CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vultures
Rio—
On the way out of town, I swing by the address where Shelby lives. The rental trailer looks close to the photo Blue pulled off the computer.
I coast to a stop on the shoulder and study the place. A rusty trailer set under some pines, quaking aspens and cottonwoods, all giving shade to the area.
Wind chimes hang from low branches.
She’s obviously done her best to make it as cute as she can, but it’s still not the kind of place she deserves. I aim to change that, eventually.
I hear a dog barking and wonder if it's Hurley. One of these days, I’d like to see him again. “Soon, buddy,” I whisper, and ride away.
On the way to Las Cruces, I stop at a gas station along the highway, not too far outside of town. While I’m at one of the pumps, I can’t help but overhear the woman at the pump on the other side. She’s in a beater car with two little ones in car seats in the back. She tries a credit card, and it must get declined, because I hear her swear. Then I see her digging through her purse, and withdrawing a few wadded up one-dollar bills.
“Three dollars is not going to get us to Grandma’s house, damn it,” she mutters.
I fill my tank, screw the cap on and, with the nozzle in my hand, step around the pump.
“Let me fill your tank for you, darlin’,” I say.
She whirls, her eyes dropping to my cut, and she steps back in fear.
I hold up a palm. “Just tryin’ to help you out, that’s all.”
She doesn’t respond, so I move to her open fuel door, unscrew the cap, and jam the nozzle in, filling it until the lever pops, shutting the pump off.
Jerking the nozzle free, I screw the cap in place. “There you go.”
“Are you for real, mister?”
I offer her my hand. “Rio. President, Saint’s Outlaws. Nice to meet you.”
“I’ve heard about you guys.”
I wink and return to my bike.
Just before I fire it up, I hear her reply.
“Thanks, mister. You saved me.”
“Drive safe, darlin’.”
I’m not back on the highway long before I feel the bike wobble, and ease to the shoulder to check out my tires. Dismounting, I squat by my rear tire and run my hand over the tread, and sure enough, I feel it.
“Goddamn nail. Son of a bitch.”
I stand, my knees cracking, and take my phone from my pocket. Before I can make the call to the club, a cargo van pulls up behind me. A guy climbs out of the driver’s seat; I don’t see anyone else in the vehicle. He’s got a blue work shirt on with a little oval name patch over his chest pocket. It reads Stan, and embroidered above it reads Right Way Plumbing .
“You need a hand, mister?”
I’m always suspicious, especially when I’m riding alone. “I’ve got it.”
“You need some wrenches or sockets? I got some in the van, come on.”
Seems like he’s determined to help me.
I run into guys like him a lot. They’re fascinated by the bike and the life, and want to befriend a club member. I sigh and follow him. He’s chattering away as he walks to the rear doors of his van.
“I’ve got everything in here, man. All kinds of stuff. Every tool you could imagine. I used to be a mechanic, but my brother got me a job at his plumbing company. Pay’s good, but it’s a shit job.” He chuckles and spits a wad of chewing tobacco. “Get it?”
I hear a sound behind me, and before I can swivel my neck, my head explodes in pain, and everything goes black.
A strange hissing, cawing sound carries to me. It sounds like some kind of prehistoric bird. I feel a sharp poke and jerk my body, my lids coming open. The sun is bright, and I shield my eyes, then blink.
A dozen vultures hop around me, and more circle above. I fling out my arm, and pain sears through my body. My head pounds, and my face hurts. I reach up and find blood trailing from my mouth and nose. My right eye is almost swollen shut.
I groan and roll to my side, grab a rock, and hurl it at the closest vulture.
“Not today, motherfuckers,” I rasp.
They flap away, but don’t go far, like they’re waiting me out.
Glancing around, I see nothing but desert. Where the fuck am I?
And then I remember. Someone got the jump on me, like I’m some clueless fucking prospect. Goddamn it. I bet they stole my bike.
Digging in my hip pocket for my phone, I don’t find it. I must have dropped it.
Son-of-a-bitch.
I come to my feet, and damn, does it hurt. Everywhere.
Clutching my side, I wonder if they broke my ribs. It hurts to breathe. I study the sky and the position of the sun, trying to get my bearings. I have no clue where I am, but I head west.
It’s almost sunset when I hear a rumbling sound and see a dust cloud rising to my left. Changing directions, I head toward it.
Soon the form of a pickup truck takes shape. It’s coming rapidly toward me, bouncing over the terrain.
I wait as it skids to a stop in front of me, and my crew jumps out, some of them from the bed of the truck.
Zig flies out from behind the wheel, running to me.
“Goddamn, Prez. You okay?”
“How the hell did you find me?” I reply.
“We tracked your phone and found it on the side of the highway.”
“Was my bike there?” I hiss, holding my side.
Zig shakes his head and puts his shoulder under my other arm and helps me toward the passenger seat. “Come on. Let’s get you in the truck. What the hell happened to you?”
I ease into the cushioned seat. “I picked up a nail. A cargo van stopped to help. Only saw the driver. I followed him to the back of his van. Said he had some tools. Someone got the jump on me. Hit me over the head. Next thing I know, I woke up out in the desert, beat to shit, vultures pecking at my body.”
“Well, they stole your bike,” Blue adds.
“How did you fucking find me out here?” I ask again, hissing in pain.
Blue lifts his chin to Zig. “He’s the one figured it out.”
I look at Zig.
“You weren’t answering your damn phone. When we tracked it and found it, I used the app I installed on your phone to find your wallet. Guess it’s still in your back pocket.”
“Strange they didn’t take it,” I mutter.
Mauler lifts a hand toward my chest. “Who the fuck looks at that president patch on your cut and messes with the Saint’s Outlaws, let alone its president?”
“Another fucking club,” I mutter, then stiffen, locking eyes with Zig. “The DKs.”
“You think it was them? You think they were following you, looking for an opportunity?”
“I think we need to find out if Right Way Plumbing is a real company.”
“Who?” Zig asks.
“The guy who stopped. His shirt said Right Way Plumbing. The name embroidered on it was Stan.”
“Let’s get you to the clubhouse, Rio,” Zig says, climbing behind the wheel. Blue and Bandit climb into the backseat of the crew cab, and Mauler and Bagger climb into the bed of the pickup, and we head out.
Every bump and jostle sends pain shooting through my ribs. If they’re not broken, they’re fucking bruised as hell, and I grit my teeth.
Zig lifts his chin. “There are some pain killers in the glove box.”
I dig through it and pop one, chasing it with the bottle of water he passes me, guzzling the entire bottle.
“Thirsty?” Zig asks with a grin.
“Yeah, VP. I was lying out in the desert for God knows how long.” I flip the visor and look in the mirror. My face is battered, and on top of that, my skin is sunburned. “Goddamn it.”
“Yeah, you don’t look so good,” Zig adds with a chuckle.
“I’m supposed to see Shelby Sunday,” I mutter.
“You might want to reschedule that, at least until your face looks better.”
I slam the visor back in place. “This turns out to be those fucking DKs, I swear they’re going to pay for this.”