Junkyard War, page 7
Destroying Warhammer and her nest was step three.
And I’d succeed or die trying.
* * *
We were a few klicks from the armored house, and three-quarters of the way to busted spines and concussions from the bouncing of the old truck, when Jolene silenced the music and said, “Mateo is in position and has reported. An armored Harley One Rider pulled into the parking area. Make of bike and body size and weight of its rider appear to match that of Logan Jagger.”
All sorts of things went through my mind, all of them good, none of them helpful. “Patch Mateo’s screens through,” I requested.
“Copy that, Sugah. Audio to follow, though the distance is problematic. CO Mateo was unable to position an audio spike closer than six meters to the fortification.”
On the screen, now integrated into the truck’s armored plaz-silk windshield, a view opened. It was Jagger, sitting on his bike, his position much like the one he had when talking to me in my driveway, except now he was wearing his fully patched OMW kutte over a full set of Dragon Scale military armor and was loaded down with weapons I hadn’t known he had. He looked like a man who had gone to war and come home with his enemies’ booty. He sat on his bike, helmetless, his warboots planted in the dirt. There was a white flag tied to his handlebar.
Marconi stepped out of the front door of his stronghold—alone, unweaponed, and wearing jeans and a dress shirt. To his side a girl appeared, fully weaponed, tall but very slender. I had never seen her in person, but recognized her from the photos Jolene had obtained from deep data searches.
Camilla Mary Gamble, McQuestion’s daughter, had nearly white hair and eyes like icebergs. Her skin was so white it appeared translucent, odd skin in this post-WIMP-bomb world, where the Earth had little shielding from the sun’s radiation and pale-skinned people usually died young from melanoma.
Audio came over the speakers, tinny and distant. “Where’s Jacopo?” Marconi asked.
“Behind me, bringing up the gear.” Toneless. Offering nothing. “He’s driving a truck loaded with chairs, a tented covering, and a table.” Jagger grunted with a sound that was probably supposed to be laughter. “McQuestion owns a round table. Like Arthur’s. And your kid appropriated it for the meeting.”
“Jacopo?” Marconi sounded disbelieving.
“Yeah. He was put in charge of meeting prep. He’s a good kid. Smart.”
Instead of responding to the compliment, Marconi said, “I have two and a half kilos of roasted coffee beans, ready to be ground.”
Jagger scraped his feet against the dirt. “Coffee’s good. McQuestion has an unopened bottle of fifty-year-old tequila he thinks might be good too. For toasting a safe and successful negotiation.” The wind caught the white flag and it twirled.
Marconi nodded, then pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I hear we got more coming, and somebody’s bringing a smoked wild sow and some piglets.”
“That would be the Booze. Sabbath’s Old Lady is a baker. So we got bread coming. And a couple cakes.”
“I got a grill already hot. Commercial fryer,” Marconi said, and I realized they were trying to outdo each other. “And a load of potatoes. And salt and pepper. Makings of a feast, even if it will never be as good as my Italian.”
“Best Italian I ever tasted. Even in Italy.”
Marconi nodded and turned his head to the side. “Talk first. Eat after.”
“Agreed. McQuestion will honor parley rules.”
“Marconi and Charles Whip will honor parley rules. But will the others?”
“We’ll have to see,” Jagger nearly growled out. “If not, the battle will be fun. Figuring out who is on whose side will be even more fun.”
“It always is,” Marconi agreed.
On my screen, a low-sided truck, an ancient diesel even older than mine, rolled into the parking area. Jacopo turned it off and leaped out of the driver’s door, lithe and manly. He landed and looked to the front porch. Something changed in his body language. Not something I could identify from this angle, but something strong, like a punch to the gut. He nodded to his father and went to work unloading the truck.
“I’m leaving three men to help your son,” Jagger said. “He’s in charge of the set-up. He will not be visiting his family until after the negotiations are concluded.”
“His mother will not be happy with that arrangement, but I accept, nonetheless. Camilla will not visit her family until the same time frame.”
“Understood,” Jagger said.
Jacopo bent forward from the waist in a small bow to his father, and then again to Jagger. “I honor my word and my father’s vow.”
Camilla bowed too, her white hair falling across her white face. “I honor the decisions made here and now.”
“Checking perimeters,” Jagger said.
His engine came to life, sounding like a dragon from old myths, and Jagger motored away from the house.
“I do believe that Jagger is heading your way, Shining,” Mateo said, and there might have been amusement or maybe boredom in his tone. It was hard to tell. “Give him a hug from me,” he added. Yeah. Amusement.
“That tree you pushed off the road the last time we came this way,” I said to Cupcake, “is just ahead.”
“I’ll pull over there and we can eat a quick snack,” she said, “and check ammo. You can take a walk. Talk privately.”
“That works.”
* * *
The sound of the Harley came to me, bounding off the low hills. I was standing in the middle of the road, just past where Cupcake had squished a dead man with the truck on our last trip this way. I was unarmed except for a blaster strapped to my thigh, and as the rumble of the bike approached around the next bend, I uncrossed my arms and put my fists on my hips, waiting, legs spread, feet planted, riding boots steady on the cracked asphalt.
Jagger came around the bend, and I knew the moment he saw me. That awareness was like being stabbed straight into the solar plexus. I missed my next breath, pressure in my chest. He slowed, and the bike came to a stop. The motor died.
This time he got off the bike and stared into the sun’s glare through sunglasses he hadn’t worn at Marconi’s fortress. He hooked his thumbs into blade sheathes in his armor. It was the same kind of Dragon Scale armor we had taken from Morrison’s, the same kind I had brought to barter. Looked as if he’d taken the suit he wore when we fought together last. I hadn’t asked. I hadn’t given it to him. Jagger was the kind of man who took what he wanted. Best I remembered that.
But . . . I wished I had been able to see Marconi’s face up close when he caught sight of Jagger wearing the military’s best and latest gear. I bet he nearly pissed his britches.
“Asshole,” I said by way of greeting.
“Little Girl. I got some things to say. Things McQuestion hasn’t sanctioned.”
Hasn’t sanctioned. Not wouldn’t sanction. Meaning McQuestion might sanction? Might intend to sanction? Had maybe given a nod and a wink at a private agreement to something that might someday become public? There were a lot of loopholes in that, but I tilted my head in agreement.
“Your wire off?”
Jagger nodded once, a disgruntled expression on his face. He had resented the wire and the questioning of his loyalty. Being an Enforcer was power, status, and honor. Being mine had threatened his world and his position in it.
“Then I’m listening.”
He pulled off his sunglasses so I could see his chocolate-brown eyes. I shoved my orange lenses up onto my head, revealing my orange eyes. Some things needed to be face-to-face, literally.
“I want you,” Jagger said. “And I don’t think it’s the nanobots. Not anymore.”
I wanted him too, but there were a lot of problems with that scenario. Always had been. First and foremost was that Jagger belonged to McQuestion. Even if McQuestion gave Jagger to me, he would intend his gift to watch me, eyes and ears on everything I did, and report back. Probably even bedroom talk and bedroom acts.
But I remembered Jagger’s arms around me, demanding, his mouth plundering, remembered his taste, his scent. He was a big man, both physically and in that thing called presence: part charisma, part machismo, part brains, all powerful, capable, violent, and smart. I liked smart. I’d have liked Jagger even without the nanos binding us together. But the silence had stretched too long.
“You want me,” I said. “Sex.”
“More than sex. Way more. That said, I promise you it would be”—he slowed his words—“mind-blowing. Screaming. Hot. Sweaty. Sex.” His words were like melted chocolate dripped from a big spoon.
It took a few heartbeats before I could find a breath and respond. “I’m not someone you just”—I mentally apologized to Pops—“fuck.”
He blinked at the crudity, knowing I never used that word. His eyes widened and something passed through them, too fast to read. “That’s not—”
“I’m Little Girl,” I interrupted. “A made-man. I’m worth more than a turn in the sheets. And I don’t want a man given to me by someone else.” If Jagger and I had a chance at anything, and that didn’t look likely, he needed to see me for everything that I was. He needed to be able to get mad at me. Argue and fight back with me. Spar with me and not worry that he might hurt his queen. “I don’t want a slave in my bed.”
Jagger turned red. That was a good start, so I pushed it a bit more. “And I want a man who wants me for me, not because of nanobots turning his brain to mush, or because his boss said to woo me, screw me, and report back.” I dropped my arms and let one hand dangle near my blaster. “For now, I’ve got a parley and then, hopefully, I’ll be putting together a crew to go after Warhammer. When she’s done, maybe I’ll call you.”
“You’ll call—? And what am I supposed to do until then?” Jagger ground out.
He had clearly never been told by a woman that she’d be the one to call.
I chuckled. “Your job. The job of a national enforcer. Arrange safe transport for the leaders, I assume. And then, if McQuestion agrees to assist, help plan and carry out the attack on Warhammer’s nest. Just do your job, Asshole.” I started to turn away and tilted my head as if I’d just thought of something. “Oh. Cupcake found some jewelry you might like. I’ll make sure she brings you the stash, and you can pick out some pretties for yourself.”
“Pick out jewel— You’re . . .” He stopped. Jagger was not used to being treated like a woman usually was in the OMW. “You can’t lie to me. You want me.”
“Why? Because you’re so good in the sack?”
He blinked.
I walked away, calling over my shoulder, “You look pretty today, Asshole.”
I approached the truck to see Cupcake standing in the middle of the road with our cohorts, three sets of armor in boxes and a donning station in a huge wooden case sitting in the middle of the road behind them. She said, “You told him to go away, didn’t you?”
I scowled. Was I so easy to read?
“Damn it, Shining. You want him. He wants you. You need a nest. What is wrong with you?”
Wishing I had an answer, I said, “Let’s get this done.”
“You need to freshen up, put on some lipstick, and do something with that hair. You didn’t even comb it when you got out of bed today, did you?”
I shrugged. I was fairly certain I had a comb. Somewhere.
Cupcake frowned at me and blew out a resigned breath. “Amos and Wanda and me need to armor up as your security detail. Might as well do it here.”
Without answering, I swung into the cab, spotting a meal on the minuscule table. Just the sight of it turned my stomach fast, suggesting that I was nervous or something. I ignored it and went to the tiny toilette behind the two seats. On the bunk were fresh clothes and a device as long as my opened hand, shaped like an old electric shaver. There was a tiny hemp-paper note stuck on it that said, “Here’s your new toy. Turn it on. Press the rounded end to a person’s skin and push the button, and it will measure the presence and amount of nanobots in the person’s system. Try it.”
I followed directions, and a tiny light glowed green until I shoved the rounded end against my own skin. Then the light turned red and the little dial flipped from 0 to100. Yeah. I had nanos. Big surprise.
When I left the sleeping cab, I sat to eat, forcing myself to down the salad, the vegetable protein, and some leftover roasted veggies. I drank reheated chicken stock Cupcake had made from the bones of the chicken at the fancy dinner. It was hard to get sufficient protein these days, and the stock was not only delicious, it settled my stomach. There was coffee in an insulated mug. So good.
An hour after I entered, I emerged, full of lunch and wearing fresh jeans; a clean shirt with the sleeves rolled up; a necklace with a religious medal for luck; un-stinky clean socks inside my worn, scraped, dusty boots; leather armbands I hadn’t worn in years; and black biker’s gloves with pointed steel knuckle rivets where they’d do the most damage if I had to hit someone. The nano detector was in a small sheath on my left leg. I was wearing orange lipstick to match my orange sunglasses. I figured I looked okay, though I had only a small mirror to see myself.
I swung down from the cab. The first thing I saw was my security detail wearing Dragon Scale armor in matching camo patterns. Then I spotted the matte black Harley parked beside the big rig.
My Harley.
I hadn’t laid eyes on her since the day I took over Smith’s. She had been in storage. Hadn’t been cranked. Hadn’t been touched in years. Someone had done some work on her.
If her name on the gas tank hadn’t still been prominent, I might not have recognized her. I’d called her Death’s Reaper, after the collector of souls, and her name had been painted in electric blue with a death sickle across the bottom of the name.
Something like joy flooded through me at the sight of her. Walking slowly, I took my bike in.
She was a wartime bike, a Harley Machinegun, a limited edition produced only for a few years. Bikes built for military applications now were larger, meaner, like Jagger’s One Rider. This Harley had been built for a much smaller me, with sleek lines for speed, camouflage, basic shielding, and minimal weapons. Well, several small weapons and one big-assed weapon. It had been built to hold a mounted M249 Para Gen VI, a magazine-fed machine gun with extended mags, a weapon similar to the one at the junkyard, but newer, fancier, built for fighting the PRC in the war. Currently, the Para Gen was not mounted on the bike. Probably a good thing at a negotiation.
Hubris, maybe, but my Reaper was still the prettiest thing I’d ever laid eyes on. And even with all the changes, she still looked like me. Someone had rebuilt her for my longer legs, chopped her a bit to add size and impact. And her shielding and camo patterns had been updated. There was a shotgun, along with a nine-millimeter and a brand-new military blaster in a multipurpose weapons sheath built into the bike’s frame.
I shook my head and let a smile cross my face. I met Cupcake’s blue eyes and said, “She’s gorgeous. Your work?”
Cupcake made a small harrumphing sound. “Berger chips aren’t good enough for most of this work. I rebuilt the engine. That I could learn. The bodywork is Amos all the way.”
I looked at the big guy who had willingly joined my nest just for the possibility of being with Cupcake. “Nice work, both of you. I’m impressed.”
Wanda was standing nearby. Her kid was hiding behind her back with only their head facing the bike. “Ms. Shining,” Alex said, “that sure is pretty. Can I ride it?”
“Not this time,” I said. “But maybe someday.” To their mother, I added, “You look good in the armor. Dangerous. Follow Amos’s or Cupcake’s lead. Don’t shoot anybody. Keep your kid safe, preferably in the truck.” I looked at Alex. “You hear gunfire or see a fight start, you get in the cab and lock the doors until I tell you different. It’ll be scary, but you’ll be safe and I won’t waste time worrying about you.”
“I can shoot a gun. If somebody would give me one,” Alex said with a fierce expression.
“No.” I felt my command secure itself onto the kid’s nanos. For a good two seconds I hated myself and the fact that I had unwittingly made a thrall of a child. “Not today. Unless your mother says otherwise, your job is to keep the truck doors locked so we can get away, and keep yourself safe. Period.”
Alex heaved a dramatic sigh that made me think girl, and their mother heaved a similar sigh, but of relief.
I straddled Reaper and pressed the start button. She purred to life, her engine reverberating through my body and right into my soul. I started to turn her, when Cupcake displayed my old, and far too small, OMW kutte across the seat behind me so it could be seen. My eyes filled with tears. Bloody damn. This felt good.
I pulled away as the cats, who had been everywhere underfoot, jumped back into the cab and the flatbed, and the rest of my nest hopped inside too. With Death’s Reaper rumbling beneath me, I motored down the road to the fortress where possibilities, both good and bad, awaited me.
It was time for my grand entrance.
* * *
Aware of the big truck behind me, I pulled slowly down the drive to the fortified mansion I had given to Marconi—after I shot it to hell and back and killed most of the men inside.
In front of the repaired, fortified log house—once again armored and weaponed for war—was a broken concrete drive and parking area. The mega-gun that was once visible through a gunport was now hidden behind a pretty stained-glass window which was totally out of place on the fortified walls. The red glass roses below the HA’s skull-and-wings emblem stood out like a threat. I wasn’t certain the weapon had been repaired or replaced after our attack here not so long ago, but if so, it was a clear advantage to Marconi.
Yeah. I got why McQuestion was pissed that I gave away the cabin fortress.
In the center of the parking area, an open-air tent had been erected with a round table beneath it. There were six chairs, all but one with a man sitting in it. Cigars in their mouths. Liquor in shot glasses, even this early in the day. Five important leaders from the largest motorcycle clubs in the country. In the world.
I had never seen OMW and Hells Angels talking. There had been parleys in the past, but most had resulted in bloodshed and the Hand of the Law showing up. This was new and dangerous. Especially so because the vice president and warlord, McQuestion himself, was on-site instead of the talking-head prez of the OMW.
And I’d succeed or die trying.
* * *
We were a few klicks from the armored house, and three-quarters of the way to busted spines and concussions from the bouncing of the old truck, when Jolene silenced the music and said, “Mateo is in position and has reported. An armored Harley One Rider pulled into the parking area. Make of bike and body size and weight of its rider appear to match that of Logan Jagger.”
All sorts of things went through my mind, all of them good, none of them helpful. “Patch Mateo’s screens through,” I requested.
“Copy that, Sugah. Audio to follow, though the distance is problematic. CO Mateo was unable to position an audio spike closer than six meters to the fortification.”
On the screen, now integrated into the truck’s armored plaz-silk windshield, a view opened. It was Jagger, sitting on his bike, his position much like the one he had when talking to me in my driveway, except now he was wearing his fully patched OMW kutte over a full set of Dragon Scale military armor and was loaded down with weapons I hadn’t known he had. He looked like a man who had gone to war and come home with his enemies’ booty. He sat on his bike, helmetless, his warboots planted in the dirt. There was a white flag tied to his handlebar.
Marconi stepped out of the front door of his stronghold—alone, unweaponed, and wearing jeans and a dress shirt. To his side a girl appeared, fully weaponed, tall but very slender. I had never seen her in person, but recognized her from the photos Jolene had obtained from deep data searches.
Camilla Mary Gamble, McQuestion’s daughter, had nearly white hair and eyes like icebergs. Her skin was so white it appeared translucent, odd skin in this post-WIMP-bomb world, where the Earth had little shielding from the sun’s radiation and pale-skinned people usually died young from melanoma.
Audio came over the speakers, tinny and distant. “Where’s Jacopo?” Marconi asked.
“Behind me, bringing up the gear.” Toneless. Offering nothing. “He’s driving a truck loaded with chairs, a tented covering, and a table.” Jagger grunted with a sound that was probably supposed to be laughter. “McQuestion owns a round table. Like Arthur’s. And your kid appropriated it for the meeting.”
“Jacopo?” Marconi sounded disbelieving.
“Yeah. He was put in charge of meeting prep. He’s a good kid. Smart.”
Instead of responding to the compliment, Marconi said, “I have two and a half kilos of roasted coffee beans, ready to be ground.”
Jagger scraped his feet against the dirt. “Coffee’s good. McQuestion has an unopened bottle of fifty-year-old tequila he thinks might be good too. For toasting a safe and successful negotiation.” The wind caught the white flag and it twirled.
Marconi nodded, then pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I hear we got more coming, and somebody’s bringing a smoked wild sow and some piglets.”
“That would be the Booze. Sabbath’s Old Lady is a baker. So we got bread coming. And a couple cakes.”
“I got a grill already hot. Commercial fryer,” Marconi said, and I realized they were trying to outdo each other. “And a load of potatoes. And salt and pepper. Makings of a feast, even if it will never be as good as my Italian.”
“Best Italian I ever tasted. Even in Italy.”
Marconi nodded and turned his head to the side. “Talk first. Eat after.”
“Agreed. McQuestion will honor parley rules.”
“Marconi and Charles Whip will honor parley rules. But will the others?”
“We’ll have to see,” Jagger nearly growled out. “If not, the battle will be fun. Figuring out who is on whose side will be even more fun.”
“It always is,” Marconi agreed.
On my screen, a low-sided truck, an ancient diesel even older than mine, rolled into the parking area. Jacopo turned it off and leaped out of the driver’s door, lithe and manly. He landed and looked to the front porch. Something changed in his body language. Not something I could identify from this angle, but something strong, like a punch to the gut. He nodded to his father and went to work unloading the truck.
“I’m leaving three men to help your son,” Jagger said. “He’s in charge of the set-up. He will not be visiting his family until after the negotiations are concluded.”
“His mother will not be happy with that arrangement, but I accept, nonetheless. Camilla will not visit her family until the same time frame.”
“Understood,” Jagger said.
Jacopo bent forward from the waist in a small bow to his father, and then again to Jagger. “I honor my word and my father’s vow.”
Camilla bowed too, her white hair falling across her white face. “I honor the decisions made here and now.”
“Checking perimeters,” Jagger said.
His engine came to life, sounding like a dragon from old myths, and Jagger motored away from the house.
“I do believe that Jagger is heading your way, Shining,” Mateo said, and there might have been amusement or maybe boredom in his tone. It was hard to tell. “Give him a hug from me,” he added. Yeah. Amusement.
“That tree you pushed off the road the last time we came this way,” I said to Cupcake, “is just ahead.”
“I’ll pull over there and we can eat a quick snack,” she said, “and check ammo. You can take a walk. Talk privately.”
“That works.”
* * *
The sound of the Harley came to me, bounding off the low hills. I was standing in the middle of the road, just past where Cupcake had squished a dead man with the truck on our last trip this way. I was unarmed except for a blaster strapped to my thigh, and as the rumble of the bike approached around the next bend, I uncrossed my arms and put my fists on my hips, waiting, legs spread, feet planted, riding boots steady on the cracked asphalt.
Jagger came around the bend, and I knew the moment he saw me. That awareness was like being stabbed straight into the solar plexus. I missed my next breath, pressure in my chest. He slowed, and the bike came to a stop. The motor died.
This time he got off the bike and stared into the sun’s glare through sunglasses he hadn’t worn at Marconi’s fortress. He hooked his thumbs into blade sheathes in his armor. It was the same kind of Dragon Scale armor we had taken from Morrison’s, the same kind I had brought to barter. Looked as if he’d taken the suit he wore when we fought together last. I hadn’t asked. I hadn’t given it to him. Jagger was the kind of man who took what he wanted. Best I remembered that.
But . . . I wished I had been able to see Marconi’s face up close when he caught sight of Jagger wearing the military’s best and latest gear. I bet he nearly pissed his britches.
“Asshole,” I said by way of greeting.
“Little Girl. I got some things to say. Things McQuestion hasn’t sanctioned.”
Hasn’t sanctioned. Not wouldn’t sanction. Meaning McQuestion might sanction? Might intend to sanction? Had maybe given a nod and a wink at a private agreement to something that might someday become public? There were a lot of loopholes in that, but I tilted my head in agreement.
“Your wire off?”
Jagger nodded once, a disgruntled expression on his face. He had resented the wire and the questioning of his loyalty. Being an Enforcer was power, status, and honor. Being mine had threatened his world and his position in it.
“Then I’m listening.”
He pulled off his sunglasses so I could see his chocolate-brown eyes. I shoved my orange lenses up onto my head, revealing my orange eyes. Some things needed to be face-to-face, literally.
“I want you,” Jagger said. “And I don’t think it’s the nanobots. Not anymore.”
I wanted him too, but there were a lot of problems with that scenario. Always had been. First and foremost was that Jagger belonged to McQuestion. Even if McQuestion gave Jagger to me, he would intend his gift to watch me, eyes and ears on everything I did, and report back. Probably even bedroom talk and bedroom acts.
But I remembered Jagger’s arms around me, demanding, his mouth plundering, remembered his taste, his scent. He was a big man, both physically and in that thing called presence: part charisma, part machismo, part brains, all powerful, capable, violent, and smart. I liked smart. I’d have liked Jagger even without the nanos binding us together. But the silence had stretched too long.
“You want me,” I said. “Sex.”
“More than sex. Way more. That said, I promise you it would be”—he slowed his words—“mind-blowing. Screaming. Hot. Sweaty. Sex.” His words were like melted chocolate dripped from a big spoon.
It took a few heartbeats before I could find a breath and respond. “I’m not someone you just”—I mentally apologized to Pops—“fuck.”
He blinked at the crudity, knowing I never used that word. His eyes widened and something passed through them, too fast to read. “That’s not—”
“I’m Little Girl,” I interrupted. “A made-man. I’m worth more than a turn in the sheets. And I don’t want a man given to me by someone else.” If Jagger and I had a chance at anything, and that didn’t look likely, he needed to see me for everything that I was. He needed to be able to get mad at me. Argue and fight back with me. Spar with me and not worry that he might hurt his queen. “I don’t want a slave in my bed.”
Jagger turned red. That was a good start, so I pushed it a bit more. “And I want a man who wants me for me, not because of nanobots turning his brain to mush, or because his boss said to woo me, screw me, and report back.” I dropped my arms and let one hand dangle near my blaster. “For now, I’ve got a parley and then, hopefully, I’ll be putting together a crew to go after Warhammer. When she’s done, maybe I’ll call you.”
“You’ll call—? And what am I supposed to do until then?” Jagger ground out.
He had clearly never been told by a woman that she’d be the one to call.
I chuckled. “Your job. The job of a national enforcer. Arrange safe transport for the leaders, I assume. And then, if McQuestion agrees to assist, help plan and carry out the attack on Warhammer’s nest. Just do your job, Asshole.” I started to turn away and tilted my head as if I’d just thought of something. “Oh. Cupcake found some jewelry you might like. I’ll make sure she brings you the stash, and you can pick out some pretties for yourself.”
“Pick out jewel— You’re . . .” He stopped. Jagger was not used to being treated like a woman usually was in the OMW. “You can’t lie to me. You want me.”
“Why? Because you’re so good in the sack?”
He blinked.
I walked away, calling over my shoulder, “You look pretty today, Asshole.”
I approached the truck to see Cupcake standing in the middle of the road with our cohorts, three sets of armor in boxes and a donning station in a huge wooden case sitting in the middle of the road behind them. She said, “You told him to go away, didn’t you?”
I scowled. Was I so easy to read?
“Damn it, Shining. You want him. He wants you. You need a nest. What is wrong with you?”
Wishing I had an answer, I said, “Let’s get this done.”
“You need to freshen up, put on some lipstick, and do something with that hair. You didn’t even comb it when you got out of bed today, did you?”
I shrugged. I was fairly certain I had a comb. Somewhere.
Cupcake frowned at me and blew out a resigned breath. “Amos and Wanda and me need to armor up as your security detail. Might as well do it here.”
Without answering, I swung into the cab, spotting a meal on the minuscule table. Just the sight of it turned my stomach fast, suggesting that I was nervous or something. I ignored it and went to the tiny toilette behind the two seats. On the bunk were fresh clothes and a device as long as my opened hand, shaped like an old electric shaver. There was a tiny hemp-paper note stuck on it that said, “Here’s your new toy. Turn it on. Press the rounded end to a person’s skin and push the button, and it will measure the presence and amount of nanobots in the person’s system. Try it.”
I followed directions, and a tiny light glowed green until I shoved the rounded end against my own skin. Then the light turned red and the little dial flipped from 0 to100. Yeah. I had nanos. Big surprise.
When I left the sleeping cab, I sat to eat, forcing myself to down the salad, the vegetable protein, and some leftover roasted veggies. I drank reheated chicken stock Cupcake had made from the bones of the chicken at the fancy dinner. It was hard to get sufficient protein these days, and the stock was not only delicious, it settled my stomach. There was coffee in an insulated mug. So good.
An hour after I entered, I emerged, full of lunch and wearing fresh jeans; a clean shirt with the sleeves rolled up; a necklace with a religious medal for luck; un-stinky clean socks inside my worn, scraped, dusty boots; leather armbands I hadn’t worn in years; and black biker’s gloves with pointed steel knuckle rivets where they’d do the most damage if I had to hit someone. The nano detector was in a small sheath on my left leg. I was wearing orange lipstick to match my orange sunglasses. I figured I looked okay, though I had only a small mirror to see myself.
I swung down from the cab. The first thing I saw was my security detail wearing Dragon Scale armor in matching camo patterns. Then I spotted the matte black Harley parked beside the big rig.
My Harley.
I hadn’t laid eyes on her since the day I took over Smith’s. She had been in storage. Hadn’t been cranked. Hadn’t been touched in years. Someone had done some work on her.
If her name on the gas tank hadn’t still been prominent, I might not have recognized her. I’d called her Death’s Reaper, after the collector of souls, and her name had been painted in electric blue with a death sickle across the bottom of the name.
Something like joy flooded through me at the sight of her. Walking slowly, I took my bike in.
She was a wartime bike, a Harley Machinegun, a limited edition produced only for a few years. Bikes built for military applications now were larger, meaner, like Jagger’s One Rider. This Harley had been built for a much smaller me, with sleek lines for speed, camouflage, basic shielding, and minimal weapons. Well, several small weapons and one big-assed weapon. It had been built to hold a mounted M249 Para Gen VI, a magazine-fed machine gun with extended mags, a weapon similar to the one at the junkyard, but newer, fancier, built for fighting the PRC in the war. Currently, the Para Gen was not mounted on the bike. Probably a good thing at a negotiation.
Hubris, maybe, but my Reaper was still the prettiest thing I’d ever laid eyes on. And even with all the changes, she still looked like me. Someone had rebuilt her for my longer legs, chopped her a bit to add size and impact. And her shielding and camo patterns had been updated. There was a shotgun, along with a nine-millimeter and a brand-new military blaster in a multipurpose weapons sheath built into the bike’s frame.
I shook my head and let a smile cross my face. I met Cupcake’s blue eyes and said, “She’s gorgeous. Your work?”
Cupcake made a small harrumphing sound. “Berger chips aren’t good enough for most of this work. I rebuilt the engine. That I could learn. The bodywork is Amos all the way.”
I looked at the big guy who had willingly joined my nest just for the possibility of being with Cupcake. “Nice work, both of you. I’m impressed.”
Wanda was standing nearby. Her kid was hiding behind her back with only their head facing the bike. “Ms. Shining,” Alex said, “that sure is pretty. Can I ride it?”
“Not this time,” I said. “But maybe someday.” To their mother, I added, “You look good in the armor. Dangerous. Follow Amos’s or Cupcake’s lead. Don’t shoot anybody. Keep your kid safe, preferably in the truck.” I looked at Alex. “You hear gunfire or see a fight start, you get in the cab and lock the doors until I tell you different. It’ll be scary, but you’ll be safe and I won’t waste time worrying about you.”
“I can shoot a gun. If somebody would give me one,” Alex said with a fierce expression.
“No.” I felt my command secure itself onto the kid’s nanos. For a good two seconds I hated myself and the fact that I had unwittingly made a thrall of a child. “Not today. Unless your mother says otherwise, your job is to keep the truck doors locked so we can get away, and keep yourself safe. Period.”
Alex heaved a dramatic sigh that made me think girl, and their mother heaved a similar sigh, but of relief.
I straddled Reaper and pressed the start button. She purred to life, her engine reverberating through my body and right into my soul. I started to turn her, when Cupcake displayed my old, and far too small, OMW kutte across the seat behind me so it could be seen. My eyes filled with tears. Bloody damn. This felt good.
I pulled away as the cats, who had been everywhere underfoot, jumped back into the cab and the flatbed, and the rest of my nest hopped inside too. With Death’s Reaper rumbling beneath me, I motored down the road to the fortress where possibilities, both good and bad, awaited me.
It was time for my grand entrance.
* * *
Aware of the big truck behind me, I pulled slowly down the drive to the fortified mansion I had given to Marconi—after I shot it to hell and back and killed most of the men inside.
In front of the repaired, fortified log house—once again armored and weaponed for war—was a broken concrete drive and parking area. The mega-gun that was once visible through a gunport was now hidden behind a pretty stained-glass window which was totally out of place on the fortified walls. The red glass roses below the HA’s skull-and-wings emblem stood out like a threat. I wasn’t certain the weapon had been repaired or replaced after our attack here not so long ago, but if so, it was a clear advantage to Marconi.
Yeah. I got why McQuestion was pissed that I gave away the cabin fortress.
In the center of the parking area, an open-air tent had been erected with a round table beneath it. There were six chairs, all but one with a man sitting in it. Cigars in their mouths. Liquor in shot glasses, even this early in the day. Five important leaders from the largest motorcycle clubs in the country. In the world.
I had never seen OMW and Hells Angels talking. There had been parleys in the past, but most had resulted in bloodshed and the Hand of the Law showing up. This was new and dangerous. Especially so because the vice president and warlord, McQuestion himself, was on-site instead of the talking-head prez of the OMW.
