Page 40 of Property of Saint

Secret Service,I silently correct, while acknowledging, for them, one branch of government is probably as bad as the next.

It’s either piss on the floor, or swallow my pride, and praying to whatever deity might be inclined to help me that I don’t flash my ass cheeks. On hands and knees, I inch myself around the bed. Even when I’m on the other side and close to my crutch, I’m breathing heavily by the time I’ve managed to reach the walking aid and get to my one good foot and position limb and crutch to support me.

AssholeI toss out into the universe. But now I’m upright and relatively mobile, I don’t delay heading to my destination.

There’s no lock on the door, but I shut it behind me, keeping my crutch within arm’s reach just in case he follows me in. I do my business, stand in front of the sink, wash my hands, and usea damp paper towel to wipe the stickiness from between my legs and off my thighs where it’s dripped down. Sounds simple, but with my disabilities, it takes longer than it would have done were all my limbs in working order.

“You staying in there all night?”

Shaking my head, I don’t verbally answer, just splash cold water over my face. I’m wiping my hands on a towel when I hear it. A ring tone from the next room.

The flashback hits me.

I’d driven all day. My head whirling from being suspended from my duties, I’d had this crazy idea to visit the graves of my parents, with no clear explanation as to why I thought that would help. I’d realised then, I’d made no real friends, had no family, and no direction to travel in unless I went to visit the dead. I’d pointed my car toward Arizona. While I’d hoped to reach my destination tonight, I was just too damn tired to drive anymore. I’d pulled off in a motel just south of Tucson, not bothered about the number of stars that it had. After registering and collecting the keys to my room, I’d collapsed on the thankfully clean-looking bed and succumbed to sleep for a few hours. When I’d woken, it was dark, my stomach rumbling with hunger and thirst, and the clock on the bedside table showing me it was past eleven o’clock. Despite the late hour, music was filtering in from somewhere.

Pulling on an anonymous baseball cap that showed no political, government or sporting affiliations, I ventured out of my room. Across the road was a bar that I hadn’t noticed in daylight. Now the broken neon lights were flickering like a beacon. There were a number of cars and bikes still outside. The female part of me knew it might be a mistake to step inside this time of night, but I’d reminded myself I was a freaking secret service agent and not worthy of the rank if I couldn’t even protect myself. With pepper spray in one pocket, my gun in myholster hidden under my jacket, and a knife in a sheath in my boot, driven by my stomach, I moved toward the bar, just like a moth drawn to a flame.

I’d changed into jeans and a Henley, and had my trusty hiking boots on, my face clear of makeup, I looked as far from a woman wanting a pickup as I could. Stepping in through the door with confidence, I walked straight up to the bar.

“Beer,” I demanded of the bartender, ignoring the lull in conversation as I’d appeared. “And is your kitchen still cooking?”

“Wings and fries?”

I nod my head; I’ll take anything right now. I watch the bartender open the bottle of beer in front of me, then pick the drink up and take a long sip, my throat immediately feeling less dry. I make sure to study the array of bottles behind the bar, ignoring the impulse to turn to survey the room behind me. Not that I have to, a flick of my eyes up to the overhead mirror shows me people are staring my way, and, just as quickly, as I’d hoped, losing interest in the hungry traveller, road weary and tired, and obviously not on the pull or hoping to earn money by opening their legs tonight.

The wings and fries appear fast, and I eat them just as quickly, even though they’re dry and have obviously been standing for a while. The first beer isn’t doing enough to quench my thirst completely, so I ask for a second, and again watch carefully as the bartender removes the cap from the bottle.

I’m downing a good-sized swallow when a phone sounds behind me. The tone brings a quirk to my lips, it’s one of the basic ones offered on the early phones of the nineties, and I didn’t even realise anyone used that jingle anymore. Some Neanderthal, I quietly thought to myself.

Though not here in any official capacity, I can’t quite turn the agent part of me off. While appearing to be morosely gazinginto my drink, I quirk my head slightly to pick up on the conversation, expecting to hear the voice of a grandad.

Instead, it’s a younger, gruff, and sharp voice that answers.

“Yeah, Prez. Headed back down there the day after tomorrow. Fuckin’ idiots have no idea I’m there… I deserve a couple of nights away from those sanctimonious pricks, don’t I?” There’s a grunt, followed by a begrudging, “Yeah, I’ll get their plans and get back to you… Yeah, their routes and contacts. I’ll be in touch.” The phone call ended. But the man doesn’t stop talking, as he complains to his companions, “I busted my ass to get where I am now, it fuckin’ kills me to be back at the starting blocks again.”

“Sucks to be you, Skunk. I’d hate to go through all the grunt work for a second time. But you know Prez will reward you.”

“Counting on Wrecker coming through,” the man who owned the ring tone says. “Fuckin’ counting on it. And can’t fuckin’ wait to see those assholes taken down.”

“Spoken like a true devil.” The other man chuckles.

Oh my God! My hands cover my mouth. I’d forgotten all about that conversation, it had been none of my business, and I’d just been pleased to finish my drink and get out of the bar. The next day I’d driven on, and the rush of unexpected emotion seeing my parents’ grave, reading the words on the headstone,beloved father and mother of Phillipa,which screwed with my head as I couldn’t even remember them, had put it out of my mind completely. And then there was the accident that knocked all thoughts out of my head.

But that ringtone had brought it back to me, and now I can place where I’d heard the prospect’s voice before.

No way.I must still be suffering a concussion. There’s no way that the prospect in the room next door to the bathroom was the one in that bar that night.But if he was?I breathe out deeply.Then the only explanation is, he’s a plant and a risk tothis club.Surely not. I raise my eyes to the mirror, going back over what I’d heard. It all fits, especially the part where he’d referred to having to start over.

Should I keep quiet or say something? Why should I care? Outlaws eat outlaws. Them killing each other mops up a mess the cops would otherwise have to deal with. But…Saint might be in danger.Hell, it shouldn’t matter, if I’m right, I should be making a deal with the prospect to keep my mouth shut in return for him getting me out of here.

But Saint saved my life.

And the prospect? Or, Skunk, if I’m correct, just rubs me up the wrong way. If I let him suspect that I know what he is, he’ll kill me rather than help me. Unless Skunk is his Kings’ road name, and I’m barking completely up the wrong tree. Could my memory be wrong? I’m certain he referred to his prez as Wrecker, and his companion said he was a true devil. All my instincts tell me he’s a wrong’un, and those rising hairs on the back of my neck have saved my life, and that of the person I’d been protecting, more than once.

What the fuck do I do?

“If you don’t come out, I’ll come in and get you.”

Rubbing my head, I feel the knot at the base of my skull. I could be delirious, suffering delusions, there could be no connection between an out-of-date ringtone and a gruff voice that grates on my nerves. And even if there is, it’s not any of my business. I should be concentrating on how to escape and somehow try to reclaim my life and career.

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