Iron Goddess (2 page)

At four thousand feet above sea level, Cortes County was spared the brutal summer heat the poor suckers down in Phoenix endured six months out of the year. Since it was late August, temps were creeping into the low nineties during the day and down to sixty at night. Primo riding weather for those who didn't mind the seasonal monsoon thunderstorms and occasional flash flooding.

As Shea rode up Sycamore Highway to Cortes General Hospital, dawn broke over the grassy hilltops. The sun's warmth cut the morning chill, but didn't keep her from worrying about Derek. She couldn't shake the image of him bleeding out on the showroom floor. It filled her with rage, sadness, and the ache of having been violated.

Why'd Derek come back to Iron Goddess,
she wondered.
Had he left something he needed at the shop? Or was he involved in the break-in?

Derek could be a lazy shit when it suited him—always shooting off his mouth and goofing around when they were on a tight deadline. But he'd been with Iron Goddess long enough that Shea considered him family. She hated to think he might be involved in the break-in.

The tall, boxy shape of Cortes General Hospital rose on the horizon as she crested a hill. Shea followed the signs to the emergency room and parked near the entrance. In the parking lot islands, the normally dead-looking ocotillos bristled with tiny green leaves in response to the overnight rain. Their cheerful beauty mocked the bitterness she was struggling with.

As she locked up her bike, she remembered the Glock in her waistband. She knew from previous visits that guns weren't allowed in the hospital. But she didn't have any place to stash it. She sure as hell wasn't going leave it in her tank bag for some asshole to steal. She pulled the back of her leather jacket over it and hoped nobody would notice.

A half dozen people sat in the emergency waiting room. Most stared off into space or at the muted TV mounted on the wall. A petite woman with a lavender-tinted bouffant hairdo sat behind a flat-screen computer at the registration desk.

“I'm with Derek Williams. They brought him in by ambulance.”

She typed the name into the computer and picked up the phone. “I have someone here for Derek Williams.” She paused and looked up at Shea. “Your name?”

“Shea Stevens. Derek's a friend of mine.”

The woman repeated Shea's name into the phone and nodded as she listened to the response. “Okay.” She hung up. “Mr. Williams is still in surgery. The doctor will come out and talk to you as soon as she's done.”

“How is he?”

She offered an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry, hon. I don't have that information.” The crease between her eyebrows deepened. “Don't I know you from somewhere?”

With her scarred face, people tended to remember her, especially in a small town like Sycamore Springs. Ordinarily that might be a good thing, unless you had a history you'd prefer people to forget. She did.

“Naw, just got one of them faces.” Shea smiled with feigned innocence.

She took a seat in one of the puke-green vinyl chairs that filled the waiting room. It wasn't as comfortable as it looked, and it didn't look that comfortable to start with. She shuffled through the magazines spread out on a side table—
Family Circle, Guns 'n Ammo,
Sports Illustrated
. None of them caught her interest.

She pulled out her phone and dialed a number in the directory. It wasn't quite seven o'clock. She hoped it wasn't too early to call.

A familiar voice with a thick Mexican accent answered. “Good morning. AA Ajo Auto Repair.”

“Goblin, it's me, Pantera.” Goblin had given her the nickname during her previous career as a car thief.

“Panterita! Been a long time,
chica
.
¿Cómo estás?
”

“Been better. Listen, you ain't been sending your guys up my way, have you?”

A stone's throw north of the Arizona-Mexico border, Goblin's garage in Ajo doubled as a chop shop. Back when she boosted cars for a living, he served as one of her more trustworthy fences. When she got locked up, she'd refused to rat him out. Goblin returned the favor by keeping his operation clear of Sycamore Springs after she started working at the bike shop.

That was ten years ago. Times had gotten tough. Goblin's need for cash flow might have outweighed any gratitude he had for her.
No honor among thieves,
Shea mused ruefully.

“Some of your bikes go missing?”

“Yeah, including three custom women's bikes. On top of that, whoever took them also shot one of my guys.”

“
Lo siento, chica
. My boys ain't been north of Phoenix in years. Besides, we don't deal with custom bikes. Too easy to identify and the custom parts don't fit other bikes. Ain't worth the risk.”

“Any idea who might've done it?”

“Lotta possibilities. You been keeping up with recent events in your old man's motorcycle club?”

The mention of her father stirred her anger more. “The Confederate Thunder? No. I ain't had contact with the MC since that bastard killed my mama.”

“You know the Thunder used to deal heroin for Los Jaguares, right?”

“The Mexican street gang up in Ironwood? I remember.”

“Well, a few years back, the Confederate Thunder told the Jaguars to take a hike. Decided to deal crystal meth from local cookers. Less risk, more money. The Jaguars, they not too happy about that.”

“That I didn't know.”

“It gets better. A month ago, DEA busted several Jaguars muling truckloads of H across the border for the Santa Cruz cartel. Word is
el jefe
at the cartel told the Jags they on the hook for the lost smack. Jags may be looking for new ways to earn.”

“You think the Jags hit my shop to earn some quick cash?”

“Just a theory. Then again, maybe the Thunder did it. They're into motorcycles. Maybe they thought they could use a few more.”

“Thanks, Goblin. You hear anything, you let me know.”

“Will do,
mamacita
. What these bikes look like?”

“The custom bikes were pink and black cruisers with the Pink Trinkets logo on them.”

“Shouldn't be too hard to spot. I'll ask around, see who's talking about pink bikes. There a reward if I find 'em?”

“Goblin, you get my bikes back in the next week, I'll make it worth your while.”

She hung up. He could be lying, but she didn't feel like he was. He had connections she didn't. If anyone could find out who took the bikes, it would be him. Assuming they weren't already in Mexico.

Shea sorted through the magazines again and picked up an issue of
Arizona Highways
. She skimmed through the scenic photographs until she nodded off to sleep, haunted by dreams of blood, hot and slick, pouring through her fingers. The sound of someone calling her name woke her up.

“Shea Stevens for Derek Williams.”

She took a deep breath and ambled over to where a woman stood in olive-green scrubs. Her short curls peeked from underneath a matching surgical cap. Her eyes were dark and hawklike, showing a hint of fatigue.

“I'm Shea Stevens,” she said. Concern for Derek's condition drove away any remaining weariness she had.

“Hi, Shea. I'm Dr. Sossaman.” She shook Shea's hand and motioned for her to sit in a nearby chair. The doctor took a seat beside her. “How are you related to Derek?”

“He works for me. I'm the one that found him and called 911.” Her heart pounded in her chest as she sat down. “How is he?”
Please let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

“Derek came in with two gunshot wounds. One hit the axillary artery, which feeds blood to his left shoulder. The other nicked the subclavian artery near the aorta. We removed the bullets and stopped the bleeding, but he lost a lot of blood.” Her tone was matter-of-fact.

The details of his injuries left Shea queasy. “He'll pull through, right?”

“Hard to say. He's still in critical condition. We're trying to get his vital signs stable. If we can do that, his chances of surviving go way up.”

Shea's face tightened with emotion. She kept seeing blood everywhere, making her want to throw up. “Can I see him?”

“We'll be taking him up to the ICU. I can have someone come get you.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Thirty minutes later, a tech escorted Shea to Derek's room up in the ICU on the third floor. He looked pale, his face still flecked with blood. His hair was matted and greasy. Clear plastic tubes and multicolored wires were connected all over his body. He looked more cyborg than human. Her wobbly knees forced her to sit, afraid to breathe.

As a child growing up in the dysfunctional Confederate Thunder family, she'd seen the aftermath of beatings, stabbings, and shootings. She'd attended dozens of funerals. But only once before had she felt as shaken as she did now, staring at the ventilator pumping air in and out of Derek's lungs—the morning her mother was murdered.

For the past seventeen years, Shea had avoided the Confederate Thunder, hoping to live a normal life. She tried to tell herself this tragedy was a random shooting. Just one of those things that happens. Or had the club's violent world caught up with her at last?

After fifteen minutes of sitting vigil at Derek's bedside, Shea felt the walls starting to close in on her. Something deep inside dragged her into the nightmare of her past. She walked out of the room without a word to anyone.

When she reached the elevators, her phone rang to the tune of Melissa Etheridge's “I Want You”—Jessica's special ringtone. “Hey, sweetie. Sorry, I didn't make it back. I'm at the hospital.”

“Oh God, were you in an accident?” Jessica worried every time Shea rode, convinced some cager in an SUV was going to plow into her.

“No, I'm fine. Someone shot my employee Derek.”

“Derek? Is he the black one or the skanky one?”

Shea sighed. “He ain't the black one. And in case you were wonderin', he's alive, but not doing too well.”

“Sorry, that was rude of me. I'm glad he's alive, at least.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“At the risk of sounding insensitive, are we still on for lunch? There's a new sushi restaurant I want to try in Ironwood near the university.”

Shea hadn't eaten anything since the night before. The morning's events had killed her appetite. The thought of sushi didn't help. In her opinion, sushi was a fancy word for fish bait. But since she and Jessica had started dating a few months earlier, she kept her mind open about her girlfriend's big-city culture.

“Sure,” she said. “Stop by Iron Goddess around eleven. Maybe we can beat the lunch rush.”

At nine thirty, Shea pulled her bike around to Iron Goddess' back lot and parked on the crumbling blacktop next to Terrance's beat-to-shit, industrial-green Ford pickup truck. A golden seal with the Sheriff's Office logo had been pasted on the back door of the building, warning folks not to come in or tamper with the sticker. She considered cutting it out of spite, but resisted the urge and walked around to the front of the shop.

A crime scene unit van occupied two motorcycle spaces closest to the sheet of plywood that now served as the front door. Yellow crime scene tape wound around the posts supporting the porch roof. She ducked under the tape and knocked on the makeshift door. Willie opened it. “Come on in. The boys are about done.”

“Thanks.” She didn't feel thankful. It was her shop, after all.

“How's Derek?”

She shook her head, pushing against a wave of sadness. “Doctor says he's in critical condition. Not sure if he'll make it.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Any idea who did this?” She stared into his eyes, looking for clues.

“Too early to tell.”

“Think maybe the Jaguars did it?”

“The street gang? Why would they hit your shop?” Willie raised an eyebrow.

She didn't want to mention her conversation with Goblin. “Just a thought. The Confederate Thunder used to do business with them back in the day.”

“Back when your old man ran the club.”

Unpleasant memories pressed on the walls she'd put up against her childhood. “Yeah.”

“You still hanging out with the MC?”

“Hell no! I put them in my rearview mirror years ago.” Her jaw tensed with anger.

“I figured since your sister married the MC's current president—”

“I don't care if Wendy married the fucking pope, I ain't seen her in years. I don't have anything to do with the goddamn Thundermen. I'm busy building bikes. They're all ancient history, far as I'm concerned.” She kicked a can of windshield cleaner across the debris-strewn floor. “Now I got all this shit to deal with.”

Willie stood there looking at her without a word. She tried to get a handle on the bitter emotions twisting up inside her. “Sorry, this whole thing's got me upset.”

He nodded. “I understand. You worry about cleaning up your shop. We'll get whoever did this. The Violent Crimes Division will be handling the investigation. I can have whoever's assigned to the case get in touch.” He slapped her on the shoulder. “Real sorry about Derek. I'll let you know what we find out.”

Willie led the last of the crime scene investigators out the front door, leaving her staring at the empty shelves and an emptier showcase floor. She wanted a drink. A bottle of Bushmills sat in her desk drawer in the office, but she decided to wait.
People look at you funny when you start drinking before lunch.

She stood over the place where she'd found Derek. Dried blood, broken glass, and medical trash littered the floor. Her blood-soaked shirt lay in the middle of it all. She picked it up and her stomach clenched. Old memories of growing up as the tomboy daughter of Ralph Stevens, the Confederate Thunder's former president, ripped through her mind.

For most of her childhood, Ralph had been her hero. A six-foot-five ex-Marine, he'd taught her how to ride a motorcycle, how to swap out the tranny in a car, and how to fire a pistol with deadly accuracy.

She'd participated in all but the most private of club business, much to her mama's chagrin—riding along on runs to move guns, drugs, and whatever stolen goods the club had acquired. She could pick locks, disable alarms, and hot-wire cars like a pro, all thanks to Ralph.

Living as Ralph Stevens' kid ruled until Mama died.