War-N-Wit, Inc. - The Coven (War-N-Wit, Inc. - Book 3) (11 page)

The kitchen door leading from the house into the garage slammed shut. He turned his head.

“Squirt. What’re you doing here?”

A younger Spike
—no, he wasn’t Spike, not yet, he was Squirt, twenty-two or twenty-three, tops, walked toward him. No beard. His shoulders and chest hadn’t grown into their massive promise quite yet.

“Got in about nine tonight. Expect me
to stay in Nevada when I knew tonight was it? Been chasing your ass ever since. They wouldn’t let me near the house, either.”

“I didn’t see you there.”

“Got there after you left. Said you’d been there. Well, didn’t say it was you. Pretty unmistakable from the description.”

S
quirt moved to the counter and started filling bottles with gasoline.

“What the fuck you think you’re doing?”

“Going with you.”

“Like hell you are.”

“Try and stop me. My parents, too. Even if they didn’t have to be.”

“You’ll get yourself kicked out of school.”

“So? You’re ‘bout to get yourself kicked out of organized law enforcement.”

Chad snorted.
“Yeah. Some organization, huh?”

Between the two of them, every glass bottle stood full. S
quirt walked over to a cycle I hadn’t noticed parked on the side of the garage and wheeled it over, opening the saddlebag and loading up. Obviously his, stored at big brother’s house.

In unison, the brothers
by choice, that bond so much stronger than blood, fastened their jackets and mounted their cycles. Helmets?
We doan need no stinkin’ helmets
.

“You ready, Squirt?”

“Let’s do this thing.”

Chad reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gun. A Glock. He handed it to Squirt.

“Don’t take it if you can’t use it. Don’t come if you can’t use it.”

“I can use it.”

Revving engines. Billows of exhaust. The garage door opened. Riders armed, ready to make their own storm. Self-appointed Enforcers of the Code of the One Percenters. Do unto others
exactly
what they did unto you.

Rushing wind. Twisting turns. Hint of red foretelling
fiery dawn. Narrow streets. The wrong side of town. The lairs of the Dark Rulers. Off the streets and onto sidewalks, down walkways to run-down houses, off into the yards. One rider toward the front windows. One rider toward the back windows. Hands flashed down to saddlebags, grabbing bottles. Lighters flared, cloth wicks soaked in alcohol grew blossoms of red. Crashing glass in front windows. Crashing glass in back windows. Screams and shrieks. Dante’s
Inferno
, One Percenter style. And off to the next target, and the next.

At a four-way stop, Chad leaned closer to Squirt.

“Word’s out on the street now. They know we’re coming.”

“Yeah.”

“We got one good hit left. But they’ll be waiting for us. Spike’ll be at this one. Keep your eyes open and your head down.”

“Spike?”

“Handle’s from his weapon of choice. Railroad spikes. Polished and filed, uses ‘em like throwing knives. Razor sharp. Eyes open. Head down. Ride low.”

“Got it.”

“Be damn sure you do.”

Into the next yard. Their heads weren’t down low enough.
A fine link chain jerked itself taunt out of the grass across their path. Cycles crashed. A Wild Man of Borneo—Spike—facial features hidden under the bush of hair, jumped from the shrubbery. His arm drew back, sending a heavy metal projectile whizzing through the air. Squirt rolled and the railroad spike, sharpened to a stiletto point, buried itself half-way in the dirt.

The
attacker threw himself on top of Chad, his weight knocking him back to the ground.

“
Bastard! You were our brother!
”

His
arm flashed upward, silvery gleams coming off the polished spike in his hand in the dawn light. Striking position.

Squirt grabbed the
handle of the dirt-bound spike protruding from the ground. He yanked it free and hurled himself forward as the biker’s arm began its downward arc. Loud, wet
smack
as the stiletto point of the dirt-coated spike tore its way through the flesh and bone and tendons of the hand wielding the spike intended for Chad’s heart. A dark geyser of blood exploded into the reddish rays of the rising sun. Screams of agony drowned out the faint wail of approaching sirens. Chad’s body surged upward, flipping the screaming biker’s body off and pinning it under his.

“Think you just lost claim to your handle,
ass-wipe
!” His fist connected hard with the biker’s jaw. The head lolled as he lapsed into unconsciousness.

“Chad, the sirens are getting closer. We stay or we go?”

Chad stood.

“We go. Don’t trust those ass-wipes either.
Bikes rideable?”

“Think so.” The man who’d started the night as Squirt lifted his cycle and mounted it.
Chad raised his own bike.

“Then we ride. Guess you didn’t need that gun after all. Spike.”

* * *

The real world came back into focus. And surely, please God, surely I was done with these heart-wrenching rides down a memory lane not my own.

I looked at Spike and Stacy, watching me with worried eyes.

“Where you been, baby?” Spike asked gently.

I smiled. “Watching Squirt’s l
ong night’s journey into Spike. No wonder you and Chad don’t advertise you’re brothers. You probably shouldn’t have even stayed in contact. At all.”

“Well, that was mentioned to us, yeah. We didn’t pay that much attention. Though even we knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to broadcast the relationship
. It just got to be habit not to.”

“
What’s your real name, darlin’?”

“Stuart. But nobody’s called me that since Mom and Dad died.”

“Battle trophy.”

“Yeah.”

Stacy coughed. “Hello? Another person at this table? Anybody notice?”

“I’ll tell you all about it, darling
, I promise. In more detail than I’m sure you’ll want. But I don’t think we got the time right now. Ari? Ideas? What now?”

“I don’t know.” I was exhausted suddenly. I understood now, and understanding carries its own forgiveness.
He’d ridden with the Dark Rulers, walked a line few men ever walk, a dangerous line between two worlds that of necessity blurred together, leaving no clear-cut path of righteousness, only varying shadows of gray darkening into deepest black. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to share it, any of it, and I hadn’t had any right to expect him to. It’d cost way too much. His parents’ lives.

“Well, well, look who’s back,” Spike said, raising his glass and toasting toward an empty chair. Ah. Our friendly ghost. “Be nice if you had a little more concrete information this time.” He leaned forward. “Really? You don’t say?”

My phone shrilled loudly. The ringtone announced an incoming call from a number not programmed in.

I grabbed it halfway through the first ring and hit speaker. We all leaned in close.

“Hello?”

“Luigi’s Pizza.
This is the caterer. How big a party are we talking about tonight?”

Chapter Twelve

“I’m not sure,” I said.

Spike looked at the empty chair and took over. “At least fifteen or twenty if we get there
early enough. After that, all bets are off, they’ve got more guests invited.”

Long pause. When the voice spoke again, it didn’t sound happy.

“Dr. Forrester. I assume it
is
Dr. Forrester now? Sure hope so. We expended a lot of effort to keep you in medical school after that little night ride of yours. Almost as much as we expended keeping you and Garrett off the Most Wanted list.”

“Yeah,
that really made it up to us, that little slip of yours that got our parents killed.”

“
Touché
. Any idea
where
this little party’s going to be?”

Spike looked back at the empty chair. “One of the
empty warehouses back off the old Florida Railroad tracks. The ones the Florida East Coast line don’t use anymore.”

“Lots of empty warehouses back of
f the old tracks.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t have big street numbers plastered on the front. I know which one it is.”

“And you intend to show us, not tell us.”

“
Give the man a cigar.”

“You don’t trust us?”

“You think?”

“Garrett had any luck locating that missing cook of ours?”

“Depends on your definition of locating. He’s not gonna be catering any more parties.”

“Well. We figured as much.”

“Which bothers you not a bit, does it, you son-of-a-bitch?”

“Language, Dr. Forrester, language. It goes with the territory. Where’s Garrett?”

“In the middle of the party. And if he doesn’t make it home tonight, you’ll be a lot less fond of me than you are now.”

“I need to organize the staff. When are the other guests arriving? And what’s the entertainment?”

“Probably got an hour. Don’t know how much longer than that. Believe an auction’s planned. Not a charity event.”

“We’ll call in an hour.”

* * *

Stacy reached over and took my hand. “Ari—”

“I know. They’ve got him. Our friendly ghost told you.”

“But he told us where they are, too. So let’s move it.”

“But—you’ve got your cycle. I guess the Intimidator’s still there, too, but I can’t freakin’ ride it alone!”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Let’s go.” Spike stood up and started looking up and down the rows of bikes.

“What the hell are you lookin’
for
? I can’t ride a cycle, even a small one!”

“Not looking for a small cycle.” He grabbed Stacy’s hand
with his right, my hand with his left, and started moving down the sidewalk so fast we had to trot to keep up.

Down one block, onto another, Spike’s eyes moving non-stop over the crowd.

“
There
! Desert Troopers out of Vegas!” He charged over to a group of bikers in the same club colors. “Guys! I’m—”

“
Wait a minute. I know you. Never forget a face. Dr. Forrester? Yeah! Dr. Forrester! My grandson’s baby doctor! You’re a
biker
? I’d known that, I’d have been after you to come ride with us! What’s your club?” The man inspected Spike’s jacket, looking for club affiliation.

“Yeah, life-long biker, but my brother and I tend to ride alone. A
nd thing is, my brother’s gotten himself in a little jam down here and I need to get to him. But I’ve got my sister-in-law and my lady here with me and neither of them can ride alone. Any chance one of you have a bike with a sidecar?” He pulled the Dark Angel’s keys out of his pocket. “Lot to ask, but here’s my keys. Black Harley Road King with Nevada plates, M99, parked in front of Cyanide. I’ll take full responsibility if I could possibly borrow—”

“Hell, man. Know you wouldn’t recognize me, but I sure as hell recognize you. Saw you in the waiting room at the Children’s Hospital. When you came out and told my son and
daughter-in-law my grandson was gonna be fine. Meningitis. We damn near lost him. You saved his life. Where’s Moondog? Moondog!”

“Sure thing.” One of the other bikers stepped forward and handed over a set of keys. He pointed down the row of bikes. “Right down there, the dark red Harley.
With the sidecar.”

The Brotherhood of Bikers, Lord bless ‘em. And they weren’t done yet. The Desert Trooper Spike had first approached held us back a moment.

“Doc!” He whipped a card out of his wallet. “Take this! My cell number’s on it. Lots of us down here. And we’re not the only Vegas club here, either. You need us, you call.”

“Thanks, man. We really appreciate this.”

“Yeah, well, I really appreciate my grandson still being with us to have his last birthday party, too. No joke, doc. You need us, you call.”

A grin split Spike’s mountain man beard. “You know, I might just do that.”

* * *

We charged down the street to the dark red Harley with the sidecar. Now how in the hell did one fold oneself into a sidecar?

Spike straddled the bike. “Stacy, get on back. Ari, just pretend it’s a canoe.”

“Okay, but you should know I can’t swim.”

“Just consider me your life preserver, sweetheart.”