Sniper in the Bunker

1. Jasmine

one

Jasmine

Iwalked in mid-yell, which was about average for seven in the fucking morning.

The Kingman chapter’s mechanic bay was already a sweatbox; the inside of the roll-up door streaked with heat mirage where the sun hammered at the metal.

The air smelled like scorched oil, burnt Maxwell House, and a hint of rain from last night’s thunderstorm, and the concrete underfoot was slick in places from the ghosts of spilled transmission fluid.

Over by the big lift, Denny and Cal had squared off on either side of a stripped Harley Fat Boy, jaws out, voices bouncing off the steel walls hard enough I could hear them from the parking lot.

The prospects were in full testosterone meltdown, their argument nothing I hadn’t already heard three times this week, with minor variations.

Cal, the taller one, wore a cutoff shirt and had a cherry-red face.

Denny, dark and broad and already sweating through his patchless vest, was holding a socket wrench like it was a murder weapon.

The socket set in question was nowhere in sight.

“Are you fucking deaf?” Denny said. “I said, check your fucking bench before you come—”

“I checked my bench,” Cal shot back. “Last night, and again this morning. It’s not there because you took it for your dogshit Softail project and—”

They both turned at the same time, probably because my boots on the concrete sounded like someone racking a shotgun.

Or maybe because I dropped the Iron & Sons invoices onto the nearest workbench with enough force that a couple cans of brake cleaner tipped over and rolled, adding clatter to the music of my entrance.

“Gentlemen,” I said. Neither of them looked at me, which I expected. Prospects don’t learn fast, just hard.

The Fat Boy on the lift looked worse than the prospects, like someone had tried to break its spirit.

The wiring was half-stripped, the tank still off, and one of the air filter bolts was stripped to hell—a detail that was definitely going to matter for the inevitable next argument.

The bike was a prop, a focal point, and also a reminder that the reason I was awake and not in my bed was that this place bled money every time a build sat dead on the lift.

I picked up the clipboard, thumbed through the invoices, and looked at Denny. “You’re fighting over a socket set while that bike’s been half-dead for three days,” I said. “Maybe if one of you had the balls to admit you lost a tool, we’d be done by now.”

Cal huffed, shoulders up, mouth open. I held up a single finger—index, not middle, which was self-restraint at its finest.

“Find the tools,” I said. “Or buy new ones. Either way, shut up and work.”

Denny started to mouth off, but then saw where my finger was still hovering, and just put the wrench down on the bench with a thunk.

Cal’s chest deflated in real time. The moment lasted about three seconds before both of them were looking at their boots like they’d just gotten caught jerking it in the church basement.

“You need anything else, Jasmine?” Denny said, eyes on the floor. Respectful, but only because I was holding the purse strings this week.

“Yeah,” I said. “Coffee that tastes less like hot roof tar. And someone to mop that fucking spill by the door before I break my neck.”

They moved, and for a second, I wondered if I’d actually developed telekinesis during the night.

I was already walking out before they started whispering about me behind my back, flipping to the next page on the clipboard. The invoices weren’t going to reconcile themselves. Boots clanging on the floor, I left them to their pissing contest, one they both lost the second I walked in.

The kitchen at the Kingman compound was a galley in name and an afterthought in design, stretched the full length of the common area with two long Formica counters, both pocked and scratched like they’d survived a bar brawl.

The fridge, big enough for a family but always two-thirds empty, sat under a flickering GE logo held on by ancient masking tape.

There was a permanent ring of brown stains around the coffee maker and a half-dead cactus in the windowsill that looked like it was trying to end it all.

I set two bags of groceries on the counter, then hooked the fridge door open with my hip.

Cold air rolled out over my legs, sharp and metallic.

I started loading in the stuff that mattered—cold cuts, energy drinks, a bag of cut carrots for me, which would last maybe forty-eight hours before someone mistook them for packing material.

I kept the invoices in a stack to my right, next to a mug filled with pens that never worked and a tape gun missing half the roll.

My phone buzzed, vibrating across the counter like it wanted to leap off and shatter itself. I caught it one-handed and thumbed it to speaker.

“Jackson MC, this is Jasmine.”

A man’s voice, nasal and distracted: “Got a flag on your order for the Motul, you want to split the case or full?”

“Full,” I said. “Also, you overbilled us on the last intake shipment. Line item five. I have the invoice in front of me.”

Silence, then some keyboard clacking. “Says here—”

“Read it again,” I said. “Line five, in bold. We paid for a twin-pack, not four singles. You charged us for both.”

Another silence. I could almost smell the irritation through the phone.

“Alright,” he said. “I see it.”

“Great. Fix it, send a corrected statement. I’ve got bikes waiting.”

The call ended with a click, no goodbye. I liked suppliers who didn’t waste time.

I went back to restocking shelf-stable creamer for the caffeine addicts, four cans of generic chili, a six-pack of Monster, the carrots.

When I reached into the bag for my yogurt, I found it crushed under the weight of three Red Bulls and a pack of beef jerky, which made sense given who bagged it.

I fished it out, wiped off the cracked lid, and stashed it in the fridge.

My phone buzzed again, a different tone. I didn’t have to look to know it was Bram—he used the default, an old-man move if I ever saw one.

“Yeah,” I said, clicking the invoices into a neater pile.

“Morning, Jasmine,” Bram said. His voice had that unhurried quality, low and uncrackable, like he was speaking from the bottom of a well. “How’s the shop?”

“On pace,” I said. “Two builds done by noon, one more if Denny gets his head out of his ass.”

He made a sound, somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “That new prospect learning anything yet?”

“Only how to fuck up in new ways,” I said. “But he’s not lazy. I can work with that.”

“Good.” There was a pause, the kind that said he was reading something else while we talked. “Supplies holding?”

“As long as the supplier doesn’t send me another invoice shaped like a ransom note, yes. I’m handling it.”

“Always do,” Bram said. That was the highest compliment he ever paid, and it landed like a pat on the shoulder from a construction crane.

He let another silence hang, this one heavier. I could picture him at his desk, hands steepled, maybe looking out the window at the bikes lined up under the shade tarp. He never filled space just to fill it.

“Anything you need from me?” he asked.

I hesitated, not because I needed anything but because I knew he wanted to help. It was a weird position to be in—object of paternal concern for a man whose idea of therapy was a punch in the mouth or a bottle of room-temperature whiskey.

“No, Bram,” I said. “We’re squared away.”

“Alright. Tell Sniper I said hey.”

“I will,” I said, then waited for the click. He didn’t hang up right away, though. There was a breath, then: “Proud of you, Jasmine.”

I swallowed hard enough to taste stomach acid. “Thanks,” I said, softer than I wanted to.

The call ended.

I stood there with my hands on the counter, the invoices fanned out under my fingers, and let the silence soak in. The overhead light buzzed like it was daring me to lose my mind. I poured myself a coffee, black, took one sip, and nearly spit it out. It really did taste like roof tar.

I stared out the kitchen window for a while, the view mostly desert scrub, chain-link fence, and the brutal edge of the Arizona morning.

Past the razor wire, the mountains looked close enough to grab, their ridges jagged and blue.

You could see the heat lines already dancing above the asphalt where the sun hit it just right.

I thought about Sniper. Four years married and it still didn’t make sense how someone that lean and silent could feel so necessary. He wasn’t home yet, but I knew exactly when he’d show: whenever the day was at its hottest, which always seemed to be when he wanted me most.

My phone sat silent on the counter. I eyed it, then the invoices, then the window again.

In another life I’d have been a teacher or a nurse or whatever bullshit my high school guidance counselor said I was “destined for.” Instead, I was the reason this place didn’t run itself into the dirt before lunch.

Not a bad trade, all things considered.

I finished the rest of my coffee, jaw tight, and got back to the numbers.

I finished the kitchen restock in ten minutes flat, moving with the efficiency of someone who’d rather be shot than reorganize the fridge twice.

The vendor invoices went into the supplier’s folder—cheap plastic, bright red, always visible in my bag so I’d have an excuse to shut down questions before they started.

I wiped the counter, mostly for show, then snagged my keys off the hook by the back door, the ones with the paracord fob that Sniper braided for me in the first year we were together.

The compound was awake now: two patched members on the east porch chain-smoking and trading war stories, Cal sweeping the walk in penance for his earlier stupidity, a prospect I didn’t recognize doing a perimeter check with a plastic bin full of empty brass.

I gave him a nod. He nodded back, eyes wide with the terror of not fucking up.

The air was already over 90, sharp with the smell of heated rubber and juniper from the stand of trees by the property line.

The mechanic bay was silent for once, doors open and fans blowing out last night’s exhaust.

I cut across the yard, sidestepping a puddle of mystery fluid by the lift.

Out here, everyone learned to avoid puddles unless you had a thing for tetanus.

The parking lot was a graveyard of pickup trucks, but mine was easy to spot: Chevy Silverado, four years past prime, paint scratched down to primer on both doors and the hood.

I got it for two grand from a tweaker who didn’t realize how much gas it guzzled.

The inside smelled like leather, motor oil, and the vanilla air freshener I always denied buying.

I unlocked the door, tossed my bag in, and sat behind the wheel. For a second, I just let the engine run, the vibrations rattling up through my legs. It was the only time that day I felt like nobody could reach me, until my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out, flicked to text, and typed: Back by noon ??.

My thumb hovered over Send for a second longer than it needed to.

Not because I was uncertain, but because I knew what it looked like—to anyone reading over my shoulder, anyway.

The thing with Sniper was we never did public affection, not even with each other.

But there was something about the black heart emoji, a little private joke between us, that made it okay.

I hit Send. Watched the little “delivered” checkmark appear. Then, for reasons I couldn’t have explained to anyone, I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat face-down and put both hands on the wheel.

There was nothing left to do but go. I shifted into drive, eased out of the lot, and rolled down the access road. The sun was up, bright and absolute, erasing all the lines between sky and highway. I felt the day opening up in front of me, all possibilities and no guarantees.

I put on my sunglasses, cranked the window, and floored it toward town.