bored one on these jobs. I never have anything to do unless someone needs to be roughed up. And this guy can’t be roughed up. He’s too close to me. But that guy with Ronnie back at Anna Ameci’s can.

I crack my knuckles and pat my leather jacket until I find the outline of my little Smith and Wesson Bodyguard. Love this little gun. It fits everywhere. In a pocket, in a boot—and shit, my hands are so big, I can probably conceal it in my palm. It’s always there, inside left pocket of the leather, ready to go when I am.

A motorcycle roars by and the van shakes a little from the wind and the rumble.

We watch the bike on the bot cam, then it inches forward into the bay with the bike. “We’re in. Now all I gotta do is find a place to park it.”

“Find that place now, Ford. Else we’re f**king busted.” Ronin says with urgency.

I lean over and watch the feed as Ford tries to maneuver the bot under a tool bench. The little cam picks up the bike and Ford backs the bot up and does a neat little three-point turn until it’s concealed. “One and done,” he says. “Let’s go. I can come back later when the place is locked up to reposition.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I start the van and pull out, taking the long way around the block, and then head up towards Mulberry. Ronin’s truck is parked on Laurel, but I drop Ford off first. Ashleigh is waiting for him at the FoCo Cinema where Rook was watching their kid until her job was done. Rook’s already walking down the road towards the prearranged meeting place for Ronin to pick her up.

After I ditch everyone I park the van in the alley behind Big City Burrito and head back up towards Anna Ameci’s. I enter through the back door where the bathrooms are and sneak up towards the dining room. It’s not a fancy place, just a family restaurant, but that sure the f**k is Veronica having dinner with a dude. And they are both dressed like they work on Wall Street.

I let out a long breath and wait it out, because the waiter just dropped off the check. They get up and the guy puts his hand at the small of her back, guiding her away from a large group who are jostling everyone near the door.

What a player. That’s my move.

I can’t see them after they go through the door, so I slip back out the way I came and walk the wall down the alley that takes me back out to College Ave.

I’m just rounding the corner when the guy slams into me. He backs off, apologizing, then keeps walking. I peek around the corner and catch Veronica getting into her little Mini Cooper parked in front of Sick Boyz Inc., the tattoo shop she runs with her father and brothers. I turn back to the scumbag trying to bag my girl and walk silently down the alley. He’s looking at his phone, standing next to a dark-colored sedan. I slip the gun out of my pocket and walk up behind him and place it against his head.

“Do not move,” I whisper.

He freezes and I pat him down until I find his wallet, and then slip it out. I want to ask him so many questions, but I can’t. Not without risking my identity. I clock him on the head and he crumples against the car and then folds until he’s on the ground. I take his ID and throw the wallet down as he moans and starts checking his head for damage. I walk off, calmly. He never comes after me, but even if he did, he wouldn’t find me. I know this downtown well enough to make it back to the alley behind Big City Burrito without being on the street.

I don’t loiter when I get to the van, just start it up and head back to the shop up in Bellvue.

Fuck, what a night. I palm the guy’s ID and wonder what the hell he’s doing with my Ronnie.

He’s not her type, but she sure didn’t look like my type tonight. Not in that tan skirt-suit and trench coat.

This throws me. Ronnie has never looked the part of tattoo artist. She’s wild and she’s got big hair and bigger boobs, but she has no tats. Not even one. She’s got a severe blood aversion and I’ve always been surprised that she can put up with the little pinpricks of blood that bubble up when she’s working. So maybe a businessman is her type.

I chew on this the whole ride back to Shrike Bikes, my thoughts as twisted and unsettled as the Poudre River that’s raging with an early spring thaw right alongside the road. And when I get home and park the van in a locked building at the back of the property, I come to the conclusion that Ronnie’s type just might be a businessman after all.