Eve of Redemption (36 page)

“When was the last time they checked in?” Tiny asked.

“We haven’t heard from them since we left the stop,” Scribe said.

Tiny stood, straddling his bike and looking out over the valley below. The view was breathtaking.

“What’s up?” Martinez asked.

“Scouts are missing,” Tiny said, still gazing out over the desert. “They missed their call-in.”

“Could they be out of range or something?” Burke asked. “These mountains probably affect the radio signal.”

“You think we’re idiots?” Raquel spat. “You think we don’t know what we’re doing? This is our turf.”

“That’s enough, Raquel,” Tiny said, though his tone suggested he had taken the unintended slight to heart as well. Raquel bit off anything else she had meant to say, but her fierce glare remained locked on Burke.

“As I think Raquel was saying,” Tiny continued, his voice low, “no, they would not be out of range. Our scouts never miss a call-in unless something’s wrong.”

One of the Rebels came roaring up from behind. “Tiny, we got company on our tail.” They all turned and looked back the way they had come, but the rise of the road prevented them from seeing very far.

“Any idea who?” Tiny asked.

The man shook his head. “Bikes, fifteen or twenty I’d guess. Coming fast.”

Tiny considered this for a moment, and then shook his head. “Mount up,” he yelled, gunning his Harley to life. Burke and Martinez ran back to their car. Burke jumped into the driver’s seat as the bikes leapt out onto the road. The tires of the old car spun and smoked as Burke took off after them.

“You know this territory at all?” Burke asked Martinez.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.” Burke kept the gas pedal almost to the floor as the old engine fought to keep up with the better-maintained Harleys. The group raced down the mountain, down a road that wound and snaked its way to the bottom. The bikes handled the twists and turns much better than the car, and Burke and Martinez began to fall further behind. Burke took a quick look into the rearview mirror, but saw nothing but the road and mountain. “Think Tiny has some idea who it might be?”

Martinez shrugged. “Maybe. My guess is he wants to get some place where he can see in all directions before stopping to say howdy.”

They rounded another curve, and the road opened up to a clear view of the valley below.

“They’re catching up,” Martinez said. Burke checked the rearview again as two, then three, motorcycles rounded the curve behind them. He gave the tired engine more gas, and they rocketed down the mountain.

“More in front,” Martinez said, a slight edge to his normally calm voice.

Burke raised his eyes from the road directly in front of them and scanned the terrain farther down the slope. Beyond the Lord’s Rebels, another group of bikes—with a couple trucks mixed in—sped toward them from the east. Burke guessed the new threat to be a couple miles out yet. Brake lights flashed on a few Rebel bikes, but only for a moment, and those in front with Tiny never slowed at all.

“What are they doing?” Burke asked.

Martinez remained quiet a moment, then he pointed to a spot between the two groups of bikers. “Road. Tiny must be trying to get there first.”

Burke looked where Martinez pointed and saw what looked like an exit from the freeway. If it was, no one had used it lately. The road was covered in coat of sand, the desert reclaiming what had once belonged to it. Burke could tell the race would be close, but the Rebels would win. Of course, that was a moot point if the road ended in the middle of nowhere. He snuck a look into the rearview mirror and saw the gang behind them catching up fast.

Ahead, Tiny’s brake light illuminated, followed by those of the rest of the Rebels. Burke let off the gas and got ready to lock up his own brakes, praying the old clunker could handle the stress. The bikes took the run-down exit ramp two by two and surged forward onto the sand-covered road. He didn’t know how well the Harleys would handle the conditions, but Tiny and his gang seemed to know what they were doing. Burke tightened his grip on the wheel as he steered the car onto the exit, sliding around the curve. The sand and dust kicked up by the tires obscured the road. That was fine with Burke. The riders behind them would have just as hard a time of it as he was.

“You didn’t happen to notice a sign that said what might be down here, did you?” Burke asked.

“Nope. Better be something, though.”

Burke saw no need to respond. He kept his eyes on the dust cloud before them, watching for red taillights. He could see even less behind them. If the other gang was back there, they were cloaked in sand.

The car emerged from the dust like an airplane passing through the clouds. A weathered blacktop road led through a tiny town. He only saw a couple other streets leading off the main road. Just on the other side of the town, not more than a quarter mile from where they had entered, a wood barricade displayed a large orange sign reading DEAD END. Someone had drawn horns and slit eyes on all of the
D’s
on the sign, so they looked like three devils telling anyone who ventured this far that hell lay just beyond. Burke halted the car in front of the barricade as the Rebels turned their bikes and passed by them, going back the way they had come.

“This isn’t good,” Burke said.

“Nope.”

Burke turned the car around in the road and followed the bikers back to the other side of the tiny town, but they were blocked in. The gang that had chased them sat at least forty strong in the middle of the road.

And there was no other way out.

B
urke and Martinez sat in the car as it idled just behind two rows of Lord’s Rebels. Burke had thought the Rebels were clean and organized for a biker gang that roamed the desert wastelands, but he couldn’t say the same for the motley group that faced them. While there may have been a few dented Harley Davidsons blocking their path, most of the bikes were foreign-made, and a few looked pieced together from spare parts. But what the bandit gang lacked in structure, they more than made up in numbers. As the Lord’s Rebels sat, waiting to see what would happen next, the roar of engines from the other side made it clear their riders itched for action.

The gang members were just as mismatched as the bikes they straddled. Most wore the customary leather jacket, but they displayed no particular style, nor did they fly any colors that gave them the appearance of unity. In fact, Burke thought they were probably a group of misfits that no one else wanted. Organized or not, they outnumbered the Rebels more than two to one. Burke saw a few Rebels slip pistols or knives from hiding places within their leather.

The roar of hot engines assailed them again, and then the line of bikes split into two groups, dividing to the right and left to allow a path for a military-style truck. The truck moved up to the front of the line, its muffler-less engine revving loudly enough to drown out the motorcycles that surrounded it. As it rolled to a stop, twisted figures could be seen tied to the front.

Headless corpses, dressed in Rebel colors.

The scouts.

Burke forced down the bile that rose in his throat. If there had ever been any question as to whether or not this gang was hostile, that question had just been answered. The Lord’s Rebels sat stunned as the passenger door of the grotesque truck opened and a scrawny, dirty man with wild graying hair leaned out, threw his head back, and cackled over the multitude of idling engines. The sound reminded Burke of a hyena.

In one smooth, slow motion, Tiny reached behind his back and under his jacket, pulled out a pistol, swung it forward, and pulled the trigger. The crack of the gun filled the air and the laughing man flew off the truck. He bounced off a nearby motorcycle, knocking it and its rider over, before lying still in the hot sand.

Well,
Burke thought,
one less of them, and now we are going to die.

A cry of anger rose from the members of the rival gang. They revved their bikes and set them in motion, but didn’t charge the outnumbered Rebels. Instead, they moved back, out of easy gunshot range.

“I don’t like this,” Martinez said. “They should be able to run us into the ground. What are they waiting for?”

“That was a good shot. Maybe they’re afraid to come closer.”

Martinez shook his head as he continued to watch out the windshield. “No, I don’t think so. They wanted us here. Herded us here, I think.”

“Well, it looks like they’re going to sit there and wait us out,” Burke said. The other gang settled in the middle of the road about a half-mile away. “Doesn’t look like they’re going to try anything soon. Let’s go see what Tiny has to say.”

Burke shut off the engine, and the two men climbed out of the car. The heat of the desert sun beat down on them as they walked to the line of Rebel bikes and stopped beside the leader.

“Bastards,” Tiny hissed. “Killed my men, the bastards!”

Tiny still held the pistol in his lap. The model was unfamiliar to Burke, but that came as no surprise. Ever since the government eliminated most gun restrictions throughout the country, firearms of every make and size had been abundant. “Any idea who they are?” Burke asked, keeping his voice as calm as possible.

“They’re the bastards who killed my men, that’s who they are. They’re gonna pay for that.”

Burke squinted down the road. The other gang had climbed off their bikes. “Yeah, but any idea who they are?”

Tiny shrugged his massive shoulders. “Strays. Usually can’t get along with each other well enough to put together a group that size.” He shifted his bulk on the seat of his Harley. “Why didn’t they come on in and finish us?”

“Y’all don’t have to worry about them. They can’t come in here.”

As one, the entirety of the Lord’s Rebels, along with Burke and Martinez, spun at the voice. Behind them stood a man of average height and build, with a soft face and paunchy middle. He looked to be somewhere in his late forties, with flecks of gray dotting his reddish-brown hair. He stood calmly to the side of the road in front of a small gas station, smiling at them as though a gang of bikers came roaring into town every day for a nice chat. Burke half-expected the man to invite them inside for iced tea.

“Who are you?” Tiny barked.

The man’s smile never faltered. “Why, I’m Lester Norman, the mayor of this here little burg in the desert. And I gather by the names on your jackets that you are the Lord’s Rebels? Welcome to our humble town, ladies and gentlemen.”

Nothing about the mayor fit the scene. The southern accent he spoke with seemed out of place in the Arizona desert, as was the politeness he showed a gang of total strangers. He was almost a caricature of old-fashioned manners. Martinez and Burke shared a long glance, and then turned their attention back to Tiny, who was removing his bulk from the seat of his Harley. Tiny looked out across the desert at the gang that awaited them, and then back at Lester Norman,
the
mayor of this here little burg.
“Exactly why can’t they come in here?” he asked, indicating the mass of bikers down the road.

“Well now, that’d be a long story. One you may or may not be interested in. The important thing is that you are safe here.” The smile never left his face.

Martinez took a couple slow steps toward Lester Norman, hands held out to indicate he meant no harm. “Thank you for welcoming us,” he said.

Burke saw Tiny glare at Martinez for interrupting, but the Rebel leader said nothing.

“We were simply passing by when that gang out there began chasing us. Killed a couple of our friends.”

Lester Norman smiled and nodded his head, as if Martinez were telling him about a fine ride in the country.

“Any idea why they chased us?”

The mayor rubbed his hands together, the smile still plastered to his face. “All sorts of bad people roaming around out here. Yes sir, all sorts. They can’t come in here, though. No sir, not in here. Some of them try, though. Yes, some of them try.”

“How many people do you have here, Mayor?” Burke asked.

The mayor’s smile widened. “Why, we have twenty-two as of last census. Yes sir, twenty-two folks.” He laughed as though he had said something funny. “As of last census, I said. We take a census weekly to see how many folks we have. Some come, some go. Have to stay up-to-date. Yes sir, have to stay up-to-date.”