Iron Goddess E-Book

Dharma Kelleher

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Iron Goddess

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

Iron Goddess

A Shea Stevens Thriller

Dharma Kelleher

IRON GODDESS: A SHEA STEVENS THRILLER

Copyright © 2016 by Dharma Kelleher.

Published by Dark Pariah Press, Phoenix, Arizona.

Originally published by Alibi (Random House)

Cover design: Laura Boyle Design

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: 978-0-9791730-6-6

Print ISBN: 978-0-9791730-7-3

Acknowledgments

It’s been thirty five years since I was a teenager typing out God-awful short stories on a manual Smith Corona typewriter. And now my dream of being a published novelist has come true. This would not have been possible without the help of countless friends and supporters. And so here is my chance to offer my humble thanks. If you weren’t involved with the process, feel free to jump ahead to the story. Nothing in this acknowledgements section will be on the final exam.

First, let me thank Dr. Coleman Barks for showing up at key times in my writing career. I first met you when you came to my high school and recited poetry while tapping out notes on a toy xylophone. A few years later, I took two creative writing courses from you at the University of Georgia. And then about eight years ago, just moments after I reached the 50,000-word goal for my first National Novel Writing Month challenge, I heard your distinctive voice as I sat in my pickup truck in Phoenix, Arizona. Turns out you were being interviewed on NPR. It was a very serendipitous moment.

I also want to offer thanks to Denise Ganley, Nanor Tabrizi, Tina Wahl, David Waid, Rissa Watkins, and Carl Wilson, my fellow members of the Fantastic Seven critique group. You have kept me on task and provided me with amazing feedback. But more than that, you are the most treasured members of my literary family.

Thanks to John Daleiden, Bob Duckles, and all the wonderful writers at the West Valley Writers Critique Meetup and the West Valley Writers Workshop. You, too, have given me great feedback and inspiration.

Thanks to all of the sisters and misters of the Desert Sleuths Chapter of Sisters in Crime. You have been such a great source of information and inspiration. Where else can you watch a grisly slideshow about blood spatter while eating pizza? God, I hope that’s tomato sauce.

This story would have never been written had I not become a biker chick. So I want to thank the Desert Dames and most especially the late Anne Suiter, the best leader that group ever had. You nurtured me as a fledgling biker and your safety lectures kept me safe. Ride with the angels, Anne.

Thanks to Omar and Geoff at MotoGhost for keeping Lady Midnight, my BMW R1200ST, running at peak performance. Their shop can’t be beat when it comes to servicing German motorcycles. But don’t ever bring your bike in with underinflated tires or Omar will put the fear of God (and physics) in you with one of his fatherly lectures. He scares because he cares.

Thanks of course to my agent, Sharon Pelletier of Dystel & Goderich, who put up with my constant pestering as she pitched Iron Goddess to publishing houses. Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

And last, but certainly not least, thanks to my amazing team at Alibi—Julia Maguire, Kate Miciak, Ashleigh Heaton, Erika Seyfried, Gina Wachtel, and Kelly Chian. I’ll admit, I had some reservations about signing on with a digital-only imprint. But you have repeatedly demonstrated that you are all the cream of the crop. I couldn’t have joined a better team. Thank you so much!

Okay, are we ready to ride?

Thanks to my wife, Eileen

for picking me,

teaching me how to ride,

and believing in me.

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

Chapter 49

Shea Returns in SNITCH

Enjoy A Free Book

About the Author

1

Sparks exploded from the left footpeg of Shea Stevens’ motorcycle as it scraped against the pavement. She was going too fast through the curves that twisted up the south side of Sycamore Mountain. The road was dark—daybreak still an hour away. Getting up close and personal with an elk at sixty miles an hour would be disastrous. But Shea was in a hurry.

She tried to convince herself the call from the security company was another false alarm—a rat looking for a crumb, or maybe a glitch in the sensors. But she couldn’t shake the fear that someone had broken into the shop. If the three custom motorcycles they’d finished the night before were stolen, it would be a quarter-million-dollar loss.

Please, God, let it be another false alarm.

The cold air blasting through the vents in her jacket caused her teeth to chatter. In her rush to alleviate her paranoia, she’d thrown on her jeans and T-shirt from the night before. Didn’t bother with a bra. Her only precaution had been the .40-caliber Glock she’d slipped into a pancake holster at the small of her back.

Fifteen minutes later, her bike crested the hill and reached what the residents of Sycamore Springs, Arizona, call Olde Towne—a mile-long strip of locally owned shops including a café, a pharmacy, an antiques shop, and Iron Goddess Custom Cycles—her destination.

She screeched to a stop in front of the cycle shop, killed the engine, and ripped off her helmet. The pungent scent of creosote mixed with dead skunk made her nose crinkle. Moonlight reflected off the desert dust on the plate glass window, obscuring the Iron Goddess logo. Her gaze shifted left to the shop’s front door. Shards of glass clung to the doorframe like broken teeth.

“Fuck.” Her hands tightened into fists. She wanted to beat someone.

She climbed off the bike and scanned the street, hoping to spot the intruder skulking through Olde Towne. Fifty feet away at the Kokopelli Café, a Coca-Cola sign flickered on and off. Across the street, a security gate sliced the blue light of a fifties-era jukebox glowing from within the antiques shop. The rest of Olde Towne’s shops slumbered in darkness.

She dug a flashlight out of her tank bag and drew the Glock, turning her attention back to Iron Goddess. She crept onto the cement porch, paused outside the door, and listened for anyone who might be inside. Somewhere in the darkness, a pack of coyotes performed a predawn symphony of yips and high-pitched howls over a recent kill. Two delivery trucks roared past three minutes apart. But no voices or sounds of crunching glass came from inside Iron Goddess. If anyone was in there, they may have hunkered down when they heard her motorcycle. She had to find out for sure.

Drops of a dark liquid on the concrete caught her attention. Was it oil or blood? She brushed it with a finger, creating a crimson smear. Blood. Her pulse quickened.

She pulled on the door handle. It was unlocked. Thief must’ve reached in and unlocked it after breaking the glass. She scolded herself for not getting a double-cylinder lock.

After slipping in through the door, she scanned the place with her flashlight. Tiny bits of glass sparkled like jewels across the floor. A bowling ball–sized rock lay near the front sales counter. The familiar industrial smell of the showroom mixed with the organic tang of blood. Her fist tightened on the grip of the gun.

More drops of blood led off to the right. She considered turning on the lights, but didn’t want to blow what little stealth she had left. Broken glass crunched under her boots with each step. Moving slower didn’t make it any quieter.

She followed the trail of blood around the counter to where three custom-ordered bikes and several production bikes had been parked hours earlier; they were now gone.

Clothing racks for motorcycle jackets and pants had been cleared. Empty hangers lay scattered on the floor. Shelves that once displayed helmets, boots, and other gear had been stripped bare.

Shea felt sucker-punched. Her mind kept telling her it was a dream.

Her heart leapt into her throat when someone coughed and moaned. She ducked down until she heard it again. Her finger slipped onto the trigger. She swung the flashlight around and found a man lying on the floor in the motor oil aisle. She approached cautiously, ignoring the pulse pounding in her ears.

With the light on the man’s face, she recognized him as Derek Williams, one of her employees.

She slapped on the overhead lights. Derek was a scrawny guy, just shy of his twentieth birthday. His stubbly face was pale and clammy. Blood covered his shirt, pooling on the floor around his chest.

“Aw shit, Derek!” She holstered her gun and knelt down next to him.

He opened his eyes for a moment. “They made me,” he wheezed before coughing up blood.

“Who? Who did this to you?”

His eyes lost focus and closed.

She checked his pulse. Her own heart beat so fast she couldn’t tell if he had a pulse or not. She pulled out her phone.

“Cortes County 911—what’s your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance at Iron Goddess Custom Cycles, 8234 South Sycamore Highway. My friend is bleeding.”

“How is he injured, ma’am?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I just found him. He’s got blood all over his chest. I think someone shot him.”

“Is he breathing?”

“Uh . . . let me check.” She put her ear to his mouth and could hear shallow, gurgling breaths. “He’s breathing, but barely.”

“We’ve dispatched an ambulance. It’ll be there momentarily.”

Shea hung up the phone and checked his pulse again. It was there, but weak. Then it stopped. She struggled to remember the lessons from a CPR course two years earlier. She clasped her hands and compressed in the center of his chest. Blood gushed from his wounds. That wasn’t in the course.

She lifted up his shirt. His chest was smeared with blood. She wiped away as much as she could. Dark liquid oozed from two dime-sized wounds, one right above his heart, the other closer to his left shoulder.

“Shit!”

His shirt was soaked. Wouldn’t work to stop the blood, even if she could get it off him. Shea looked for something else to use. The nearby shelves were stocked with bottles of motor oil, industrial cleaners, and cans of chain lube. No shop cloths or clothing.

She scrambled out of her jacket, pulled off her shirt, and twisted it into a tight wad. She pressed it over the wounds and compressed his chest again. The T-shirt kept the bleeding to a minimum. She continued pumping his chest. “Come on, Derek. Gimme a heartbeat.”

After fifty compressions, she checked again. Still no pulse. She continued pounding on his chest, desperately trying to minimize the bleeding and hoping the EMTs would arrive before she ran out of energy.

Her back was beginning to cramp up when the silver bell on the front door jingled.

“Over here!” she yelled.

Two deputies rushed in, guns pointed at her.

“Sheriff’s Office! Get on the floor. Hands behind your head.”

2

Shea looked up at the deputy looming over her, his service pistol drawn. The aspiring commando’s muscular frame blocked the aisle. His partner, who looked more frat boy than cop, penned her in from the other side.

She wanted to cover her exposed breasts, but was too busy with the chest compressions. “I’m the owner, Shea Stevens. I can’t lay down. I’m trying to save my friend.”

“Get on the floor,” said Deputy Commando. “Hands behind your head. Now!”

“My friend has two chest wounds and his heart stopped. If you don’t want me to continue CPR, come over and do it yourself.”

“Winslow, get down there and take over for her.”

“Roger that.” Deputy Frat Boy holstered his weapon, knelt down, and replaced Shea’s hands on the blood-soaked T-shirt covering Derek’s wounds.

Deputy Commando turned back to her. “You! Get on the floor, now!”

“There’s broken glass everywhere.”

“Do it now!”

She brushed away the glass in front of her and lay down. Shards that she missed bit into her breasts and belly. She winced, but didn’t want to give Deputy Commando the satisfaction of hearing her cry out in pain.

Boots crunched next to her ear. She felt him pull her Glock from its holster. “Are you carrying any other weapons?”

“No.”

“Is there anything sharp or otherwise dangerous in your pants pockets?”

“No. My ID’s in my back pocket.”

“What are you doing here?” Deputy Commando’s hand fumbled into her back pocket and pulled out her wallet.

“Holster your weapon, Deputy Aguilar. She owns the place.”

That voice she knew. Shea turned her head. Sergeant Willie Foster stood beside her. They’d known each other since they were kids, and despite her previous run-ins with the law, the two of them had maintained a cordial relationship.

“Need a hand up?” He grabbed her elbow and helped her off the floor. “You all right?” He stood five nine, had put on weight since she’d seen him last, but still wore the same horseshoe mustache and horn-rimmed glasses.

Shea felt awkward with him seeing her topless and covered her breasts with one arm. “I’m all right, aside from some cuts. I ain’t so sure about Derek.” She wanted to pick the bits of glass out of her chest, but her hands were sticky with Derek’s blood. He was an ex-junkie; using her blood-covered fingers to dig out slivers could be risky.

The EMTs arrived moments later and went to work on Derek. Willie waved over another EMT, a gal with dark hair tied up into a bun, caramel skin, and large, mahogany eyes.

“Jackie, can you help this woman?” Willie asked her. “She’s got bits of glass in her chest.”

“Sure,” she said. “Is there a place where we can sit down?”

“Follow me.”

Shea led Willie and Jackie the EMT to the customer waiting area—a half dozen stackable padded chairs upholstered in burnt orange tweed that had gone out of style about the time Chico and the Man went off the air. A small TV sat silent on its platform mounted near the ceiling. In the corner, a water dispenser stood next to a double-burner coffeemaker.

Shea gritted her teeth and tried not to wince while Jackie dug out the slivers of glass with a pair of tweezers and a penlight. Shea trembled, partly from adrenaline, partly from cold, partly from anger, thinking of the nastiest things she could do to whoever shot Derek. At the same time, a question haunted her. Why’d Derek come back after everyone left?

“How is he?” She craned her neck to see the EMTs working on Derek.

“I don’t know.” Willie pulled out a pad and pen and sat down. “The EMTs will do everything they can. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Shea gasped as Jackie dug at an elusive shard of glass.

“Sorry.” Jackie adjusted the angle of her penlight. “This one doesn’t want to come out.”

“Gotta call from the alarm company about four o’clock,” said Shea as she glanced up at Willie. “Found the door smashed and a lot of our inventory gone, including three custom bikes for the Pink Trinkets.”

“The Pink Trinkets? That all-girl punk band?”

“Yeah, they commissioned three bikes. Supposed to unveil them down in Phoenix in a couple weeks to kick off their latest concert tour.”

“What about Derek?”

“Found him on the floor bleeding. That’s when I called 911.” She looked at her hands covered in his blood. A wave of sadness mixed with anger overwhelmed her. The kid could be a smart-ass sometimes, but she liked him. Maybe because he reminded her of herself.

“He say anything when you found him?”

“Yeah, he said, ‘They made me.’”

Willie’s eyes narrowed. “‘They made me’? What’d he mean by that?”

“No idea. Maybe someone set him up.”

“Did he say who?”

“No.”

“Any idea who woulda done this?” Willie asked.

She shook her head. “Naw.”

“Maybe one of your other employees.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why would one of my employees do this?”

He shrugged. “You do tend to hire criminals.”

She looked him square in the eye. “I hire ex-cons, just as Lenny Slater hired me when I got out. Keeps us from ending up back in the system.”

“Yeah, you’re doing society a great service.” His voice dripped with condescension. She resisted the urge to tell him to kiss her ass. “That said, this place is the cycle shop of misfit toys. Anyone here have a beef with Derek? Any arguments? He owe anybody money?”

She glared at him. “None of my guys were involved, Willie.”

“Whatever you say.” He made a few more notes in his notebook. “Any suspicious people hanging around recently? Other than your employees, I mean.”

She rolled her eyes. “No.”

“Has Iron Goddess received any threats?”

“Nope.”

“Was Derek working late last night?”

“We all were. Me, Derek, Terrance, Lakota, and Switch.” Terrance was the co-owner of Iron Goddess and their business manager. Lakota was their engineer, Switch their electrician. “We were finishing up a bike till midnight.”

“Was Derek the last to leave?”

“No, I was.”

“Why would he come back?”

“Hell, I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe he forgot his house keys. He had his own key to the shop. He wouldn’t have broken the front door. I figure someone must’ve jumped him as he was leaving.”

“He’s a crystal meth addict, right?”

“Was. He’s been clean two years.”

“Maybe he’s using again.”

“If he is, I ain’t seen no evidence of it.”

“He been missing work or showing up late?”

“No.” It wasn’t the complete truth. He’d been coming in an hour or so late the past week. But considering he was at death’s door, she wasn’t going to trash-talk him to the law. If he’d relapsed, she’d deal with him later. If there was a later.

“Any problems with customers?”

“We had an old veteran rider complain about our imported helmets, but aside from that, no.”

“Do you know what all they took?”

“Several bikes. They got a lot of our gear, too—helmets, jackets, boots. I can give you a complete inventory once we get this place cleaned up. “

When Jackie finished bandaging her wounds, there was more gauze than skin showing. Shea looked like a mummy. “You’ll want to change the dressing and put antibiotic ointment on the wounds three times a day,” Jackie said. “You might also consider getting a tetanus shot from your doctor.”

“Thanks.”

Jackie smiled and joined her comrades working on Derek.

“Willie, there’s a box of Iron Goddess T-shirts in the office. Mind grabbing me one while I wash the blood off my hands?”

Shea walked into the women’s restroom, still shaking. She wasn’t normally emotional. Yet memories of her mother’s death kept bleeding into the more recent images of Derek lying on the floor in the dark. She scrubbed the blood off her hands, arms, and a spot embedded in one of the deep scars on her cheek.

Willie met her outside the restroom and handed her a black T-shirt. “Wasn’t sure what size.”

The label said it was a men’s XL, several sizes too big for her medium frame and small chest, but it slipped over the bandages.

Across the room, the EMTs lifted Derek onto a gurney with a metallic clang. “They taking him to Cortes General?”

“Yep.” Willie looked up from his notes. “Now, Shea, promise me something.”

“What?”

“You’ll leave solving this case to me and the boys. We’ll find out who shot Derek.” He held out her Glock. She reached for it but he pulled it away. “Promise me.”

She sighed. “Yeah. I’ll leave it to you.” He offered her gun again and she took it. “And if it ain’t too much trouble, find my stolen bikes and other merchandise.”

“Shea, those bikes are halfway to Mexico by now.”

“Let’s hope not.” She holstered her gun as the crime scene folks walked in. “I don’t deliver those Pink Trinket bikes in two weeks, I’m up shit creek.”

“You’ll need to leave the premises while we process the scene.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “Call me if you think of something that might be relevant to the case.”

“Fine.” She ambled out the door and called her business partner, Terrance Douglas. It rang three times before he answered.

“Geez, Shea. You know what time it is? Somebody better be bleeding or on fire.”

“Derek’s been shot.”

“What? Derek? Is he okay?”

“No, definitely not. Somebody broke into the shop and shot him twice in the chest. He lost a lotta blood.”

“Geez! Where are you?”

“Still at Iron Goddess, but I’m gonna follow the ambulance over to Cortes General.” She took a breath, stilling the emotion out of her voice. “Look, man, I know you scheduled the day off to spend with your family, but I need you here to help clean up the mess. No need to rush. The cops gotta do the whole crime scene thing.”

“No, it’s cool. My mom can take Elon to his soccer game.”

“Oh, and T?”

“Yeah?”

“They stole the Pink Trinkets’ bikes.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Don’t worry. You know me—I’m good at finding things.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Shea. Let the cops handle it.”

“No worries, T. Got it all under control.” She didn’t. But no way in hell was she leaving this to the cops.

3

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 peaked 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.”

4

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 Office’s 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.

5

Shea stared at the bloodstained floor, pushing away the haunting memories of her mother’s death. Her hand tightened on the shirt soaked with Derek’s blood before tossing it into the garbage. She pulled out a mop and rolling bucket from the broom closet. With the bucket in the janitor sink, she poured in floor cleaner and turned on the water.

As the bucket filled, Shea caught a glimpse of her scar-riddled face in the aluminum cover of the paper towel dispenser. Something inside her twisted. She pounded the dispenser, denting her reflection.

What’s past is past, she thought. She’d long since given up crying and feeling sorry about her disfigured face. Now she wanted to hurt whoever shot Derek. Whether it was the Jaguars, the Thunder, or a local junkie, she didn’t care. One thing Ralph had taught her was when someone came at you, you had to push back hard. You had to send a message you weren’t someone to be fucked with. Otherwise, they’d keep coming after you.

Shea dragged the mop bucket into the showroom. The front door chimed. Terrance, Monica, Switch, and Lakota wandered through the showroom, surveying the damage.

Terrance stood a few inches taller than Shea, but with his bodybuilder’s physique, he looked much bigger. His trim, full beard and tidy afro gave him a cuddly, teddy-bear look.

“We were next door at the café when we saw the CSU van leave.” Terrance assessed the damage. “Robbers sure didn’t miss much, did they?”

“Nope.”

He followed her to the mess on the floor. “Man, that’s a lot of blood. Sure hope homeboy pulls through.”

“Me, too.”

“How is he?”

“Still listed in critical condition. Doc’s not sure if he’ll make it or not.”

“Damn. You think he was in on the robbery?”

She ran a hand through her hair. “Not sure. Don’t want to think about that.”

“He has been showing up late to work the past week. Maybe he’s smoking crystal again.”

She stared at the mess on the floor, refusing to acknowledge Terrance’s point.

“I called the glass company,” he said. “They’re sending someone by later today.”

The others approached. “Lakota, keep Switch away from this. Don’t need her getting all triggered and freaky.”

She had hired Lakota after the woman had transitioned out of a halfway house for alcoholism. Her deep-set eyes and strong nose, coupled with a gentle smile, gave her a motherly appearance. In addition to her skills as a mechanical engineer, Lakota’s other gift was calming down Switch when she got triggered.

Switch, a lanky young woman with bushy hair that always looked unkempt, had joined the crew after being released from a long-term mental facility. She’d been abused by her folks as a small child. Shea didn’t know the details, but gathered it was the kind of horror story you read about in the papers. Whatever hell Switch had endured left her triggered by certain things like blood or people yelling. Once set off, she became a whole different person, and things tended to get broken.

“Come on, Switch,” said Lakota, as if talking to a kid, “let’s see what’s going on in the workshop.”

“Let me get some gloves and pick up that trash before you start mopping,” said Terrance.

Monica walked over, covering her mouth and looking a little green.

“Mon, don’t you go vomiting and giving me more shit to clean up,” scolded Shea.

“I’m all right.” She didn’t sound convincing.

Monica, who served as Iron Goddess’ salesperson, had worked there almost as long as Shea had. Her bleach blond hair and immaculate makeup reminded Shea of an aging biker magazine model. Still, she was the closest any of them came to normal. No criminal record or drug problems. Just a fondness for motorcycles. “You saved his life, huh?”

Shea shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

“They should write an article about you in the newspaper.”

“Yeah, right: ex-con saves former junkie after break-in. Great headline.”

“Okay, maybe not.”

“Assuming they didn’t steal our computers, I need you to print out our current inventory and figure out what got stolen.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She hurried away to the office.

“And stop calling me ma’am!” she called after her. “Makes me feel old.”

Terrance gathered up the medical waste the EMTs had left behind. “Any thoughts on what to do about the Pink Trinkets’ bikes?”

“I got a plan, but you ain’t gonna like it.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

With the mess cleaned up, she and Terrance met in the office for an owners’ meeting while Monica, Switch, and Lakota took inventory of what had been stolen.

Shea sat flicking the spark wheel on her Zippo. Lenny Slater, the former shop owner, had given it to her on her first anniversary at the shop. It no longer had any lighter fluid and hadn’t since she’d quit smoking four years earlier. But she held on to it as a reminder of Lenny. Whenever she had trouble figuring something out, she flicked it until a spark of inspiration hit her.