Page 25 of Gotta Dig Deep
“Yeah, yeah. I’m a big boy. I can handle a few nightmares.”
Stepping out into the humid heat of a Houston evening was a relief. Slate locked the trailer and handed the keys to one of the Rebels standing nearby. Horse called Blackie and told him what was happening. With approval from his club president, he gave the Rebel member directions to a garage the FRMC owned near Longview.
“I’ll get on that when I get home. I have one more support club visit planned, and then I can head up that way. Might as well finish business before I dive deep into whatever this will turn out to be.” He lifted a hand to Slate and got a warrior’s grip in response, pulled close for a back-pounding half hug. “You’re good, brother. FRMC is proud you tagged us for help. You know Blackie’d do anything for ya.”
“How’s Lottie and the little one doin’?”
“Well. She and Blackie found a place and moved into it a couple months ago. Now she’s talkin’ more kiddos.” Horse laughed softly. “Blackie’s been talkin’ more kids since before Randi was born, so it’s good to see them both workin’ the same program.”
“That’s awesome to hear.” Slate chuckled. “They’re good people.”
“That they are. Don’t be a stranger, hear me?” Horse slung a leg over his bike and settled into place, key inserted and turned in preparation. “We do like to see your face.”
“Heard and noted, brother. We’re headed to the Longview-Tyler area after this, I think, up where Mica’s aunt and uncle are.”
“Then make time to visit the clubhouse. You’re one of the few that doesn’t need an advance call. Just fuckin’ show up, brother.” He gripped the clutch lever and pushed the start button with one thumb. Over the roar of his pipes, he shouted, “See you soon,” and got a hand lifted in response.
He rolled carefully over the uneven turf and gravel between him and the road, and once out on the highway, kept his speed to legal limits as he aimed his front wheel towards the support club’s hometown. He’d been supposed to have been there earlier today, but the RWMC business had taken priority.
Once well on his way, out of Houston proper and on state roads as opposed to interstates, he let the information he had on the support club roll through his head.
Iron Riggers MC, the president was Skyd, the SAA named Critter. Their clubhouse was a dilapidated old house near Fairfield, the county seat of Freestone. They wanted part of the bigger club’s clout as a support club, but so far hadn’t been interested in leaving behind their main patch. Where he was going was their mother chapter, but they didn’t have a cohesive network. As men had left Fairfield through the years, they’d taken the IRMC patch with them, setting up a new charter wherever they landed. No mind had been paid to fitness of being officer material or if they were leaders. It was more a riding club than anything.
With delusions of grandeur.
Horse scoffed and rolled the throttle a little more, wanting this day to be over.
His phone buzzed against his thigh, shoved deep into his pocket for the ride.
Probably yet another thing for the fixer.
The smile stretching his lips gave lie to the disgruntled theme of his thoughts.
He was happiest when he had a problem to solve.
Chapter Seven
Horse
“No.” Horse answered the question aimed his way from Duane. “Nothing since the last text. You think the Rebels guy is really going to be able to figure anything out about it just from an anonymous number?”
It had been a busy day since leaving Houston.
He’d arrived at the Iron Riggers MC clubhouse, hearing shouts as he killed the bike’s engine. Inside he’d been presented with a fight between the president and a patched member. By the time Skyd and Dynamite had run out of steam, they’d been battered and bloody, and hanging off each other just to stand upright.
Sorting out those goings on had taken longer than expected, and the presence of the unread text on his phone had slipped Horse’s mind until much later. It was only when Blackie called near midnight that he pulled the device from his pocket, and after answering the questions his own president had for him, Horse had flipped over to the text message app and then stared at the phone.
*Do what we say and she doesn’t get hurt*
The cryptic message was accompanied by a photo. Face disfigured with swelling, bruises darkening the skin around her eyes and jaw, he still recognized his mother’s emotionless features staring at him out of the phone.
He’d called Blackie back immediately, forwarded him the picture and info about the number, and then got in the wind headed back through the dark of night to the clubhouse in Longview, something in his gut screaming at him to get himself home and safe.
Now it was the next day, and he’d heard from the anonymous phone number a few more times. The first had been a taunt, filled with confidence.
*You know we’ll deal with her if we have to. Don’t make us.*
The next had been a list of instructions, none of which made any sense. They’d ranged from driving directions mentioning landmarks he remembered from living in and roaming New Jersey, to a rising count of numbers he presumed were a monetary demand, and then a final one which had sounded very much like a lunch order.
