CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
New Friends
Rio—
“This look good?” Bagger asks from the top of a ladder. Our sign for above the garage arrived, and the boys are hanging it. It’s our club’s logo with crossed wrenches. SAINT’S GARAGE .
I tilt my head. “A little higher on the right.” Bagger and Mauler jostle the heavy sign. “Right there. Perfect.”
“Thank God,” Bagger mutters and drills his side into position.
“Looks good. The place is really coming together,” Zig observes, standing at my side with his arms crossed.
“We should be able to get it up and running later this week.” Once the sign is hung and the guys climb from the ladders, I whistle. “Let’s head back.”
The sun is sinking on the horizon when our six bikes pull out in formation, heading toward the clubhouse.
The ride feels good. It’s been hot this week, and the wind in my face is like a tonic washing over me. Our clubhouse is miles outside of town, and we rumble along the highway, crossing over the Rio Grande. Soon the highway rolls through acres of pecan groves, the trees in neat rows provide some much-needed shade.
I catch the first whiff of smoke in the air and see a flare of flames climbing a tree up ahead. Two figures toss something in the bed of a pickup truck, then jump in the cab. Tires spit gravel as they roar onto the highway, speeding away.
By the time we reach the fire, it’s fully engulfed the tree, and with the winds, two others catch.
Several men run from a nearby farmhouse, shouting.
I motion for the pack to pull to the side and stop. When I climb from my bike, I point at Blue and Bandit. “Go after that fucking truck.”
They tear out, and the rest of us jog across the highway toward the fire.
I spot a man who appears in charge. He’s an older man, barking orders in Spanish to his crew, who is forming a bucket line, trying to douse the flames.
“If there’s accelerant, you can’t use water,” I shout.
The man pauses and shouts orders to his men, and they run off, returning with several fire extinguishers.
“Let us help,” I bark.
He eyes me, then nods.
I grab an extinguisher and get to work at the base of the tree. If those vandals doused these trees with gasoline, they probably didn’t get very far up the trunk.
More men sprint out with axes and chop the surrounding trees, trying to make a firebreak. My men grab the axes out of the smaller men’s hands and get to work.
With the added manpower, we make quick work of getting those trees down and the others form a bucket line, dousing the downed trees with water.
It takes about twenty minutes before the three trees are out, but smoldering.
I squat near the trunks. All three of them smell like gas.
I feel a presence at my side and glance up to see the older man wiping his hands on a bandana.
“Thank you for your help,” he says.
I stand, my knees cracking. “Saw a couple of guys toss some gas cans in the back of a pickup and take off.”
He stares down the highway. “I had to fire a couple of workers yesterday. Could have been them.” He looks at me. “Blue truck?”
“I can’t say for sure. They were too far away.” I jab a thumb over my shoulder. “Sent two of my guys after them.”
His eyes drop to my black cut. “You that club I’ve heard about? Seems everyone in town can talk of nothing else.”
“Saint’s Outlaws.” I extend my hand. “I’m Rio. Las Cruces Chapter President.”
“Rio. Good to meet you. I’m Eduardo Sanchez. I own the place. Sanchez Pecans. Thanks for your help. If we didn’t get control of that quickly, my whole grove could have gone up in flames.”
“Glad we happened by at the right time.”
“Come. You and your men, join me for a drink. Please.” He heads up to the house, and we follow. We sit on chairs on the front porch, and one of his employees brings out a tray of glasses and a pitcher of sangria.
My phone rings, and I pull it out. “Yeah?”
It’s Bagger on a video call. “We caught up to ‘em. Taught ‘em a lesson.” He grins and turns the phone to two teenagers down on the dirt with blackeyes and bloody noses. “You want me to haul ‘em back there?”
I look at Sanchez with a brow cocked, showing him the two boys.
He waves me off. “I don’t think they’ll be back.”
“Let ‘em off with a warning; we see them again, they’ll be six feet under by sundown.”
“You got it, boss.”
The video ends.
“I appreciate that,” Sanchez murmurs, lifting his chin to my phone. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I glance around his operation. “How long have you been here?”
“Three generations. My grandfather started this business a hundred years ago.”
I nod. “Impressive. There good money in pecans?”
He shrugs. “We do all right.” He points to a hill overlooking the property. “My grandfather built that hacienda. You can see for miles from up there. My wife doesn’t like it. She says it’s too big and pretentious, so I built her a modern place on the other side of the grove.”
“So, you selling it?”
“Probably. I’ll need the money to bankroll my oldest daughter’s wedding in September. She has expensive taste, and it’s hard to say no to her.” He flashes his teeth.
I grin. “Understandable.”
“Do you have any children, senor?”
“Rio, please. And, no, sir. No children.”
“Call me Eduardo.”
“Eduardo.”
“You have a girl; she’ll have you wrapped around her finger before her first birthday.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Noted.”
We drink our sangria, and after about fifteen minutes, Blue and Bandit return, and I take out my wallet, grabbing a card and holding it out to Sanchez.
“You have any more problems, call me.”
He takes it, then lifts his glass. “To new friends.”
I set my wallet on the table and clink my glass to his. “New friends.”
He picks up the pitcher and insists we have another glass.
The sky is a glimmering deep purple when we say goodbye and climb on our bikes.
I’m all the way at the clubhouse before I check my phone and see I have a text from Eduardo. “Son of a bitch.”
Zig frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“I left my wallet at Eduardo’s place.”
“Boss, this is the third time this week,” Mauler reminds me.
“Shut the fuck up, and go get the damn thing,” I growl at him.
Zig snickers and taps on his phone.
“What are you laughing at?” I snap.
“Nothing. Just placing an order.”
I assume he’s talking about food until a car pulls up an hour later, and he goes outside to meet the Uber driver.
Zig comes back inside and tosses the package on the bar top. “Merry Christmas.”
“What’s this?” I open the bag and find an air tag tracking device, then roll my eyes. “I don’t need this.”
Mauler strides inside and drops my wallet in front of me. “Maybe you ought to get a chain like Bagger.”
“Like fucking hell,” I bark.
Zig tears open the packaging and pulls the plastic tab from the battery, activating it. The Air Tag plays a sound.
He takes my phone and taps away, finishing connecting them.
“What if he loses his phone, too?” Blue teases with a grin.
“Shut up,” I snap.
“There,” Zig says, slipping the tag in my wallet. “Now you can use the Find My app on your phone to locate your wallet. Easy-peasy.”
“For you, maybe,” Bandit grins. “This is Prez we’re talking about.”
“Shut up, all of you. Enough about my damn wallet.”
Blue grins and shoves a piece of paper in front of me. “Found your girl.”
I glance at the printout. It’s a picture of a store. Snatching it up, I read it. “Blue Orchid Jewelry, Cloudcroft. This is where she works?”
“Yup. Got her address, too. Judging by the street shot of the place, it’s a single-wide trailer under some trees. Looks like she did her best to cute-ify the place.”
I stare at the second paper he slides me. It’s a black and white photo printed out on copy paper. “This is hers?”
“It’s a rental.”
Scanning the photo, it doesn’t look like much, but he’s right. She’s made an effort to make the place cute with flowers and colorfully painted garden signs.
“Text me the address,” I say, folding the papers and shoving them in my pocket.
“You going up there tomorrow?” Zig asks.
I nod and toss back a shot of whiskey.