Iron Goddess (13 page)

Shea found her nine-year-old self wandering aimlessly outside Victor Ganado's home. Ralph had chased her off while he and the Jaguars' president talked business inside. It was a cool day, the sky royal blue, the air filled with the sweet fragrances of citrus blossoms. She preferred playing outside anyway, when the weather was pleasant.

The fenced-in lot next to the house caught her attention. Discarded machines of all types—cars, motorcycles, mowers, bicycles, even a snow machine—were jam-packed into rows like a rusty wonderland of hidden treasures. She spied a 250 cc minibike about three rows in. Ralph had been looking for one for her to learn on. This might be the ride they'd been hunting for.

She paid no heed to the
KEEP OUT
and
NO TRESPASSING
signs. Ralph had taught her those signs were for other people. That sort of thing didn't apply to them. The Stevenses were biker royalty. They could do what they wanted, go where they wanted, whenever they wanted.

The fence was twice as tall as she was, crowned with three strands of barbed wire. No problem. She grabbed the welcome mat from Victor's front door and tossed it over the barbed wire. It took a few attempts, but she nailed it on the third try. With her heart racing, she climbed up the chain links, up and over the mat covering the barbed wire, then down the other side where she stepped onto the hood of a rusted out VW Rabbit with all but one window busted out.

She hopped down. The broken windows tempted her mischievous side. She picked up a rock and threw it at the VW's remaining window. It cracked but didn't shatter. She picked up the rock again, threw harder, and was rewarded with a loud crash. “Yes!”

Satisfied, she walked down the row, tapping on various surfaces with a green paloverde stick, noting the different tinks and thunks each object made.

She was halfway to the minibike when a low rumble disturbed the quiet. She looked around the sea of abandoned junk, but didn't see anything. Then she heard it again—a throaty growl. She turned down a different aisle and came face-to-face with a black dog as tall as her chest. All the dogs she knew were friendly. Their only threat was covering her in slobber. This dog was different. It held its head down, teeth bared, eyes aflame.

Instinct did for her what experience couldn't. She swung the stick in front of herself to fend off the dog. It barked several times and snatched the stick out of her hand.

Adrenaline flooded her system as she ran. The beast was almost on her when she rolled under a nearby car. The dog growled, then hunched down and crawled toward her on its belly. She scrambled to the other side, leaping over a riding lawn mower. When it emerged from under the car, she threw a broken tricycle at it. It dodged the trike and kept coming. She ran toward a golf cart, clambering onto the roof.

As she caught her breath, the dog grabbed her pant leg. Shea clung to the roof of the golf cart with all her strength, but her sweaty palms couldn't get enough purchase. She landed face-first on the ground with the wind knocked out of her. She flipped around onto her back, but before she could get to her feet, the dog leapt onto her chest. She punched wildly at the monstrous mouth full of teeth snapping at her. She grabbed hold of its throat, but it overpowered her easily.

Powerful jaws sliced into her face. Pain exploded in her head. She continued punching, but it had no effect. Blood obscured her vision.

All at once, the growling faded and her screaming stopped. The rapid heartbeat hammering in her ears remained the only sound. Every beat screamed for her to wake up.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Shea opened her eyes, the memory of teeth tearing at her flesh replaced by the Mustang's seatbelt pulling against her chest. The roof had caved in, the windshield cracked but still in place. The world outside had taken a ninety-degree turn clockwise. Steam hissed from the cracked radiator.

She remembered tumbling down the hill. “Wendy?”

Blood speckled Wendy's face and the deflated driver-side air bag. Sand filled the view outside the driver's window. The car had landed on its side. Shea shook Wendy's shoulder. She groaned. “What happened?”

“We crashed. Can you undo your seatbelt?”

“What?” Wendy's eyes were unfocused, jaw slack like a large-mouth bass.

“Your seatbelt. Can you get it open?”

Wendy stabbed at the button. “It won't let go.”

“Crap.” Shea reached down but couldn't get it to release. “Hold on a sec.” She pulled out the knife clipped inside her waistband. The spring-assisted blade opened with a sharp clack.

Wendy looked worried. “What're you doing with that?”

“Cutting your seatbelt.”

Using the serrated edge at the base of the blade, Shea sawed through the seatbelt. Wendy dropped a few inches to the ground as the seatbelt gave way.

“You okay?” Shea asked.

“My head hurts.”

Shea tucked the knife back into her waistband. With one hand on the oh-shit handle and her feet braced against the side of the footwell, she pressed the seatbelt release. It opened.

“We gotta get out of here.” Shea assessed their options. The windshield was cracked but not shattered. There wasn't enough room to kick it out. Their best route was up through the passenger-side door.

She stepped onto the center console and tried the door. It wouldn't open. No surprise, considering how much damage it had sustained from rolling down the hill. But the window was gone. She reached through, her arms, back, and legs protesting as she wriggled up through the window.

Standing on the door, Shea inspected their surroundings. They had rolled two hundred feet down a steep hill. At the top, the SUV sat parked on the side of the road. Oscar was already a third of the way down the hill, struggling to maintain his balance on the steep, uneven slope.

“Wendy, we need to leave.”

Wendy shook her head. “Let me lay here awhile.”

“What the hell's wrong with you?” Shea feared she might have a concussion. “The guy who ran us off the road is halfway down the hill already. If we stay here, he'll kill us. Gimme your hand.” She leaned down into the car, reaching for Wendy.

Wendy took Shea's hand. “I'm scared.”

“Yeah, me, too. Step on the console. Careful with the broken window. The glass can still cut you.”

Wendy's skinny frame made her ascent easier as Shea pulled her out of the smashed Mustang.

“My beautiful car.” She tucked a string of hair behind her ear with a blood-smeared hand as she sat on the crumpled fender.

“Worry about the car later.”

A bullet thunked the car's exposed undercarriage, followed by the report of a gunshot.

“You
putas
need to come with me!” shouted Oscar.

Shea thought about shooting back, but Oscar was more than a hundred yards away, well outside the range of her Glock. Wendy crouched down looking like she would dive back into the car.

“Don't go back in there. Follow me.” Shea slid off the side of the car onto the ground, then turned back to her sister. “Jump down. It's not as far as it looks.”

Wendy closed her eyes and leapt, landing in a heap on the ground.

Shea pulled her to her feet. “Let's go.” She led Wendy further down the hill through waist-high prairie grass that made running difficult and offered little cover. Another shot echoed. Shea resisted the urge to look back. It would slow them down more.

At the bottom of the hill, a dry wash meandered through a grove of paloverde trees. “There. Head for the wash.” Shea pointed.

“We ain't gonna make it.”

“Yes, we are.” Shea pushed her sister ahead of her. Her heart thundered in her chest. Her lungs ached for air.

When they reached the edge of the grove, Wendy ducked down to hide behind a paloverde.

Shea pulled her up and pushed her ahead of her again. “Can't stop. He knows we're here.”

Another shot sounded, this time shattering one of the tree branches. “He's gonna kill us!” cried Wendy.

Shea pulled her Glock and fired a couple of shots at Oscar. He fell. “Got him.”

Her hope evaporated a moment later when he struggled to his feet and resumed the chase. “Fuck. He's wearing body armor.”

In the distance, the high-pitched drone of an engine approached. Possibly a motorcycle or an ATV. Further down the wash, a dirt road intersected the dry riverbed. “Make for that road.”

When they reached the dirt road, two ATVs—one blue, one red—appeared on the far bank of the wash, thundering their way. Shea put away the Glock and waved her arms. “Stop! Please!”

The guy on a blue ATV pulled up beside them, his buddy on a red one stopped a few feet behind. “What's going on?”

“A man,” Shea said between breaths. “With a gun. Trying. To kill us.”

The guy on the blue ATV looked up the wash. “Get on. We'll get you out of here.”

“Thank you.” Shea pointed for Wendy to climb onto the red ATV while she got on the blue one.

“You set?” asked her driver.

Before she could say yes, his head exploded in a spray of blood. Shea turned to see Oscar approaching. He fired again. Shea ducked behind the blue ATV. Wendy screamed. The other ATV driver lay on the ground, bleeding from a chest wound. “Wendy, get on.” Shea pushed the driver's body off and reached out for Wendy to join her. Wendy rolled onto the ground, curling into a fetal position behind her ATV.

Shea crouched beside her and drew her Glock. She peeked above the ATV and fired a shot at Oscar. It missed. He fired back as she ducked down.

“Call Hunter,” she said. “Let him know what's happening.”

“I left my purse back in the car.”

“Dammit!” Shea pulled her phone out, tossing it to Wendy. “Use this.”

She took it. “It's cracked.”

“Try it anyway.” Shea looked above the ATV.

One of Oscar's shots ricocheted off the handlebars inches from Shea's head. “Put down your gun,
blanca,
and give yourselves up, or I will blow your fucking heads off.”

“Kiss my ass, Oscar!”

“Shea, your phone ain't working.”

“Shit.” Shea rose up to take another shot. Pain exploded on the left side of her head. She fell to the ground dazed. She forced her eyes open despite the horrendous agony. Wendy loomed over her, saying something she couldn't make out. Everything was spinning. She had trouble getting her mind to focus.

“You're okay. Just a graze.”

The world felt out of sorts. Wendy turned and screamed with her hands in the air. “Please don't kill me.”

Shea turned, causing her head to swim, her vision darkening. When her mind cleared, Oscar stood over her with the Colt pointed at her chest. “I should kill you for making me hike down this fucking hill. But
el jefe
wants you alive. Guess this is your lucky day,
blanca
.”

He stuck her Glock in his waistband and pulled Shea to her feet.

Wendy put an arm around her. “C'mon, sis,” she said with defeat in her voice.

Oscar pointed his gun up the hill.
“Andale, putas
.
”

While they trudged along the wash and back up the hill, Shea's mind began to clear. Blood stained her shirt. Halfway up the hill, Wendy collapsed onto the ground. Shea wobbled but stayed on her feet.

“I can't,” said Wendy.

Shea felt the same way, but lacked the energy to say it.

Oscar pointed the gun at Wendy, who ducked away, fending him off with her arms. “Get moving or I blow your
pinche
head off.”

Shea forced air into her lungs. “Leave her alone, you piece of shit.”

He turned the gun on Shea. “Listen here,
blanca
. I got the gun now. You do as I say, or I kill you anyway.”

There was nowhere to run. He wasn't bluffing.

“C'mon, Bug. Let's keep moving,” Shea said.

She helped Wendy up. The two of them, leaning on each other, continued up the hill. Shea turned to Oscar. “Why?”

“Oh, I think you know.”

He pressed the gun into Shea's back. Anger forced her to dig deep, giving her a burst of energy. She twisted to the side, coiling her arms around her chest, then nailed him in the face with her elbow. He staggered back a step. Before she could punch him again, he caught her on the jaw with the butt of the pistol. She fell onto the grass with the taste of blood in her mouth, seeing stars and feeling dizzy.

“I gotta give you credit. You don't give up without a fight. But you gotta face facts—you gonna lose. Now get your ass up.”

He held the gun to Wendy's head. Shea forced herself up. Wendy put a hand under Shea's arm and helped her up the hill.

When they reached the road, Victor stood there waiting beside the black Nissan Pathfinder, dressed in a dark gray pinstripe suit.

“Hello, Uncle Victor.”

“
¡Hola, mija!
You cause me much trouble.” Victor's eyes flickered with anger. No pretense of the kind grandfather now.

Oscar patted them down and pulled the bottle of OxyContin from Shea's pocket. He shook it and examined the label. “Well, well, Oxy. Nice!”

Victor took the bottle from him. “I'll just hold on to this for you.” He pocketed the bottle while Oscar zip-tied their hands behind their backs.

“Get in.” He shoved them into the back of the Pathfinder, with Shea on the driver's side. Sirens wailed in the distance while they crossed back over the median and drove away, going north into the mountains toward Ironwood.

“What're you gonna do with us?” asked Wendy in a trembling voice.

Oscar laughed. Victor remained silent.

“Just keep quiet,” Shea said. She wanted to comfort her sister, to tell her it would be all right. But she wasn't sure it would be.

“Are they gonna kill us?”

“Shhh.”

Wendy sobbed quietly.

The ride gave Shea's head time to clear. It ached to the point of distraction, but the dizziness was fading. She slowed her breathing, focusing on how to escape. If she slipped her bound wrists under and past her legs, she could use the zip tie as a garrote to strangle Oscar. But considering he was driving, that could lead to another accident. A crash in the mountains could prove fatal, since she and Wendy weren't buckled in. She sat back hoping a new opportunity would present itself before it was too late.

Oscar turned onto a now-familiar side road. They were headed back to the warehouse—a great place to make bodies disappear. The crunching of tires on gravel set her further on edge. The chances of them surviving were growing thinner by the minute. But still, Shea paid closer attention to the turns, clinging to hope.

When the SUV stopped in front of the warehouse, the two men got out. Oscar opened Shea's door, grabbed her collar, and pulled her from the vehicle, causing her to stumble. When she regained her feet, something hard pressed against the back of her head.
A gun barrel, no doubt.
Victor held Wendy with a firm grip on her arm.

“Walk.” Oscar's voice purred with delight and malice. He grabbed Shea's arm and led her over the gravel driveway. Victor unlocked the side door, releasing the bolt with a clack. The door squeaked open.

Using his gun as a prod, Oscar pushed Shea and Wendy down the hallway and into the main room of the warehouse, then pushed Shea backward into a folding chair. The familiar pungent sweetness of black tar heroin hung heavy in the air.

Wendy slumped in a chair to Shea's right, her eyes red and swollen from crying. Her sweaty hair was plastered against her head.
I'm sure I'm no beauty to behold either,
she thought.
Not that I ever was.
Behind them sat the table Victor's guys used to cut heroin into hex.

Oscar stood a few paces back, with his Colt 1911 in his hand and Shea's Glock sticking out of the front of his waistband. Victor towered over her. His face had the rumpled, worn texture of a discarded snake skin. His eyes sizzled with indignation.

“I liked you kids. So full of life and curiosity.” Victor cupped Wendy's chin in his gnarled hand. “I remember you were a little
gordita
. What happened? You smoking your old man's product? Or maybe selling crystal not so profitable, eh?” A venomous smile twisted his face further.

“Why are you doing this?” Shea asked.

Victor slithered over to her. “
Pobrecita,
you were so pretty until my Cesar attacked you. Now you look…well.” He shook his head. “I loved Cesar,
mija
. Hated to put him down. It was a knife in my gut. But to keep peace with the Thunder, I did it. Sometimes one does unpleasant things in this business.”

A knife in the gut,
Shea repeated to herself. A knife. Of course, her knife! Was it still there?

Careful not to give herself away, she reached around the back of the chair and found her knife clipped to the inside of her waistband underneath the gun holster. Oscar must have missed it. She inched it out with her fingertips.

Victor's gaze grew icy. “We had a good thing, your
papi
and me. The Jaguars supply him with
mota
and heroin
.
He sold it for us. Good business. But when he go to prison, the Thundermen no longer respect me.”

He bent down beside Shea. She covered the knife with her hand.

“They got greedy,
mija,
” he hissed in her ear.

He turned to Wendy. “Your old man, Hunter—he the most greedy. He stopped buying from me to sell crystal cooked by his toothless junkie buddies. Became a competitor. Very disrespectful.”

The knife pulled free of Shea's jeans. She held it solidly in her hands. The familiar weight of it gave her confidence. Her thumb found the peg on the blade and eased it out of the grip. The blade locked in place with a loud click.

Did they hear it?
Her heart stopped. Oscar glanced at her and narrowed his eyes, but didn't say anything.

“But it was not enough to steal my business. I arrive yesterday to see someone stealing my heroin.” Victor pointed up to the surveillance camera. His voice thundered with anger. “Notice that camera up there? I see everything!”

He leaned into Shea's face. “This,
mija,
was the most disrespectful. I kill my dog for you, and you steal from me?”

“Hunter took your dope. I had nothing to do with it.”

“I see you on my video. In
my
warehouse carrying
my
hex. That makes you guilty.”

“Hunter forced me to.” She maneuvered the knife blade to the spot on the zip tie between her hands. She applied pressure and began sawing at the tie, hoping she didn't slit her own wrists in the process.

“If you not here to steal my dope, why you here? Huh?”

“The Jags kidnapped my niece. You also shot one of my employees and stole a dozen of my bikes. I was looking to get back what was mine.”

Victor looked confused. “What are you talking about? We did not kidnap your niece or steal any motorcycles.”

“Don't lie to me, Victor.”

Oscar kicked Shea's chair right between her legs, almost causing Shea to drop the knife. He pointed his gun at her, while sweat beaded on his forehead. “You full o' shit,
blanca
.”

“Why would we do these things?” Victor looked indignant.

“You said it yourself. The Thunder's cutting into your business. You needed money and wanted to punish Hunter, so you kidnapped his daughter for ransom. You stole my bikes to sell to a chop shop.”

“Enough of this shit.” Victor looked her square in the eye. “Where's my hex,
mija
?”

“Where's my niece, asshole?”

“Órale.”
Victor looked at Oscar, who met his gaze. For a moment, she thought he might start asking questions of Oscar.
“Mijo.”

“Sí, jefe.”
Oscar looked nervous.

“Encourage our guests to talk. Start with that one.” He pointed at Wendy.

A smile broke out across Oscar's face.
“Sí, jefe.”
Oscar handed his Colt to Victor, pulled out a stainless steel lighter, and walked up to Wendy. Shea furiously cut at her bonds, hoping to break free before he hurt Wendy. But without seeing what she was doing, progress was slow.

Wendy's face blanched with fear. “No, please!”

Oscar clicked the trigger. A blue flame hissed from the lighter like a tiny jet engine. He grabbed Wendy's arm and pressed the flame to her skin. She screamed, the acrid stench of crisped flesh permeating the air.

“Stop it, you bastards!” Shea said. “She doesn't know anything.”

Victor held a hand up to Oscar. The old man leaned into Wendy's face. “Where. Is. My. Hex?”

Wendy choked and gasped, her face distorted in pain. “Don't know.”

“We don't have it, Victor,” Shea said. “Hunter does.”

“Where would he take it?” said Victor, turning to Shea.

“The MC's clubhouse most likely.” Shea had no idea if it was there or not, but a wrong answer was better than no answer. She pulled on the zip tie, hoping she'd cut through enough to break it. It held, cutting deeper into her wrist. She resumed sawing at the notch she had made.

Victor smiled in a way that reminded Shea of the Grinch. “Now we get somewhere. Perhaps you get Hunter to return what he stole, perhaps we let you go. Where is your phone, Wendy?”

Wendy tried to speak, but could only choke out a series of gasps and guttural moans.

“We lost our phones when you ran us off the road,” Shea said.

Oscar pulled out his own cellphone and looked at Wendy. “What's your old man's number,
puta
?”

Wendy struggled for breath. “Can't remember. Never memorized.”

Oscar set down his phone and tore open Wendy's shirt, sending buttons flying, then pulled up her bra, exposing her breasts.

“No!” she shrieked.

“Estúpida.”
Oscar shook his head. He pressed the trigger on the lighter, letting it hiss near her left nipple. “What's the fucking number?”

Wendy whimpered. “If I knew…I'd tell you. Please…believe me.”

Shea's knife slipped and nicked her wrist. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. She located the notch again and resumed cutting it.

“You don't know your old man's phone number? I find that hard to believe.” Victor nodded at Oscar, who pressed the blue flame against her breast. Wendy's raw screams tore at Shea's soul.

Shea gritted her teeth, pulling on the zip tie with all her strength. With a quiet snap, it broke. She adjusted her grip on the knife and leapt at Oscar.