Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (8 page)

“Thanks, I try to keep her spiffy,” he nodded, and turned back to his work.

“Who do you ride with?” That came from the far end of the group, a dude with brown hair and swirling tattoos on his face.

“I’m not affiliated, man, just moving through. Here for a few months.” Andy tensed up, wondering if this would be a problem here, like it was in Durango.

He’d been jumped there by some bikers who thought he was a nomad scouting their territory. The beating wasn’t that bad; they stopped once they stripped his shirt and couldn’t find any tats of colors or club brands. He hated that vulnerable feeling though, because he knew they didn’t
have
to stop…and there was nothing he could have done either way.

Standing upright behind the bar, Andy mentally ran through the motions it would take him to reach the shotgun under the countertop at the other end of the bar. “That a problem?” he asked the group.

“Nah, ain’t no big thang,” said the leader, taking a long drink of his beer.

Nodding, Andy pointed at their empty shot glasses and almost empty beer mugs, asking, “Want another round?”

Flipping out a twenty to add to the money on the bar, the leader answered him wordlessly, and Andy nodded. He moved back down the bar and started the process again, serving the men their drinks and ringing up the sale.

Seeing sudden movement in the mirror, he watched as four of the men descended on one of their own, taking him down to the bar top and holding him there. Spinning around, Andy saw the gun in the man’s hand in the same moment it was plucked from his fingers.

Tucking the gun into the back waistband of his jeans, the dark-haired leader grinned over at Andy. “Looks like Spider
thought
he had a problem with that, but he was wrong,” he said, sitting back down on his stool.

Spider was sitting upright again, sandwiched between the blond and the lea
der; he spit out, “Ain’t right and you know it, Watcher. We don’t need a nomad gettin’ in our business.”

“Shut up, Spider,” said the blond.

“You shut up, Opie. You know it too,” came the retort.

Andy’s head was spinning;
he...that guy might have been going to shoot him. “You might want to sit down a minute, kid,” Watcher said, looking at him closely. “You look a little green.” Andy immediately plopped his ass on top of the beer cooler, scooting away from the group and glancing under the counter towards the shotgun.

“Awww, naw, kid. Don’t do that,” Watcher tisked and shook his head, pointing at the tattooed man and saying, “Pops, grab that scatter gun, wouldja? Devil, why doncha give your Jack to the kid.”

Watching, Andy saw the tattooed man, Pops, reach over and pull the shotgun from the rack underneath the bar. Andy laughed weakly. Opie, Spider, Watcher, Devil, and Pops—he was about to be killed by a group of men with comic book names.

Something bumped his hand, and he looked up to see Devil’s face inches from his own; he was pushing his still-full shot glass into Andy’s hand. Narrowing his eyes, Andy took the glass and brought it up between their faces, drank it down, and then set the glass carefully on top of the cooler next to his leg, staring into Devil’s eyes the whole time.

Devil laughed loudly and reached out a tattooed hand, ruffling Andy’s hair. Moving to sit back on his stool, he said, “He’s a keeper, Watcher. Look at this fucker; he’s not even sweating.” Andy’s eyes flickered between Watcher and Spider, believing there would be another test, but not knowing where it would come from. He glanced at the clock on the wall across the room and took a breath.

Pushing to his feet, he grabbed a bar rag, saying, “Last call, gentlemen.” His hand scrubbed his jaw hard and he ran one hand through his hair, even though he knew attempting to straighten it was a futile effort.

All five men hooted with laughter, slapping the bar and each other’s backs in amusement. Spider stopped laughing and abruptly launched himself across the bar towards Andy. His moves had been telegraphed long before he acted on them, and Andy smiled grimly at how easy it was to sidestep him, knocking him onto his face into the narrow aisle behind the bar.

He dropped a knee hard onto the man’s tailbone, knowing how bad it hurt to have your dick smashed into the floor like this. He used his hands and legs to secure the man on the floor, leveraging the limited space to his advantage, hearing the liquor bottles in the well rattle together with the force of Spider’s efforts to get up. Looking up, he saw four interested faces peering over the bar at them. “You dropped something, Watcher,” he said dryly.

“Let the fucker up, kid,” Watcher drawled, looking hard into Spider’s face. “He’s done.” Andy looked down in time to see Spider’s face go gray. Gazing back up at Watcher, he stood quickly and stepped out of reach, keeping Spider trapped in one corner of the bar. “Let’s have one more round.” Watcher flipped another fifty onto the bar. Looking at Andy, he grinned through his dark beard again. “Let Spider serve and you come sit. Got a name, kid?”

“Name’s Andy, and I got this,” he said as he backed up to the middle of the bar, flipping up the pass through for Spider. He let him walk through and closed it behind him, but remained tense and strung tight as a wire as he approached the group again.

Going through the actions one last time, he poured the shots and handed them out along with the beer. Turning sideways this time, he rang up the transaction while keeping an unsubtle eye on the group of men. “Well, that’s a shit road name, Andy,” Opie laughed. “We should call you Ice Man.”

“Yeah, Ice Man, because you are cool under pressure,” said Watcher. “Pour yourself a shot, Ice Man. Drink with the Southern Soldiers before you close up.”

There was no more drama before the men left, and Andy locked the doors behind them with a huge sigh of relief. Watcher had left all the change on the bar, and Andy set it aside in case he came back for it tomorrow, he wasn’t sure he wanted to assume it was a tip.

He secured the shotgun back in its place under the bar and finished up his list of duties quickly, ready to head out for an early breakfast and then bed. Exiting through the bar’s backdoor, he locked up using his key and turned to his bike, only then realizing he wasn’t alone in the back alley. “Fuck me,” he muttered underneath his breath, recognizing the two men sitting on their bikes parked next to his.

He pulled his jacket from the pannier bag, yanking it on as he straddled the bike. “Watcher, Devil.” He nodded as he kicked the bike to life. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was in a situation like this, but when they started their bikes too, Watcher made a motion for him to proceed them, so he pulled out.

Headed down the main drag towards the diner he frequented, he pulled into the parking lot, not surprised when they pulled in behind him. He waited on his bike while they backed theirs into spots next to him, and sat for a second after they killed their engines. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked, finally.

Devil laughed hard. “You gotta quit bein’ so fucking funny, Ice Man.” Andy cocked his head, looking at him. “We ain’t no fucking gentlemen. That’s twice tonight you’ve made that joke.”

Devil laughed again, and Watcher said, “Just wanna have a chat, Ice Man. That’s all. Public place is good for this,” and he stood up off his bike.

8 -
   
Scars

Nearly a month later, Andy leaned against the edge of the doorway, blocking the men outside from coming into the adobe building. He casually held a length of iron pipe in his hand and scowled starkly at the crowd gathered in the street. He yelled over his shoulder into the house, “Watcher, we got a fuckuva lotta company out here.”

There was a meaty thud from behind him, and he risked a glance backward into the main room, seeing several men gathered around someone sitting in a chair.

“Keep ‘em outside, Ice Man,” Watcher said tightly. “We don’t have our money yet.” Andy took a breath and stood up straight, bringing the pipe to rest on his shoulder as if it were a baseball bat. He took one long step forward and saw nearly the entire crowd step back by at least three feet. “
Vamonos. No hace falta que te quedes
,” he said to the crowd in general, tapping his shoulder lightly with the pipe. “Get the fuck out of here, bastards,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing to see.”

A large portion of the group broke off, wandering up streets and away from the house. Their departure exposed the people he’d been set to watch for. “Watch, I got green patches,” he called over his shoulder again, muttering, “Fuck me,” when those patches didn’t turn and leave like the citizens did. The Soldiers had said to watch for the rival club colors, and here they fucking were. Jesus fucking Christ, what was he doing here in Mexico, getting into a fucking biker gang war? “
Fuck me
,” he muttered again.

“Fucking Machos,” Watcher swore from behind him. “Watch ‘em, Ice.” There was another thud, and then he felt a presence at his back, knowing it was Watcher and his club members. He stepped out into the sunshine and off to the side, allowing the Soldiers to take the lead.

Watcher had brought a full dozen of his patch brothers with him to Mexico; they were trying to find out where the money had gone for one of their last shipments. Either a full case of handguns had gone missing, or the tens of thousands of dollars in payment had. Machos or cartel, either way, the Soldiers wanted payment or restitution, and they’d come hunting one or the other.

There was a roar coming from the right, and Andy turned to see an old convertible sedan driving quickly up the dirt road. It was lurching back and forth in the ruts between the adobe and cardboard houses. As if they were in a movie, he saw a man pop up from the backseat like a jack-in-a-box. But this version of the children’s toy had its own plaything, and what looked like an AR-15 was pointing at the center of their group. Andy watched as the men around him hit the ground, and either got behind cover or retreated into the house.

He heard a loud bang and knew it had to be gunfire, so he started to crouch down to make himself a smaller target. Before he could move far, there was a ripping pain in his leg. His left leg gave out, and he found himself sprawled in the dirt. Turning his head to look right then left, he saw Soldiers returning fire; Opie was down, bleeding from a wound in his shoulder. The car vanished around a curve in the street. Everyone except the Soldiers had also faded away, leaving the street strangely empty as silence descended in the wake of the car.

Andy tried to stand, but his leg wasn’t cooperating; he looked down and saw a round hole in his thigh, and his jeans were saturated with blood. Forcing himself to stand, he pulled the bandana off his neck and tied it tightly above the bullet wound in his leg. He felt around the back and found an exit wound. The bleeding had already slowed, so it probably hadn’t hit anything major. His leg felt numb, but he knew it wouldn’t stay like that long, so he had to figure out what he was going to do before the hurt hit.

He saw one Soldier down behind a barrel and headed over there. The hole in the guy’s shoulder was still bleeding heavily, so Andy got down on his good knee to put pressure on the wound. He pulled the guy’s—
fuck
...he realized he didn’t even know this guy’s name—vest off, and then used his pocket knife to rip a strip of fabric from the bottom of his t-shirt. “Gonna hurt,” he told the guy.

Squinting up at him in pain, the man responded, “Just fucking do it.”

He made two pads, tied them into place in front, and then behind where the bullet had gone through, pulling the guy’s vest back onto him. It would help keep the makeshift bandage in place.

Grabbing the edges of the guy’s cut, he dragged him into a sitting position, leaning against the barrel, ignoring a gritted, “
Fuck
.” Andy looked around again, seeing that Opie didn’t need any help; his wound was a shallow groove from a glancing bullet. It didn’t look like anyone else was injured, thank God.

Struggling to a standing position, Andy shook his head.
Fuck,
but his leg was starting to hurt. He reached down and released the makeshift tourniquet, watching to see if the blood flow would start again and was pleased when it did not. He wadded the bandana up and shoved it into his pocket; he didn’t want the blood-soaked thing around his neck. He had heard yelling for the past few minutes and realized it was coming from inside the house, where Watcher and Devil had gone.

Limping over to the doorway, he saw the guy still tied to the chair was now lying on his side, his face an unrecognizable pulp of blood and bits of bone. “Watcher, got a dude hit out here,” he called, leaning heavily on the doorframe.

“Saw you patching him up, Ice Man, thanks,” Watcher said quietly, reaching into the shadows of an interior room and pulling a young woman in demure clothing out through the doorway.

He gently brought her around the edge of the room to where Andy was standing, and prevented her from looking at the man on the floor. “
Donde esta tu tio
?” he asked her, turning to explain to Andy, “Her uncle is the President of the Machos. He’ll want her back. I need to know how to get in contact with him.”

Hearing Andy’s intake of breath, Watcher looked at him. “Unharmed, I’m not a fucking monster,” he growled, shaking his head. Seeing the blood on Andy’s leg, Watcher asked, “You okay, man? Looks like you were hit too.”