Blood Sisters E-Book

Dharma Kelleher

• Herausgeber: Dark Pariah Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Are Some Secrets Worth Dying For? 

Shea Stevens and the Athena Sisterhood Motorcycle Club agree to protect a troubled woman from a state senator who will do anything to conceal a dark secret.

The situation turns deadly when the powerful politician pulls some strings the Sisterhood didn't anticipate. Shea and the Sisterhood are forced to call in old favors to stem the violence and protect the woman and their own.

Will it be enough to keep the high desert streets of rural Arizona from running red with blood?

Author Dharma Kelleher delivers another high-octane, crime thriller where the twists come as fast as the punches. A must-read for fans of gritty crime fiction about strong, diverse women who kick ass in the name of justice. 

Blood Sisters  is the third installment in the highly acclaimed  Shea Stevens Outlaw Biker crime fiction series, although each book in the series can be enjoyed as a standalone.

Curl up with Blood Sisters and join Shea on this thrill-a-minute ride through across rural Arizona's high desert—a story that will keep you turning the pages into the wee hours.

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR DHARMA KELLEHER

“Shea Stevens is just about the most interesting and sympathetic criminal you’ll meet."

PAULA BERINSTEIN, AUTHOR OF THE AMANDA LESTER DETECTIVE SERIES

“A thrilling ride that will have you turning pages into the wee hours of the morning!”

RENEE JAMES, AUTHOR OF SEVEN SUSPECTS

“Dharma Kelleher breaks new ground and breaths new life into a great genre. The best thing to happen to crime fiction since V. I. Warshawski.”

GREG BARTH, AUTHOR OF SELENA

BLOOD SISTERS

A SHEA STEVENS THRILLER

DHARMA KELLEHER

BLOOD SISTERS: A SHEA STEVENS THRILLER

Copyright © 2020 by Dharma Kelleher.

Published by Dark Pariah Press, Phoenix, Arizona.

Cover design: Damonza

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-952128-03-5

Print ISBN: 978-1-952128-04-2

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am so grateful for the support and input from multiple sources who have made this book possible.

First and foremost, the passionate and dedicated subscribers of the Dharma Kelleher Readers Club. You inspire me to keep writing!

Also I am grateful for the expertise provided by Detective Adam Richardson of the Writers Detective Agency podcast and the many others who provide input via the podcast’s Facebook group. You help me get more of the details right.

I want to thank the many members of the intersex community for sharing their experiences, especially River Shannon Aloia and Nicky Phillips. It’s time to end Intersex Genital Mutilation. Long past time.

And last but not least, I want thank you, dear reader, for purchasing this book. Your support helps me to continue to write stories about marginalized people and their ongoing fight for justice. Let’s make a better, safer world for everyone.

Thanks as always to my wife, Eileen.

You are my light in this world of darkness.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Shea Returns in ROAD RASH

Enjoy A Free Book

About the Author

CHAPTERONE

Shea Stevens’s blood ran cold. A skull painted against a Confederate flag background glared at her from the gas tank of one of the countless bikes in the dusty Cortes County Fairgrounds parking lot. It wasn’t just some rando’s attempt to add racist flair to their Harley Fat Boy. It was the Johnny Reb, emblem of the Confederate Thunder Motorcycle Club. It meant trouble.

“It can’t be.” Tendrils of fear snaked down her spine while she stared at the motorcycle. She nervously ran a hand through her butch pixie haircut, ignoring the harsh summer sun turning her tanned skin red.

“Aunt Shea, come on!” Annie Wittmann, her twelve-year-old niece, pulled at her arm.

The two other women with them stopped and turned.

“Something wrong, Havoc?” asked Rah-Rah, a golden-haired woman with the girl-next-door looks.

Indigo followed Shea’s gaze. Her black-and-cobalt-blue braids fell still as the whisper of a breeze died. “Shit.”

The three women wore leather cuts identifying them as members of the Athena Sisterhood Motorcycle Club. Annie wore a cutoff denim vest with the words Little Sister stitched on the back.

“Gotta belong to one of their hangarounds or someone’s old lady,” Rah-Rah said.

“Or a member from an out-of-state chapter,” Indigo suggested.

Shea checked the back of the bike. “Arizona plates. They’re local.”

“Can’t be a patched member then,” Rah-Rah insisted. “They’re all in prison. Won’t even be eligible for parole for another four years.”

“Let’s hope so.” Shea exchanged a look with Indigo that communicated volumes about their brutal history of dealing with the Thunder. If they were out of prison and knew the Sisterhood was responsible for putting them there…Shea didn’t even want to think about what could happen. To her. The other members of the Sisterhood. But worst of all, to Annie.

“Aunt Shea, can we go in already? I’m melting out here in the parking lot.”

“Yeah,” Shea said. “Let’s go in. Uncle Terrance is probably wondering where we are.”

At the entrance to the fairgrounds, a heavyset man in a Harley Davidson T-shirt said, “Welcome to the High Desert Biker Festival. Tickets are ten dollars each.”

Shea held up her vendor’s badge. “Iron Goddess Custom Cycles.” She handed him a ten-dollar bill. “This is for my niece.”

After Indigo and Rah-Rah paid, the four of them wandered through the maze of booths that sold everything from clothing and riding gear to aftermarket parts and motorcycle insurance. Shea scanned the leather-clad crowds for anyone wearing a Confederate Thunder cut. Fortunately, they reached the Iron Goddess booth without seeing another Johnny Reb.

Under the white ten-by-twenty canopy tent, Terrance Douglas, Shea’s business partner, sat in front of a banner that read Iron Goddess, Custom Cycles for Women. He was a muscular black man with a trim afro, a full beard, and an approachable smile. A sport bike with a tank painted like a checkered racing flag sat in the middle of the tent, flanked by racks of helmets, jackets, gloves, and Iron Goddess–branded clothing.

“Ladies,” Terrance said with a nod.

“Morning, T,” Shea said.

“’Bout time y’all showed up.” He stood. “I was beginning to worry.”

“My fault,” Rah-Rah said, pulling off a pair of shades she’d bought at one of the booths on their way in. “I couldn’t decide between this pair and some retro Ray-Bans.”

“Hi, Uncle Terrance,” Annie said, giving him a hug.

“Hey, sweetie. You excited about starting soccer camp tomorrow?”

Annie shrugged. “A little nervous.”

“Nervous? Girl, I’ve seen you play. You got moves like Megan Rapinoe. What’ve you got to be nervous about?”

“I don’t know.”

“You just go out there, show ’em who’s boss. It’ll be all right.”

“Thanks, Uncle T.”

“You two ready to check out the rest of the festival?” Rah-Rah asked Indigo and Annie. “I saw a jewelry vendor a few aisles over selling cute earrings.”

“Can I?” Annie looked to Shea.

“Yeah, but do what Rah-Rah and Indigo tell you.” Shea handed her a couple of twenties. “And try not to spend it all in one place.”

“Geez, you act like I’m five.”

“She’ll be all right,” Indigo said. “We’ll also keep an eye out for you-know-what. We’ll meet back up at the awards ceremony if we don’t see you sooner.”

“See you ’round.” Shea gave each of them a hug and a clap on the back then turned to Terrance. “Getting any customers?”

“Some. Sold three jackets, a few pairs of gloves, and several T-shirts. A couple women asked about custom bikes and took business cards.”

A woman and man strolled into the booth and walked around the sport bike. She was skinny with long blond hair secured with a studded leather hair wrap. He sported an unkempt beard and wraparound shades. His leather cut identified him as a patched member of the Desert Devils, a one-percenter motorcycle club with close ties to the Confederate Thunder. Maybe it was his bike they saw in the parking lot, though usually they decorated theirs with red devils, not the Johnny Reb.

“Let us know if you have questions,” Terrance said, but the couple ignored him.

“Why you want a bike of your own, honey?” asked the guy.

“Cause the bitch seat is hard and uncomfortable is why.” The woman threw a leg over the sport bike. She wore a cutoff denim jacket with the words “Property of Dugger” stitched on the back. “I can picture me riding something like this.”

“A pissant crotch rocket?” Dugger chuckled. “Girl, you’d kill yourself, fer sure.”

“It’s got twice the horsepower of a Harley with the same displacement,” Shea said, meeting the woman’s eyes. “And much better clearance, so you can take corners faster. You could leave your boyfriend here in the dust.”

The woman’s face split with a mischievous smile. “Sounds like my kinda ride.”

Dugger stepped between Shea and his girlfriend on the bike. “Lady, I suggest you mind your own business.”

Shea stepped into his space. “This here is my business. I built this bike. You’re not afraid your old lady will leave you behind, are ya?”

He glanced down at her vest. “I recognize them colors. You one of them Barbie bikers.”

“Athena Sisterhood. I see you’re one of the Thunder’s lap dogs. They haven’t patched you over yet?”

“Shea,” Terrance warned. “Don’t.”

Shea’s eyes locked with Dugger’s. She didn’t want to be the first to look away. At the same time, she didn’t need club rivalries spilling over into the business she shared with Terrance.

She turned to the girlfriend. “When you’re ready to buy, call us. My man Terrance here’ll give you a good deal.”

“Thanks.” The girlfriend picked up a business card, and the two of them walked on to the next tent.

“What the hell was that?” Terrance asked.

“What can I say? I’m not good with people. Especially assholes. You should have Lakota, Kyle, or Monica helping you run the booth. Even Vince would be better than me.”

“Vince, Kyle, and Monica were all here yesterday. Lakota will be here this afternoon. You owe it to your team to put in your time.”

Shea took in a deep breath and let it out. “You’re not wrong.” She sat on the bike in the tent. “After the festival, give me the keys to the truck. I’ll trailer the show bike back to the shop. You can drive this bike home.” She patted the bike’s fairing.

“Deal. Now I gotta take a piss. Do us both a favor and try not to kill any future customers while I’m gone.”

Shea laughed darkly. “That’s a big ask.”

Terrance walked out of the tent then turned. “The award ceremony’s at seven. Encourage people who stop by the booth to vote for our Flying Tree bike.”

“Will do.”

CHAPTERTWO

A dust devil blew a flurry of sand, dust, and litter through the crowd gathered around the fairgrounds’ main stage.

“Shit.” Shea rubbed the grit from her eyes and brushed the dust from her cut. The glare of the setting sun cast the fairgrounds in golden hues and long shadows.

Most attendees of the biker festival had already left, having spent their limit on leather, chrome, and bling. But Shea, Terrance, and Lakota White River, the shop’s mechanical engineer, stood among a few dozen hardcore bikers waiting for the winners of the custom motorcycle contest to be announced.

Shea and Lakota had spent four months crafting a motorcycle with a polished wood fairing that curved around a state-of-the-art cylindrical power cell. The result looked like an exhibit from a modern art museum, but with the speed and agility of a high-end crotch rocket.

A heavyset man onstage blew into the microphone. “Sorry ’bout that dust devil, folks. I call that a desert baptism.”

“Get on with it,” shouted Terrance.

“Not nervous, are ya, T?” Shea nudged him with her elbow.

“Sales are down twenty percent from last year,” he replied. “We need a win to boost sales, or we could close our doors in the next year.”

Annie gave them a worried look. “Iron Goddess is in trouble?”

“Nah,” Shea replied. “Uncle Terrance is just being his usual paranoid self.”

“We hope,” Lakota whispered. She stood three inches taller than Shea. Her salt-and-pepper hair stretched halfway down her back in twin braids.

“Now, where was I?” The man on the stage squinted at the paper in his hand. From a nearby table, he picked up a small trophy with a golden plastic motorcycle on top. “Ah, yes, the winner for Best Design in the Cruiser Category is Steve Jansen from Jansen Customs in Mesa, Arizona.”

A smattering of applause greeted Steve Jansen, a wiry blond in a Sturgis T-shirt. He climbed the stairs to the stage, flashed a gap-toothed smile, and accepted the trophy.

“Best Design in the Sport Bike Category goes to…”

A swarm of deranged butterflies fluttered in Shea’s stomach. Yeah, Terrance was always worried about sales, but even she had noticed a dip in traffic in the shop.

The announcer adjusted his glasses. “I swear, the older I get, the smaller the text gets. And I’m the fool who wrote this.”

“Announce it already,” Shea shouted.

“Okay, okay, Best Sport Bike goes to Michael Vasquez, Eloy Motorsports in Eloy, Arizona.”

“Fuck,” Shea muttered under her breath when the winner took the stage to accept his trophy.

“Language,” Annie said in a taunting singsong voice.

Lakota put a hand on her shoulder. “There’s still a couple more categories we could win.”

“Best Design in the Electric Category goes to Gavin Redmond and Amy Marana of Red Rock Customs, Moab, Utah.”

Shea clapped despite her disappointment. Amy Marana, or “Switch” as she was known to friends, had worked for Iron Goddess until she took the job in Moab a year earlier.

“Good to see Switch getting recognition,” Lakota said. “I hear she’s thriving there at Red Rock Customs.”

Switch and a man Shea assumed was the owner of Red Rock Customs mounted the stage. Switch looked like a deer in the headlights while her partner accepted their trophy. Shea felt for her. Neither of them cared much for the limelight.

“Way to go, Switch!” Shea shouted when her former employee walked past.

Switch turned, and her face lit up. “Shea. Thank you.” She pounced at Shea and wrapped her in a tight, unexpected hug.

When Switch let go, she vanished into the crowd without another word. Typical Switch, Shea thought.

When the applause died down, the crowd grew quiet for the top prize.

“Last, but certainly not least…” The announcer hefted up a large trophy of wood and brass. “The winner for Best in Show is…”

Shea tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. Odds were she wouldn’t win, and life would go on. But a part of her clung to the smallest shred of hope.

“Shea Stevens and Olivia White River, Iron Goddess Custom Cycles, Sycamore Springs, Arizona.”

Shea wasn’t sure she heard correctly. Maybe it was her mind playing tricks on her. Time slowed. And yet the people around her were jumping and clapping and slapping her on the back. Shea realized she was walking through the crowd, being pulled along by Lakota. She climbed the stage, feeling her heart thudding against her rib cage.

“Care to say a few words?” asked the man.

Shea was about to speak when she spotted two familiar faces in the crowd. One was Dugger, the biker she had butted heads with several hours earlier. Next to him stood One-Shot, the president of the Cortes chapter of the Confederate Thunder. He should have been in prison. How was he here?

“I…uh…yeah, thanks.” Shea turned to Lakota, who stepped up to the mic.

“I’m Olivia ‘Lakota’ White River, Iron Goddess’s mechanical engineer. Our goal was to create a motorcycle that’s as badass as it is planet friendly. All of us at Iron Goddess Custom Cycles are grateful for your support. Thank you.”

Another roar of applause washed over Shea while she and Lakota stepped down from the stage.

“You okay?” Lakota elbowed Shea. “Looked like you got a little stage fright, girl.”

“I’m all right.” Shea searched the crowd for One-Shot and Dugger, but all of the faces were silhouetted against the setting sun.

“You call that contraption a motorcycle, chica?”

The familiar voice drew Shea’s attention from the crowd to a Latinx woman. The patches on her cut identified her as the president of the Athena Sisterhood. “Looks more like a coffee table attacking a droid from Star Wars.”

“Fuego!” Shea laughed nervously and gave her a one-armed hug. The weight of the trophy almost threw her off balance. “Call it what you like, but it’ll leave your Kawasaki Vulcan in the dust.”

Indigo stood nearby with her wife, Savage, a stocky white woman with short-cropped, bleach-blond hair. She wore a Cortes County EMS polo shirt.

“Congrats on the win, Havoc,” Savage said, using Shea’s street name. “Chalk one up for the biker shop for misfit toys.”

“Thanks. Glad you could make it.”

“Got off shift a few hours ago. Didn’t want to miss the festivities. What’ll you do with the motorcycle?”

“Terrance’ll put it up for sale on the website. I just build ’em. He’s in charge of selling them.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Terrance said as he joined the group. “If it were up to Shea, she’d just add it to the stable of motorcycles filling up her garage.”

“Some women collect shoes. I collect motorcycles.” Shea handed the cumbersome trophy to Terrance. “Show it off to whoever you like.”

“There’s a magnificent spot in the front window. Monica and I can build a display around it.”

“Ms. Stevens?” called an unfamiliar voice.

Shea turned to see a petite white woman with rimless glasses and a floral-print shirt. “Yes?”

“Elia Quinn. I’m a journalist for the Cortes Chronicle. Congratulations on winning Best in Show.”

They shook hands. “Thanks.”

“I understand Iron Goddess hires a lot of second-chancers—ex-cons, recovering addicts, and the like. That’s what your friend meant by the shop for misfit toys. Am I right?”

Shea was always leery of revealing her employees’ pasts. “Yeah.”

“I’d love to do a cover story about you and your shop.”

Shea was about to say no, but Terrance stepped between them and shook Elia’s hand.

“Hi, Elia. I’m Terrance Douglas, Iron Goddess’s business manager. We’d love for you to do a story on the shop. Besides our award-winning bike, which we’ve nicknamed The Flying Tree, we have some very innovative custom motorcycles in the works, all specifically designed for women, which is our specialty. When would you like to come by?”

“Would tomorrow be too soon?” Elia asked.

“Not at all.” Terrance beamed.

“Great. See you all in the morning. Say ten o’clock?”

“We look forward to it.”

Shea sidled up next to Terrance after Elia walked away. “What innovative customs do we have in the works?”

“The touring bike for Ms. Hughes. It’s a custom.”

“Custom, yes. But hardly innovative and not much more than a frame at this point.”

“Sorry, guess I got a little carried away, but we need all the press we can get. I want to capitalize on this win as much as possible.”

“I just don’t like reporters asking a lot of questions, especially about our crew.”

“Fair enough. No intrusive questions about our employees. I’ll steer the interview toward the bikes we build.”

“I’ll pull out some of the designs I’ve had on the back shelf for a while. Give Ms. Puff Piece something to write about.”

“Good.”

“Aunt Shea, can we go now?” asked Annie. “I’m hot, and I got soccer camp in the morning.”

Shea looked at her watch. It was nearly eight o’clock. “Yeah, we can go. We still have to load the show bike into the trailer and drop it off at the shop.”

That earned a major eye roll from Annie. “That’s gonna take forever,” she said with exaggerated drama.

“Sorry, Doodlebug.”

“Please stop calling me that. It’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing? You used to love me calling you Doodlebug.”

“Yeah, when I was a kid. I’m almost a teenager.”

“Sor-ry! I’ll try not to do it anymore. Let’s get moving so we can get you home.”

CHAPTERTHREE

The hair on the back of Detective Toni Rios’s neck stood up when she entered the Blue Bar, a watering hole popular with the deputies in the Cortes County Sheriff’s Office. Something was wrong.

Even on a Sunday night, the bar in downtown Ironwood should have been bustling with her fellow officers taking a drink after a shift. But the room was empty, dark, and quiet as a mausoleum.

There’d been no mention of the bar on the radio she carried on her belt. Just the usual chatter; a callout for a wrong-way driver on I-17, a frat party getting out of hand on the other side of Ironwood, and a report of gunfire up in Bradshaw City.

Toni drew her sidearm and flashlight, scanning the main room. Next to the dark jukebox, she spotted a figure lying on the ground. Her pulse sped up when she recognized her partner, Detective Ebony Johnson.

Ebony had asked Toni to meet her at the Blue Bar to discuss a case they were working.

“Ebony! Ebony! Are you okay? What happened?” Toni knelt down, checking her partner for injuries. Her hand came away wet and sticky when she touched her fellow detective’s torso. The flashlight revealed a mess of red. “Mierda.”

“Toni,” Ebony whispered in a hoarse voice. She mumbled something else that Toni couldn’t make out.

“What? What’d you say?” Toni leaned closer, putting her ear next to Ebony’s mouth.

Ebony leaned up and kissed Toni on the cheek. “Will you marry me?” Her voice was filled with mirth.

The lights of the bar flashed on, blinding Toni for a moment. From somewhere in the glare, multiple voices shouted, “Happy twenty-fifth anniversary!”

Her gun arm instinctively rose toward the sound before she realized what was happening. A banner reading “Congrats on 25 Years of Service” hung above the bar. She reholstered her weapon, heart hammering in her chest, grateful she didn’t pull the trigger.

She stood and offered a hand up to her partner. “Hijo de puta, I could have shot one of you.”

“Glad you didn’t.” A red wet stain stretched across Ebony’s shirt and arm. From the smell of it, Toni realized it was ketchup.

Lieutenant Goodman emerged from the crowd, carrying a plaque. "Congrats, Detective.”

Toni took the plaque from him and shook his outstretched hand. “Thanks, LT.”

“First drink’s on me.”

Toni approached the bar while her fellow officers patted her on the back and congratulated her. The bartender, a retired officer named O’Neill, popped open bottles of beer and set them in front of Goodman, Johnson, and herself.

“I should kick your ass, compañera,” Rios said to Johnson. “Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“You’re right. Not nice of me to scare an old lady. I promise to do better, ma’am.” Johnson winked at her.

“Old? Puta, I’m only thirty-eight, and I can still kick your ass. And what was that ‘Will you marry me’ crap? Last thing I need is for rumors to circulate that you and I are dating.”

“Relax, Toni. It was a joke.”

Toni bristled. Despite her attempts to keep her personal life on the DL, rumors about her sexual orientation had been drifting through the Violent Crimes Division for years. Eventually, she came out to her lieutenant when she agreed to be the Lambda Resource Center’s police liaison.

She took a long pull on her beer. “This mean you don’t want to marry me, chica?”

Johnson gave her a sideways glance. “Sorry, partner. I prefer someone more masculine. And younger.”

“Gee, thanks a lot.”

“Seriously, you’d be a total catch for the right woman.”

“She’d have to be pretty desperate.” A memory of a crush she had years ago flitted through her mind. But the woman was an ex-con and a CI to boot. Starting a relationship with her would have broken all kinds of regs.

“Tell me, Detective. Now that you got your twenty-five in, you planning on pulling the pin?” Goodman asked.

“And leave this county in the hands of you people? Not a chance. Besides, what would I do with my time? Take up knitting? Grow heirloom tomatoes? Sheriff Keeler’s almost seventy. If he can stick it out, so can I.”

“Glad to hear it,” replied Goodman. “I’d hate to lose someone with your experience. Any updates on the Wolf Ridge Arms hijacking?”

“Two guards and a driver were killed. Initial reports point to at least two shooters. Still waiting on ballistics and the report from the M.E.’s office. According to our contact at Wolf Ridge Arms, over four hundred weapons were taken, half of which were semi-automatic rifles. The rest were pistols of various calibers.”

“How did the hijackers know where the truck would be? I’d think the company would keep that information confidential.”

“They do. We’re looking at an inside man. Or woman. Johnson and I have been interviewing employees and running backgrounds. So far, no leads.”

“Find those guns, Detective. Last thing we need is some mass shooting in our county at the height of the tourist season.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll get them.”

“Detective Rios,” an all-too-familiar gravelly voice drawled behind her. She nearly choked on her beer.

She turned and found herself facing Sheriff Buzz Keeler. The buttons on his uniform strained to contain his belly, which hung over his belt like a sack of potatoes. His nose was dark with gin blossoms. His eyelids drooped. He’d already had a few before Toni arrived.

She saluted him out of instinct rather than respect. “Sheriff Keeler.”

The room quieted, leaving an awkward energy sizzling in the air.

“Never woulda thought you had it in ya. Twenty-five years. And only killed—what was it?—One, no, two of your fellow officers.”

Toni stiffened while a thousand justifiable retorts played through her mind, all of which could get her written up for insubordination. “Yes, sir.”

“All due respect, sir,” chimed in Goodman, “the situation with Sergeant Foster and Detective Edelman was unfortunate, but they were running a heroin trafficking ring and had kidnapped a young girl. I doubt any officer could have handled it any better than Rios here. Her closure rate is the best in the Violent Crimes Division. She’s good police and a genuine asset to the department.”

Keeler eyed Goodman and harrumphed. “Not bad for a beaner dyke with a badge.” He turned back to the bar and slammed his tumbler on the polished mahogany. “Gimme another.”

When the bartender refilled the glass, Keeler shuffled off into the crowd.

“Thanks for that,” Toni whispered to Goodman.

“Keeler’s a bigoted ass. But as long as the citizens of Cortes County keep reelecting him, we can’t do anything about it.”

It was a reality Toni had dealt with for years. Other officers had filed harassment complaints, but they went nowhere. Those who spoke up eventually resigned.

A friend of Toni’s on the interagency organized crime task force had urged her to apply to the FBI. But despite Keeler and others like him, she refused to let the bigots drive her away from her mission to protect the citizens of the county.

After two beers and an equal number of glasses of club soda and lime, she sidled up to Johnson. “I’m packing it in for the night.”

“Already? It’s only nine o’clock.”

“I want to get an early start in the morning. Goodman’s wanting us to close the Wolf Ridge Arms hijacking yesterday.”

Johnson looked at her with a skeptical gaze. “You okay to drive?”

“¡Sí, abuela! I’m all right. See you mañana.”

“Watch your back, girl. It’s a full moon. Lotta crazies out there up to no good.”

Toni waved to her comrades while she made her way out of the bar. The moon loomed large over the downtown buildings. Heat from the day still radiated from the pavement, causing sweat to pool under her breasts. She couldn’t wait to get home and pull off the bulletproof vest underneath her blouse.

While she walked along the sidewalk to the public lot where she’d parked, her mind reviewed what she knew so far in the weapons hijacking case. The truck routes and schedules weren’t published anywhere. And yet the hijackers dispatched the driver and guards with surgical precision. Someone at Wolf Ridge Arms was involved.

“Hey, Rios!” shouted a male voice just after she unlocked the door with a key fob.

Toni turned and glimpsed two men in the shadows on the other side of the lot. Two gunshots shook the air, and pain exploded in her chest. She fell back against the car next to hers. Pushing against the pain, she drew her sidearm and fired four shots toward her assailants.

After ducking down behind her car, she scanned the lot. No one in sight, but she could hear cries of pain. She’d hit someone.

Another muzzle flash lit up the night, and her driver’s door window shattered. Rios fired three more rounds and dropped down between the cars. Every breath she took felt like daggers in her chest.

She pulled her radio off her belt. Through gritted teeth, she said, “4-Lima-35. Request backup and RA unit. Shots fired. I’m hit. One suspect is down. Public lot, 4500 block of North Monterosa, Ironwood.”

“Roger that, 4-Lima-35. Backup and medical are en route.”

Adrenaline surged through her, making the pain in her chest barely an afterthought. Another gunshot echoed through the parking lot, and shattered glass rained down on her from the rear window. She dropped the radio and fired three more rounds. Shadows scurried across the lot.

“Stop where you are. Drop your gu—unh!” Searing pain erupted on the side of her head. She fell back against the other car, choking on blood. A motorcycle engine roared to life somewhere in the lot and faded away.

Keep breathing, she told herself. But every gurgled breath brought a fresh wave of pain.

Faces appeared in the darkness. Voices familiar but distorted. “Hold on, Detective. Medical’s on the way.”

Her pulse boomed like a kettledrum in her ears. A bright light flashed in her eye, and then more pain when someone lifted her onto a gurney.

“Just hang in there. We’re gonna get you patched up.”

Something over her face. More faces stared down at her, and then everything faded. Light. Pain. Everything.

CHAPTERFOUR

Shea drove through their neighborhood in the cycle shop’s pickup truck. Annie slept slumped against the door beside her.

Shea braked suddenly to avoid hitting an adult bobcat with three kits crossing the dark road in front of them.

Annie jolted awake. “What—what happened?”

“Sorry. Bobbie Jean and her babies ran across the road.”

“Where?” Annie had named them a few weeks earlier when she spotted them lounging in their backyard.

Shea pointed between two of their neighbors’ houses. “Disappeared over there.”

“Damn, I wished I’d seen them.”

“We’re almost home.”

“Good.” Annie sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven.”

Shea pulled the shop truck into their driveway and stopped at the pullout beside the house. She pressed the garage door opener.

The door creaked and groaned like a portcullis in a medieval castle. Shea had kept meaning to oil it up, but other things kept taking priority.

She stepped out of the truck and felt the cool steel of a gun barrel press against the back of her head.

“I wanna hear you say it, bitch.” The pinched, nasally voice was familiar, though Shea was surprised to hear it. “I want you to admit you set us up with that drug deal.”

“Mackey.” She turned and glared into the outlaw biker’s beady eyes, ignoring the snub-nosed revolver he held in her face.

“Aunt Shea?” The passenger door of the truck opened.

“Stay in the truck, Annie.” To Mackey, Shea said, “Thought you and the boys were in prison.”

“Got out yesterday. We all did.”

Mackey’s beak nose and weak, scruffy chin made him look more like a weasel than ever in the stark light coming from the garage. His leather cut, dusty and dry from three years in storage, bore the worn patches of the Confederate Thunder Motorcycle Club. Reddish-brown splotches stained his wrinkled white shirt. Barbeque sauce? Ketchup? Or blood?

“Appeals judges threw out the case. Called it entrapment.”

Shit, thought Shea. “Well, goody for you. Why the hell you stinking up my driveway?”

“The DEA refused to name who snitched on us. But I know you’s the one who set us up.”

“You forget. I grew up around the Thunder. I don’t snitch. No one in the Sisterhood knew about the roadblock. If you’re looking for a rat, best check your own ranks. Wouldn’t be the first time the feds got a man inside the Thunder.”

“Don’t lie to me, cunt. I spent three years in federal lockup cuzza you.” The revolver trembled in Mackey’s hands. His nostrils flared. “Shoulda known something was up when you dykes-on-bikes gave us Bonefish’s stash without wanting nothing in return. Sure as hell wasn’t outta the goodness of your little rug-munching hearts.”

“We gave y’all the dope to stop the violence between the clubs, dumbass. The Athena Sisterhood’s a law-abiding club. We got no use for that shit.”

Uncertainty mixed with fury in Mackey’s shifting eyes. His breathing was staccato and sharp. “I shoulda shot you the day we met.”

Shea stepped toward him, pressing her forehead against the gun barrel. “You wanna kill me, ya little shit? Go ahead. Just do me a favor and smile at the security camera mounted on the wall behind me.”

A muscle twitched under Mackey’s left eye. His finger curled around the gun’s trigger. Shea refused to look away.

Mackey screwed up his face and raised his arm as if to shoot the camera. In a flash, Shea snatched the gun away before he pulled the trigger and smacked him across the face with it. He collapsed onto the concrete, blood dripping from his nose.

“You really are stupid. The video feed’s stored in the cloud. Shooting the camera won’t do shit.” She caught a whiff of burned gunpowder coming off the revolver. Her pulse quickened. “This gun’s been fired recently. Who’d you shoot?”

Mackey grinned, blood smeared across his teeth. “Ain’t telling you shit, bitch.”

She clocked him on the side of the head. “Listen up, dipshit. Nobody wants another war between our clubs. Too many folks on both sides died last time. So, do everyone a favor and stay the fuck away from me and the Sisterhood. Now get the hell outta here before I pop a cap in your ass with your own gun.”

Mackey picked himself off the ground, wiping blood from his face onto his arm. “You’re a lying rat. I’m gonna prove it to One-Shot, and we gonna bury you.”

“We both know your prez has more sense than to start that shit up again.”

“You think so, huh?” He flipped her off with both hands and backed down the driveway.

Shea watched him stumble down the street and throw a leg over a Harley parked a few houses down. The bike chortled to life and disappeared into the night.

Shea turned to Annie. “You okay, Doodl—I mean, Annie?”

“I-I’m okay.” Annie stared down the road. “You think Gramma Julia’s outta prison, too?”

“Dunno.” Shea steered Annie between the motorcycles parked in the garage and opened the door into the kitchen. “Why? You wanna go see her?”

“I miss her.”

Shea put an arm around Annie’s shoulder and kissed the side of her head. To Shea’s surprise, Annie didn’t resist. “I’ll look into it in the morning, okay, kid?”

“All right.”

“Now go to bed and get some rest.”

Annie shuffled into her bedroom and shut the door.

Shea locked Mackey’s revolver in a small gun safe she kept in her bedroom closet then pulled out her phone.

“Bueno,” said an accented voice on the other end of the line.

“Fuego? It’s Havoc,” said Shea.

“Hola, Veep. What’s up?”

“The Thundermen are out of prison. Mackey showed up at my place with a gun, accusing me of dropping the dime on their club.”

“I thought the DEA was supposed to keep your identity confidential.”

“They were. He’s grasping at straws. We’ve had a mutual dislike for some time now.”

“So I recall. You and Annie okay?”

“We’re fine. I took the gun away from him and sent him on his way. Getting to be a tradition with us. But if he suspects me or the Sisterhood, chances are some other Thundermen do too. We gotta get a handle on this before it escalates.”

“I heard on the news a cop got shot in Ironwood earlier. You think it’s related?”

“Possible. Mackey’s gun smelled like it’d been recently fired. And he had blood on his shirt.” Shea replayed her conversation with Mackey, and concern gripped her heart. “They mention which cop was shot?”

“Not so far. Reporter said one person dead, but didn’t specify who. Watch your back, hermana.”

“You too, Prez.”

Shea turned on the TV, hoping to catch a news story talking about the cop getting shot. The local news programs were over. CNN and MSNBC were too busy mocking Trump’s latest narcissistic tweets to be bothered with local stories.

Shea surfed the news stories on her phone, opening an article that had been updated only minutes earlier. Detective Antonia Rios of the Cortes County Sheriff’s Office had been shot during a confrontation with an unnamed assailant outside a bar popular with local law enforcement. The assailant was killed in the exchange.

Shea felt nauseated. She and Rios had history. One of Rios’s earlier partners, Detective Edelman, had tried to kill Shea a few years earlier after she threatened to expose his heroin-trafficking organization. Rios had killed Edelman to save Shea.

Months later, Rios had forced Shea to be a confidential informant to infiltrate the Athena Sisterhood, who were suspected at the time of dealing drugs laced with strychnine.

After Shea revealed the source of the drugs was a dealer named Bonefish, Shea had remained with the Sisterhood and eventually become the club’s VP.

Shea held a begrudging respect for the detective. Rios wasn’t a bully with a badge like so many others who worked for Sheriff Buzzkill. She seemed to care for the county’s citizens, including those who didn’t normally garner much respect.

Shea called Rios’s cell number, but it went to voicemail. “Hey, Detective, it’s Shea Stevens. I heard about what happened. I…I don’t know what to say, but I’m sorry. You’re really nice. Call me.” Shea’s face grew hot with embarrassment when she hung up. Her message sounded as cheesy and insincere as a middle-school valentine.

She replayed her confrontation with Mackey in her mind. Serious shit was about to go down. She could feel it like a monsoon storm on the horizon.

CHAPTERFIVE

“Annie! Come on! Your breakfast is getting cold, and you’re gonna miss your ride to soccer camp.” Shea sat at the breakfast bar, sipping coffee and reading the news on her phone.

Detective Rios was reported in stable condition. The assailant she’d killed in the shooting turned out to be a two-time loser named Kevin “Nuggets” Chaikin, a member of the Confederate Thunder. Shea’d never met him but knew the nickname from her previous interactions with the Thunder.

“One less scumbag,” Shea said to herself.

The news story reported that another unidentified person was being sought in connection to the shootout. Mackey, no doubt.

“I ain’t got no clean socks!” Annie cried from her bedroom.

“Crap,” Shea muttered. She had meant to run a load of laundry before the bike festival. “Just use the ones from yesterday!”

“Ew, gross!”

“I’m sorry. I forgot to run the wash.” Shea walked into Annie’s bedroom.

Annie sat on her bed, her chin resting on her hands. She was dressed in a red Windcrest Soccer Camp T-shirt with black shorts. “What am I s’posed to wear?”

“I can give you a pair of mine.”

“No.” Annie rolled her eyes and shuffled to the wicker basket that served as her laundry hamper. She dug through the clothes until she pulled out two matching socks and gave them a sniff test. “I’ll just wear these. But if other kids make fun of me, it’s your fault.”

“I’ll take the hit. Just get your socks and cleats on and eat your breakfast before Fatima Ali’s mom gets here to pick you up.”

As Shea returned to the kitchen, her phone rang. The number on the caller ID wasn’t familiar. “Shea Stevens.”

“Good morning, Shealene. It’s Julia Mueller.”

After Mackey’s visit the night before, Shea knew it was only a matter of time before she heard Julia’s cigarette-scorched voice. “Heard y’all got released the other day.”

“We did.”

“Good for you,” Shea said without enthusiasm.

“Some folks thinking you and the Athena Sisterhood mighta had something to do with us gettin’ locked up.”

“You think I’d snitch? Last thing the Sisterhood wanted was to make things worse between our clubs.” It was a lie. They had set the Thunder up, but Shea would never admit it. “Besides, you’re family, more or less.”

“First I’ve heard you say it.”

“Is that Gramma Julia?” Annie rushed into the kitchen with her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.