Page 14 of Devil's Marker

“Not anymore. At some point the risk of road rash starts a man thinkin’, what was I thinkin’? ‘Specially if he has somethin’ to live for.”

Win nodded thoughtfully. “So business is good.”

“It’s better than good. It’s promisin’.”

“Can’t argue with that. Wind and solar is the new gold. So far as a safe bet for money.”

Zach cocked his head and looked at Win with new interest. “That’s right. Gotta admit I wouldn’t have expected one of Brant’s boys to know that.”

Win chuckled. “Investing is a hobby.”

“Huh. Well, we’re not publicly traded, but we’re always lookin’ for VC. How much you got?”

Win almost choked at that question. He swallowed around laughter. “If you’ve got club money, I’m already invested ‘cause I’ll share in the dividends once I’m full patch.”

When lunch was over, Zach opened the back door and said, “Door’s open to the guest house. Make yourself at home.”

Win walked over to the barn and pulled overnight stuff out of the bike saddlebags, which wasn’t easy because it was dark in the barn and even darker inside the back of the truck. The barn was relatively clean since it wasn’t used for livestock or any kind of traditional agriculture. The crops Zach grew were energy supplements and replacements.

Back in the guest house, he turned to market reports. He hadn’t been able to travel with a laptop because you never knew who else might be attracted to an MC like Marauders. Sometimes people who could hack with the best of them showed up looking for a place to belong.

He would have to keep his instincts to keep an hourly track on market activity, but it would be hard. There was no attraction that held as much interest for Win Garrett. There was no pleasure that was as lasting or meaningful. In short, staying away from trading would be every bit as hard as cold turkey sober. But there was no choice. He couldn’t take a chance on being linked back to the SSMC. The simple discovery of a single seemingly innocuous detail could bring down the whole ‘favor’ turned undercover operation.

The trip to El Paso was a pain in the ass, but it was extra insurance that Win’s story would be believed without question. On the off chance that he’d be seen, he’d be approaching the west Texas home of the Marauders from the west.

Shortly before sunrise Win opened the barn doors. There was no one in sight on the property when he walked over. Too early. He supposed everybody was sleeping, which was what he would have been doing at that ungodly hour if there wasn’t a club favor being cashed in at his expense.

The truck was gone as Zach had said it would be. He stuffed his dopp kit and dirty clothes into the bike’s saddlebags. It was gassed up and turned facing the right direction. In this case, the right direction meant ‘gone’.

Perhaps he should have been grateful for the gestures that may have seemed like courtesies in other circumstances, but having strangers mess with his bike didn’t sit right. It gave him an unsettled feeling in his gut. He was sure it was simply an overstep on the part of a guy who was a friend of Brant’s, a one-time rider who probably never got in deep enough to understand biker culture or what it meant to handle another man’s ride without his knowledge or permission.

He straddled the bike and reached for the choke, a slight smile forming when he realized that the touch of ignition was going to wake everybody up good and proper. He didn’t need to rev the powerful, and powerfully loud, engine for quite so long, but the image of Zach sitting up in bed cursing Win’s name helped to balance out the disturbing image of strange hands on his bike.

When he reached the interstate, he pulled off to wait for better light because riding amongst suburbans and their vehicles was potential suicide in the best of circumstances. He’d just made a choice for a longer-than-average life and wasn’t going to risk it for something as stupid as riding alone before good daylight.

Agua Dulce means sweet water. Texas could get away with having two towns named Sweetwater only because it was expressed in two different languages.

Sitting within spitting distance of the Mexican border, Agua Dulce was an east side poor relation suburb of El Paso, the sort of place that depended, partially, on the revenue and good will of a club like the Marauders. Townsfolk tolerated the blinders worn by city officials because they benefitted from the patronage economically and sometimes personally. Under the right circumstances, the presence of a powerful outlaw club could be a boon to a small struggling town in a harsh environment, close to the Mexican border with all that entailed, with no tax base and no industry.

According to the wisdom of the popular adage about not shitting where one eats, members conducted themselves as near ideal citizens when out and about in Agua Dulce. Locals greeted them with smiles and hellos that would have been appropriate for members of the Rotary or Lions’ Club in other communities.

It was too early to pull up to the MC compound gates requesting entrance. So he stopped at the Denny’s five miles away and ordered a double cheeseburger. One thing he liked about Denny’s was that you could get what you wanted at any time of day and Win wasn’t the sort who understood the point of having bacon and eggs if you wanted a cheeseburger. It might not be gourmet, but it was always an easy in-out with fast, attitude-free service.

He camped in a booth until eight thirty before traveling the final distance to Agua Dulce.

The Marauders’ compound looked suspiciously like abandoned army barracks. The buildings were out in the open on flat ground, but set back into a large property surrounded by chain link and barbed wire. It wouldn’t be easily defensible, but from the looks of it, had probably been cheap to acquire. Nobody was at the gate, but as soon as he pulled up and stopped, three Rottweilers and a pit bull came rushing out of wherever they’d been hiding and set up a ruckus that would wake the dead.

Win sat waiting as calmly as possible when looking into fourthreatening faces with unbelievably loud snarls backed by teeth that might give some guys nightmares. Win tried to relax, but let his hand drift to open the saddlebag that held a handgun, loaded for occasions such as this.

He noticed a camera arm shift in his direction followed by the hint of a human voice speaking. Someone might be asking a question, but it was impossible to tell. Win made a motion to his ears and shrugged, the movement causing a surge in the already deafening canine volume.

All four dogs abruptly ceased barking and turned toward one of the buildings, listening. When they heard a single whistle, they took off running toward the sound, Win and whatever threat they believed he represented completely forgotten.

Over a less than state-of-the-art sound system, a voice said, “Who are you and what do you want?”

“Win Garrett. Ex SoCal Hun. On my way to throw in with the Waco Marauders. Thought maybe I could stop over tonight.”

“Hold on.”

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