Page 15 of Devil's Marker

Win didn’t know if they were trying to verify his good standing with the Huns, but knew their call wouldn’t be welcome since it was early in Texas and two hours earlier in California.

Just to be sure all loose ends were sealed tight, he’d called a friend from his old club, conveyed his intentions, and asked for a call ahead so the El Paso chapter would be expecting him.

“It’s too early to check you out. Come back at noon.”

“You didn’t get a courtesy call from Huns Santa Clarita?”

Huns were officially an LA county club that claimed the Santa Clarita region. Oddly enough the actual club home was located in Agua Dulce, California.

“Might have. Nobody’s up for me to confirm. Sorry, but they don’t share communications with me unless it’s need to know. Guess you don’t qualify as need to know.”

“Okay then. Think I’ll just go further on down the road. Not really interested in sittin’ around for hours countin’ lizards. Be sure to give the prez regards from me and the Huns.”

“Suit yourself.” That offhand dismissal was punctuated by the release of four beasts intent on proving more ferocious for their encore appearance.

Win grinned at them when he ignited the Harley engine, revving enough to completely drown out the dogs’ voices. They didn’t stop barking, but did have slightly confused looks on their faces, disturbed by not being able to hear the sounds they were making.

He took his time riding east, turning off the interstate at Iraan, because the stark landscape held its own kind of beauty and fascination. These days stretches of road with sparse population are hard to find. Stretches of time without meeting another vehicle are even more rare.

At San Saba, he got a steak dinner at the downtown café, then pulled into the sort of outskirts motel that wouldn’t object too much to having a biker share his room with a bike for the night.

He watched a rerun of Pulp Fiction, used bath towels to clean up his bike and got a good night’s sleep. When he woke, he was just an hour away from Waco, but knew there was probably no point in showing up at the Marauders’ clubhouse before noon.

CHAPTER Five

At five before noon Win rolled up to the rural mailbox next to the Marauders’ gate. The property was in a complex of old warehouses near the river, complete with loading docks. It appeared that the Marauders’ warehouse covered an entire block. Three sides were concrete panels with no entrance unless you blasted through with explosives. All access was concentrated on one side with a series of overheads paired with single doors.

It could easily pass for abandoned if no one was around. But there were plenty of people around. Not the sort of people you’d be expecting. Mostly women and children.

An extensive and expensive-looking complement of playground equipment was set up a few yards from the ‘docks’ in the area that had originally been purposed as a truck yard.

Several women were sitting by long tables covered with checkered tablecloths, shaded by big red umbrellas. They were talking, laughing, sometimes yelling at kids. In the center of the pavement was a gigantic grill-smoker, the sort that was usually pulled on the bed of a trailer. Smoke was happily billowing from the stack as it kicked out the beginnings of a heavenly aroma with just enough suggestion of spice to tickle Win’s nose.

Even though the gate was open, he stopped and pushed the intercom button.

“Yeah?” a deep voice said. “You Garrett?”

He hadn’t been expecting that. “Win Garrett,” he said. “In the flesh.”

“Put your bike in the row and come on in here,” the voice commanded.

Win hesitated, thinking this could set a record for shortest suicide mission ever. He gave his heart a mental command to slow down. The last thing a guy hoping for a long life wanted was to look nervous in front of strange bikers.

He took a deep breath and rode slowly toward the line of bikes. The scene looked the opposite of a club worried about tangling with a rival. Gate open. Women and children out in the open. No guards around.

Win’s initial assessment was that club leadership was either stupid, cocky or both.

When he dismounted and began to lazily ascend the steps that would take him up to dock level, the women showed their appreciation by teasing with wolf whistles and cat calls. He gave them a heart-stopping grin and tipped an imaginary hat.

“Oh, baby,” one shouted above the rest. “Bring that cute little ass right over here and have a beer with mama.”

A big burly guy appeared where one of the overhead doors stood open. He hooked a finger into his belt underneath a sizable paunch and shifted his weight to one leg.

“What are you willin’ to do to keep me from tellin’ your old man what you’re sayin’ to the new boy, Shirley?”

“I’m willin’ to refrain from givin’ a kick to your scrawny dick.” The women laughed and hooted at the exchange.

The guy being referred to as ‘Slim’ took that good-naturedly and just shook his head as he watched Win’s approach.

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