Me, the only thing I give a shite about is getting back my woman.
The road curves along the coast, past Patrick's Point and Big Lagoon, devolving into a crumbling swath of cement with trees on both sides, leading us past driveways that are longer than the length of the entire city of Trinidad. This address on Forty-Four Creek, it takes a special turn down a private drive, through the mud and trees, potholes everywhere, the signage disappearing in a blur. A couple of our growers live around here, but I try to keep them separate from the club, meeting with them in town and only on occasion when there's a problem. Otherwise, they pay their tithes to the club and hand over their product and that's that.
But this particular house, I've never even heard of it.
Makes me sick, knowing that Mile Wide's been operating around here without my knowing, without any of us knowing. I have no idea how long this coup d'état's been planned, but it's about to end before it even really gets started.
Old-growth redwoods surround us, drowning us in wet foliage and darkness unbroken by city lights. The only pools of visibility come from our headlights as we speed past fresh ruts in the ground and around a deep curve that makes my wheels spin and my bike growl ferociously. Wet dirt splatters my boots and legs as I get dangerously close to the ground and come around the corner.
Waiting for us in the middle of the road is Clayton Moore and whatever's left of the club that used to call itself Mile Wide.
Through the dark trees behind them lies a blue house with a stone base, lit only with a single porch light.
I pray to God that Lyric really is in there.
My body practically falls down the steps, dragged forward by Machine Gun Guy until I'm lying on an old rug that's so faded with time that I feel like it must've been here since the house was built.
The man leaves me there and takes a position at the edge of the staircase. I try to lift my head to watch him—and the two men that came with him—but my vision is still wonky and I'm having trouble getting the room to stop spinning.
Deep breath. In and out, slow and easy.
As my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I take note of the shape of the stairs, the way they trace their way down the wall and then turn at a right angle at a small landing. Two more steps down and I'm right there, my back resting against another ratty old couch. It smells like human piss and cigarettes down here, churning my stomach as I struggle to lift my body into a sitting position.
Upstairs, the crack of gunfire is loud, making my heart beat fiercely with hope. The agents aren't dead yet. If they were, there wouldn't be anymore shooting, right?
I listen to the sound of feet, of breaking glass, of marijuana plants rolling across the floor in their plastic pots. The three men in the basement with me spread out, one of them taking the wall to the right of the bottom landing, the other kneeling behind the couch I'm sitting in front of. Nobody seems to notice me anymore.
There's a good chance I'll be killed in the cross fire.
I stare at the staircase through the thin wood railing that bisects my view, waiting for a pair of sensible shoes and a pantsuit. Come on Agent Shelley! I think, praying like hell to whatever gods will listen that the woman's as badass as she looks. In the back of my mind, I wonder if Royal will ride to my rescue again, but then I realize how impossible that is. This isn't like last time: we're in the middle of goddamn nowhere. We might only be a half hour from the city, but in these woods, we might as well be invisible.
I cut that train of thought off right there and focus on the situation at hand. I can save myself; I know I can. Well, with Agent Shelley's help.
More gunfire. Silence.
“Roberto?” Machine Gun Guy calls as the door at the top of the stairs unlocks and a body appears, stumbling and falling down the stone steps. It's Buzz Hair, smearing blood along the wall as he shouts something in Spanish and then falls forward, rolling down to the bottom landing with a thud.
In that split second of distraction, Agent Shelley ducks down and puts her pistol under the railing, hitting Machine Gun Guy directly in the top of his skull, dropping him before he can fire that gun in his hand. He drops in a ruby red pool of red while I watch Agent Garza push his way into the room behind another other cartel member.
The guy around the side of the wall doesn't hesitate to shoot his friend, nailing Agent Garza through the man's shoulder. They stumble, but Garza doesn't go down as Shelley streams past him and I turn, lifting my shackled ankles up and kicking out hard at the back of the man's knees.
It's enough to give Heather time to swing around the corner and take three shots at the guy's chest, red blossoming like rhododendrons at the yearly parade.
When she finally looks down and sees me, her expression is half-horror, half-relief. My mouth is gagged, but I scream at her with my eyes and gesture with my chin. There's a man behind the couch.