Protect (13 page)

Needless to say, she was in a
mood
by
the time she got to the Sheriff’s department. And when Officer
Martin met her, looking skittish and nervous, she couldn’t blame
him for his careful treading.

“Um, Sheriff? We got a call here out of
Hazeldale.”

“Hazeldale?” She frowned. “Where’s Deputy
Greene?” Joseph Greene and his officers had a small office set up
for Hazeldale, run almost as its own county but he still was
responsible to report back to her.

“Greene called. He’s getting a bit nervous.
They’ve had outside interest in Hazeldale ever since that slaughter
at the Mad Gypsys clubhouse.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Who are they
seeing?”

Martin took a deep breath. “Dirty Rats. You
know these guys?”

She frowned. “Only a little. I thought the
closest they got to here was San Diego.”

“There was an opening on the Mexico-to-Tacoma
pipeline when the Gypsys bit it,” Martin filled in for her addled
brain. “Lot of money moves through our county, unfortunately. It
was just a matter of time before someone set their sights on that
territory.”

Of course her mind went to the Rebels,
wondering if they were aware of all this. After brief internal
deliberation she had to admit they probably were. “Did they have
something specific going on?”

“The real estate agent trying to sell the
Gypsys clubhouse had reports of a break-in. Greene wants you to see
it.”

She sighed. “All right. You need me on
anything today?”

“Nah, go ahead. He likely just wants your
take on what to do.”

Sharon nodded, closing the file folder she’d
just received on the highway massacre that had been yanked from her
hands. She was still kicking herself over being so easily overrun.
She could have fought the Feds taking it from her; as Sheriff, the
only law man actually able to take a case from her office would be
a US Marshall. But holding that case for the Markham Sheriff’s
Department to handle was ridiculous. They weren’t equipped to
handle it or deal with the kind of heat that case could bring.
She’d be kicking up dust just to become a laughing stock.

With a flick of the wrist she locked the file
away. She still appreciated them sharing their findings. They
certainly didn’t have to do that; it was a gesture of respect. And
if they wanted to figure out what was happening they’d likely need
her to deal with the MC for them.

The day was hot and sticky but not overcast.
Sunshine beamed down with maniacal cheerfulness, instantly heating
her skin, hair, and turning the uniform into nothing short of a
wearable toaster. In the car she cranked the AC up to full strength
and pointed it towards Hazeldale. It was a short drive but the
highway was busy. Local traffic seemed to think getting out of town
would be a good idea, likely heading for the beaches along the San
Luis County coast.

In Hazeldale the desert gave way to green
spaces and easements planted with eco-appropriate greenery. She
never knew who it was in Hazeldale with the green thumb, but the
small-town touch of flower planters next to the city-owned
buildings was always a bit humbling. Markham didn’t have that.

The Sheriff’s outpost was attached to the
Post Office. Sharon parked on the street and made her sun-drenched
way through the metal and glass doors, giving a nod to the
attendant at the mail service desk and passing through a deco-style
brass and wood door into the Hazeldale sheriff’s office. It was all
one room with every officer having access to a desk, which were
stacked two clusters of four to make the most of the space. They
officers took turns at reception and answering the main phone.
Dispatch was in its own room, but officers were shifted to man that
duty as well.

There just wasn’t money for a full
detachment. It depressed her every time she had to visit.

Deputy-Sheriff Greene approached her with one
hand out. He was one of those nervous types, a bit high-strung but
friendly. Tons of nervous energy rolled off the man like waves.

“Sheriff Downey, I’m so glad you’re here.”
Without taking a breath he moved to one of the desks, picking up a
file folder and turning back to her, setting it on the high
reception counter. It was stuffed with reports.

“What’s this?”

Greene jerked his head at the pile. “This is
all the calls from people who are seeing Dirty Rats rolling through
town. It never turns out that a crime has been committed, but once
we hit them with a noise violation. Texas Murphy owns that
clubhouse property, and he’s too scared to throw them out. Even
though they’re basically squatting.” Greene sighed. “I don’t know
what to do here. People are antsy, they’re starting to give
me
the gears on these guys.”

“When the Gypsys were in residence, was it
like this?” she asked, absently opening the folder and skimming
over the first report.

“No. We never saw them. They never fucked
with the locals, and none of the townspeople thought to take issue
with them. All they did was ride their bikes around and pay their
rent on time.” He shoved a thumb and finger into the sides of his
nose, just above the bridge. “I need advice. Markham has had that
MC around town for a really long time, and I can’t see the citizens
just putting up with guys like these.”

Sharon flipped the folder shut. “No, we
wouldn’t put up with guys like these. The Dirty Rats are a
parasitic MC. They roam around, infesting new areas, making
themselves unwelcome until something better opens up somewhere
else. The Rebels are
from
Markham, they live there, just
like the Gypsys lived here until recently. The Rats are far more
dangerous, and they don’t care who they piss off. If anyone makes a
stand they’re liable to get themselves hurt.”

Greene had paled but his voice was steady.
“What do we do then?”

She thought that over. “They love it when
you’re scared. They hate by-the-book, incorruptible law
enforcement. They also don’t have the patience to change a town’s
attitude. Don’t let the locals get their shit in an uproar, show
that we’re going to be the burr under their saddle.”

“What?”

“Call a locksmith, and get Texas to meet us
at the clubhouse. We’ll serve notice, change all the locks. Does it
have a fence?” Sharon was already heading for the small room off
the main that served as the Deputy Sheriff’s office.

“Um, yeah. Rolling gate and razor wire. The
Gypsys had it put in.”

“Good. Let me make a phone call, and in the
meantime call a locksmith, Joe.”

Using his first name got him moving. She shut
the door to his office and grabbed the phone, dialing a number and
letting out a nervous breath that she wished didn’t make her sick
to the stomach.

“Yeah?”

She didn’t recognize the voice but carried on
like it didn’t matter. “This is Sheriff Downey. Is McClune
around?”

“Jayce? Yeah, he’s playing pool. Just one
sec.” There was a rattle as the phone was set down, then muffled
voices before a scraping sound.

“Sheriff? Not sure we got a lot to talk
about.”

“I’m in Hazeldale,” she said, cutting him off
in a business-like tone. “They’ve got a Dirty Rat infestation.
They’ve taken over the Gypsys’ clubhouse and they’re being a
nuisance to the residents around here. I’m going in with the Deputy
and we’re changing the locks, serving notice that they’re not
welcome.”

There was a pause, then an embarrassed cough.
“Well, shit.”

“Yeah. Is there anything I need to be aware
of dealing with these guys? Do they have ties with you or your
business in any way? I mean, I don’t want details. I just want to
know how lightly to tread.”

“Be careful,” he said, evenly. The pauses
between his words seemed long. “These guys are not friends. They
are brutal. Violent. And they are not going to like a woman laying
down the law. You better not be going in alone.”

“I’m not. And I know they’re dangerous. I
just want to make sure they’re not going to go running to a
friend’s place to flop. Like, say, Markham.”

That got her an amused chuckle. “No friends
of mine, Sheriff. Your officers there tough enough to stand any
backlash?”

She thought of the six people that made up
this detachment and had to nearly laugh. But there was no choice.
The town couldn’t just let these animals take over.

“They can take it,” she assured him, hoping
like hell she was right.

In the main room Greene was just hanging up
the phone. “I called our locksmith. He’ll meet us there in half an
hour. Tex is terrified but he’s coming, too. Bringing a few good
ole’ boys from his dad’s farm along, but I told them to keep their
distance.”

“Good. We can’t have civilians sticking their
necks out, though.”

“I tried to talk him out of it but he’s
scared. He wants someone at his back driving home.”

Sharon sighed. “Fine. But I’m not on the hook
for any yokels who bring retribution back on themselves. This has
to be
us
, Joe. Who else is on shift?”

“Smith, Tyson and Finch.”

“Call them, tell them to meet us, too. And
maybe try to bring in Bev and Taylor. The more of us the
better.”

Greene was already dialing and nodding.
“Sure.”

Downey pulled her department-issue Colt
revolver. Old school maybe, but familiar and hard to fuck up.
Rarely jammed, no fancy mechanisms to get stuck. Convinced it was
ready for duty, she called home but there was no answer. That
hopefully meant Brayden was job hunting.

“Can’t find Taylor but Bev will meet us too,”
Greene said from the doorway of his own office, bringing her out of
her thoughts of her teenage son sitting in the back yard, doing
nothing, not hearing the phone because of his damn iPod.

“Okay,” she basically whispered, getting to
her feet. “Let’s head out. Remember; back straight, no give, no
smart ass comments. All business. They’ll try to make it personal
but it can’t be. Just professional. With everything.”

Greene nodded. “Okay.”

“You know your officers. I want the most
stone-faced fuckers coming in with us. Anyone who might cave can
watch the cars, guard the gate. Far enough away maybe these Rats
won’t smell their fear.”

“The only one I worry about is Finch. He’s
more nervous. And I think Bev hates bikers.”

“Then they’re on watch. The rest of us kick
these guys out.”

She was tense on the drive over. Next to her,
Greene held the Stevens 320 shotgun across his lap, barrel pointed
at the door, one knee bouncing. He couldn’t be still, which was so
strange because she
knew
how calm he usually was under
pressure. His nerves didn’t manifest when he really needed to keep
them in check, so she didn’t let herself worry about being the only
level head.

The gates to the compound stood open. It
looked like it had been a restaurant at one time. The flat roof was
edged with angled eaves, finished with cedar shakes flaking paint.
The doors and boarded up windows had been painted with the same
forest green color, and as they stopped just outside the gates
Sharon let herself feel the despair of the building seep in.

She’d never set foot in this place. The only
glimpse she’d ever had of its interior was shot on Gertie Dénise’s
phone, and the scenery hadn’t been the focus of that video. At the
memory she wiped her hands on her pants, willing the sweat to stop.
She had to be calm. Indifferent. Like stone.

Like a cop.

She stood at the curb, then as the locksmith
van arrived she unsnapped the holster at her hip. As the man was
getting his equipment in order two more Markham County Sheriff’s
Office cruisers arrived, one parking behind the van and the second
across the street facing the opposite way. No one said anything;
Greene had briefed Ian Smith, Gabe Tyson and David Finch already.
Beverly Marco was on her way in her plainclothes.

Once Texas arrived she had to give
instructions. She didn’t bother waiting for Bev; the woman had been
with the department for fifteen years and didn’t need to be told
what was what.

“I’m sure you see what I see,” she said,
shoving a few errant hairs behind her ears. “There are no bikes
here, no other vehicles. I’m comfortable assuming there aren’t any
Dirty Rats inside, but they may have a hang around watching the
place. I have an eviction notice to post on the door, not that it
makes a lot of sense since they were never renters, but it’s what I
have. What I want to do is get inside, let the locksmith change the
main door and deadbolt, as well as the back door that Texas tells
me his key doesn’t even work in anymore. I’m assuming sometime
since he handed over the clubhouse those locks were changed. Maybe
the Gypsys, maybe these guys. I don’t know. What I
do
know
is it’ll be a lot better for all of us if we do this before the
Rats even know we’re here.” She nodded to the lanky, spectacled
officer standing next to Greene with his arms crossed. “Finch, you
and Bev watch the gate when she gets here. No one enters the
compound. We’re working under the direction of the owner of this
property, he will be with the rest of us as we enter the building.”
She nodded to Greene. “I want you to stick close to Texas. Tyson,
you’re with the locksmith, make sure no one’s hassling him.”

Now she turned to Texas, and the poor bastard
was sweating right through his polo shirt. “You got a new lock for
the gate?”

“Yessir. Ma’am. Yes ma’am.”

“Good.” She ignored that he’d called her
sir
. He was so scared she could basically smell it. No
wonder how the Gypsys were able to rent this place.

“What about you and I?” Ian Smith asked.

“We’re sweeping the place, too. We’ll follow
Texas and Finch. You got a camera?” Smith nodded. “If there’s any
major damage we’ll take pictures for Mr. Murphy’s insurance.”

“Thank you,” Texas cut in graciously then
appeared mortified that he’d interrupted.