Page 42 of Property of Riptide
Icer marches Indiana’s way, his face full of piss and vinegar. “Don’t hit him, Icer,” I order.
“Fine,” he grinds out, shoving Indiana’s shoulder as he walks past him. “Since we can’t stick around for a cleanup crew, what are we going to do with them and their rides?” He asks, pointing at the men sprawled across the road.
“We ditch them,” I apprise. “If we can manhandle them and their bikes over the canyon, it’ll be a long damn time until they’re found.”
“Long enough to ditch our guns and have Booker erase our GPS tracking,” LoneStar announces.
“Let’s get this done so we can catch up to the ladies,” I instruct.
One backbreaking hour later, we lifted and tossed both the men and their bikes over the side of the canyon. “Does anyone elsefind it suspicious that there hasn’t been any sign of the law?” I inquire.
“I bet they were paid off,” Indiana inputs. “Just like the men in blue back home.”
“This feels an awful lot like a set up,” Scripture adds.
“Then let’s get the fuck outta here,” I decree. As soon as our bikes are fired up, I link Rio into our system and wait for him to answer.
“Brother, miss me already?” Rio asks.
“Found trouble along the way,” I say in the way of greeting.
“Tell me,” Rio barks.
So I do, starting with Icer pointing out we were being followed and by the time I wrap up story time, he tells me to drop our guns and send him a pin drop of where they can be found so he can have some allies come and grab them and dispose of them. Best damn piece of instruction I’ve ever taken, because not even twenty-minutes later, and before we catch up with the women, we get pulled over, patted down, and our bikes strip searched.
We’re separated as the cops rally together, talking to whomever is on the other end of their walkies. When they come back over, they inform us we’re under arrest.
“For what?” I roar out the question. “We’re clean, none of us have any active warrants and you didn’t find anything on our person or bikes.”
“We have the right to hold you for forty-eight hours without cause,” one of the badge carrying assholes tells us.
“You don’t,” Indiana disputes. “Youhaveto have just cause to hold us.”
“We’re going to book you under suspicion,” the third motherfucker mocks.
“Suspicion of what?” Scripture inquires.
“Murder,” the first one who showed his ass by flipping on his lights tells us.
“Who did we murder and when did we do it?” I probe, my irritation not in question because I make sure they can hear it in each word I spit out. “We have eyewitnesses that put us in the El Paso area for the last two weeks. We were just traveling through these parts on the way home.”
I’m thanking my lucky stars that after I got off the line with Rio, I called Booker and had him manipulate the showdown portion of our journey. It should now show that we didn’t slow down or stop for any reason other than now when we’re being harassed by the law.
I’m about to give them a reason to arrest me when another set of lights comes rolling in. This time, it’s a Texas Ranger who’s joining in on the fun.
“Officers,” he says as he merges with the huddle. The Ranger, whose clip on his shirt reads Parkins, crosses his arms across his chest and asks, “What seems to be the problem here?”
“We’re dealing with men who are evading arrest,” fuckface one answers.
“What’s the charge?” Parkins asks the trio.
“Suspicion of murder,” dumbass two spits out.
“These are my parts of the interstate to patrol, I’m the man in charge around here. I didn’t see anything roll across my screen saying to be on the lookout for these guys. Where did you get the BOLO alert from?” Parkins continues. “What town? I need to know who to contact so we can square things up. If these fellas are murder suspects, we don’t want to give their lawyer any options to ask for a dismissal by crossing any lines and not doing things by the book.”
“Anonymous tip,” the third fucker says.
“You don’t say,” Parkins sneers, rocking back on the balls of his feet. “Have you reported that to your CO?”
