He smiled, his eyes crinkling behind the mirrored lenses of his sun glasses. He didn’t often go on supply runs, but the Devil’s Advocates had requested a meet, and that had given him the perfect excuse to get out and stretch his legs a bit. He’d been spending too much time in the clubhouse and not enough time on the road, and he was glad to be out and feel the wind on his face again.
The six members of the Blacktop Blades were headed west on I-8, loaded down with 25,000 doses of 3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine—MDMA to the nerds in the labs, and molly to the girls in the clubs. They were on their way to Yuma, Arizona, to deliver their weekly supply to the Advocates. The Advocates could sell more, and the Blades could produce more, but the Advocates carefully regulated supply of the tiny blue ecstasy tablets to keep the price steady.
They were about two hours into their three hour ride, and had just passed Dateland, when the lead rider braked hard as a crashed bike on the side of the road came into sight, hauling the big Indian Chief to a rapid stop on the shoulder. After his brothers did the same, the six riders dismounted, removed their helmets, and left their bikes on the hard shoulder of the interstate as they walked back, scanning the area for signs of an injured rider.
“See anybody?” Arsen Kyles, President of the Blacktop Blades, asked as they approached the downed bike.
“Nobody,” Zane replied, turning in a slow circle. Zane Colfe was the club Vice-President and was in charge of the business side of the club. He was on this trip for the same reason Arsen was.
When he’d seen the bike pop out of the heat waves rippling off the pavement, Arsen thought the bike had been crashed, but as they drew nearer it became obvious the Harley Dana wasn’t wrecked, but had simply been dropped.
As cars flashed by, Zane and Greg muscled the bike upright and pushed it a bit farther off the road. “Out of gas,” Greg said after he opened the tank and wiggled the bike back and forth. “Who in the fuck would drop a hog on its side just because it ran out of gas?”
“Why run out at all?” Zane asked, looking around again. “There was a gas station only a few miles back.” He paused then looked closely at the bike. “And check this out! The reserve isn’t used.” He twisted the petcock to the reserve position then thumbed the starter. The bike spun over several times then coughed to life.
“What an idiot,” Berk Landrieu snorted.
Arsen listened to his brothers, but something didn’t feel right about the situation. Maybe the rider hadn’t known about the reserve fuel, but nobody dropped a $15,000 motorcycle on its side because it ran out of gas. Nobody who rode bikes anyway.
“Think it’s stolen?” Arsen asked. The other five brothers looked at each other and shrugged.
“Maybe they walked back for gas?” Zane suggested.
Arsen pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. “That doesn’t feel right. We didn’t pass anyone walking, and that still doesn’t answer the question of why they dropped it on its side.”
“Maybe they were in the gas station,” Greg pointed out. “And there are stupid people everywhere.”
“Maybe,” Arsen allowed, but he didn’t believe it.
“What are we going to do? If they didn’t go back for gas, it’s a hell of a walk to a station that way,” Chet said, nodding down the interstate in the direction they were traveling. Chet and Greg made this run every week and knew the area better than anyone.
“I guess we leave it in case someone comes back for it,” Arsen replied.
“Yeah. We don’t have a lot of time to fuck around with this,” Zane said, then glanced at his watch. “We still need to get to Yuma and meet the Advocates. Not to mention if a cop comes along and wants to know what we’re doing. We’re carrying $600,000 worth of drugs after all. I don’t know about you guys, but I would just as soon not have that conversation.”
The bothers chuckled. “You’re right. Since there is nobody around who needs help, it’s not our problem.” Arsen turned and began to walk back to their bikes. “Let’s mount up. I’m frying out here.”
As he walked back to his bike, he was still puzzling over the abandoned hog. It made no sense. Had the bike been parked, he would have bought the out of gas theory. If you were so stupid to not know about the reserve fuel, you were probably stupid enough to ride right past a gas station and not stop. But finding the bike on its side, that bothered him. He shrugged it off. It wasn’t his problem and he had other things to worry about.
He swung a leg over the Indian and stood it up, grimacing as he placed his ass on the hot leather seat. When he’d seen the low gloss, all black, Chief Dark Horse, he had to have it, but it was times like this when he questioned the wisdom in buying an all-black motorcycle in beautiful, sunny, Arizona. He buckled on his helmet, thumbed the big Thunder Stroke V-Twin to life, kicked the bike into gear, and with a glance over his shoulder to check traffic, roared onto the interstate, his brothers following him out.
He had just settled into the cruise when he saw the lone figure trudging along the shoulder of the interstate with their head down and shoulders slumped. Again braking hard, Arsen pulled onto the shoulder of the road. He’d thought it was a man when he first saw him, but as he passed, he could see it was a woman. She almost had to be the rider of the Harley, but she was walking in the wrong direction for gas. It was five miles back to the motorcycle, then perhaps five more to the gas station in Dateland, but there was nothing for twenty miles or more in the direction she was walking.
He sat for a moment, the Indian idling, debating with himself what to do. They really didn’t have time for this, but he couldn’t leave her walking in the scorching desert sun either. It was at least a hundred degrees, and she could die if nobody stopped to help. With a growl of frustration, he switched off the bike and dismounted.