Junkyard War, page 8
In the OMW, the so-called prez was a PR specialist. The real power was the second-in-command—the VP, the warlord, always referred to as McQuestion to keep his identity secret. But the VP, Roy Gamble himself, was up front and not hiding. And Marconi was sitting next to Charles Whip, prez of the HA, showing just how much power Marconi now had as a regional prez. Definitely number two in the organization. Besides the people I recognized, there was a fully patched made-man of the Boozefighters and a made-man of the Black Sabbath, sitting to either side of the Hells Angels’ contingent.
HA, Sabbath, Booze, and OMW. Black bikers sitting with white bikers at the same round table, all unarmed. Something mythologic about that. Or not. My stomach roiled, and I thought I might hurl, but I held it in.
There were motorcycles parked in groups everywhere. War bikes, pre-war bikes, chopped bikes, some crotch rockets built for speed, and groups of people, all segregated by organization, race, and gender. That segregation would never do.
Not joining any group, I pulled my bike at an angle so they could all get a good look at me, and powered down. Behind me, the big rig eased in, the jake brakes sending a juddering reverberation through the front parking area. Through my orange glasses, I studied the men at the table.
I hadn’t seen McQuestion since my father’s funeral, a decade ago. Roy looked good—fit, still red haired. Charles Whip was the current national HA president stationed in Durham, North Carolina, and former chapter prez out of Berdoo Charter in San Bernadino, California. Back before the PRC landed and the Mara Salvatrucha began their hostile takeover of the Hells Angels, Berdoo was the most prestigious house in the HA.
Last Harlan told me, there were twenty or twenty-five chapter houses left, the rest having been taken over by the MSA. What remained of Whip’s organization would soon be taken over by Warhammer; he just hadn’t admitted he was losing yet. Whip needed all the numbers he could get, which had to be the reason he had promoted Marconi. Probably gave him control over several chapter houses and territory beyond Charleston.
Mateo said into my earbud, “The Booze is Henry Thibodaux, out of New Orleans. He has to be a new prez. The Sabbath is J’Ron Walker, out of Old New York. Also a new prez but Cupcake uncovered his story. He shot his way to the top and was voted in as prez unanimously. Both are augmented, toes to teeth. In a fight, they’ll rip your arms off with their bare hands. You’re walking on eggshells here, Shining.”
Walking on eggshells? More like walking on eggs filled with TNT.
Each organization’s made-men were standing in well-defined camps behind them, armed of course. Most wore war patches, showing that they were warriors seasoned during WWIII. None of them was drinking. Their Old Ladies and any female made-men were relaxing behind the muscle, near the bikes, also separated into groups.
Behind Marconi’s chair stood three of his children: his psychopath daughter—and not-so-secret weapon—Mina; and two of his sons, Lorenzo and Enrico, who, by the longing look he sent me, was still my thrall, though not desperate enough to cross club lines and come to me. Interesting. A strong authority figure was keeping Enrico where he belonged, with his family. McQuestion’s daughter, Camilla, was standing with them, but as far as possible from Mina. Something in her body language suggested that the time she’d been forced to be with Marconi’s bunch had been difficult.
Jagger was standing at point behind McQuestion, and he glanced my way out of the corner of his eye. He had the best shooting vantage, but his fancy new armor would also take the first hit if shots were fired. And he hadn’t engaged his helmet, making a head shot a sniper’s only choice. Marconi’s son Jacopo, the hostage in McQuestion’s camp, stood with Jagger and the OMWs, facing his father and family.
The Booze and the Sabbath were watching me behind sunglasses. Evaluating the person who had assigned Cupcake the job of calling and arranging this little meeting.
Marconi lifted his shot glass and sipped. McQuestion kept his back to me, probably thinking he was putting me in my place. Everything said and done here would have multiple purposes and meanings. I’d need video to study later. Softly, I murmured, “You getting this?”
Jolene said, “Sure ’nuff. Multiple angles because I hacked into Marconi’s and McQuestion’s security cams.”
I chuckled. The sound of my laughter finally made McQuestion turn around and look at me, which felt like a win. But I had no idea what to do now that I had made my grand entrance.
The cats exploded out of the truck cab and leaped from the flatbed in clowders of three or five or seven. They scattered silently, racing under cars or into the fractal shadows of bikes. No one seemed to notice them. Yet, all the cats turned toward me; all the cat eyes were on me. Waiting.
I fought a shiver and dismounted my bike. Wanda stood behind, covering my six. I spotted Cupcake and Amos, who had maneuvered fast, standing under the tent, behind the empty chair at the round table. Them standing there was an emotional gut-punch.
In my deepest heart, I had expected one of two possibilities: to address the group while standing to one side, as befitted my gender, to give them my intel, lay out my suggestions, and then be sent away like a child while the boys talked; or to have to fight my way to even being listened to. But Cupcake had always had higher aspirations. Now I had a strange feeling that her plans had come to fruition, and the chair was mine. That McQuestion was allowing me, a female made-man, to sit at the table with him.
This was . . . interesting. To my knowledge, it was unprecedented. And it was definitely dangerous.
Which Cupcake had to know. Yet, her eyes were wide with excitement, and she made the tiniest of movements toward the chair as Amos pulled it out. The two were like some kind of romantic bodyguards—both of them weaponed up and wearing the same model armor that Jagger wore. All this could be sending a message that I was aligned with the OMW. Which I was, by vows and spilled blood. My place at the table made me number two in the OMW . . . or it made me something else entirely. Perhaps a traitor, someone who had walked away from the club and the vows that bound me—an enemy, if McQuestion chose to see it that way. This kind of ambiguity was perilous to my staying alive.
I tossed the too-small kutte over my shoulder to indicate I wasn’t an enemy to the OMW, but wasn’t siding with them either. I walked languidly, as if bored, to the tent, my boots crunching gravel in the oddly silent clearing. Walked into the shade. And stopped beside the empty seat. When I was a kid, there had been few parleys of biker clubs and none I had actually attended because of the potential for violence. There had also been no female made-men then. I didn’t know the current protocol for a meeting like this, but Old Ladies didn’t sit unless asked to.
However, I wasn’t an Old Lady; I was Little Girl. Rules didn’t apply to me. I probably wasn’t supposed to speak either, but Cupcake and I had discussed early on that I had to talk with confidence, had to draw the lines, establish my position.
So I sat, and when a shot glass was put into my hand, I sipped.
Holy mama. Excellent tequila. It went down smooth.
Cupcake said, “Shining Smith. One of the few who came back alive after putting a nuke into a Mama-Bot. The only one of the Mama-Bot raiders still alive today. One of the first female made-men of the OMW. War hero, survivor, and the made-man who could have been owner of all you see around you, this fortification, by right of . . . military acquisition. Instead, in an act of good will, in hopes for this meeting today, to keep it from falling back into MSA hands, and in thanks for the help of the Hells Angels chapter prez of Charleston, West Virginia, when she took this house from Rico “Three Fingers” Garcia Perez, top man of the MSA, she gave it to Old Man Marconi.”
The men around the table stared at me, looking me over. Their regard was heavy as a lead blanket.
“She’s willing to offer something of value to McQuestion and to the Boozefighters and the Black Sabbath. So. You all know this, but Shining is here to broker a temporary peace, and assistance in the war on a mutual enemy. If the men and women gathered here are not interested in going to war against the MSA, the road out is that way.” She pointed at the drive. The men glanced over, then returned their collective gazes to me.
Everything had a purpose, I reminded myself. And a cost.
“Gentlemen,” I said.
“Little Girl,” McQuestion said. “Why aren’t you wearing your kutte?”
Amos took my kutte and draped it over the back of my chair. I breathed in the tequila fumes to settle my stomach, sipping instead of shooting the fine liquor, making them wait. It was probably bad form to puke on the VIPs. I almost grinned but the issue of not wearing a kutte was important. Men and their fashion choices . . .
“Doesn’t fit,” I said. “And I don’t sew. When Pops died, I was thirteen. I grew into an adult, and when the kutte no longer fit, I took it off.” I stared hard at McQuestion. “But I never gave up the vows.” My tone said, Once an Outlaw, always an Outlaw, but don’t push it.
He tilted his head, his expression saying that nothing was over, and that there would be a return to my position in the OMW. I didn’t smile. I wasn’t a thing to be traded. I was Little Girl. That didn’t stop my stomach from roiling with tension, but I didn’t have to let my nerves show.
“McQuestion. Whip. Marconi. Gentlemen.” I gave a small nod to the men I’d never met.
“Bengal,” the Boozefighter said. “Prez.”
“Mama-Killer,” the Black Sabbath said. When my eyebrows went up, he added, “I helped nuke a Mama-Bot in Mobile.”
“Inside?” I asked.
“Heeelll no.” His tone said he wasn’t that dumb. “I set a small nuke on the treads. The kid who went inside never came back out.”
Bloody hell. “Pleasure,” I said.
Marconi said, “We have all been appropriately informed about the woman with the MSA, Clarisse Warhammer, the woman who poisoned my son.”
I nodded. I swallowed back stomach acid. Watched the made-men watch each other and me. They ignored Cupcake and Amos. Big mistake, that.
“We also wish to provide information,” Marconi said, hands spread in a magnanimous gesture, “free of charge, and outside the purview of this meeting. The president of the MSA is said to have been deposed and is on the move.”
That was a polite phrase for “running for cover.” Marconi sipped his very good tequila, his black eyes watching the others.
“This Warhammer has not yet been voted in as president, and word from an informant suggests she has divided the club. But she is living in Garcia Perez’s main fortress. She has taken over his people. For all intents and purposes, Warhammer is now number one in the MS Angels, and with her poison and her ability to force compliance, she does not need a vote. It is simply hers for the taking.”
I sipped some more. Really good tequila. “I’m aware she took over the bunker at the intersection of old I-77 and I-81, near Fort Chiswell,” I said. That indicated I already knew all about the bunker and that I had been offered nothing by Marconi.
Spy leaped to the table and deposited a huge dead rat in the center before she jumped down. I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. No one joined me. Amos leaned over, picked up the oversized rat by the tail, and tossed it under a car. It had to weigh more than Spy.
McQuestion’s eyes had followed the cat, finally noticing all the cats everywhere. His gaze tracked to me.
“She was offering a tithe,” I said, “while proving she’s a hunter, a killer, and strong.”
“Warhammer,” Marconi said, bringing us back to the negotiation table. “The poison she uses to take over people’s minds lasts seventy-two hours outside of her body, yes?”
“Yes,” I said. Cupcake rested her hand on my shoulder as she leaned past me to pour more tequila for everyone. I didn’t acknowledge her kindness, because important people in a biker club treated all such actions as their due. I sipped the tequila, and my stomach began to settle. Or maybe it was simply Cupcake’s touch. I could do this. Cupcake stepped back.
“You can cure the people she infects?” McQuestion asked me.
“To date, with the med-bay protocols I’ve devised, I’m at seventy-five percent survival rate. All the success stories were the recent ones.” I shrugged when Marconi glared at me. He hadn’t asked about survival rates when I healed his son. I hadn’t volunteered.
“We all know where she is,” McQuestion said. “Why should we need your help taking her out? Why should any of us risk working together on your word and your intel, when you walked away from your own people?” His face hardened when he said, softly and slowly, “No loyalty.”
Not having loyalty was often a death sentence.
No one shot me. That made this a real question, not an accusation.
I sipped, thinking. I still needed him, his intel, and his firepower. Which meant I had to give him something as important as the fortress I gave to Marconi. The Boozefighter and the Black Sabbath would want something too. Information was often as important as land and trade goods. I shrugged slightly and let a small smile onto my face. “We know where in the bunker she sleeps. Where her people sleep. We know where her armaments are located. We know where the power source is. Where her food is. We have schematics and floorplans of the entire bunker.”
No one responded.
I lifted a hand, one finger pointing at Cupcake. “You all know Red’s Old Lady. She was taken over by Warhammer’s poison and forced to work with her. It’s like Stockholm Syndrome and brainwashing, but more. It’s a lot like being possessed. She and Red had no choice except to obey her. But Cupcake wanted out. When Red was killed trying to take me over, she came to me. My protocols brought her back to herself. I can save any of your people who get taken over by Warhammer.”
Before he could talk more about loyalty and vows, I turned my orange sunglasses to Charles Whip, on the other side of Marconi. “Your organization was in danger. Cupcake didn’t want to risk going to an HA chapter in case it fell too. And with the speed Warhammer has taken over your territory, it looks as though she made a wise decision.” It was a slap. It said he was weak. His eyes went hard and cold. “You want to bargain?” I said before he could reply or challenge me. “Then bargain for the death of Warhammer and help take back your chapters from the MSA. That’s it. That’s what you get from me. My help to destroy Warhammer and the MSA. You get back your land, your chapter houses, the spoils, the people.”
I looked at the Booze and the Sabbath. “You two can wipe the amusement off your faces. You need weapons. You’ve already joined forces in a loose confederation because your territories are under slow attack by PRC bots.”
The self-titled Bengal of the Black Sabbath blinked. Mama-Killer’s face went harder. They were pissed off that I knew their weakness. Tough.
“Word is you got second-gen Perkers invading,” I said. “Some say they’re a smaller version of Mama-Bots. Killing a Mama-Bot will be a lot harder this time. I’m sure the PRC AIs learned from the end of the war how to kill better. Faster. Probably the newer, smaller models will have no access from the outside, even for small bodies. No way to get a nuke in. And most people aren’t willing to sacrifice their children to get inside one.”
Like I had been. My own father had put me in major harm’s way to kill a Mama-Bot. I sipped my tequila, not letting them see my reaction to my own words.
“I have . . . let’s call them trade goods, that will make your fight against the bots easier, even without official military support.” That meant I had military weapons. I waited until they looked at Amos and Cupcake, all decked out for war.
“Where’d you get military weapons?” Bengal asked.
I grinned enough to show teeth. “My supplier told me they fell off a truck. More important, I know how to destroy nanobots inside a Mama-Bot.”
Their faces, so good at poker and bargaining and killing, went still and cold. “You lie,” Bengal said.
“Nope. Even the military doesn’t know how.” I let the small smile widen. “I’ll share the tech and the methodology with you.”
Mateo hissed into comms, “You’d give that away?”
“In return for all that, all my help, my tech, I want two things: a prisoner being held in Warhammer’s bunker. One person. And then I want Warhammer dead. That’s it. The rest of the shit is yours.”
This time there was no reaction. But I knew what they were thinking. If they had intel and tech the military didn’t have, they didn’t need the military at all. They could cancel all the semisecret military contracts that kept them bound. They could take over.
It was working. I could see it in their nonexpressions. I took a breath, caught a scent, and my skin suddenly . . . itched wasn’t the right word. More like my nerves crawled, my senses felt something toxic on the breeze. Something—someone—only another queen would recognize.
I raised my glass at Cupcake and said, “Your turn.”
Without missing a beat, Cupcake took over the negotiations. She had done enough research to know exactly what trade goods each person at the table wanted, needed, and would agree to.
I needed to watch the crowd. That whiff-sensation was the presence of enemy nanobots. It made sense. There was no way that this meeting and the reason for it hadn’t made its way through the biker community and eventually to Warhammer’s nest. The crawly smell-sensation told me that she had found access to members of the clubs. My enemy had thralls here. I needed to stop them from hearing the negotiations, stop them from leaving and reporting back to her.
How many? Where? What were their orders? My heart rate soared.
Cupcake offered her wares. Amos lifted trade items out of the flatbed for everyone’s perusal. The VIPs sent their quartermasters, armorers, and weapons masters to examine the trade goods while they sat, chatted, and drank, trying to show how important they themselves were and how unimportant my offerings were. I sat with them, silent, waiting, watching.
