Page 39 of Rest In Pink

They were members of the Iron Wolves, a biker gang that stretched across the Rust Belt. The gang had chapters in all the bigger cities from Pittsburgh to Chicago. Several months ago, I’d had to clear out four of them from JB’s when they’d caused a ruckus. Will had helped me and we’d succeeded in getting them out the door mainly because we had the advantage of being sober and they were not. There’ve been no arrests because they’d raced off into the night once they were outside.

I had no idea if any of these three had been there since they wore helmets and the sunglasses. They had on black leather jackets with their colors on the back along with numerous other patches and badges. I got up and walked toward the door.

“Vince?” Kitty asked in a worried tone.

“Don’t worry,” I said, which wasn’t my most original reassurance. Nor true.

I thumbed off the safety on my forty-five caliber semi-automatic in the open holster, opened the door, and stepped out.

* * *

The guy in the center caught my attention. He had a thick beard with some grey in it and it was obvious the other two deferred to him. What skin I could see was deeply tanned and leathery. I noted the patches on the front of his jacket and one in particular caught my attention: Marine Raider. It wasn’t a patch someone just casually sewed on their jacket. In the Rangers we’d brushed elbows with the Raiders a couple of times. The toughest of the Marines and fellow Special Ops soldiers. The tip of the spear, best of the best, yada, yada, we got all the shit jobs in the dangerous places. He had a military style name tag sewn over his heart: Pete.

I’d expected something tougher sounding, like Mongo, but he didn’t need a tough name. He emanated the thing most Special Ops guys did: competence. The other two projected muscle, but no brains.

Pete turned off his engine and the others followed suit. They dropped their kickstands. I was beginning to feel like Gary Cooper inHigh Noonfacing these three alone on Main Street. Except they had semi-automatic rifles on their backs and I had just my forty-five. Hell, the people on the sidewalk to my left and right were actually ducking into stores. And Thacker was standing inside the Red Box, his phone out, filming. I wondered if he realized he was in the line of fire if this turned hot.

Pete took his sunglasses off and stared at me. I saw in them something I’d seen before: a deadness. The look of someone who’d seen the darkness and hadn’t come back from it. There were times, late at night, when I feared my eyes were like that because I’d caught it in Rain’s a couple of times, when she didn’t know I was watching, and she was lost in her memories. The big thing was being able to come back from the darkness. When someone couldn’t, it was bad news.

Pete looked me up and down. “You’re the cop who roughed up a few of our boys a while back.”

“They were bothering people.”

He smiled and came alive just a little bit. “They were stupid.”

“Why were they here?” I asked.

“They were thirsty.”

“Why are you here?”

“Just looking,” Pete said. “I heard you were in the Rangers.”

I nodded at his patch. “Raider.”

Now that we’d laid our dicks on the table, I waited for Pete to tell me why they were here. I doubted they would do anything nefarious in broad daylight with at least one person filming, but then again, stranger things have happened.

He glanced left and right. His helmet had a Native American chief’s headdress of feathers painted on each side. “Nice town.”

“Nice helmet,” I said.

He nodded. “Thanks.”

One of his guys reached over his shoulder and grabbed the stock of the AR on his back. I tensed and my hand drifted toward the forty-five, which did not go unnoticed by Pete.

It felt a bit surreal on the main street of Burney, but I’d experienced this before, the first time I was in a firefight. There’s the startling and life-changing moment when incoming snaps by you, when you realize that someone out there is really trying to kill you even though they’re a complete stranger. Just because you wore a uniform. And now just because I wore a badge. It shakes the fabric of the world we are used to.

Not that I expected, or wanted, a gun battle in front of the Red Box.

Neither apparently did Pete. He chopped with his hand and the guy let go of the gun and put his hand back on the handlebars of the bike. He appeared disappointed.

Pete looked at my holster. “Old school. M1911. I assume one in the chamber since the hammer is back and the safety is off. Most cops carry nine-millimeter. More bullets.” He had good eyesight.

“It’s been around for a century. I figure that’s a good endorsement. I don’t need a lot of bullets if I hit what I’m shooting at the first time.”

He chuckled. “No doubt, no doubt.”

“We’re not real fond of open carry here in Burney,” I said.

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