Torched Page 12

  : : : :

  “I’m starting to get a little uncomfortable with all this breaking-and-entering, Styx,” Milo scoffed from across the booth. “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when you said you wanted to grab something to eat.”

  We were at the Setter, a cozy bar and grill in the Sunnyside neighborhood of northwest Denver, where I’d headed after leaving Jared’s townhouse. It was somewhat off the beaten path, in more of a residential neighborhood, but still struck me as fairly empty for the dinner hour. Three people sat at a large bar across the room and only a couple of the tables were occupied. Behind the bar, a large mirror spanned almost the whole wall, making it easy to keep an eye on the entire space.

  Milo, a fellow hacker who only knew me by my internet handle, Styx, was here helping me out with a job. Under normal circumstances, I would have given him some vague description of what I was doing and let him back me up remotely from the comfort of his filthy basement. But minimizing risk was what I did best, and part of doing that was avoiding it altogether when unnecessary. So, since we were in his neck of the woods and this was nothing more than a covert in-and-out mission that had to be done quickly, I’d enticed him away from his nerd cave.

  “Hey, I did buy you dinner,” I reminded him, scanning the room as he typed away on his laptop. “And you didn’t seem too uncomfortable with it when I was breaking-and-entering my way into getting you out of that grand jury’s crosshairs.”

  I liked to do that once in a while—make him squirm—whenever the kid started getting a little too antsy. It was a good way to keep him grounded. The key to success in any situation was gaining an upper hand and maintaining it. With Milo, it just happened to be that I’d saved him from a lengthy federal prison sentence. Naturally, I’d also kept all of the evidence. You know, to ensure goodwill and all that.

  “How long are you planning on using that to keep me in line?” he inquired.

  “Well, you were looking at eighty years, sooo—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Point taken.”

  “Oh, stop acting like I don’t pay you. Pretty well, come to think of it. Should I find someone else?”

  “No!” he yipped, a little too loud for comfort.

  “We’re supposed to blend in,” I hissed.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, finally tearing away from the screen to make sure that no one heard us. “I need the money, Styx. I have to get my mom a new place.”

  “Relax, I’m not gonna fire you,” I smirked. “She’s still having a problem with that douchebag slumlord?”

  “No, I guess he had some kind of epiphany and fixed everything last week.” He gave me the side-eye. “Don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”

  “Why would you think I had anything to do with it?”

  “Because you’re terrifying. And you’re good at fixing things.”

  “I’m hardly terrifying,” I argued, trying to stifle a smile as I thought back to Mr. Jenkins quite literally pissing his pants as I held a gun between his teeth.

  I reached across the table and snatched one of his fries, knowing that people taking things off his plate was one of Milo’s odd irritants. He swatted at my hand and gave me a salty look. I stuffed it in my mouth and smiled, “See? Not scary, just annoying.”

  Milo leered at me and got back to work. I went back to watching the room.

  I’d noticed the disheveled-looking man at the bar sporadically glancing at me in the mirror, but had managed to avoid more than a split-second of eye contact. Now, he was unashamedly staring and grinning like a fool.

  I didn’t generally go out of my way to be bitchy, but the last thing I needed was someone watching me. I scowled and rolled my eyes—with a little added dramatic flair—hoping he’d bugger off. His creepy smile turned downward and he went back to watching a baseball game on one of the TV’s.

  From the corner of my eye, I spotted my target walking through the dining area and out the front door.

  “That was the last of the Serbs,” I informed Milo. “Keep an eye out.”

  “Last chance to change your mind…”

  I winked at him, scooted out of the booth, checked to make sure Hobo Harry was still absorbed in the game, and headed to the back hallway. Based on permit applications and a quick walk-through when we first arrived, I knew that the hall led to bathrooms, the rear exit, and a door leading down to the basement. The latter was my destination.

  I stopped at the door, held my cell in one hand—in case someone walked by and I needed an excuse to just be standing there—and pulled a pick from my pocket with the other. With a few jiggles and twists, I popped it open easily and slipped inside.

  Amateurs.

  The stairwell leading down to the basement stopped at another door. I used the light from my cell phone to walk down, and found that the bottom door was unlocked. Jovan Maric clearly wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box if this was their security setup.

  After closing the door behind me, I flipped on the lights and looked around.

  It was completely open, stretching the entire length and width of the restaurant above. Approximately two thousand square feet by my own quick estimate. Just inside the door, on one end of the room, was what looked like a lounging area, with a raggedy couch, dining table and chairs, mini fridge and a TV. On the opposite side was a small kitchenette and utility closet.

  There were some odds and ends that looked like they belonged to the business upstairs, but the owner had to have had another place for storage because this didn’t look like the junk room most restaurant basements were.

  Judging by the layer of dust and lack of any food in the pantry or refrigerator, it was safe to assume that the kitchenette didn’t get much use. Between that and the fact that it faced where all the action seemed to take place, I decided it would be the best place to hide a wireless surveillance camera.

  “We still good?” I asked Milo through my earpiece as I got to work sliding the fridge away from the cabinets.

  “Yup, nobody coming in or out of the place. And no pissy Slavic goons in a two-block radius.”

  After creating enough of a gap, I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out the thumb-sized camera, a flashlight, and some putty. I flipped a tiny switch on the camera, stuck a wad of putty on each side, and pressed it to the side of the base cabinets, angled slightly up, just below the lip of the countertop. “Okay, it’s on. Make sure it connects to the network,” I instructed Milo.

  “On it.”

  While he worked on his end, I pushed the fridge back in place and started walking around to make sure the gadget wasn’t visible from anywhere. I used the flashlight to check angles and locations where another source could expose it by glistening off the lens.

  “Okay, it’s up and rolling,” Milo said. “You know this thing only has a five day battery life at best even though it’s motion-activated, right?”

  “Yes, Milo, I know. That’s all I need.”

  “Great, hurry up. This whole thing is making me nervous. You’re all clear.”

  I turned off the lights and sprinted up the stairs, then slipped out into the hallway and locked the door back up. Pleased with myself, I strolled down the hall, intent on getting the hell out of there and into the safety of my car.

  I was just about to step back into the dining area when I slammed into a body that had rounded the corner.

  “Well, well,” the skeezy fella who’d been ogling me from the bar slurred, his rancid breath making my nose itch. “If it ain’t the prettiest girl in here.”

  Exasperated, I took a step back and stared him down with my hands on my hips. From around the man’s short frame, I could see my partner-in-crime scrambling out of our booth, his frenzied expression more comical than reassuring. “Down, Milo,” I muttered under my breath. He shot me a scowl, but stayed put.

  Hobo Harry, his eyes drooping and glazed over, didn’t even catch it. He took a step forward and closed the distance I’d created. “How ‘bout you let me buy you a drink—�
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  “No, thanks. I’m on my way out.” I tried to step around him, but he slid to the side and blocked me again.

  I didn’t know who the fuck this idiot was, but he was obviously shit-faced. For all I knew, he was a decent guy having a bad day, so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. And one opportunity to get out of my way. “Excuse me.”

  The opportunity was wasted. Instead, he pressed up against me. “Don’t be a stuck-up bitch.”

  Nope. Not happening.

  I pulled away and took another step back, so that we could keep what happened next out of view. The job was done, I wasn’t about to let this son of a bitch draw attention to me. “I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with here,” I warned.

  He grinned and pushed up on me again. This time, he kept taking steps so that we were moving backwards. “Sexy, I’d deal with just about anything to get a piece of you.”

  I let him push, all the way to the first bathroom, then took a step to the side and turned the tables by pining him to the door frame. The stupid smile on his face told me he actually believed he was about to be rewarded.

  He was.

  I brought my lips to his ear and whispered, “Glad to hear it. Any medical conditions I should know about?”

  He pulled his head away in surprise. “Wha—”

  The drunk didn’t get a chance to finish his question because I launched my knee into his groin. At the same time, I curled my fingers and slammed a palm under his chin. The force propelled the back of his skull into the wall with a thud.

  All of his reflexes momentarily suspended, I grabbed him by the collar and pulled a few inches to the side. I shoved him through the swinging bathroom door and watched as he crumpled to the ground.

  “You fucking cunt!” he cried out, body tucked to itself and writhing in pain.

  Smiling, I pulled a Colt .45 from my jacket, pointed it at his head, and stepped inside.

  “Whoa, whoa!” he cried out, throwing his hands up like the little bitch he was.

  “I think you owe me a fucking apology,” I calmly told him.

  “Holy shit!” Milo cried out from behind me. “What the hell?”

  The drunk’s eyes—wide as saucers now—bounced between the two of us.

  I ignored Milo and waved the gun at Harry. “I’m waiting.”

  “Sorry! Fuck!” he wailed.

  I smirked and bent down. “Apology not accepted.” With one closed-fist backhand across the face, he was out cold. I tucked the gun away and fixed my blonde wig in the mirror, before turning around to walk out. Milo’s mouth was hanging open as I passed by.

  “Don’t worry, kid. He’s just sleeping it off. Let’s roll.”

  : : : :

  Less than two hours later, I was in my driveway.

  Home—these days—was an old, remodeled farmhouse out in the boonies, about forty miles northeast of Denver. Unique, eclectic, and isolated, I’d hit a goldmine when I found it a year ago. I could have afforded a place in one of those suburban neighborhoods, or even a loft downtown, but I’d never been one for trendy or cookie-cutter, which ran too sterile for my tastes. I liked a homey vibe, preferring cheap and comfortable furnishings to the shit one would find in fancy catalogs. There was nothing better than lounging with take-out and a bottle of wine, except maybe being able to drunkenly spill said take-out and wine and not feel like you pissed away a paycheck when it landed on some overpriced designer fabric.

  I rarely had company anyway, a bittersweet side effect of a life on the move. Bitter because the loneliness was suffocating at times, but sweet because I was a loner at heart.

  I pulled into my attached double garage, an upgrade I’d payed for myself much to the appreciation of my landlord, Gary.

  There was no way I’d park my custom, blacked-out Hayabusa out in the elements everyday. She was my most prized possession, the only one I was even remotely attached to. Cookware and clothes could be left behind, I could even part with my Infinity, but that bike went wherever I did.

  Part of me felt like a traitor for not going with a classic Harley—they were loud, gorgeous, and elicited an air of power that was intoxicating—but my sporty Busa was sleek, fast, and agile. We were a match made in heaven.

  She was the only common thread linking all of my various adventures since leaving Philly behind. In some ways, the motorcycle made me a little nostalgic too, a reminder of the outlaw who’d taken me on my first ride and made me fall in love with the feeling of freedom and risk that you can’t get while surrounded my airbags and steel.

  Goddamn Torch. What felt like an entire lifetime later, and he was still this enigma I couldn’t quite shake.

  It had dawned on me—more than once—that I was probably just projecting a hero complex on my memories. At least that’s what some ridiculous self-help book I’d once read said. But trying to psychoanalyze myself was like looking for a kernel of corn in a steaming pile of cow shit—unpleasant, to say the least. There was no point in even trying, because I knew that riding my bitchin’ bike was the only form of therapy that actually helped.

  Even now, with a crapload of work looming inside and the sun going down outside, I simply looked over at her from inside my car and felt the pull.

  Screw it. A quick ride was worth staying up for an extra hour, it wasn’t like I slept much anyway.

  I was already in jeans and a leather jacket, so I simply added gloves and a pair of goggles that were in the garage. I’d been leaving my helmet behind more and more often, loving of the feeling of wind in my hair.

  On one of the world’s fastest bikes, there was no question that I was being reckless by not gearing up, but riding was the single exception I was willing to make when it came to unnecessary risks. To me, it didn’t technically count as unnecessary, because now that we’d bonded, a life in nothing but a four-wheeled cage didn’t seem like one worth living.

  Counterintuitive to all logic, even in just a tank top, jeans, and sneakers, I didn’t feel vulnerable or exposed on the bike. In my home, a car, the store, I could never let my guard down, but on the Busa, I felt invincible and in control. Being in the moment, focusing on the road and my surroundings for hours, it somehow insulated me from thinking about anything else. It was as if the wind was a wall, enclosing me in its protective embrace, even at ninety miles an hour without a helmet.

  Without a second thought, I pulled out and hit the road.

  The sun was setting on another unseasonable warm April day in Colorado, a state known for its three hundred days of sunshine a year. I’d been here for nine months now and loved everything about it, especially the weather. The mountains were a different story, but down in Denver and the plains, riding season wasn’t limited to summer. I’d gone out countless times in the winter months too. As long as you dressed the part, and payed extra attention to cagers—who seemed to forget about bikers as soon as temperatures dipped—you were good to go.

  Surprisingly, it didn’t snow much, not during the single season I’d experienced here anyway. And when it did, the roads were dry within a few days. From what I’d heard, April and May were when the biggest storms of the year hit, but for the past couple of weeks, we’d been enjoying blue skies and highs in the seventies. Mother Nature seemed to have a lot of respect for my latest adopted home and so did I. It was the perfect place for a gypsy.

  A smile crept across my face as I merged onto westbound I-76, right behind a semi that predictably flung road grime right at me. I shifted up, hit the throttle, and sped around the rig.

  If it had been earlier in the day, I probably would’ve kept going, because there was nothing better than a trip to the high country. But since it was getting late and I had things to do, I exited the highway onto an unfamiliar county road a few miles down. There wasn’t much in the way of extraordinary scenery, so for the next hour I simply cruised around and enjoyed the amalgamation of colors in the sky as the sun descended down behind the Rocky Mountains.

  I wanted to stay. For the first
time in ages, I’d found a place that felt more like a home than any other so far. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure that a long-term future here was in the cards. There were just too many variables, some of which I had no control over.

  : 10 :

  “Shit.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I blew out a deep breath and rubbed my temples to quell their throbbing. As I looked around my home office—every wall and surface covered in print-outs, photos, and sticky notes—the realization of what I’d stumbled on was too much to process.

  Stunned. I was just stunned. There was no other way to put it.

  Five days of watching surveillance feeds, digging into police and bank records, and combing through phone bills and GPS logs had paid off. But the twisted tale they’d revealed was not what I’d set out to find, not even close.

  Fate was a fucking asshole.

  I sat there for several more minutes, soaking it all in, and then running every logical way I could handle this through my head. None of them ended well, not for me anyway.

  Jesus, was I really looking at this as a choice? Like not doing something was an option here? Maybe if I played my cards right, I’d be able to limit the blowback on my own life. Then again, maybe not.

  Either way, I was pissing away precious time by sitting around and losing my head.

  : : : :

  Wearing a backpack full of everything I could fit in it, I raced down the highway like my ass was on fire.

  Concentrating too hard on not wiping out to glance down at the speedometer, I just hoped to hell that I wouldn’t run across State Patrol. I was heading east on I-76 this time, to a small town on the plains that I’d never even heard of.

  Linwood, Colorado. Population: 7,000.

  And home of the goddamn Iron Serpents Motorcycle Club, founded in Linwood in 1973. I was willing to bet that tourist brochures didn’t include that part.

  Eight years. For eight fucking years I’d managed to avoid all temptation to snoop into Torch and his crew. I didn’t Google them, didn’t try to look up police reports, and definitely hadn’t moved into my beloved farmhouse knowing that it stood almost exactly halfway between their—Torch’s specifically—clubhouse and Denver. How I hadn’t seen any of them riding by a single time in nine months, I had no clue. Because, let’s be clear, even though I’d eschewed all curiosity purposely, that had never stopped me from looking twice at any biker in a cut, just to see if it was him.