Tempered Steel (Steel Riders MC Book 2) Page 2

  “I’m going to write her a note in case she wakes up, then run home and get my travel laptop. She doesn’t have WiFi here, but I can get enough done without it. I think I’m here for the day, lover.”

  “I’m at home already,” he told her. “I locked your place up. Was Larry able to help?”

  “Larry was a god,” Cyn told him with adoration in her voice. “Serious hero worship. And, by the way, if you ever leave me, you’ll find me keeping his bed warm.”

  “Sounds like I’ll have to keep an eye on Larry, then. He’s a sly one.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hank was on his porch when Cyn’s motor raced down the road and to her drive. Less than ten minutes later, her motor raced back toward town.

  “A clearing,” he mused.

  Close to 3:30, he was ready to go check out one clearing in particular. It wasn’t far, maybe a little more than a mile north. Maybe he would pull the thumper out of the garage and take it for a little spin. It was time to take it out anyway. And maybe he was feeling a little nostalgic.

  But his plans were interrupted by the sound of three Harley engines coming up the road. They slowed down as they came up to his access road. He watched them from his rocker as they came closer, and he recognized them as soon as they were in his yard: Rick Walker, Randy Thorn, and Boston, which, now that Hank thought about it, was the only name he had for the man.

  Rick was a wiry, leather-skinned man whose muscles were well defined and who worked hard nearly every day of his life. He ran a hand through his light brown hair and looked up at the sun before climbing the steps to Hanks’ porch and coming through the screen door.

  Rick was one of Knight’s trusted, and he was trusted enough to already be on the list of men who were going to help in a couple of weeks with the heist of a great deal of cocaine — though Rick wasn’t aware of this yet.

  “Rick,” Hank said as he came across the threshold.

  Rick wasn’t expecting him on the porch. His easy manner turned feral in an instant, but it just as quickly turned easy again. “Hank. Good day to be outside.”

  “There’s beer in the fridge if you want one,” Hank offered.

  “Don’t mind if I do. Want one for yourself?”

  Hank lifted his hand and gave it a shake. “Yeah, I guess so, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll be there getting your beer for myself and two others. I guess I don’t mind getting one of your own for you.”

  Hank nodded at the well-worn humor and watched Boston come up the steps. Boston was at least 300 pounds: a lot of weight, most of it fat. He was a good-humored man most of the time, and a man you could normally count on to be thoughtful and slow to act. Boston, as it happened, was looking thoughtful now.

  “Boston,” Hank greeted him.

  Boston nodded his head and looked around.

  “Rick’s in the house, getting beers.”

  “Nice. Thanks.”

  “No worries.”

  Last in, letting the members enter the place first,

  as was customary for prospects, was Randy — Randy Thorn. His brown, straight hair always seemed just barely on the dry side of damp. He had a smooth, strong James Dean kind of look to him, though maybe thinner in the cheeks. Loose talk suggested he bedded pussy as fast as it was thrown to him, and that he had few scruples about it. Older, younger, spoken for: if it gave him a wink, he didn’t care about any of the rest. He was taller than the other two, but not as tall as Hank, and he had solid barbell gym muscles across his chest and shoulders and in his thighs.

  Hank had once asked Cyn’s opinion of Randy’s looks, and she had given him an approving nod. “Yeah, he’s good looking. Well, until James Rath comes through the door. Then you remember what good looking really means.”

  Hank took pride in his powers of observation. As Rick came out with four beers and passed them around, he tuned his mind into figuring this visit out. All three of them had been up at the club a little while ago. Knight got the statement. All three of them had been in attendance last night, so one or all had probably been briefed right away.

  All three of them were the core of Derrick’s remaining friends.

  Hank got slowly up from his chair. “Any of you shoot pool?”

  Rick smiled. “Been known to, from time to time. Nine ball?”

  “If you wish, sure.”

  “Five on the five, ten on the nine?” Rick asked.

  “If you really want to lose that kind of money,” Hank told him.

  Rick laughed and they went inside, Hank leading.

  His pool table was set up where the dining area would normally be, but there was plenty of room around the table for shooting.

  Hank racked up the diamond for a nine-ball game and allowed Rick to break first. Playing this game with this type of bet, if you sunk the five, then five dollars were owed. However, if you sunk the five out of turn, using a combination, for example, with the two-ball, then the five came back out of the pocket so that it would pay again. A game like this could get expensive quickly against a player who knew what he was doing.

  Rick broke, sinking the eight with the cue coming in behind enough balls that he had no shot for the one. He chose to call a safety and put Hank in a similar position. Hank studied the layout.

  Rick said, “So, you’re bedding the new filly.”

  Hank raised an eyebrow. He leaned down and took his shot, sending the cue off the wall, clipping the one into the corner pocket, and the clipping the five into the corner on the other side.

  “Not exactly a nice way of saying that, but yes, it’s true. And getting close to her as well. She’s a good riding partner,” Hank told him, which basically meant: She means something to me, so be polite, or…

  But Hank knew where this was going, no matter how many warnings he made. Derrick was dead, and last night he had been banished, and they figured if Hank hadn’t actually pulled the trigger, he was guilty nonetheless. So, justice was to be served. Hank figured he should be a little insulted that they had only brought three.

  In fact… “Rick, why only three?” he asked. He leaned down and careened the two ball into the side pocket with the cue coming off the wall to kick the nine in the corner.

  Rick lifted an eyebrow.

  “You don’t have to insult Cyn to get a rise out of me. You already owe me fifteen bucks. You’ll owe four times that if you let me keep shooting.”

  Rick set his pool stick down and came at him fast.

  Since rules of engagement were set in that moment of Rick setting his cue down, instead of using it, Hank sent his cue down the wall, angling it so that it would trip up Randy when he finally got around to acting. Boston was on the other side of the room near the living room.

  Rick came in fast, really fast. His muscles rippled along his arms and chest as he hammered his fist toward Hank. Hank watched him, taking in every detail of speed, momentum, and body weight. He brushed the strike aside with a twist of his body and brought his own fist down on the back of Rick’s skull like a sledgehammer as Rick’s momentum carried him past.

  Rick’s momentum kept him going into the far wall of the dining room as Randy charged at Hank. He got tangled for a moment in the pool stick that was angled and rolling across his path. It didn’t slow him down much, just by a fraction of a second, but that was enough time for Hank to snatch Rick by the shoulder and redirect his nearly unconscious body into Randy as well. The two went down into a heap at the side of the table. Hank gave Randy no time to recover, coming in with a solid kick to his head and catching him on the side of his face just under the eye. Then he kicked him again in the forehead, and Randy was out. Rick moaned, dazed from the blow to his cerebellum. Hank sent a kick into the side of his head and the moaning stopped.

  Boston had just set down his beer and was figuring out what to do.

  “You really want to do this, Boston?” Hank asked, walking toward him.

  “Not really, no,” Boston admitted.

  “Good, because someone
has to carry these guys out of here,” Hank told him.

  “I can do that,” Boston agreed.

  “Then get to it. I have a phone call to make,” Hank told him.

  Boston walked by him and, with more ease than Hank expected, picked up Randy’s body and tossed him over his right shoulder, then started for the door.

  “Shit,” Hank breathed, duly impressed.

  Hank called James Rath, the sergeant at arms, and gave him a brief account. “I hope I’m not going to be visited like this all night.”

  “No, that’s not happening. I’ll drop some words and make some calls,” James said. “Want some guests?”

  “Naw, not going to be here tonight anyway, I don’t believe,” Hank told him. “Just giving you the heads up.”

  “And thanks for it,” James said, ending the call.

  Boston was walking back through the door heading for Rick.

  “So, this was Rick’s idea?” Hank asked from the other side of the pool table.

  Boston nodded, saying, “Yeah. He said he really needed a third, so I came, but … well, they’re my friends. What could I do?”

  “I know the feeling. In fact, that feeling, a little more than four years ago, was really what started all this shit,” Hank told him.

  Boston straighten back up, letting Rick droop to the ground again. “Yeah? How so?”

  Hank told him the story of him and Derrick. At least, his version of it, up to the part where he turned and rode away.

  “See,” Hank said, “I shouldn’t have gone in with him, and I knew it was all wrong. Derrick was too up, probably did too much meth that day. The bike was damaged.… Who goes into a robbery with a damaged getaway vehicle? I mean, that’s so fucking stupid. And I knew that, but then he said he was going to do it on his own and started for the door — like you said, he was my friend. What could I do?”

  Boston shook his head. He had leaned back against the wall as he listened. “I never heard the whole story. I only heard that you were on a robbery, the cops showed up, and you rabbited. That was it.”

  “Most of the time, Boston, things are never that simple, and the person trying to tell it as that simple is either lying or doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Take Rick here, for example. He gets you two and tells you what? One guy, three people? Simple job and Derrick deserves it, right?”

  “Yeah, pretty much like that. Said you would be alone, and no one was around your place. So it was a three against one fight and you would never see it coming, because Derrick was already banished and you probably didn’t even know he was dead yet,” Boston told him.

  “Well, I did see it coming as soon as I recognized you three coming up my lane. Rick confirmed it by insulting Cynthia. But for future reference, you don’t attack a man like me in his own home.” Hank bent down and pulled the 9mm from the holster he had nailed to the bottom of the table. He showed it to Boston.

  “I have twelve of these in various areas of the house. Twelve, Boston. I have twenty knives hidden in the same manner. To top it off, there are five grenades. I’ve ridden a lot of trails and seen a lot of things, and some of those things were really scary. So, yeah, this is probably paranoid, but, hell, sometimes people are really out to get me. So, again. Never on the man’s home turf. And it is never going to be simple.”

  “You could have taken your shot and then shot all three of us. Fuck, we were in your home. No one would have said shit,” Boston said with nervous laugh. “Why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t like killing. Never have. That’s why I got out of the military. I did it, served my time. But … this will probably sound kind of dorky, but it really felt like part of me was getting ripped away with every bullet. By the time I got out and back State-side, whole chunks of me were gone.”

  Rick started to stir, making questioning moaning sounds. Boston kicked him in the head and the moaning stopped. “No, I get that. I felt the same way. Exactly like that.”

  “You were in?”

  “Recon,” Boston nodded.

  “So, like, what’s the deal?” Hank asked, looking him over.

  “It just felt pointless. What was I exercising for? I didn’t want to be a killing machine any longer,” Boston said.

  “Then do it for your son,” Hank told him.

  “I don’t have a son,” Boston said with a laugh.

  “Yeah, right now you don’t, but you will. Probably within five years. And you’re going to want to play with him, and ride with him, and do shit with him. Seriously,” Hank told him.

  “You’re kind of strange,” Boston said with a smirk.

  “Think so? You’re from Arkansas. The reason you have the name Boston is from the band, not the city. You’re twenty-eight years old and going to have a birthday within two months. You have a little sister, and you look after her. Steak is alright, but really you prefer a good hamburger with a beer. Your mother still writes you letters, not emails, even though she knows how and has a computer.”

  “Holy shit!” Boston gasped, “What the fuck — how can you possibly know all of that?”

  “Five years Boston, five years. Now, get Rick out of my house, and let’s get them awake.”

  Hank used the hose to wake Rick and Randy from their state. Both of them looked like hell had ridden over them. Hank tossed the hose down and walked up to their bikes. “I want you two to remember that I could have shot you in there, and neither the cops nor the club would have batted an eye at me for it. I could have shot you, but I didn’t, just like I didn’t shoot a defenseless fucking deputy.” Then he fired his gun, and with two shots, left wicked burning scars across each of their fenders.

  “Fix that before a year is up, and I’ll kick the living crap out of you again. Only this time, I’ll go for bone breaking. I swear to god. Now, get the fuck off my land before I decide shooting you in the leg isn’t really going to kill you.”

  The three of them rode off, and Hank watched them go.

  “Arkansas license plate. Club is famous for steak, but I only see you eating hamburgers. Letter from your mother is in your back pocket…” he murmured to himself with a smile as he walked back into his house to put away his gun.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hank slowed the 450 thumper down as he came up on the clearing that he and Derrick used long ago as staging area. He knew it was the place, after a few more yards, because of the yellow police tape all over the place.

  Then he saw her, sitting against her deputy car, on the other side of the street. She was looking at him with searching eyes. She hadn’t changed much in four years, either.

  She motioned with her hand to come to her. Hank thought about running for it, but he decided that just sounded like a lot of energy wasted. So he got of the bike, turned off the motor, and took off his dirt helmet.

  She was walking toward him by the time he had the helmet on the seat.

  “I think I know you,” she said.

  “Nope, you don’t,” he lied.

  “I’m not often wrong with that,” she told him.

  “Well, you’re probably wrong this time, at least a little,” he told her.

  “His body was found in there. Near the middle of the clearing. Do you want to take a look?” she asked.

  “If that would be alright,” Hank said.

  “CSI is done, and so is everyone else, so you can’t hurt anything,” she said. “He was involved in a robbery about four years ago,” she added.

  Hank went under the tape and began to scan the area with practiced eyes. “I think I might have read something about that,” Hank said. “Looks like his car came in, circled, and parked there. He gets out, waits about fifteen minutes. He’s nervous. Then he’s shot here and falls flat, his head hitting here. The attacker takes something from him. A box, maybe. It was sitting here, but it was gone before the cops show up.

  “After that, another car comes in — oh.” He stopped, looking at the tire tracks of the second car.

  “How can you tell all that?” sh
e asked.

  “Tire tracks and foot prints, obviously. One and a half cigarettes. Chain smoked. He didn’t smoke unless he was really nervous or seriously up on meth. Which he was probably both. The box print is there, but I don’t see one of those marker prints, so it was gone before you guys showed up or you would have marked it for photos.”

  Hank looked around again. “What I don’t get is how he is shot in the back of the head when he’s looking at the entrance to the clearing.

  “This truck,” he offered, “pulls in here, and stops. So, that has him facing Derrick when he gets out of the cab. The man arriving in the truck is going to kill him. He knows that already. So, why wait? No witnesses out here, no house close enough to tell were the gun shot came from. He doesn’t put Derrick on his knees to execute him, so … it doesn’t make any sense.”