Rock point collection, p.56
Rock Point Collection, page 56
The man gets under my damn skin every time I run into him. Misogynistic pig. Looks at me like I’m some alien specimen under a microscope. I’m likely an anomaly in his world, being a strong, capable woman. Felt damn good though to teach that young punk a lesson in the ring. The kid’s attitude is even worse than his boss’s. Foulmouthed little miscreant.
“Barnes!” I call out, as I walk to the door. “You’re coming with.”
I hear the scrape of his desk chair on the floor, and next thing I know the heavy fall of his boots is right behind me on the stairs. The guy’s like a coiled spring, ready to jump into action.
“Where to?” he asks when we get to the bureau-issued Expedition. He tries to round the SUV to the driver’s side, but I just throw him a dirty look. I was the rookie in the office for the longest time until Dylan joined, it’s my time to reap some seniority perks. He doesn’t argue and gets into the passenger seat.
“Name came up on the weapon left at the scene of that last robbery in Silverton. According to Damian, we can find the guy at the Arrow’s Edge compound.”
“Sweet.”
I glance sideways at him as I drive off the parking lot. Not an expression I would’ve expected from the mostly quiet man. Guess it’s inevitable, MCs seem to have that effect on men of any age. It’s a fantasy: bikes, brotherhood, the lure of the open road, freedom. Although if I’m honest, I have to admit the lifestyle has its appeal. There have been times I’ve been sitting on the porch of my small home, drinking my morning coffee, listening to those bikes rumble by, when I’ve wondered what that life would be like. Living outside of any kind of established structure, away from society’s expectations.
I use the drive up the mountain to update Dylan on the latest in the case. The weapon, left at the Silverton scene, is a Smith & Wesson M&P series, nine millimeter rounds, all accounted for. So far, other than a few of the less compliant employees who were pistol-whipped, no weapons have been fired at any of the robberies.
Just my luck, the gate is manned by a familiar lanky figure, who is not going to be happy to see me.
“The fuck do you want now, bitch?”
Yup, as expected, the young man’s attitude hasn’t improved one bit. I’m tempted to go another round with him, but since this is a professional call, I shall have to restrain myself.
“Dylan.” I turn to my partner, who is grinding his teeth and glaring at the kid. One wrong move will undoubtedly set him off. My curse to be saddled with men intent on defending my virtue. “I don’t believe you’ve been properly introduced to this delightful creature. Meet Rowtag, gatekeeper extraordinaire, but unfortunately his false sense of power doesn’t do much for him in hand-to-hand combat.”
The kid may not have two brain cells to rub together, but he knows a taunt when he hears one. This is confirmed when I hear the sound of a safety catch releasing right by my ear. I watch Dylan’s eyes flick to mine before they narrow over my shoulder. Taking in a deep breath, on my exhale, I swing my elbow around through the open window, catching the kid off guard. Before he knows what’s coming, I have the gun knocked out of his grip, his hand twisted in an unnatural position, and his body pulled through the window. My face is inches from his, and I work hard not to flinch at the unwashed stench wafting off him.
“A little slow on the uptake, are we?” I ignore the hate-filled eyes directed at me. Not making any friends today. “Let’s try this the polite way. I am looking for an individual by the name of Mark Strongbow. I’ve been told I can find him here. I suspect he might be a member of the shooting range? Could you please find out for me?”
“Let the boy go.”
I should’ve expected that too. Fate would not be so kind as to let me off the hook today. I turn my head and watch Ouray’s leisurely approach.
“Would love to, but he wanted to play with guns, and I wasn’t in the mood today. I’d rather not let go until the gun is secured, if you don’t mind.” The kid is trying to twist out of my hold, which isn’t getting him anywhere. It’s amazing how easy it is to control someone’s movements, without exerting a whole lot of strength, by simply manipulating a few small parts. It’s the first thing I was taught in my old self-defense training: eyes, nose, fingers, and my personal favorite, balls.
Ouray slowly shakes his head, that perpetual toothpick hanging from the lopsided grin on his lips. He momentarily disappears from view when he bends down to collect the weapon, holding it up for me to see as he resets the safety, and tucks the gun behind his back.
The moment I release the kid, his other hand, curled in a fist, comes flying through the window, but falls a fraction of an inch short of the bridge of my nose. Courtesy of Ouray, who has his paw around the kid’s fist, doing some manipulating of his own, judging from the kid’s face.
“Lesson I thought you would’ve learned at the gym, Rowtag: brute force rarely ever wins out over dexterity and cunning. Now open the fuckin’ gate and let ‘em through. I’m keeping your gun for now.”
Like I said, I doubt I’m making any friends today, Ouray may have well asked the kid to hand over his dick.
“So, Agent Roosberg,” the man drawls when I park the Expedition and he pulls open my door. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Knock off the theatrics, Ouray. We need to speak to someone by the name of Mark Strongbow.” I turn to include Dylan, but he’s already off ogling the collection of bikes parked on the other side. Figures. “We were told we could find him here.”
Ouray tilts his head to one side, giving me that semi-amused, semi-inquisitive look again. “Who told you that?”
“SAC Gomez.” My response seems to be funny, since it elicits an amused chuckle. “Don’t see what’s so amusing,” I snap, already bristling at the man.
“Funny part is, SAC Gomez apparently left some information out,” he says lazily, chewing on the end of that damn toothpick.
“And what would that be?”
I hate my short stature, especially when I have to look up and squint into the sun to see the man in front of me.
“I’m Mark Strongbow.”
THREE
Ouray
I leave her standing with her mouth hanging open and walk inside, straight through to my office, in the assumption she’ll eventually follow.
To say her use of my legal name has thrown me is an understatement. Other than Nosh, Momma, and the guys who’ve been here long enough, it’s not widely known. Granted, I’m forced to use it on official paperwork, banking, driver’s license and such, but since I’m only addressed by my road name here, most people in my circle don’t know me as anything else. It’s always been my way to keep a little bit of privacy from the club.
An unsettled feeling enters my office with me. I have a sense this may have something to do with the theft I reported Friday night in Morrison. I dismissed it at the time—this kind of shit often happens at rallies—things get stolen from saddlebags and motel rooms often. That’s why I carry most anything worthwhile on my body.
“You are Mark Strongbow?”
I knew she would follow. Stepping around her, I shut the door, closing out any nosy fucks out there.
“Not something I advertise, but yes, that’s me.”
“You don’t want it known?” She seems curious, sitting down across from my desk when a knock sounds on the door. “That’s probably Dylan,” she explains, getting up again to let in her partner. “Have you guys met? Special Agent Barnes, meet Mark Strongbow.”
I have to say, the guy has an impressive poker face. The small flicker of surprise is gone as fast as it appeared. I remember him from last summer when Gomez’s sister got snatched. I shake his offered hand and wave him to a chair.
“To answer your question, no, I don’t really feel the need to advertise my name.”
“Guess it would kill the mystique, wouldn’t it?” Her sarcasm is loud and clear, and for some reason I feel compelled to explain.
“Doesn’t have fuck to do with mystique and everything with wanting to keep some part of my life just for me.”
“Oh, so lack of trust then?”
Goddammit, the woman seems intent on pushing all my buttons, and I catch myself before I bite again.
“What can I do for you, darlin’?” I purposely use my drawl and do a bit of poking myself. I know damn well she hates to be addressed like that, which is why I like doing it. The chip on this woman’s shoulder is visible from outer space. She does all she can to be seen as one of the guys, and everything to hide the fact she’s a woman. A mighty attractive one at that.
I watch as she presses her lips together and takes a deep inhale before she leans forward to address me.
“Do you own a nine millimeter Smith & Wesson?”
“More than one.” I shrug, lean back in my chair, and plop my boots on the desk. “Most of them are up at the shooting range in the gun locker.”
“Can you tell me your whereabouts for the past two weeks?”
That sense of unease suddenly turns cold in my veins. She’s fishing for something and I’m at the fucking receiving end. I pretend to look at the calendar on my desk, just to get my bearings while my mind spins at warp speed.
“We were in Morrison for a rally. We left the Tuesday before, to do the Million Dollar Highway ride like we do every year with a couple of other clubs. Got to Morrison Friday the seventeenth—you can check with the local PD because I filed a report that night for stolen property. Left Monday for the second leg of our ride, staying in Pueblo for a night, stopped in Crested Butte the next day, and spent that night in Montrose. Wednesday Ouray, and Thursday we got back to town”
“What stolen property?” Of course she would zoom in on that.
“Smith & Wesson. From my saddlebags. Fuckers slit the locked buckle.”
“Really?” I’m not liking the smug smirk on the sprite’s face. “How coincidental.”
“Mind tellin’ me what this is about, darlin’?”
Before she has a chance to respond, the other agent, Barnes or whatever, clarifies. “Series of armed robberies, Glenwood Springs, Avon, two in Denver, Pueblo, and Silverton, all dispensaries, all in the past two weeks. Your gun was found on the scene in Silverton.”
That has me drop my boots to the floor and sit up straight. “No shit.” Seeing the expression on both their faces, I can tell they’re dead serious. Motherfucker. “I’m gonna need a smoke,” I announce, walking past them out of the office, ignoring everyone in the common room.
“Chief?” Momma calls from the kitchen doorway. “Got a minute?”
“Not now, Momma. Can it wait?”
“Depends,” she says. “Cody here has a knife at Nosh’s throat, I’m suggesting you hold off on whatever you’re running out to do to deal with this situation first.”
Jesus fucking Christ. If it rains it pours.
“Hey, kiddo,” I say, walking into the kitchen where Nosh is calmly sitting at the table, with a freaked-out kid behind him, holding Momma’s favorite chef’s knife against his throat. I know the kid can’t hear me, but I also know he reads lips, and his panicked eyes are plastered to mine.
Without breaking stride, I walk up to the table, pull out the chair across from Nosh, and give the old man a nod.
Care to tell me what happened? The question is intended for Nosh, but I know Cody is watching too.
Kid got up without cleaning up his plate. I grabbed his arm. He doesn’t seem to like that.
I snort, trust Nosh to be absolutely unmoved by the precarious situation he finds himself in. The man is cool as a cucumber, even with a trickle of blood running into the hollow of his throat. Kid must’ve nicked him.
I snap my fingers to get the boy’s attention. We have rules here. Momma does the cooking, but we all clean up after ourselves. That’s what the old man was trying to tell you. He didn’t know you don’t like being touched. Nosh didn’t mean anything by it. Put down the knife.
The only response I get is a sharp shake of the head before his eyes flit over my shoulder. I assume others have entered the kitchen, but I keep my eyes on the boy. I hear hushed talking and rustling behind me; seeing panic grow on the boy’s face, I quickly start signing, drawing his attention.
The man I told you about this morning, the one who took me in when I was living on the streets? I get a hesitant nod. Same man you’re holding a knife to. Nosh won’t hurt you. I know that because I was you many years ago, and he never hurt me either. Put down the knife, Cody.
His eyes dart behind me again, and from the corner of my eye I see the FBI sprite move closer, her hands furiously signing. No one is angry with you. You can put down the knife and I promise nothing will happen to you. I sent everyone else away. If you want, you can hold onto the knife, but let Nosh go. He’s a good man, I promise.
Suddenly the kid moves the knife away from Nosh’s throat and scurries into the corner by the fridge, holding the weapon out in front of him defensively. The damn fool woman moves to put herself between the knife and Nosh, who calmly drains his coffee, gets up, and sets his cup in the sink before sauntering out of the kitchen as if having a knife to his throat is an everyday occurrence. When he passes by me, he touches my shoulder and tilts his head to the door.
No fucking way, I sign, not about to leave her in the kitchen alone with the freaked-out kid.
She’s got this.
I’m not sure where the hell the old man gets that insight from, but I’m not budging.
“You can go,” she says without turning around. Just fucking great, we’ve got two mind readers now. “I’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing.”
Damn Nosh almost yanks me out of my chair by the back of my shirt. “Fine. But I’m staying right outside the door.”
“Do what you have to, just give the kid some space, will ya?”
For some reason that last remark reminds me what it’s like to be in the kid’s shoes. On the streets you learn fast that every action has consequences, and there is no one around to shield you from those. The boy freaked out, took action, and is simply waiting for those consequences to hit. It’s what he’s learned to expect. He may have trusted me earlier, but I’m still a fucking threat. Reluctantly I get up and follow Nosh out the door.
Luna
Not sure what the kid is doing here, in the kitchen of an MC compound, but what I am sure of is he’s scared out of his mind. The less people in here, the better it is.
When I hear both men exit the room, I turn my full focus back on the boy.
“My name is Luna. Do you want to come sit down at the table? You can keep the knife if you like.” I’m actually talking out loud as I’m signing, for the benefit of whoever is outside the door listening in. I turn my back, my Spidey-sense on full alert in case he makes a move, and sit down at the table. I wait, maybe a few minutes, but finally I hear the shuffle of his feet on the linoleum as he rounds the table, sits down opposite me, and lays the knife down in front of him.
Who are you?
It’s the first thing I’ve seen him sign. I clued in pretty much immediately the kid’s deaf when I walked in and saw Ouray signing to him.
“FBI,” I spell out, noting the jerk of surprise. “I needed Ouray’s help on a case.”
A girl agent?
“Sure, why not a girl agent?” I try not to grin.
You’re small.
“True, I’m a little short,” I confirm, “but I can kick the ass of a man twice my size.”
He looks like he’s not buying into it.
“Don’t believe me? Ask Ouray, he’s seen me fight.” I’m hoping the man in question is listening, because this would be his cue to return, very calm like.
With him?
This time I don’t hide the grin. No, one of his guys, but I could kick his butt too.
“I wouldn’t count on it.” Ouray appears to ignore the boy, whose hand shoots out and grabs the knife from the table, but he doesn’t get up when Ouray pulls out a chair and sits down himself.
With one hand tied behind my back, I tell the kid with a smile, and I finally get a shadow of one back. I may not be big, but I’m fast and I’m twice as smart.
Can you teach me? he asks with innocent eagerness.
Christ. The boy kills me. Still not sure where Ouray picked this stray up, but the scars of a hard life shadow the light in the young kid’s eyes.
Absolutely, I can, I promise, mentally scrambling to figure out how and where I might be able to do that with my unpredictable schedule, but one look at his face and I vow to make the time.
By the time I walk out of the kitchen, Cody and Nosh are communicating again, Momma is overseeing things from behind the stove, and Ouray took off a few minutes before me, claiming to need a ‘goddamn smoke.’ I find him at the front of the building, standing with a virtually drooling Dylan beside the parked bikes.
“Can we get back on track?” Both guys turn around at the sharp tone of my voice.
“All yours, darlin’.”
I grind my teeth at Ouray’s prod and try hard not to react. It’s what he’s looking for with what I’m sure he considers his charming side, and I’m determined not to give it to him.
“We were discussing the involvement of your gun in a string of robberies that coincidentally all occurred along a route you apparently traveled around the same time,” I remind him with a saccharine smile.
I watch with some satisfaction as he closes his eyes, grinds the butt of his cigarette under the heel of his boot, and takes a deep breath in, trying to collect himself. Then he walks over to the bike at the end, flips open a saddlebag and pulls out a folded piece of paper.
“Here,” he growls, shoving it in my hand. It’s a copy of a police report from the Morrison Police Department, dated August seventeenth, eleven forty-five at night.
“Those the saddlebags you say were cut?” He doesn’t answer, just invites me to see for myself with a tilt of his chin.
I take a good look at the one on the opposite side with the cut edges and missing buckle. It’s easy to see it’s a relatively fresh cut, the saddlebags are old and beaten up, but the ends of the strap are clean. To be honest, my gut tells me Mark Strongbow, aka Ouray, would never leave a weapon behind at the scene of a crime. The man is too sharp for that. I’m not sure why, but I don’t even really get the vibe he has anything to do with it.
